Nancy Grace

I feel like there is no good way to start this post. I used my good spiel about refining my hatred over the years at the beginning of the post about Dane Cook, someone who is far less worthy of such a monologue than the subject of my hatred for today.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you someone who is not only the problem with America, but is possibly one of those helming the entire Shitship as it bulldozes through the 24-hour News Cycle and into every aspect of our lives.

Ladies and gentlemen… Nancy Grace.

Please, hold your applause, or more realistically… fecal projectiles.

Yes, reader, the vile subject of arrow is the one and only Queen Bitch of News Media. The one who openly mocks those on her show and makes them feel like the putrid sludge that she inaccurately claims not to be. The one dismisses others as bad parents but admits to cracking open a couple of beers while watching her infant children.

The one who was so repulsive to an interviewee that the girl actually took her own life afterward.

That’s the one and only Nancy Grace.

My hatred for this sorry excuse for a sack of meat is thick and moldy enough to dip my favorite hot wings into, but instead of containing the creamy, soothing quality of that delicious dip, she burns my ass more than the wings ever could.

She is the saddest sort of media talking head, so sorry that I can’t even use the word “journalist” in a sarcastic way. I wouldn’t dare let the word and her name escape my lips, pen or keyboard in the same sentence.

I have a problem with any person delivering the “news” by making swift judgments of others and interjecting their “valued opinion” into ever sentence, especially one that is of such a finely honed “Christian” variety.

I recall an incident on her show. I don’t remember who was on the show or what they were talking about, but I remember the interviewee fumbled on a few words. It honestly sounded like he was a bit of a stutterer.

Nancy degraded him for his dumb tongue in every way short of yelling “t-t-t-t-TODAY, Junior!”

This is not a woman who should be at the helm of any TV show. Period.

However, she has been knocked down a peg or two.

I recall her infamous “wardrobe malfunction” on the set of whichever show about dancing it was. And the incident on her own show in which one of the switchboard girls, Elizabeth, went rogue and put videos of animals having sex on the screen in the place of Nancy’s face.

A far more appealing sight, honestly. Brings less bile to my gullet.

So, what have we accomplished? Not much. I hate Nancy Grace. End of story.

And honestly, how can’t I hate a woman who caused a preacher to audibly curse in front of me?

True story.

ghjr

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This is not included in the 500 word limit.

Thanks to Lisa Hostuttler for along my member of veiny hatred to again afront your virginal minds.

More and more, she is tricking me into posts I wouldn’t normally want, but they honestly just give me a venue to spout some steam.

It helps, especially since they cancelled The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Truly ghjr

Richard Nixon

Richard Nixon is by far my favorite President of the United States of America.

Not because of all of the lies and cover-up, or all the scandals.

And not because of all the things about not being a crook.

I love Richard M. Nixon because of Futurama.

Now, it’s no real secret that I am a huge fan of Futurama. I have been for the better part of a decade now, ever since I first saw an episode of the show. I didn’t really understand what it was that drew me to it at first. I didn’t know the story line, the characters or the vast amount of quotes and trivia that I know now.

But the humor drew me in.

And the more I watched, the more I simply loved it.

Zoidberg was always one of my favorites. His simple hopelessness makes him one of the best sad-sacks the 31st century has ever seen.

But one of the sleepers on the show is Richard Nixon.

Of course, until he finds a shiny new robot body, he is simply a head in a jar.

But, what celebrity isn’t, aside from the crew of the Starship Enterprise in the episode about the Star Trek Wars (definitely not to be confused with the Star Wars Trek, mind you)?

So, Nixon’s fat head resides in a jar, usually carried around the headless body of Spiro Agnew. He has the same attitude and the same mannerisms.

The voice is a bit different, as I am sure you know.

Honestly, it’s so over the top that I can’t help but think of it every time someone talks about Nixon.

With that deep, gruff voice, the constant shaking and the unmistakable “ha-ROO!” he utters in every episode, what’s not to love?

Seriously. Someone make me a list of what is not to love about it.

And his singing voice? Impeccable.

Unfortunately, we only get to hear it once, when Nixon takes advantage of the new arms on his shiny new robot body that he picked up at the pawn shop by playing an old Gibson hollow body that he picked up in presumably the same pawn shop.

He whips out his rendition of Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit.”

Now, it’s only the last line, but he does end it with some signature Nixon flair.

After belting the last line, Nixon strums the guitar once more and heartily declares: “I’m meeting you halfway, you stupid hippies!”

And therein lies the signature humor that dragged me into Futurama and turned my feelings around about Nixon.

Of course, in the real world, Nixon was a rather unpleasant man, one I am privileged to not have known, but like everything else, he inspired something that was much better than himself.

But you know, when you take the head of one of the most notorious presidents ever and inject it into the year 3000, how can gold not come of it?

ghjr

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This is not included in the 500 word limit.

Thanks to Sam Jones for that string of ridiculous political posts that I had to turn on their ear.

Also, if you realized this one is late, that’s my fault.

Apparently, I scheduled it for the year 2013, not 2012.

So sue me.

Truly ghjr

Fran Drescher (and Her Obnoxious Laugh)

I have an overwhelming feeling that this post is going to be filled with a lot of judgment.

On your part and mine.

The first celebrity crush I can vividly remember having was on Princess Leia.

Not Carrie Fisher, mind you. It was Princess Leia.

The robe. The buns. The weird hair twists on the side of her head. (HEY-OH! I’m a trickster.)

Anyway, that was around the time I first saw Star Wars, around the age of 7. Soon after that, though, my tastes began to change.

In a way, they devolved somewhat. For a little bit, at least.

I can remember watching a show called The Nanny on Nick-at-Nite with my parents. The show was about a rich man with rich kids who hired a down-to-earth, somewhat ditsy Jersey Girl to watch after the kids and secretly get into a variety of high-jinks around the estate.

Pretty simple story line. After all, it was the early ’90s. We didn’t need none of them vampires and zombie death machines in our TV. No way, no how.

We was just plain ol’ simple folk.

Now… what does The Nanny have to do with crushes on Princess Leia? Glad I prodded you until you asked.

Soon after watching the show, I started to develop a bit of a thing for leading lady, Fran Drescher. She had a long, slender body, legs for days and HUGE…

hair.

She didn’t have the prettiest face, but neither did Leia and that never stopped me from lusting after her.

She was the top candidate for newest unobtainable celebrity crush.

Then, she opened her mouth.

Good God. It sounded like a constipated goose was being sexed and strangled at the same time. Not that I would know anything about that… ::shifty eyes::

Seriously. You could grate fresh Parmesan cheese with that lady’s voice. It’s almost as if God Himself looked down upon Fran and, knowing that He had already cursed her with a Jersey accent, decided in His infinite wisdom to damn her even further by forcing her garbled vomit of Jersey words directly through her clamped, crusted nasal cavities.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, just when my developing brain and genitals began weeping bitter tears of acid at the atrocity of the voice, the fated laugh occurred.

It was enough the split the earth open beneath me and conjure a fiery-hot enema of blistering magma from the bowels of Hell itself.

The pillar of brimstone entered my body forcefully and blazed a trail straight to my soul, taking out my heart, my lungs and my stomach full of Lunchables and Ecto Cooler with it.

The body on screen had brought the hopes (and other parts) up so quickly, and the voice dashed the boner-dreams violently against the tragic rocks of vocal reality.

Luckily, Leia was still around to pick up the pieces.

Help me, Leia Organa. You’re my pre-pubescent boner’s only hope.

ghjr

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This is not included in the 500 word limit.

Thanks to Ashton Cutright for always giving me good challenges. They usually allow me to rip into famous people that I don’t much care for.

As an added side note: Fran Drescher has still not done any nude scenes.

Which is a bummer. I’m sure I’d be able to find it online.

And trust me, I’d be thanking God for the mute button on my laptop.

Truly ghjr