posts and peaves

Rants

boo boo or doo doo

 

If little boys are made of snips, snails, and puppy dog tails; and little girls are made of sugar, spice, and everything nice; is Honey Boo Boo made of trans-fat and shame? Every time I see an interview with Honey Boo Boo and Mongoloid June, I pray for retroactive abortion (hey, if people can pray for things as frivolous as a football game, why can’t I pray to clean up society?). The fact that this mush mouth, illiterate, human Big Mac is able to reproduce proves that there’s no God, and that apparently you can defecate from your vagina. Yes, I’m saying I’d like to abort June and perhaps stop the cycle of future disability-collecting, scooter-riding, Spam-eating morons who are overpopulating this country.


On the one hand, I feel badly for Honey Boo Boo and I don’t advocate making fun of any child. On the other hand, I realize she’s going to grow up (assuming clogged arteries and a go-go juice induced stroke don’t take her first) to be an adult that is justifiably hated…so I’m really making fun of the future Boo Boo. It’s hard to root for people who name their food before eating it—especially when said food was found dead on the side of the road. “Mmmm Darlene, you lookded so good wit dat eyeball hangin’ outta you head and your guts splattered like yummy gravy all over your tummy!”


Who looks at the gore of death and thinks “Mmm, stew”? Who swaddles a bloody carcass in a blanket and cradles it like a baby while telling it how good it’s going to feel in their “big fat belly”? Who looks at a child who looks like a deformed, fatter Bruce Villanch and thinks “Beauty Queen”? Let’s remember, that’s why we’re aware of this “sketti” eating critter in the first place—because she’s a “beauty” queen.


They say beauty’s in the eye of the beholder but aren’t we doing this child a disservice by making her believe acting like an animal and flossing her teeth with “sketti” is beautiful? It’s great to be overly confident regardless of what you look or act like, but that doesn’t make you beautiful (in most cases, it probably makes you delusional…or Latina). How can we call anything “beautiful” that emerged from the birth canal of an amoeba in stretch pants? And I don’t care what a child looks like; putting her in a beauty pageant is disgusting and irresponsible (unless her Marilyn Monroe impression is uncomfortably seductive. Then it’s just a waste not to share that with the world).


When a guy dates a girl, he’s told to look at her mom to get an idea of what she’s going to turn into. In Honey Boo Boo’s case, you don’t even have to look at the mom (unless you want to damage your eyesight and any hope of future erections). You don’t even have to wait until Boo Boo’s dating age because she already looks like a haggard, diabetic grandmother whose only exercise is thumbing through a Finger Hut catalog while farting out the remains of her Shake-N-Bake feast. I guess what I’m saying is…she’s going to be quite a catch…for someone with enormously strong arms.


Oh, and what’s up with the subtitles on the show? They need subtitles for people to understand them…IN THEIR COUNTRY OF ORIGIN. A drunken Jackie Chan would be easier to understand than these garbled hillbillies. What’s ironic is that the people watching them probably can’t read anyhow.

farewall facebook

 

Facebook should be renamed “Fuck-face book” because most people on there are fuck-faces. I’m embarrassed that I was ever even on there in the first place. I was convinced that, because of my career, it was necessary to “promote” myself on Facebook. What I learned is that most people are gross (actually, I didn’t learn that on FB, I learned that when I used to babysit for my neighbor’s kids and discovered they were potty training IN THE KITCHEN, and they washed their dishes with a mildew-laden sponge in stagnant dishwater).


But people on FB are gross in a different way. I went on there with innocent intentions of promoting my comedy, and found that other people were there promoting their thinly veiled hook-up attempts via coy status comments, and private messages. Don’t get me wrong, I’m the first one to accept a meaningless, diaphanous compliment via voiceless communication. But I’m also the first one to realize that if this is how a man chooses to woo a woman—or hopes to “randomly” stumble upon his next relationship—his real life people skills are probably limited to quoting things other people said that he thinks are funny, jerking off to his female best friend who “is like a sister” to him, and still needing a bottle (of JD) to fall asleep. There’s just something creepy about meeting people online (I’ll save my dating-website rant for another time). I prefer starting a relationship the old-fashioned way: by meeting somebody (by chance) in person; accepting a dinner invitation; then being chloroformed and waking up in the trunk of a burgundy Chevy Malibu with a broken stiletto and a braided throw rug wrapped around me like a burrito).


Not everybody is on FB to meet someone, some people are on there to post copies of political cartoons (because let’s face it, whose views haven’t been changed by a mediocre drawing with a witty caption…and then changed back by an equally mediocre drawing with a wittier caption?). Others are on there to tell you they’re craving chicken wings, or that their nana just passed away after a long battle with old age (if I “like” this does that mean I like that she died?). And when people set up their accounts, what’s with announcing the city/state you live in, and sometimes even your phone number? Are people that lonely and desperate that they’re now inviting stalkers?


I admire people who couldn’t care less about Facebook; who have absolutely no interest because they’re lives are full enough without it, and who don’t’ give a shit about what Tammy from kindergarten is doing; or how Brad the bully turned his life around through the power of his lord and savior Jesus Christ. That’s way cooler than trolling for virtual friends by posting random tidbits about your life on a computer. Would you go up to someone in real life and say “Will you accept my friend request? I think we may have spoken to the same person at one point in our lives so that technically connects us”. “Couldn’t resist the molten lava cake last night…& I’m sure my hips won’t let me forget it”. Ten years ago today I became Deb Dixon Reynolds”. “Just got splashed by a puddle waiting for the bus. Ugh!”


After realizing what I knew before I ever joined Facebook (that I’m so not into it, and that people type just as illiterately as they speak), I decided I had to GTFO 😉 Hehe Lol. But I couldn’t go quietly, so before I closed my account I created an event announcing my departure (events are HUGE on FB) and invited all of my “friends”. Below are the “details” that I posted about the event. I hope my fellow cynics will enjoy. Here it is:


I’m closing my FB account so if anybody wants to keep in touch you can follow me on Twitter @claudiacomedy; go to my website www.claudiacomedy.com; email me at claudiacomedy@gmail.com ; or go retro and actually pick up the phone and call me.


Facebook just isn’t my jam (but “September” by Earth, Wind, and Fire is since it sounds like they’re saying, “Claudia dia dia…said that you remember..”). I’m not into the over-sharing of personal information: “Hey everybody, my relationship status is SINGLE! (insert tiny red heart ♥ here). Please find me someone from my past to hook up with!”; “Here’s where I live in case you want to stalk me. Screw common sense and safety!”; “My son has strep throat”; “I made lemon squares”; “I’m stuck in traffic”; “My religious and political views are more important than yours”; “My kid is so precocious and funny. Example: Dad says, ‘What should I get mom for her birthday, a necklace?’ Connor says, ‘Is that necklace going to do the dishes and take out the garbage?’ What a hoot!” LOL, LMFAO, ROFL, WTF, TTYL, BRB, AARP, NBC, RSVP, ETA, NAACP


The most annoying things on FB are the narcissistic ramblings and the invites, so here I have given you both in a silly attempt to be ironic. The only thing that would complete this is if I posted a picture of myself making that weird pursed lip face that chicks seem to think is sexy, and a “profound” quote that’s secretly (and angrily) directed at one of my FB “friends” even though it’s being passed off as something “I just stumbled upon” (i.e. Fear of commitment is just another way of saying “I’m waiting to see if something better comes along”)


How come nobody ever puts fun, random quotes up like this:


Though you may not drive a great big Cadillac Diamond in the back, sunroof top Diggin’ the scene With a gangsta lean Gangsta whitewalls TV antennas in the back


Maybe I’ll be back someday but for now, I’d rather use food and denial to drown my loneliness. I guess that’s just because I’m old-fashioned.

the dirt on clean comedy

 

I write this comedy blog because I was kindly asked to, not because I purport to be an expert on anything (except mocking Kim Kardashian on Twitter and losing at least one follower a week). The point is I’m simply sharing my opinions on comedy. Does that mean I’m right? Yes, of course. But it doesn’t make me a “full-blown” expert. An expert is “a person who has special skill or knowledge in some particular field”. A full-blown expert is “a person who has special skill or knowledge in some particular field who has received fellatio to completion”. Duh.


There’s an annoying view about comedy that only clean jokes can be smart and funny. First of all, any joke, whether clean or dirty, can be smart and funny… as long as it’s written by a Jew. Secondly, I’m not a Jew but as a comedian, I’ve been mistaken for one on several occasions (not for my joke writing but for my lack of any athletic ability). In addition to touting clean jokes as smarter, many also say dirty or edgy jokes are an “easy laugh”.


How is it easier to get a society full of uptight, politically correct, personality censors to laugh at a joke outlining the hypocrisy of religion versus a joke about how women are smarter than men? Am I right ladies? (Insert image of male comic pandering to females in the audience with a contrived subservient delivery, or a smug housewife comedian with hand extended, palm facing upwards).


How is a joke about your wife yelling at you for using the “fancy” towels (oh boy, is he in trouble now…what’s this silly fella going to say next!) smarter than a joke that ties childhood obesity into fuel economy? (RIP Greg Giraldo).


Similarly, saying something gross or shocking that has no wit to it just for the sake of saying it usually isn’t funny either.


If I work with another slightly overweight, generic white guy who calls his wife “the boss” (if she didn’t write “Born to Run”, she ain’t the boss) who smirks with delight after “killing” (unfortunately not himself) with a set that included a medication side-effect joke and a “kooky” story about his 3 year old, I’ll probably take a Viagra, then call Angelina Jolie instead of my doctor (yuk, yuk, yuk) and jerk off on the decorative pillows.


I’d rather get a lukewarm reaction doing jokes that are real to me than get raucous laughter doing jokes that play to the bland simplicity of the majority. I’m not saying that all clean comedy is safe and generic. Jim Gaffigan is a perfect example of a clean, non-edgy comic who is hilarious, original, and clever. And I’m not saying all edgy comedy is unique or groundbreaking. What I’m saying is I used to have a crush on Steve Perry—and although he was a straight-laced singer, it made me feel very dirty inside (that’ll teach me for not rinsing that cucumber first).


When I work with clean comics, I don’t preach to them that being politically incorrect is better. I don’t toot my own horn (unless I’m really lonely and “Emanuelle” happens to be on in the background). Yet, often times they feel compelled to explain to me how they’re style is the “right” style, and how the bookings are better when you work clean. This usually includes a story about the thousands they make doing cruises and corporate gigs.


Somehow making money while trapped with a bunch of *cafones in Flip Flops who refer to a floating buffet as classy is not my idea of making it (but working in mildew-smelling basements and mirrored banquet rooms is). I also have no desire to tell lighthearted jokes about the crazy drivers in (insert your city name here!) before Stan gives his presentation on the benefits of presentations.


I don’t dislike clean comedy. I dislike clean comics who think they’re on a higher plane…and who do jokes about planes. It’s all about being funny regardless of what your style is. Don’t think you’re better than me because you didn’t have any racial inferences in your act. I don’t think I’m better than you because I did. If you’re regularly giving unsolicited advice, maybe it’s not because you’re trying to convince somebody else that your right, maybe it’s because you’re trying to convince yourself you are.


*Cafone is an Italian word (pronounced ga-vone).

happy

 

Every time I go to my car mechanic, he says to me “you’re always smiling; you’re always so happy”, and I say, “Yeah, I always pretend to be happy”—and then he comes out from behind the counter like a big, cuddly predator on parole and says “give me a hug” (as he “adjusts my headlights”…that’s common practice, right?).


But back to “you’re always so happy”. I’m not always happy. In fact, I’m rarely happy but I don’t blame the rest of the world for my “inner turmoil” (which is probably just trapped gas). I’m not rude or mean to people for no reason and I don’t walk around with a sourpuss (not that my privates are any of your business). Granted, I’ll probably hate you within five minutes of meeting you but I still try to be friendly and smile at everybody when I first meet them. Apparently, this isn’t the norm. What seems to be the norm is a bunch of adult crybabies who feel that their horrible life experiences are justification for treating strangers with the disdain usually reserved for a redheaded stepchild. This outward rudeness and hatred towards strangers is senseless (unless it’s towards a redheaded stranger, then it’s understandable).


Why are these miserable dolts always the people in jobs dealing with the public? Last month I had to go to the hospital to pick up some records from a recent trip to the ER. The “woman” at the reception area made eye contact with me and stared at me until I reached the desk. What happened next is mindboggling to me. She didn’t smile or change her facial expression as I stood in front of her. She didn’t greet me; she just continued to stare at me with a look of disgust on her face. Had she just eaten (and/or smelled) Indian food? Did she just watch a Julia Roberts movie? I don’t like to make fun of people based on their looks, but once they act like an asshole, it’s carte blanche. Of course, what accentuated her ugliness even more was her miserable attitude.


At first, I thought she was on the phone because she had on a headset, so I didn’t want to interrupt her. But when she continued to angrily glare at me (Mexican standoff style) it wasn’t until she rolled her eyes and let out an annoyed sigh followed by “uh, yeah can I help you?” that I realized it was my job to greet the greeter. I said, “I’m sorry I thought you were on the phone”. This time she grunted (or maybe she was clearing her throat after choking on a bit of self-hatred) before growling, “Whadaya need?” When your face looks like a cross between a grouper fish ; a komodo dragon; and the product of inbreeding, shouldn’t you be trying to detract from that with a pleasant demeanor and a friendly smile? (A scuba diving helmet probably wouldn’t hurt either).


Can you believe this is who was hired to greet people coming to visit their ill friends or family members? You walk in upset and worried and now you have to be made to feel like you’re “bothering” the receptionist by expecting her to do her job—a job that involves looking up a name and providing a room number. She can’t do this with a smile (and without Cheetos, Lorna Doones, and orange Shasta strewn across her workspace)?


It’s not just the receptionist at the hospital either. I’ve encountered this at retail stores, doctors’ offices, restaurants, etc. They all have that attitude like, “Ugh, why are you bothering me?” Well, I’m bothering you genius because you’re the idiot who signed up for this job—the job that includes working with the public. I’m sorry you had a shitty childhood and your absentee father started a new family with his new, younger wife, while your tear-soaked face was buried in your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pillowcase every night. How about becoming a petty thief or an erratic yet lovable substance abuser like the rest of the troubled kids? Or how about becoming a goddamn great actress like me? Smile when you feel like crying; laugh when you feel like screaming; and always smile and laugh while you’re repeatedly stabbing somebody. Remember, it’s all about the presentation.

hoarders

 

If you’ve never watched the show Hoarders, DON’T! You will become addicted. You will start hoarding episodes on your DVR that force other recorded shows to be buried deep within the saved shows list. As you watch the episodes, you will find they are so intriguing that you just can’t delete them even though you will never watch them again (or even remember that you have them).


I couldn’t fall asleep the other night so when I stumbled upon a Hoarders episode, I thought, “this will help me fall asleep”. Um, not quite. Six hours and six episodes later, I was stuck like glue to the TV (kind of the way important papers from the ‘80s and take-out containers are stuck like glue to a hoarder’s walls and floors). You wonder why I was sucked in, why I couldn’t shut the TV off. When a six foot tall bearded guy decked out in a terry-cloth sweatband (I know, I really don’t need to say much after “sweatband”), a sleeveless khaki vest-shirt, and almost short-shorts who still manages to look like a biker says, “I have one too many rats” how do you say “well, I think I’m going to hit the hay now”.


First of all, isn’t one rat one too many rats? This guy had (drum-roll please…) over 2,000 rats! The best part was the fact that these rats didn’t emerge and multiply as a result of his hoarding, these were his hoarding. He kept them as pets. They were in the walls, on the floor, on the counter; they were everywhere (just like God…except he doesn’t leave excrement on bedspreads).


If you’re not familiar with the show, they always send out a psychologist (along with a cleaning crew & professional organizer) to help the hoarder. Every time the psychologist would speak to this guy about the rats, he would let out this kooky sounding yelp and start sobbing. And the craziest part of it, he was one of the more “together” hoarders of the series. He didn’t fit the hoarder mold (usually, part of the hoarder mold is mold). He appeared to have all his teeth, he didn’t have a waddle to his gait, and he wasn’t combative. He was cooperative and immediately acknowledged he had a problem. It usually doesn’t go that smoothly.


Enter Hannah—my favorite hoarder of all time. It wasn’t her hoarding style that wooed me; it was her down-home, old-fashioned abusive charm. Add in a mush-mouth; a walker powered by two of the most flabtastic arms I’ve ever seen; and a crippled goat, and you have the inspiration behind the saying “what the fuck?”


These people never think they have a problem either. They all say the same thing: “I am not a hoarder, I’m a collector”. Really? I wonder how much brittle cat feces and unpaid electric bills with Tang stains go for on E-Bay. Do you think it’s a problem when you’ve “collected” yourself out of your own home and into an unheated trailer that doubles as a chicken coop? Nah, of course not—that’s completely normal—especially when all the chickens have scoliosis from being cramped in cages like day laborers in Toyota Celicas.


I hate it when it’s time to get to the “clean-up” and they allow the hoarder to sift through each item ONE BY ONE. I’m pretty sure you could throw out their toilet and they wouldn’t miss it, or even notice it was gone. It’s kind of hard to miss something you haven’t seen since Joan Rivers had her original face. When you have so much crap that you have to walk through your home like a SWAT team sneaking up on a meth lab, chances are you don’t have a detailed inventory list of your “items”. If you do have an inventory list, what are the chances you could find it anyhow?


Here are a few tips to figure out if you’re a hoarder:


  • You have to rake your house
  • The only pathway in your house requires you to launch yourself from the top of the staircase to get to it
  • Your dining room table is also your curio cabinet, file cabinet…and the cat’s litter box
  • Your knick-knacks consist of Precious Moments figurines, miniature teapots, and cat carcasses
  • The only garbage can in your house is your house
So next time you find yourself debating whether or not to throw out an expired bottle of Anacin because you “might need it someday”, realize you are one disability check and two estranged children away from becoming a hoarder.

charity by proxy

 

Isn’t it wonderful that large grocery store chains have huge cardboard boxes at the exits for customers to make food donations? “Please drop your canned goods here to help feed the hungry.” How generous and caring of a facility that houses, sells, and profits off of food to allow customers to buy it, and then turnaround and donate it in the very same building that originally owned the merchandise to begin with.


There is nothing more touching than taking credit for the generosity of others. I mean, can you imagine how fulfilled *Stop & Plop, *Shop Wrong, or *HJ’s must feel when they deliver those bins of food to a homeless shelter and receive accolades for their charitable donation? The “donation” of food that they earned at least a 50% margin on before they turned around and gave it away despite no longer being the actual owner of it; the “donation” that, in essence, was a donation from customers, to the store, that the store turned around and gave away as if they didn’t make anything off it. WTF?


Call me crazy, but can’t the grocery store skip the extra step of getting others involved and just make the donation themselves…directly from their own “stash”? Wouldn’t that be charitable? Wouldn’t that be generous? Wouldn’t that make some friggin sense considering the fact they kind of have the market cornered on food-supply? I don’t know anybody who has more food in their possession than a grocery store or restaurant.


Speaking of restaurants and charity…I was at the *Cheesecake Storage Unit recently. After my meal, the waitress handed me the dessert menu. How delightful to see that they too were riding the “feed the hungry” train. Do you know that they were so kindly willing to donate twenty-five cents from each slice of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Chocolate Cake Cheesecake to charity? Gosh, they are soooo generous for creating this over-indulgent, diarrhea-inducing tower of sugar (that could feed a village), and sending a whole quarter from the sale of it to a place that doesn’t even have running water. So, after gluttonously stuffing your misshapen, vacuum-like face with a frivolous seventy-nine layer cake filled with chocolate, caramel, marshmallow, and blood diamonds, you can feel so good about yourself knowing that, of the twelve dollars you spent to put you one bite closer to convulsing into a diabetic coma, twenty-five cents of it is going to charity. “Hey Ethiopia, guess what we did for you? Rather than just sending you actual food, we created this outrageously humongous piece of cake that everybody but you can eat. Here’s a roll of quarters. Don’t spend it all in one place (like the divot in the road with the small collection of rainwater; or on that grain of rice you’ve been eyeing).”


Here’s a thought: How about sending the actual cake to feed the hungry? Better yet, how about opening a Cheesecake Factory in one of these countries? Can you imagine how long the wait would be?


*names not changed to protect the guilty; names changed in an attempt to be silly

fattitude

 

Why do overweight people get a free pass? For some reason society has taken such pity on overweight people that we just sit back and take it when they want to bash anybody who doesn’t share “their struggle”. And God forbid anybody criticize a fat person or you will be labeled “cruel”, “unsympathetic”, “mean”, and worst of all “skinny” (ouch, that stings…maybe because I don’t have enough meat on my bones to absorb the hit).


Going through life as a scrawny, breast-challenged female hasn’t been a picnic (especially since picnics involve food and apparently, according to most fat people, skinny people don’t eat)—but I certainly don’t expect special treatment from others because of it. As far as I know, there aren’t any special parking spaces for anorexics, or disability benefits for those who can’t put on weight.


When I used to work with the public, it was almost a daily thing with female customers: “Oh my God, you are so skinny; I bet you don’t even eat!” “If you turn sideways, you’ll disappear.” “Wow, there’s nothing to you, you must be anorexic”. I don’t recall any witnesses who were offended by the slew of insults I was forced to swallow (and then regurgitate because that’s what skinny people do). Nor do I recall any advocate groups rushing to the defense of the badgered, bony banker.


It’s always interesting to me that fat comics (particularly female ones) will do a bit about their weight and they always have the cliché bit about the “skinny bitch” friend who goes to lunch with them and wants to smell their food (because the “skinny bitch” doesn’t actually eat). Not only is the term “skinny bitch” so unoriginal and expected, it’s just not funny. However, everybody in the audience howls with laughter and does the “good for you” fist-raise to express their approval. Well, they attempt to raise their fists in approval but many of them are excessively large and attempting such a motion could cause great rotator-cuff damage and shortness of breath.


There’s this “good for you” trend that’s out there now for overweight people. We have to say “good for you” that you are “happy” the way you are. “Good for you” for wearing a mini dress that makes your thighs look like Godzilla wrapped in an ace bandage. “Good for you” for constantly commenting on how fantastic your physique is and that you’re a “real” woman.


I really hate when women say, “Real women have curves”. So I guess I’m a pretend woman because I don’t have any rolls on my body that can be renamed “curves” to make me feel better. Would it be acceptable if I said, “Only real women have visible rib cages”? Or, “only real women can control their diabetes without medication”. How about saying, “Real women come in all shapes and sizes. Nobody is better than anybody else because of their ability to lose a pair of panties in their ass.”


I am very petite and have basically no fat on my body, but I have areas of my body that “curve”—my waist curves in, the area from my lower back to my butt curves, there’s even a curve to my legs. Can I now run around bragging to everybody that I am curvy and so sexy and wonderful? I think not. How about being humble regardless of your size and not criticizing people who happen to have the opposite weight problem. The thing that gets me the most is that society encourages these women to exclaim how proud they are of their bodies, how happy they are with their curves, how sexy they are for having something to grab onto—and everybody cheers them on no matter how obnoxious they are. But if a thin woman were to exclaim how pleased she is with her body, or that she thinks she looks fabulous, people would criticize her for being a conceited bitch (because she is! Who the heck likes a braggart?)


The celebrity tabloids are interesting because in almost every issue, there’s a picture of Tori Spelling’s spine. The picture caption is always a hurtful, insulting remark about how thin she is, but it’s always followed with a comment implying concern for her health. Really folks? Are you really concerned for her health? Is she having trouble walking? Breathing? Wiping?


Meanwhile, one of the biggest stars (pun intended) to come on to the scene recently is Gabourey Sidibe. Do I think she deserves to be made fun of? No, but I do think if we’re going to purport to be concerned about a celebrity’s health, perhaps she’d be a good candidate. Instead, everybody ignores the elephant in the room (pun not intended…or was it?) and gives her that “good for you” bullshit, and “you look gorgeous tonight, who are you wearing?” I didn’t know that falsely building somebody’s self-esteem could unclog arteries, and reduce your risk of diabetes.


I have some very overweight friends, I have some “average-size” friends, and they have all made insulting remarks about my size. I have never done the same to them (I usually just insult their careers). Here’s the bottom line: I don’t care if you say stuff about skinny people, people have always made fun of me, and continue to make fun of me. But, if weight is not an equal opportunity topic, maybe instead of spitting out your thoughts, you should eat your words (after you dip ‘em in high-fructose corn syrup).

footprints in the carpet

 

Please don’t invite me to your home and then tell to remove my shoes. You’re basically telling me “my floor is more important than your comfort. I don’t care if you get crap all over your bare feet, but I do care if you get crap all over my incredibly easy-to-clean hardwood floors and stain-resistant carpet.”


How uptight do you have to be to obsess about the cleanliness of something that is meant to be walked on in the first place? How about instead of requiring guests to remove their shoes, just give them wings when they walk in so they can float around your house to avoid contact with anything.


Besides the fact that it’s incredibly rude to demand your guests remove their shoes, it’s just plain gross. Feet are ugly…and for some reason the hosts’ feet are usually the ugliest: big fat pale toes that are so white you can’t even tell if there’s a toenail on there. Some shoes should be forbidden: Crocs, Docksiders on women (or on men with penises), sandals for men; but bare feet are for the beach, the bed, and the shower. Bare feet don’t go with any outfit. Who puts on a pair of khakis (besides nerdy white men who look like lesbians and unfeminine white women) and says, “You know what would look great with these slacks: My navy blue fleece, Eddie Bauer vest and a callus-ridden hammertoe”?


Have you ever been subjected to one of these affairs? Doesn’t it feel so creepy when you’re standing in a kitchen amongst a group of frumpy, shoeless white people eating seven-layer dip and sipping Merlot while talking about their escalating oil bills and what a “hoot” their cat Tony is when he watches Grey’s Anatomy with “mommy and daddy”? And for some reason, they think lawn-care is a “hot-button” topic (“that branch missed Lloyd’s mower by thismuch”).


When you invite guests to your home, their comfort should be paramount to your own. So, if your floor is more important to you than the people in your life, chances are you’re as cold as the linoleum you walk on.