WWJD?
So Olivia,
WWJD? Well, it’s a lot easier to “love thy neighbor” if you have a lot less neighbors. Jesus approved!
-Not Olivia
The More Stereotypes, The Better
So Olivia,
Uptowners are just the worst. They take their presence as a privilege upon the world, as if they’re holier than God’s shit. But JJ Barea isn’t just an uptowner. He’s also an NBA player. But he lives in the shadows of the NBA where stardom never shines, yet the tress are still filled with money and easy groupies. Without the responsibility of the spotlight, but with the cash of a fledgling movie star, it makes his uptown ass-itude that much worse. And his crew of lesser clones, tagging along for ill-guarded scraps of franklins, don’t make it better. In fact they make it much much worse. Wow. You manage to find a tribe of pricks. Too bad it gets worse. JJ Barea is Puerto Rican, which makes everything 10 times louder with that tinted Spanish bravado.
An uptown, Puerto Rican NBA player is standing outside, being generally as obnoxious and arrogant as his smile. It seems that JJ Barea is a Voltron of stereotypes. But instead of a gigantic robot made of different colored metal lions, it’s in the form of an asshat. A huge, multidimensional asshat.
-Not Olivia
Two words. Sofa Fort.
So Olivia…
Two words. Sofa Fort.
And if you don’t know what that is, you’re half dead to me. Seriously. All I’ll recognize is the left side. And I’m not even sure that’s the good side. Deal with it.
-Not Olivia
I see London, I see France, please put on some underpants!
So Olivia…
Yay! London. The first time I ever heard of London was when I was a toddler. My mom would hold both of my tiny child hands, then we would spin around. “London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down.” We’d skip counter clockwise. I tried my best to go as fast as I can, chasing the high of my brain swirling around, buoyant on smart fluid. My mom would be the center of our disproportionate radius, pacing herself, knowing her steps were much larger, and more adult than mine. “London bridge is falling down. My fair….” Right here I knew the payoff beckoned. All the cranial spinning made me queazy, dizzy, a toddler high. I jumped up into the air as high as I could. I could feel the tug from my mothers arms as she combatted her centripetal child satellite. “Lady!” I fell dead with my legs, in fetal, trapped and encased inside the stoned ashes of Pompeii.
However, what about my current use of London? It goes like this: “I see London, I see France, please put on some underpants!” That’s for you Britney Spears. Your chacha has seen more sunlight than a solar plant.
-Not Olivia
We all come from the same place... someone's hooha.
So Olivia…
Every now and then, we need help. We need a time when someone needs to sit you down, look you straight in the eye, take your hand, and tell you the God honest truth. “Olivia, even though we’re different that doesn’t mean we can’t be cordial. Believe it or not, all of us share something important. We all come from the same place… someone’s hooha.”
“Shhhh. Don’t cry. It’s okay. I know. Trust me I know. When I found out I felt the same thing. Shocking isn’t it. But you know… we all need to know this. It keeps us humble and special at the same time. It gives us the sense of community and individuality we all desperately need in this damn glorious hellhole. That’s why you’ve got to keep this knowledge close. Keep it close to your heart. It’ll make you stronger. It’ll make you better. It’ll make you happy.”
And that is why we celebrate birthdays.
-Not Olivia
Harrison Ford has two last names.
So Olivia…
I can understand your excitement for Harrison Ford. He’s a movie star. He’s handsome. Plus he has the voice that’ll take you away to a 17th century barn, tear at your corset and play the scene of many favorite romance novels. Thrashing of clothes? Yes please! But to me, he’s just another old dude whose career might be circling in apathy. Now, all I find interesting about Harrison Ford is that Harrison Ford has two last names.
I’m pretty sure this Extraordinary Measures movie is going to suck. How do I know? Well, well one thing, it’s a movie about cancer…. name Extraordinary Measures. I’m sorry but that’s a retarded name for a movie about cancer. Cancer patients don’t really scream Extraordinary Measures. They’re more of a “A Second Chance” or “Fiscal Miracle”. Extraordinary Measures deserves something more extraordinary, more overblown, more absolutely ridiculous. What is Extraordinary Measures? How about deciding whether or not you should shoot your grandma for the access codes to a Ukrainian missile to prevent your daughter from being injected with a retrovirus which will decimate the world’s livestock with leprosy? So unless this new Harrison Ford movie has him blasting 2 shots of salt into Nana’s chest, it’s one to be missed.
Plus Indiana Jones 4 sucked. Sucked hard. It’ll be hard to forgive him for that. He should use that diamond earring he has, and sell it for a better plot to that movie. But Mr. Ford does have a bright side. I am a Calista Flockhart fan, so he’s got that going for him.
Okay, maybe I’m a little jealous. But I’m pretty sure that movie sucks. Better luck next time Mr. Ford.
-Not Olivia
How Wicked is more interesting than the Bible
So Olivia…
Look. I know the Bible is the most influential book in history. I know it is one the most read books in the annals of history. And it’s the source and the doctrine I know half a world’s religion. But hear me out. Wicked has something the Bible doesn’t have. I’m not talking about flying monkeys and fancy witches but something more meaningful, more esoteric. And that is how Wicked is more interesting than the Bible.
Look. I could probably write a English dissertation or a creative writing class essay exposing the incongruence and the cohesion between these two literary works. That essay would be filled with examples, quotes, footnotes, references, and a whole hullabaloo of political correct bullshit to keep statements official and politically correct. Screw the examples. Screw the paragraphs. Screw that A+ effort with the C+ grade. I’m going to boil it down to one, one important flaw/power that takes Wicked to a place where the Bible can’t go.
Wicked has a love story.
Don’t give me that crap about that guy who works in servitude for his wife or any of that stuff in that Ole first half. The first half doesn’t count. No one lives for 400 years. And I’m pretty sure there was no mention of inserting genitalia into genitalia in a heat of passion and romance. And no, that begat begat begat stuff doesn’t count. I’m talking about that new second half everyone one is all apeshit about. Where’s the love story in that? And no, Jesus loving everybody doesn’t count unless he kissed everybody, not the my brother and sister kiss, but the grabbed a boob and became a beast with two backs kiss. The kiss lovers do. The Bible doesn’t have that. It doesn’t have two people who own each other’s world. There is no sense of Serendipity where two people were always meant to be together. Absent are the sacrifice and devotion that people get because they love someone who they want to have sex with because that’s the greatest expression they ever share. Nope. No sex and lust with Jesus in the Bible.
It’s crazy how the entire second have doesn’t have sex love. I don’t know whether Saint Peter kicked out a gospel. I don’t know if it was in there and it was scrubbed as heresy. I don’t know if we just lost a passage over the thousand years passing it down. All I know is that it’s not in there. Sex love is not in there. It’s hard to imagine why it isn’t because it’s important. It’s why kiss. It’s why we dry hump. It’s why we have children. In fact, it’s why we as a human race have been going on for thousands of years, by doing the sex love. It’s important. But why isn’t it in the second half? Who knows. My guess?
Maybe sex love doesn’t need a god. I know. Kinda scary. I know my mind is blown. But maybe it was in there. And someone took it out. I just have a feeling that it’s true, no real proof. It’s so important, so how could a huge book like the Bible leave it out for a whole half? But I have a theory. It’s stupid, useless, and probably blasphemous. But here it is anyway: see, Wicked has two people run away with each other, each stricken with beating hearts burning through gasoline in a huge diabolical case of the sex love. And you know that part of Jesus’s life where we don’t know what the hell happened to him before 24? I’m thinking we don’t know maybe because he ran away. Because, well… he fell in love.
I think I’m going to hell after this post.
-Not Olivia
A new year, A new skill, A new food post
So Olivia…
Hey, it’s been awhile. Anyway I appreciate your Imovie skills in the these videos you have been posting. I believe this makes it the millionth video you have made about food. OK. I think we get it. Food is awesome. I hate to play the role of movie studio exec, but I think you have more than enough potential to do more than food. OK, I lied. I love to play the role of studio exec.
My favorite part of the whole video was when you said that you got 2 free salads because the food took long. When I heard that, my jaw dropped! I was like “What!?!!” What happened to your food? Was it crowded in the restaurant? Were orders taking too long? Was there a mishap in the kitchen? Are they actually delayed or are they adding “special” topping because they thought you guys were dickweeds? I mean wow, that mere mention created this conflict, this interesting plot point which could have segued into a more investigative Jon Grisham thriller.
But it didn’t. You just went and said “Ooh how delicious” “Ooh looks good” and “Ooh sea bass and Florida and shit”. Look girl. You’ve got talent. You’ve got moxie. And you’ve got Imovie skills. So girl you got to bring it. Bring out the jokes. Bring out the flavor. Bring out your sarcastic Christian Bale impression when you go “Ooh how delicious” because girl you gots IT. Don’t make it just a new year, a new skill, a new food post. Make it Olivia.
Work it girl.
Also what’s up with Patrick’s watch? Is that a nylon band? He should dash it up and switch to leather because he’s treading a little too close to the lesbian handyman runway.
-Not Olivia
You can't spell "obstetrician" without "bacon".
So Olivia…
I think you just made it too easy for me this time. I mean c’mon. Cravings. Avocado. Cake. Bacon. You’re basically handing me the launch code to a pregnancy/food joke hydrogen bomb. But I’m not going to use it. Nope. Mainly, because I’ve already touched on these topics before in my previous posts. And I don’t like doubling up on subjects against the dealer’s hand. So lets try something new. Let’s take each one of your cravings and cold-read what you really think and feel.
Cake- It’s rich in sugar. Especially if there is frosting around it. A cake could give you a huge sugar rush. Maybe you want something sweet. Maybe you want that rush. Sweet. Rush. It’s obvious what you really want. Love. But more specific. It’s the “I think I love you” Love. That type of love is sweet. It’ll give you a rush. My suggestion: Ask G for this on your birthday.
Pinkberry Yogurt- Yogurt is white, creamy, sugary. You pay by the ounce. Okay, I think I should stop. This can get bad real quick. My suggestion: Uhhh…*cough*…let’s move on.
Hash Brown - Potatoes. Shredded then fried on a pan. Savory. Potatoes have been the staple of many cultural diets. In fact, villages been built around the harvest of the potato crop. So potato represents life. Basically, you want to take you life and shred it/go wild, so you can savor it. My suggestion: Go wild this weekend.
Sunny-side up egg - Sunny-side up represents optimism. Egg represents fertility. If the moon is correct, your femininity could be strong this weekend. My suggestion: Wear your favorite dress.
Avocado - Green. Deceptively fatty. Makes guacamole. This represents indulgence. You seem to have many desires that you just can’t wait to satisfy. My suggestion: Satisfy them.
Chocolate - Sweet. Savory. Great with strawberries. You seem to be craving a little romance. But then again who doesn’t. You may need some quicker than you think. My suggestion: Don’t be afraid to set the mood.
Cauliflower - White. Bland. Gross. C’mon. Who eats cauliflower? That stuff is gross. My suggestion: Don’t eat cauliflower. That stuff is gross.
Well if you follow all these soothsayer suggestions, then it seems you will have a fantastic weekend. But if you’re smart enough to realize that following these suggestions will lead to something more specific, then you are correct. All these suggestions lead to your final craving: bacon.
Bacon - You can’t spell “obstetrician” without “bacon”. Congrats, you’re pregnant.
That, by the way, is one completely absurd and lengthy way to make a joke about pregnancy.
-Not Olivia
City named Austin: good. Stripper named Austin: not so good.
So Olivia…
I think we get it. You love Austin. Guess what? So does everyone who’s been there. That’s what Austin does. Austin is the free oasis standing in the corporate oil desert that is Texas. Most of the props should go to that fine round ass I like to call the University of Texas at Austin. It’s one of the biggest campuses in America and happens to create some of the wackiest people that fill those Travis County census brochures. It’s the only place in Texas where people can wear a thrift store homeless jacket and earn a six-figure salary. Everywhere else, they’re actually homeless. However, I heed you fair warning about the name Austin. City named Austin: good. Stripper named Austin: not so good.
There is a special corollary that exists with women and names that you may not know about. But every guy knows about it. And guys won’t tell women about it because they don’t want to hurt their feelings. And they don’t want you to know that they are shallow. And they don’t want you to know that they might be judging you. And they don’t want you to know that they have silly rules that almost always work. But then again women do the same damn thing. So maybe sharing this rule wouldn’t end our societal armistice. So, the corollary goes like this: If a woman has a boy’s name, she’s probably ridiculously hot. So the names Randy, Bobby, Sammy, and the like, when given to a woman, somehow makes that same woman register off the boner scale. I don’t know how it happens. Somehow, there is just some Jedi force existing out there in the interstellar universe making any female with a male name into a 24/7 centerfold. That’s just how the world works. And the name Austin? I think it counts.
5 dollar covers are the cheapest you can get, but 15 are the norm nowadays. So after you pay your way into a strip club, you scan through neon darkness for a place to sit. There’s the bar on the right and a few stages straight ahead of you. The tables and chairs are cascading like a daisy from the chromed metal pistil. Which currently occupies a person named Daisy. How ironic. You don’t want to be consumed by the rave of nipples and crotch flailing in front of already occupied desperate eyes. So you sit in the back. A waitress comes over and asks you for your drink. You’re here to feel male, so it’s an order of whiskey on the rocks. Her pen scribbles as you immediately regret your words. You hate whiskey. You hate whiskey even more if it’s just whiskey. But ordering a cosmo isn’t protocol. You’re at a strip club. Such a thing isn’t done.
The boom of White Snake over the speakers seems to gyrate the hips of Daisy but not your imagination. Daisy’s almost most done. Her crawl across the stage is dual purpose. She shows off her goods while her paws grasp the night’s paycheck. Segregated claps are followed with clinking of chilled glasses. The DJ scratches on Pussycat Dolls. How appropriate. And the lights get even lower. And God shouts from the sky.
“Welcome to the stage, the lady named after the city everyone loves… Austin!”
Wow. Who knew that this cowgirl was an eye rollercoaster. Her hips. Her lips. Her curves. You wonder why she’s stripping. She’s too damn pretty. Any job in the world was hers. She could just smile her way to the top. And everyone agrees with their stone eyes. Their perverted smirks. Their ill-postured backs. Her boots come off. Then her hat. As the bass bounces, so does her ass. Then pieces of flannel dress the stage but not herself. You become everyone else. Anticipating the goods to come out. Anticipating your wonders about color. Shape. Size. You’re in a trance. She does her job well.
But your trance breaks. You wonder if you’re the only one that notices. It turns out you’re the only one who cares. She is beautiful. She is a dream. But she is a nightmare. Tracks don’t lie. Across her arm. In between her toes. Maybe her lipstick is covering a sore. You know why she strips. The green confetti stage is more than her paycheck. It’s her habit. You swallow your liquid burn. Your eyes tear. Some of it from the alcohol. Some of it for her. You leave your tip and your chair. As you reenter the night, you feel heated. Not from her eroticism, but from your guilt. Not because you did anything wrong. She’s beautiful. She’s a goddess in your eyes. It’s because of that beauty. Her beauty shames. She is so beautiful that her guilt became your guilt. It’s unfair that you don’t have the drugs to get rid of it. She does. You want it to stay that way.
Sometimes a stripper named Austin isn’t worth it.
-Not Olivia
