Can I Get a Slice of Douche?

Pizza has become soooooooooooooooo boring. The cheese, the tomato, the bread...I mean, it is the prude of food. Pizza needs to remove that promise ring and create a new slutty image. That new pizza whore is Ed Hardy.

Wait. Wannabe douchey pizza say whaaaaaat?

You huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurd me. Ed. Hardy. All over your face. A San Francisco pizzerria is now making pizza that just might buy you a drink, roofie you, and leave a trail of rhinestones on your bedroom floor.  Exhibit A:


Mirror mirror on the wall,  who's the douchiest
 pizza box of them all?

Get it while it's hot brah, because the pizza box with a rhinestoned eagle on it is a limited edition. Whaaaaat? That means you only have 10,000 chances to get an STD from food.  THE HORROR.

When I Grow Up

Remember when adults used to ask "What do you want to be when you grow-up?" and you used to say something so awesome like astronaut or archaeologist or Heidi Fleiss. Don't judge. Homegurl had an E! True Hollywood Story. Then, all of a sudden you're in your junior year of high school with sexy acne and ridiculous insecurities and the only thing you care about is your prominent buttcrack hanging out them slutty low-rise jeans. Baby got more back than a wall at a high school dance.

 

               

Now that you've figured out that becoming an astronaut requires good grades and a lack of make-out sessions with your BF, you decide to go all Robert Frost on the parentals and take the road less traveled. "Mom, I don't want to go to college. I want to be an ARTIST." Yeah. You might as well tell your parents you're preggers with Roman Polanski's baby.

Don't you worry your little touchas off. I have developed a pretty decent argument for not going to college: "Snooki went to college."

U Kan Go To Kawledge Just Lyk Me

The Reason You Suck...

...is because you release grades at 4pm on a Friday afternoon. That means I can check grades and then:

• go drive my car off a cliff on the way home from work
• go to happy hour and have 10 too many puke-tini's
• start crying in the library

Thank you for providing me with so many wonderful options.

I Profess My Love

I am not the type to have crushes on my professors. Usually because they are women, they are just so incredibly awful that I want to throw bologna at their faces, or they don't have that typical mountain man look I love. Of course, there is an exception to my taste and I call him Smithypoo.

I am kind-of in love with my Constitutional Law professor. It's not the "I love you and I am going to violate your 4th amendment right to privacy by peering in your window with my night vision binoculars" type of love. I mean...I would never do that...nope...ahem. He is so nerdy and adorable with his ADHD and inability to finish a sentence properly. I just want to pinch his cheeks. He's like a Steve Urkel and Porky Pig sandwich. Not Kosher but adorable.

Best part? Everytime he calls on me he awkwardly looks right above my head. No. Seriously. He never looks me in the eye (probably because he's worried he'll get lost in the puddle of my large black tar pupils) and instead stares directly above my head. Maybe there is an invisible fat baby that only he can see, sitting on my head. That totally explains the headaches. Whattup wit dat Fat Baby?

The other day, I had to miss class. So, of course, I e-mailed Smithy-Poo to get the assignment and what I missed. His reply, and I quote, "Sorry, you couldn't be here. The class missed you." I know, right? He totally loves me.

Last, but not least, he looks like Max who owned The Max on Saved by the Bell. Oh. Is that your heart going pitter patter too now. Back off bitches.

Are You a Snazzy Napper?

While reading another blog, the existence of, quite possibly, the best product to ever be invented was brought to my attention:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MthSUD8cMqk

Please, watch the above. Then order it. This product could create a number of possibilities, such as:

1. Getting punched in the face for making such a poor decision
2. Subjecting yourself to a voluntary strip search at the airport
3. Hiding the ugly
4. Becoming the most awesome burglar EVER

Granted, most of these possibilities are likely to result in you becoming depressed or severly injured, but, c'mon...it's so worth the risk. I will dedicate a whole blogpost to you and your pressured misfortune.

Can I Get an Oy Vay?

I am going to Palm Springs this weekend. Yom Kippur is this weekend too. That means I will be repenting for the holiday, in the desert...like a real Jew. Holla!

On another note, my mom has joined facebook. Yep. The same woman who publicly announced my boobs are like melons and told my ex-bf how Rabbis have sex. Goodbye, dignity.

BRB. Gotta Go Get Gay Married.

Fine, fine. I am not gay, but my mom has asked me if I am gay enough times to make me an honorary:

First time:

Me: I don’t want to wear heels.

Mom: Are you a lesbian?

Second Time:

Me: I love hockey.

Mom: You know…you can tell me if you’re gay.

Third Time:

Mom: (looking at a picture of my then boyfriend) So, you’re gay?

No, but for serious. I am completely perplexed as to how a member of the Ku Klux Klan has the right to express hate under our constitution, yet a gay person in the military cannot utilize those constitutional rights they are fighting to protect. Maybe it is that very legitimate fear that if you hang out with gay people, you will catch the gay bug and become gay too. Again. A completely legitimate fear. Kind of like, if you hang out with black people, you will probably become black. Right? Oh. Is that silly? Weird.

Thank God, U.S. District Courts are shedding their negative Nancy persona and making some intelligent decisions regarding equality. So far, Proposition 8 and the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” crapicy (Crap + Policy…Webster better not try to jock my style) have been found unconstitutional. Word to yo mutha! Of course, these judgments will be appealed, all the way to the mystical court of the supreme…the one with Scalia, not Diana Ross. Hopefully, the court will hear the cases. Also, let’s cross our fingers and hope that butthole Scalia doesn’t compare homosexuality to murder this time.

Happy Jew Year!

Being Jewish is awesome. Why? Well, I love playing into stereotypes.

Stereotype 1: Jew's are "penny pinchers."

I am not stingy. I enjoy the occasional heads-up penny, lying on the ground, begging for some action. BUT, when it comes to enjoying my money (loans) rather than saving my money (loans), I prefer going for broke. Fortunately, I can use my Jewstus (Status as a Jew, and yes, I will be creating numersous words out of Jew throughout this blog. Holla.) to get me out of any financial predicament I do not want to be in.

Friend: Lauren, let's go out to the bars tonight!
Me (need to do hw but don't want to sound nerdy): Oooooh. Sorry. I'm Jewish. I need to save my money.

Stereotype 2: Jew's could guilt trip a nun if they wanted to.

Okay, this is not a stereotype. Jew's are over-qualified guilt trippers. I feel guilty about 99% of the actions I have taken in life because of guilt tripping. Don't feel bad. My mom tells me she is proud of me and that she loves me everyday but what would a compliment be without a little guilt?

Mom: I am so proud of you, Lauren. You have accomplished so much.
Me: Thank you, mommy. I was in the library for 5 hours today. I am going to go out tonight with friends...
Mom: Lauren! Really? You have so much money in loans and you are going to go spend it on alcohol. I worked so hard to make sure you got a decent education...

See how she flipped that around? I was the one with the stressful day and now she's the one who is stressed. The worst part of this "gift" is that you are not born with it; you acquire the skill over time...probably from the relentless nagging of your mother. I do know one thing, though. Once I have this whole guilt tripping thing down, the judge doesn't have a chance in hell.

There are other stereotypes, but I am in the library and I am just imagining Mindel's opinion of blogging during working hours. She doesn't even need to be here to guilt trip. So, HAPPY JEW YEAR!

They Sell Nuts in Street Carts

During the week long vacation my law school thinks is enough to repress the the puke inducing memories of studying and reading a silly document called "The Constitution," I took a little trip to New York. And, no, I am not going to reference that stupid Jay-Z song, while telling you about my trip.

After living in San Diego for two years and having a mom that looks like she has J-Lo's bronzing crew, I have developed quite a complex regarding my "no darker than an uncooked chicken" skintone. I mean, you know it's bad when a guy who is trying to hit on you says "Damn, girl! You Vampire white." Damn, boy! You are never going to see a vagina. Anyway, it was refreshing to go to a city where my pale is NORMAL.

No Snooki bronzer here. Just my all natural pale + my "look I just had a stroke" smile.

Since I was only in the city of 30 Rock and Gossip Girl for 3 days, I had to get my priorities straight when it came to what I wanted to see and do. Empire State building or 30 Rock building (aka Rockafeller Center)?

30 ROCK BUILDING. DUH! That's me on the zillionth floor of the building. You probably didn't notice the word "boobs" on my chest, but in case you did: I really love this picture but my boobs looked like they could have bitch slapped Dolly Parton's boobs back to an A-Cup. Hence, I took the liberty of censoring and subtitling. You're welcome.

Obviously, the only reason I went to Rockafeller Center was in hopes of running into my bestie Tina Fey. I mean, when you approach most of life's problems wondering WWTFD (What Would Tina Fey Do?), it's pretty much written in the stars that you'll randomly run into TF.

Yeah. That's Tina in the same spot where I was posing. She said "Hi" to me and now we're on a first name basis. She's probably going to read my blog. Not to brag or anything. FINE! It was just my imagination, Smokey Robinson. But, someday. Someday, she'll be making that face when she's thinking "WWLRD." Word.

I am kind of tired of writing, but I will leave you with this:

I met a man in NY. He introduced me to his pigeons, so it's kinda official. I did have to fight that old broad for him but it was worth it. He feeds me birdseed.

Oh, Brandon Walsh!

Today is a very important day. Today is 90210 - Septermber 2, 2010 = 90210...like the show...for those of you whore (actually meant to write "who" but that was too awesome of a Freudian slip to delete) are kinda slow.

Any person who experienced the 90's has been affected by 90210...and Milli Vanilli, but we won't travel that dreadlocked road right now. Why do you think Eminem is a rapper? Pretty sure it's because Brian Austin Green serenaded us with his sweet, white boy beats at the Peach Pit Afterdark. Duh.

90210 tackled every topic your parents never wanted to discuss. Instead of the sex talk, watch Andrea suffer through teenage pregnancy. First, who the hell wants to be like Andrea? She looked like she was 40. Second, her husband was super creepy looking. I was just waiting for him to show Andy his collection of Troll dolls and cut her to pieces (in that order). Basically, that chick's life was enough to make me want to convert and become a nun. Sarah Palin didn't allow Bristol to watch 90210. Exactly.

I Bring Class in a Ziploc Bag

Today, I have:

• gone to the gym and successfully avoided the farter;


• sat in three classes and took actual notes instead of spending the majority of my time on facebook, gchat, and E!Online (don't hate);


• successfuly chewed crunchy food in the library; and


• managed to make my cubicle look like someone with a horrible coke addiction was sitting at it (put your mind in the gutter because I wasn't referring to the coke polar bears like to advertise in their free time)

Like my self portrait? Tres chic. I know. I classed the shit out of that cubicle with my pearls, half-eaten grapefruit, and supposed drug bags. The cardigan practically makes me Jackie-O. Holla.

If this was in a Highlights magazine the goal would be to find all of the Ziploc bags. Sorry, Earth, for depleting your ozone one bag at a time...or in my case 12. I have tried using those Glade plastic containers and other earth friendly methods, such as stuffing all the food in my bra. It did not work. Glade is not rolley backpack friendly and the food bra left some major chest stains. I don't want the nickname Lactating Lauren, again.

I should have never gone to law school. I should be a crime scene investigator. I would always have a bag for the evidence AND it would be recycled because I would have already used it for my lunch. Take that Captain Planet.