It’s been a swell handful of years. Or months. Whichever.

So, yes, I’m saying Au Revoir. Me and Meme have embraced our love for the snatch and are starting a LezBot camp in Upstate New York. In our off time, we’ll be following Akon’s tourbus, hoping to be dry humped or hurled into the audience for fame.

It’s been swell, and I’ll miss you all. Well, most of you. Er, some.

Ta-ta.

xo
Jenna

PS…please tell me how much you’ll miss me below. If you don’t post, I’ll just interpret that as, “I’m crying too hard to see my keyboard, and since I failed keyboarding class in high school, I can’t hunt-and-peck to sing your praises electronically.”

Sacrifice is sexy.
Honor is sexy.
And taking some time out of your day for some serious shit is, sometimes, the sexiest thing you can do.

Today is that day.

Do something important this Memorial Day.

My manfriend recently took an online IQ test and has been gloating ever since. Just the other day, he made a fairly astute observation about something-or-other and before I had a chance to give him props, that smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth, “Must be my 136 at work.”

Lord.

The thing is, I started taking the damn thing right after him, but it kind of fell to pieces when, after question, like three, he saw that I’d pulled up the computer calculator.

“Hey! That’s cheating!”
Well, fuck. I closed my laptop. “Forget it then.”

I remember taking an IQ test when I was a chubby kid in elementary school and being told that it was around 140. But now that I know more about intelligence–namely my own–I’m not so sure I can trust this hazy recollection.

So a few days later, I’m tempted to take the damn thing again. Plopped on my couch, I sit and debate in silence, with a bit of E! TV droning on in the background. I play it over in my mind. What if I score lower? Or, worse–better!? I mean, my man is manly in every sense of the word and I just don’t know if his bruised ego would be worse than his inflated one.

Then…faintly in the background I hear those two letters…IQ…coming from the TV set.

Just for reference, E! had been doing a show on Hollywood’s Sugar Daddies and James Woods is currently being profiled. They’d just finished talking about how he fucked his best friend’s daughter for a few years or so, when she was 19 and he, about 102. Anyway, I missed the transition, but now they were talking about his IQ. This fucker was casually talking about his score of 180! Fuck that, Woody! You mean you’re smarter than Einstein, my fair weathered actor? *That* must be what your young ladies are drawn to, eh? Not the money roll that you use to pad your shorts!

I mean, did no one else hear this? We’re just taking his word for it?! Fuck that shit! Put that dirtbag on Maury Povich and get a polygraph running or something! Seriously, let’s just drop the whole system if Woody-McFucks-a-Teen can spew such nonsense without raising any suspicion. 180 my ass!

If James damn Woods is pushing 200, then does it even matter if I’m in the 130-140 range? I think this just about settles the little situation between my manfriend and myself. We’re both relative retards. Fuck.

I’m not sure of the logic behind this, but every morning during rush hour, the bridge I take to cross the Hudson River has the left lane closed. There’s never any construction, no abandoned cars in need of de-terrorization, no jumpers, no nothing. It’s just closed. And like the little monkeys we are, us commuters stay clear of that left lane. because–HELLO!–it says it’s CLOSED on those little signs and there’s even a red X over the lane…like, all the way across the bridge. It’s impossible not to know the left lane is closed.

So, this morning, there’s a Jeep Cherokee in the left lane. I see him, thinking that perhaps he’s just naturally dumb or even young, likely both, and that he’s failed to see the several indicators prohibiting driving in that lane. But after he passes under another sign and another red X, it becomes clear that this sonofabitch is not going to move anywhere. He’s still in the left lane.

But why? Why are you in the left lane?

Quite simply, this made absolutely no sense. No coherent, right-minded individual would be deliberately be driving in the lane that is CLOSED. I had to get to the bottom of this. Convinced that there must be a legally blind grandfather, a 12 year-old freerider, or a newborn iguana at the reins, I increased my speed in order to leer into this idiot’s window. I caught up with him just at the end of the bridge’s span. He wasn’t driving erratically at all, so I prepared my best you’re-a-fucking-moron mixed with none-of-us-are-allowed-in-the-left-lane-so-neither-are-you face and turned my eyes to the left and into this renegade vehicle’s interior.

And I will testify in court that the person I saw behind that wheel was none other than Billy Baldwin.

So, as his slightly more intellectually blessed brother has said in that documentary that’s always playing on the Discovery channel: Let’s face it…we’re all apes.

Amen, Baldwin. Amen.

I wrote this a while back, but now that my hair is back to brown, I figured it could use some resurrecting.

I carry around a specific burden throughout my everyday life. In fact, you just may be experiencing the same burden if you meet the following criteria:

1. you wear plastic-framed glasses.
2. you are a female.
3. you have brownish hair.

I would wager a large amount of money, drugs, or sexual favors that if you, in fact, satisfy those three prerequisites, you have likely encountered my grief.

“You know who you look like?! You look like LISA LOEB!”

Now, this, in and of itself, does not have to be an insult. In fact, Lisa Loeb is quite striking (or so I’ve been told by several men). My problem does not lie with being compared to a somewhat attractive pop-folk-bubblegum singer/songwriter that will forever launch the lyrics youuuu saayyyy into my head at her very mention. (and we’ve already discussed what that situation leads to…)

My problem is that I actually look nothing like this woman. Don’t believe me? Please refer to Diagram #1:

Diagram #1: Jenna

Please note the following marked points:
A. smile/mouth
B. nose
C. forehead
D. glasses
E. chin

Diagram #2: Lisa

Again, note the same marked points:
A. smile/mouth
B. nose
C. forehead
D. glasses
E. chin

In the spirit of simplicity, we’ll go in alphabetical order.

A – Notice how my mouth curves slightly upward when smiling. Now notice how Lisa is more of a straight-smiler. We also have different teeth. Apparently she was privileged enough to experience an orthodontist’s office as a child.

B – Lisa’s nose is somewhat wider than mine. In fact, mine is down-right beak-like in comparison! One would be clearly blind to suggest they are in any way similar! Preposterous!

C – Now, this section is difficult because Lisa has bangs and I do not. However, I would wager that behind those wispy strands is the home of a much smaller forehead, unlike my expansive one.

D – THE GLASSES. Now, this is where people tend to reassure me that I do, in fact, look like Lisa Loeb. (“but you have the glasses!”) Well, my friend, as you can see here, our glasses are quite different. So, you’re wrong. You have a poor visual memory and you should rely on other cognitive devices to recall important information.

E – This is probably the most subtle of our differences, but it does round off the inequity quite nicely. Lisa’s chin is slightly more square, whereas mine is a bit more rounded. It’s true! take a closer look! see?

So, there we have it. I actually don’t look like Lisa Loeb. So please stop suggesting that I do. It will only make you appear unobservant. And who wants to walk around wearing that label!?

In fact, if you really must compare, according to some very scientific celebrity-look-alike computer software, I look more similar to the likes of Anna Kornikova, Amelia Vega, and Sophie Marceau.

Spot on, really.

Ok, it’s been a bit quiet around here lately, so I’m calling upon you all to get a bit more interactive. So here’s a cool-ass caption contest with the fucking motherload of all prizes. I don’t think much more needs to be said than that.

Are you ready? Do it up, my lovelies.

Image #1:

Image #2:

Image #3:

And saving the best for last,

Image #4:

The winner will be chosen in a completely biased and subjective manner. And the prize? Are you sitting down?

Winners will receive a photoshopped picture combining all the GS girls’ best body parts. (And two of us have the most spectacular tits.)

Let the games begin!

Sometimes my manfriend and I will be watching a movie or something & want some more information. Or maybe we’re at the bar and can’t—for the life of me!–remember the name of that actor in that movie.

So, we check out IMDb. Simple enough. Not at all very interesting, really.

But the other day, after clicking around to look up the actor who played Grandpa in Little Miss Sunshine, we stumbled upon Ron Jeremy. Only mildly amused that he actually has his own page, we became increasingly amused as the page loaded and saw that he had almost 1000 listings. Oh yeah. They listed them all, even Tales from the Crapper & Your [sic] the Boss.

That was fun for a few moments, especially after realizing that he’s been doing porn since before both of our births. And that’s just a lot of fucking sex, people. Documented, no less.

But anyway, we started looking a little closer. The true amusement came in reading the good ol’ boy’s character names. For example, in Secrets of a Willing Wife, he plays Creep at Porn Movie. Ball in the Family? Itchy Bonkers. The Adventures of Buttgirl & Wonder Wench? The Poker.

Classic. And perhaps, all this just goes to show you that I am, in fact, still humored by immature material. So, to go along with this realization, here’s something from none other than College Humor dot com.

This is a woman talking about penises & vaginas. But the humor is in how she seems to be acting like she’s on Meet the Press, consulting on the latest trade restrictions or foreign policy. She kind of goes on and on at times, but keep going. The one-liners are endless.

“Wait a second…jackrabbit?!”

A while back I wrote about divorcing my mother. Well, I’ve softened a bit with the passing of several months and I’ve got this new idea brewing. And I’m sharing it with you today because, well, because I think it’s brilliant.

You see, our parents and aunts and uncles and grand-relatives are all getting up there at this point, right? And, as much as we hate them, we’re not quite to the point of bringing them serious physical harm. What I’m proposing today is the solution. The happy medium between moving Dear Old Mom and Dear Old Dad into the basement or gently nudging the pair as they happen to stand precariously close to a flight of stairs.

Behold the Family Home. I know. But it’s a working title. The proof is in the following pudding. What we do is gather all of the unwanted, aging family members into one central location. No money for a new home? No problem! You get all but one of them to sell of theirs (with threats of Well it’s either this or a Nursing Home!) and become the “trustee” of their collective pocket books.

Ok. So now that we’ve got everyone in one place, what to do with them? In my experience, each odd relative seems to have a “thing” if you know what I mean. Let this lead you. Each one’s “thing” can be his or her role in the household. Kind of like Big Brother, with arts and crafts. Still confused? Let me give you the following set up for my own Family Home:

The Mother(s): Arts & Crafts.

Regardless of the exact trait that makes them particularly impossible to share breathing room with, a mother is inherently drawn to crafty shit. Kind of like most men to hard rock music. It’s Biology or some shit. Keep the moms busy with keeping everyone else busy and that’s half the journey, my friends.

The Grandfather(s): Theology & Storytelling.

Does this really need an explanation? These guys could just tell each other (or another feeble minded individual) the same damn story about WW2 thrice daily after a meal and that takes care of that.

Odd Cousin(s): Pets.

If you don’t really care about the pets that much, that is. But whatever. You don’t have to think about it. That’s why they’re in their own little community. If you wanted to be moral, you wouldn’t be reading into The Family Home, would you?

Annoying Sibling(s): Food & Spirits.

With this one, I kind of see it this way: either they would love the job or hate it. If they love it, good. If they hate it, it gives them something to bitch about, which is what they really want anyway. So regardless of their job description, they’d probably have the most complaining to do out of all these categories, so why even try to hard to please?

Unwell Uncle(s): General Upkeep & Repairs.

With like, appliances and stuff. Let’s not talk about it.

Miscellaneous Children/Additional Baggage: Housecleaning.

Those little buggers are pretty resilient anyway. Plus, the snot-nosed brats could use a little manual labor.

Voilà , people. Throw in a car and maybe a monthly allowance and you’ve got yourself a self-contained community. Kind of like one of those cool little self-contained ecosystems that you can buy at Sharper Image. But cheaper. Actually, monumentally cheaper because you now have all their money. Though, persuading some of the more able-bodied relatives may be tricky. (Read: this may or may not require some black market roofies or something. You know, as opposed to the legal ones. So you’ll have to figure that into your budget.)

Alright kids. We’ve got another live one for you. People keep requesting that we review their shit…they throw money at us! This one is a bit different though, because I’ve got some positive things to say. Lucky bastards.

So, this site is another dating site, like where you create a profile and shit (not where they give you shitty advice) And, login problems aside–which I should probably attribute to my Internet stupidity–this is an impressive little cyber stalking ground.

Standard features:

Sound familiar? Really, the free part of the site is essentially another version of MySpace.

It promotes itself as free, but you’ll quickly find out that all the fun flirty things that go along with a dating site are for paid-members only. But let me walk you through my own experience. It’s called be2.net and you can decide for yourself here.

I’ll admit that creating your profile can be fully intimidating. First, they are all individually approved by the creators of the site. So, like, real live people are reading what you write, and possibly laughing at you. Second, they are strict about your personal description. There are obnoxious red letters warning you that if your plug is not long enough, you won’t be approved. Shit. And to top it all off? When it’s time to upload your picture, there are even more warnings that if you upload any “GARBAGE” your profile will be deleted. At this point, I’m thinking to myself, well fuck! My picture is goofy, but is it fucking garbage?! Let’s just say that the 12 or so hours it took for my profile to be approved were a bit long. Thank god for those 4 bottles of wine.

I have a few personal problems with the layout of the profile pages…like, it’s hard to figure out where the “Home” link is for your own profile. But again, could be my internet retardation (or the four bottles of wine).

But enough bullshit, right? Here’s the good stuff. Within a few hours, I had three messages waiting for me. Let’s just take a gander at the Runner Up for our What the Fuck of the week:

hi dear,
how are you doing? hope you are ok.well my name is BARTHOLOMEW WALCOTT my friends do call me BARTHWALCOTT, i just want to drop you a few note that since i set my eyes on your picture i have not been the same cause you are so charming and stunning that i wish i had known you for a long time i would like to know more about you and about me I don’t dine at Court, I see few people, and take my walks alone Not in the sense that the rest of the world seems obscure to me,I see quite clearly what men are like and what they plan, wish, do and enjoy; I don’t grudge them what they have, and comparing is a secret joy to me, possessing as I do such an imperishable treasure.and i know You in your household must feel as I often do in my affairs; we often don’t notice objects simply because we don’t choose to look at them, but things acquire an interest as soon as we see clearly the way they are related to each other. For we always like to join in, and the good man takes pleasure in arranging, putting in order and furthering the right and its peaceful rule, my dad will say
You don’t marry someone you can live with. You marry the person who you cannot live without.

. so dear that is a little about me i dont write much just hope to hear from you soon

Now, this is an international site, so we’ll ignore the ESL quality here. But this next one is from a fellow American; hence his winning of the ultimate What the Fuck prize. (Which, is nothing, if you were wondering. The prize, that is.)

Hello preety,
how u doing i hope all is well with u there,
i am jeff from u s a i love to know you well so that we can talk more about us.Whenever life seems to drift you away from me, I can’t help but cry. You’ve grown to be such a part of me that without you life is no more than a desperate sigh. They do say love comes and goes, and to that I disagree. So, here’s my hand, take it and don’t let go of me.”I don’t fear insects or spiders. At great heights, I jump off, smiling. In the face of death I wink. But, when I look into your eyes, I’m in fear of how much I love you,u can huck me up to my id jeffmike56.
Thank,
jeff.

Oh man, I love this site. I won’t even get into the Instant Messages I recieved.

As modern culture continues to hurdle itself into the bosom of modern technology, I find it’s nice to stick one’s head out the window to catch some old-school air every now and again. What better way to curtsy to the past than to take a gander at some retro advertising. And you don’t get much more retro than the monolithic billboard. (Cue Space Odyessy music, please.)

It’s hard to look at the billboard’s history without glancing at its placw with the religious zealots. So, in honor of this stage, I’ll try to poke fun without too much ignorance. (Is that possible?) This was one of my favorites (of the many, Many, MANY):

I don’t really have much to say about this one, other than it made me think of rainbows, bunny rabbits, and unicorns. And those things make me pretty happy.

Moving on…of similar thread, the don’t-have-babies-when-you’re-still-a-baby billboard is another classic. This one subtlely appeals to the younger, bling-speaking population. Very smooth, don’t you think? I’m fully convinced! Don’t marry a guy who can’t afford a big rock!

It’s all about materialism, baby. I mean, no-babies, baby. Err…

Let’s just segue, shall we? Because, I actually don’t understand this one, at all. And remember, I’m not dumb.

Goat milk is for babies? Then why is everyone lying about the tittie fairy coming to visit new mothers? Fucking sham!

And while we’re on the subject of confusion, let’s take a look at this one, allegedly attacking terrorism? Nail? Hammer? Someone in this advertisement department got a little loose with his goose during an all-nighter, don’t you think?

We all know that sex sells, but does it also sell peace? I’m not sure how philosophers and moralists would interpret that one.

And really, the rest all fall into the category of people and their causes. And let me tell you, terrorism, President Bush, & Jesus have got their competition. Firm protests are on the rise for doing away with circumsicion and Chiropractors:

I’m not one to call the kettle black, but aren’t there better things to be concerned with? I’ve heard about chiropractors being called quacks and all that, but unless I’ve heard the dark truth unveiled in Freakonomics, I’m not liable to believe it from a damn billboard. Unless it evokes images of rainbows and unicorns, of cousre.

I could go on, namely to talk about how British tourism seems keen on recruiting gay men to its country, but there simply is not enough time in the day, nor storage space on our hosting account for all these damn pictures. But seriously, about the gay men; is there a shortage in the UK? Are there riots? Sounds intriguing doesn’t it? And I’m not even a gay man! Sweet success!