The End of "Metropolitan" Musings??

I've taken the liberty of giving myself a 6 month hiatus from blogging. Partially, because I don't get paid to do this and partially because I couldn't focus for more than 3.5 minutes at a time on completing a post worthy of sharing. If I had made it my New Years Resolution to blog more often, I would've failed more miserably than the contestants in this episode of Wheel of Fortune.

Anyway, I'm blogging now to get my thoughts out of my head (lord knows they're reeking havoc up there) and to seek input from my readers.

Recently, Boyfriend and I have been discussing our eventual plans to cohabitate (in more finite terms than sloppily confessing on a SundayFunday that living together would be way more awesome than our current situation). Our current middle-distance relationship involves a lot of strategic planning, zero midweek sex, and many sad Sunday nights on Metro North. Truth be told, if our places of employment weren't 90 minutes apart, I would have been thrilled to shack up with him months ago! But alas, that is not the case.

Given that neither of us are willing to look for new jobs, geographically speaking, Stamford, Connecticut is the only realistic compromise. An express train from Grand Central can get you there in 45 minutes and driving the reverse commute to New Haven would take about an hour.  Sounds fair right?

 

Sure, if it were that easy I wouldn't have anything bitch about.

 

It's not the distance in miles or the minutes spent commuting that concerns me. It is the complete culture shock I'm sure to experience moving to the "suburbs."

 

(I guarantee Boyfriend is scoffing as he reads this, and yes Patrick, I do realize there are paved roads and indoor plumbing!!)

 

But that doesn't change the fact that I've spent the past 4 years living on my own in and around Manhattan. I spent about half of that time in Astoria (which provided the inspiration for my first ever blog post), and as I moved up in the world, I moved IN to New York City. I couldn't have been happier to trade my SUV for the MTA.

 

It wasn't long before I had a memorized the subway system, found the best happy hour bars, and had a list of go-to spots for when friends from out of town came to visit. I finally lived in a city where everything I could possibly need was available within walking distance (or could be delivered) at all hours of the day and night. I bet no one's ever said that about Stamford!

 

But I digress...

 

Simply put, my fear is that I will not adjust well to so much change so quickly. Sharing a living space with my significant other will be a transition in and of itself .... but doing it without home field advantage? eeek.

 

I've often compared myself to a small child who requires a 10-minute "warning" before playtime is over to avoid a total meltdown. Apparently this is no different.

Will anyone even read my blog if I'm forced to change its title to Sarcasm from Stamford?!

I'm spending my Friday laughing...

you should too.

Between Two Ferns with Zach Galifianakis: Steve Carell from Between Two Ferns

8.4 Million New Yorkers Suddenly Realize NY is a Horrible Place to Live.


HAPPY LABOR DAY WEEKEND!!

this is why I'll never be fashionable

I don't like stupid footwear. In fact, I loathe stupid footwear. Whose idea was this anyway??? Did some asshole fashion designer wake up one morning and think, "hmmm, I'd really like my toes to be exposed today, but would rather not let my ankles get chilly." And then they crapped out the idea for the "bandal" (a contraction I made up to describe the hideous boot-sandal pictured above) and somehow it caught on.

Whenever I see shoes like this, I start to feel the way my grandparents did when they saw me in my shredded jeans from A&F. Ya know, the ones that "yes, Grams, I did in fact buy this way."

"Where's the rest of your pants?" she'd inquire. Meanwhile, here I am believing that I'm "cool" and find myself asking the same question about the above. Where the fuck is the rest of your boot, stripper??

But I'm pretty sure these take the cake for dumb fucking ideas. Have you ever in your life wished that your flip flops came with leg warmers attached?! Nope? Me neither. And explain to me in what climate these shoes would be necessary?!? Honestly, If I'm wearing flip flops it's summer. If I'm wearing leg warmers, it's 1989.

I just want to be left alone with my collection of $2.50 flip flops from Old Navy. Ugh. At least it's almost Ugg season....

If this isn't motivation to hit the gym...

NY Metro: "Check out the moobs on that guy." While breast-enhancing surgery has become almost a norm for American women, men are also heading to the plastic surgeon’s office more often — to have their man-boobs (moobs) removed in a procedure referred to as gynecomastia. That fact shouldn’t be too surprising, considering that each year the obesity epidemic continues to grow.

I probably shouldn't be blogging about this on my lunch break 'cause it makes me wanna projectile vom across my keyboard like that chick in the Exorcist, but this article annoys me. First of all, if there's going to be an anatomical disparity between men and women (most notably that you guys have the luxury of a penis and the option to piss just about anywhere you want) then I think it's only fair that you leave the ability to grow tits to us chicks.

The solution? Plastic surgery of course! Rather than attack the man breast issue with diet and exercise, more and more men are going under the knife.

Well isn't it just like Americans to look for the easy way out? Heaven forbid you should eat Cheerios instead of the entire left side of the McDonald's breakfast menu. Or walk somewhere instead of squeezing our fat ass into the back seat of a cab. And would it kill you to spend 20 minutes on a fucking treadmill?

I'm also curious to know if these same big-breasted men are shitting hundred dollar bills?? Honestly, how are so many people paying for cosmetic surgeries in a recession?? I've eaten a box of Kraft mac&cheese every night this week for dinner just to be able to pay my cable bill. (I'm not pretending like I didn't enjoy the crap out of every bite, I'm just saying, it'd be nice to be able to afford a steak dinner every now and then or better yet, some lipo on my love handles.)

Man breasts AND a farmer's tan? SCORE!

Somehow I think chesticles are the least of this dude's issues.

I couldn't not post this...

a series of (un)fortunate (but hilarious) events

If we're being honest with each other, I am well aware that lately I whole-heartedly suck at blogging. I can't promise it's gonna get any better as the summer wraps up, but I'll certainly [pretend to] try. However, choosing not to blog this week would be like me declining an invitation to a free open bar.

Just.Not.Possible.

Let's kick this off with a frank discussion of Steven Slater. If you don't know who he is, I'd suggest you remove your head from your anal cavity and read a fucking newspaper.

Some laud him as a hero, others claim he's a psychopath, and his Mommy has already come to his defense (as most disillusioned mothers do when their child "suddenly" goes batshit crazy... way to ignore the warning signs, Mom.)

However, I must admit, for anyone who has ever worked in a customer service position, this guy is the tits! As a former waitress at IHOP (International House of Perverts), I've envisioned dozens of scenarios in which I serve an obnoxious customer his full-stack of pancakes alongside a solid kick to the grundle. And yes, I'm going to charge you extra for that.

The difference between myself and Mr. Slater, of course being, the element of self control.

While we're discussing individuals who temporarily suspend their ability to think before they act, check out the MickeyD's Maniac who lost her cool after being denied an order of McNuggets:



McNuggets... really?!? I might be able to understand a fit of rage over a White Castle Crave Case... but this was just over the top.

Additional things that are overrated... This week, ShakeShack has finally opened on 86th and Lex. In case you were wondering, yes, the line for the M86 Crosstown bus is shorter, moves faster and can get you to the far superior Five Napkin Burger in less time than you'd have to wait outside the Shack.

However, if you absolutely must know what all the hype is about, do yourself a favor and visit the Madison Square Park location instead. Make sure you check the ShackCam before you go to see just how long you'll be standing around waiting for your overpraised cheeseburger. And don't say I didn't warn you.

More information that makes me happy: Hard Knocks starts on HBO tonight featuring the NY Jets. Since I don't have (am too cheap to pay for) HBO I'll be making Boyfriend record the series. What I'm even more pumped about is the fact that the beginning of football season makes the end of summer significantly less brutal. This fall, I'll be co-managing a fantasy team while consuming buffalo wings and bud lights at an extraordinarily impressive pace for a female.

Speaking of maintaining my girlish figure, I've just signed up for a free month trial at New York Sports Club. It's been less than a week and I've already been painfully reminded of everything I loathe about physical exertion (at least the kind that doesn't result in an orgasm.) Of particular note is the misery associated with spin class. Not only is it the sweatiest 45 minutes of your day, but you actually have to actively volunteer for this torture by signing up 24 hours in advance.

Reason #428 being an adult sucks: grown ups ride stationary bikes to stay in shape, kids ride bikes to real destinations like ice cream shops and their neigbors' pools.

Oh yea, I'm also on Twitter. I'm sorta funny (sometimes) but don't have a lot of followers (just like I don't have a lot of blog readers.) If you have any interest in boosting my confidence pass on my blog and follow me @jhack215.

If not, you suck and so do your finger paintings.

another video - get over it

If you haven't already heard/read about it, click here for the audio of one of the rants that confirms why Mel Gibson is out of his ever-loving mind.

Then, watch the video below.



You can thank me later for the 7 minutes of entertainment I've provided today.

too hot to blog

Also, I'm moving in a few days which has been an all consuming project (that I'll eventually blog about), so for now just watch this trailer and remember that movie theaters are air conditioned and Zach Galifiniakis is hilarious.

DUE DATE: Trailer. Watch more top selected videos about: Robert Downey, Jr., Zach Galifianakis

If peeing your pants is cool...

consider him Miles Davis.

This Is Why I'm Hot

Conceited? No. Confident? Yes. But my effortless good looks (and obvious modesty) are not the topic of this post.

Allow me to express the all-consuming misery I feel when Mother Nature unleashes her ability to make New York City feel like the surface of the sun. Or Hell. Or a whole new kind of Hell that is located ON the surface of the sun.

In case you're not following my analogies... It's fucking hot and I am NOT happy about it.

But wait there's more!

These past few days haven't just been hot, they've been humid too! YAY!

From a scientific standpoint, humidity is defined as the amount of water vapor in the air.

From JessHacker's Dictionary for NewYorkers*, humidity is the unbearable moisture that covers your entire body in a thick layer of stickiness as if you just emerged from the depths of a marshy swamp. As a result of the uncontrollable sweating, you take no less than 4 cold showers a day to regain some level of homeostasis. Unfortunately, your efforts will prove utterly useless the minute you put your clothes back on and step out into the un-airconditioned world, where beads of sweat will instantly form on your forehead, mocking your desire to be comfortable.

*This dictionary does not exist. Yet. For now, stick with Merriam Webster.

I've never been to Arizona to experience the "dry heat" that those douchebags always brag about, but I'm starting to think that they may be on to something. I bet chicks out there never have a bad hair day.

I, on the other hand, own** a whole arsenal of hair products that market their "anti-humidity" and "moisture-barrier" capabilities. This, in case you were wondering, is a bigger load of bullshit than World Cup refs not counting USA's goals. Twice.

**waste oodles of money on.

Either way, day after hot and humid day, I apply a different combination of gels and sprays to my soaking wet locks in an attempt to transform them from unruly to "scrunched." Pathetically, it always ends up looking like a half-assed birds nest of messy curls haphazardly fastened out of my face with a headband, 2 scrunchies, 37 bobby pins, and a half a can of AquaNet.***

***No, I don't really use AquaNet. I think this, along with Denture Creme and Depends, is reserved for people over the age of 65.

The only "barrier" that would be effective under these circumstances is an air-conditioned body suit. I can say with certainy that I would put this gift at the very top of my Christmas list and probably even trade most of my worldly posessions to get my hands on one. I would spend a similarly astronomical amount of money on an airconditioned blanket so that sleeping with boyfriend in the summer months would be just as pleasant as they are in winter.

I have not yet decided if I hate rain or heat more, but that's like deciding if Kate Gosselin or Octomom is a worse mother.

Although lately, with her unpredicatable "chances of scattered thunderstorms" and "95% humidity," I'd say Mother Nature is worse than them both.

I Hate... Being Unprepared

Yesterday was somewhat of an "off" day.

I was in a missing-the-boyfriend midweek funk and absentmindedly left my apartment grossly unprepared for the inclement weather.

Being umbrella-less was like showing up for for the SAT's without a calculator. I knew I was missing something but couldn't put my finger on it until the proctor had already started handing out the scantrons. When it finally dawned on me, I tried to rationalize that I could get by without it.

I was very wrong.

Not only was I sans umbrella, I had also blindly dressed myself in a sleeveless shirt, a skirt, and flip flops because I didn't bother to consult the news for a weather report (which probably would have featured the rain cloud below hovering ominously over Grand Central Station waiting for me to leave the office):



Needless to say, trying to walk home in monsoon-like conditions of violent sideways rain made me look like a drowned rat in a wet tee-shirt contest. And oh yea, I destroyed my leather flip flops.

The good news is, I went home to find out that Tosh.O was a new episode! I took the liberty of sharing his "I hate" video here. It made me laugh, hopefully it'll do the same for you.

(This is the beginning of my attempt to blog more often.)

Tosh.0
I Hate Video
http://www.comedycentral.com/
Web Redemption 2 Girls, 1 Cup Reaction Demi Moore Picture

How to Launder Money

Just Kidding!!

First of all, there's no way I would write a post about a criminal activity, I have a reputation to uphold. Secondly, I have no idea how to launder money so my how-to guide would be as effective as sitting in your underwear with carrots up your nose to cure cancer.

This post is actually about laundering clothes.

Wait!! Don't go!! I promise it's (kinda) funny!!

Washing your soiled linens is one of those daunting chores that if you're really lucky (or really spoiled) you won't experience the full level of suckage until you go away to college.

When I was in elementary school, I knew it wasn't magic per se, but it did always seem like a small miracle that my drawers were regularly stocked with clothes that didn't smell like the underside of a wet dog. I really had no idea where my clothes went after I put them in the hamper, all I knew was that my favorite denim shorts and Rainbow Brite tee-shirt were always available when I needed them.

As I got a bit older (arguably more responsible) I still never experienced the complete laundry process. I may have been asked to move the beach towels (an unshrinkable, un-fuck-up-able item) from the washer to the dryer when the machine buzzed but after that I was relieved of my duties and free to spend the next 5 hours practicing my synchronized swimming routine with my sister. When we emerged from the pool soaking wet with wrinkly digits- clean, dry towels awaited us.

I enjoyed being pleasantly aloof to the laundry process until I was in middle school.

It was around the age of 12 that my mom asked me (with audible hesitation) to "sort" my dirty clothes. Up until this point in my life the only thing I had sorted effectively were my Pogs from my slammers and my 'cool' scrunchies from the crappy ones that I would hand down to my sister.

Mom never gave me a proper lesson in the art of sorting, until she observed me stack my clothes into 3 piles: shirts, pants, and everything else. When she stopped laughing she informed me I was both wrong and ridiculous. She was obviously right.

As years passed I learned many valuable lessons about laundry.

1) Downy is NOT detergent. Sadly, while your clothes will be incredibly soft, they will also still have evidence of the previous weekends' jungle juice graffiti party.

2) The hot cycle (intended to bleach whites) will make colors bleed. Every.Single.Time.

3) 24-hour laundry mats are terrifying places to be at night. One would probably be more comfortable wearing a mini skirt and 6 inch plastic stilettos in a poorly lit alley.

4) Care labels exist for a reason. Blatantly disregarding "Dry Clean Only" in favor of the "delicate" cycle will be an expensive lesson to learn on a silk blouse.

5) Stashing Tide-To-Go pens in your purse is more important than chap stick. This is especially true for someone foolish enough to wear a white shirt to a baseball game. Where they serve hot dogs. With ketchup. And mustard. Need I say more?

Despite what I've learned from doing my own laundry (a concept that was once as foreign as a retirement fund) I've decided that it's worth every single penny to have someone else do my dirty work. Literally.

The below advertisement had me at "solution." They obviously recognized that for some people (me) doing laundry is a legitimate problem. They went on to target their audience (me) perfectly... "For Busy People." (I'm not sure if they're hinting that not-so-busy people should be doing their own laundry, but I really don't care. I AM a busy person! I'm too busy to even worry myself with the subliminal message they may or may not be trying to send.)

And although the last line, "just like you would do at home" seems like more of a threat than a promise given my at-home experiences, for 75 cents a pound I was willing to give it a go. Hell, you can't even get cookies at an Italian bakery that cheap!

The results? See for yourself:

Needless to say, not only was I not disappointed, I have not purchased laundry detergent (or Downy) since January and have become what one might call "a regular" at Empire Cleaners. Now if only I could convince (pay) someone to put the clothes away for me.

Two Pack Toddler

Sometimes parents let their kids get away with murder. Other times parents try to murder their kids. Either way, it's parenting like this that allays all my fears that I'll ever be an insufficient mother....


EMBED-Ardi Rizal - The real SMOKING BABY !! - Watch more free videos


I'd obviously put my foot down at one pack a day.

Man vs. Snooze

Sleeping is without a doubt the second best thing one can do in their bed. (Mom, if you're reading this, the first best thing is of course watching wholesome television, fully-clothed.)

My love affair with sleeping began in kindergarten. My report cards reflected that I excelled at all academic subjects, but the untold story of my nap time skills is the real reason behind my child prodigy status. I can admit to having an unhealthy obsession with my Aladdin sleeping bag, my security blanket (a full size bed sheet), sucking my thumb, and leaving drool stains on my pillows.

It was during these formative years that I perfected the art of falling asleep anywhere.

(I'll probably get back to filling out my Employee of the Month application when I wake up.)

Anyway, as a 5-year-old, the inconvenient circumstances under which I would attempt to nap included (but were not limited to) the following:

- the incessant sobbing of the classmate with separation anxiety.

- the blood curdling screams of someone who closed their finger in the toy chest.

- the loud thud of Lincoln Logs being violently tossed around the block area

(likely followed by more blood curdling screams if anyone was actually in the line of fire)

- and the simultaneous imitations of police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and helicopters.

Little did I know, the sleeping skills I acquired in elementary school would be vital to surviving life in the big apple, where I have yet to experience a SINGLE night without hearing the piercing sirens of an emergency vehicle. Seriously Manhattan? How many fires can their possibly be in one city on any given night?!

After a restless slumber where I dramatically toss and turn under my covers, smother myself (or my snoring boyfriend) with a pillow, and sometimes even whimper aloud about how badly I need to fall asleep, the last sound in the world I am ready to hear is my motherfucking alarm.

I've been using my cellphone as an alarm clock since an unfortunate falling out with my Sony Dream Machine. (Let's just say waking up hungover to "She Works Hard for the Money" at 5am on a Sunday before a double shift at IHOP would probably send you into a fit of uncontrollable rage too.)

So each morning I play a rousing game of Man vs. Snooze. You would think that at 26 years old, I would have learned my lesson by now. Snoozing is an evil concept developed by a horrible human being at an alarm clock factory.

I foolishly set the same two alarms day after day. The first goes off at 6am for those rare mornings that I have enough energy figure out how to tie my sneakers for a pre-work jog. Realistically, that alarm is turned off within 2.7 seconds of making a chirp.

The second alarm is set for 7:20am, which has proven to be the most ineffective time for me to attempt to start my day. I roll over and whack the snooze button at least once. 7:25. I do it again. 7:30. And once more. 7:35. As always, right around this time I hear the bathroom door close and the water turn on. Roommate is in the shower. I guess I have no choice but to snooze for at least another 15 minutes*

*I recently learned that roommate plays the same game, hoping that I'll get in the bathroom first giving her no other option but to lay in bed longer*

Before I know it, it's 8:05am. I've zoned out to an episode of SBTB (although I'd later tell my co workers that I was watching some special CNN report that I care deeply about) and I've rationalized not needing to wash my hair or iron my pants all in the name of more sleep.

As much as I consider myself a connoisseur of naps, I must give credit where credit is due. Roommate and I took the below photo last Friday sometime between 2:30 and 4am. Neither of us were sober enough to think that waking him might be a bad idea, so after snapping this pic, we tentatively approached him and began shouting "Hey Buddy, Are you OK?" (For the record, we had his best interest in mind and thought putting him in a cab would be the good Samaritan thing to do.)

You may have noticed that Drunky Mc Naps on Street is only wearing one flip flop. Once he got to his feet, he slurred some barely lucid accusation that we were the ones responsible for his missing shoe. We explained that this is how we found him and would be happy to hail him a cab if he would tell us where he lived. (The actual dialogue was much more animated but is a story better told in person, or in a stand up comedy act.)

He definitely knew that he lived in "kweeez" which we translated to mean "Queens." He also seemed to think that roommate and I had magical powers in simultaneously being able to keep him upright and flag down a taxi. And while this Third Avenue Charmer hadn't a clue where his other shoe was or how to get home, he had no trouble at all rolling down the window and attempting a pick-up line as his cab pulled away from the curb.

I'm sure he spent all day Saturday hitting his snooze button.

I Got Knocked Down, But I Got Up Again

In case you hadn't heard, I'm a spaz.

I'm not just your ordinary, run of the mill spaz. Nope, I'm that special breed of spaz who manages to destroy nearly one thousand dollars worth of electronic devices in under 7 seconds. If I was involved in a contest on decimating the most amount of technology in the shortest amount of time, I would be so victorious that they would re-name the contest "Pulling a Hacker" (please see current Facebook status).

Allow me to explain.

I spent this past weekend in the U.S. Virgin Island of St. Thomas celebrating my best friend's bachelorette party. The weekend started smoothly enough.

I woke up at 4am Friday morning with the same level of excitement that I suspect anyone feels when they are going on a tropical vacation. I barely needed my alarm clock to tell me it was time to hop in the shower and get my day started. I tried my bathing suit on one more time as I blasted "Party in the U.S.A" (which would later be changed to "Party in the U.S.V.I") and hopped around my room like an 8 year old on a pogo stick.

For the sake of your precious time (and mine, as I really should be researching historical housing supply and vacancy rates), I'll skip ahead to the good stuff, with a brief mention of additional highlights.

The four hour plane ride was wildly successful as it involved no unruly screaming children, a nap, a few chapters of Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang and 3 screw drivers.

Upon arrival we immediately changed into our bikinis and neon sunglasses to spend the rest of the day on the beach enjoying copious amounts of rum runners, tons of sun, and the clearest water I've ever seen. Look how happy we are:
Friday was capped off by a beautiful sunset picnic on the point of Sapphire Beach and an early bed time for all, as our sailing excursion was scheduled to begin at 8:30am the next morning.

Sadly, my inability to stand on my own two feet would be the reason for a delayed departure.

It all happened so suddenly but basically the events transpired as follows:

"LOOK! An iguana!"

:::SPLASH:::

"What fell?!?!"

"JESSICA!"

My initial reaction was a combination of shock (as my mouth was filling up with salt water), anger (as I blurted out "I'm not even drunk!!") and nausea (as the reality set in that I had taken the entire contents of my purse down with me.)

I tossed my stuff back up on to the dock where my best friend immediately started the damage control process of removing the batteries from the devices and demanding that the captain of our sailboat have a vodka beverage ready for my consumption when I emerged from the water. (That's what 10+ years of friendship is all about).

I hoisted my soggy self onto a jet ski (which I would later be informed is a nearly impossible feat for a 300 pound person), examined my cuts and bruises, and then let the uncontrollable tears flow like Niagara Falls. I may have also used a few choice words to describe every single iguana on the island.

(For the record, this is NOT the actual iguana responsible for my demise. In fact, I don't have a picture of that little bastard because the memory card from my camera is so irreparably corroded from salt water that you'd think the ocean was actually a vat of hydrochloric acid.)

Anyway, I wasn't about to let one little accident ruin my weekend. Putting life in perspective, if the worst thing that happened to me that day was an unfortunate trip off a dock on my way to sailing the Carribean, snorkeling for sea turtles, and dancing the night away at Duffy's Love Shack, I really didn't have too much to complain about.

That said, if any of my loyal readers want to make a donation to the Bring Jess Back to the 21st Century Fund, I'll gladly be accepting iPods, digital cameras, and mobile telephones.

Note to boyfriend: While I may be joking about this now for the sake of my blog, if you actually get me inflatable swimmies for the boat this summer, you will leave me no choice but to root for the Red Sox when they play the Yankees.

While You're At It...

Vote for Richard too!!

Hey You! Make My Talented Friends Famous!

As it turns out, I can't sing. (Even drunk karaoke is a bad idea)

However, I have friends who CAN sing.

And they're reallyyyyyyyy good.

And they want to be on Glee.

As such, I'm asking you to please take 37 seconds out of your oh-so-busy day to give them gold stars.

Please.

(You have to do it, I asked nicely, those are the rules.)




GIVE KARINA GOLD STARS HERE

GIVE JENNIE GOLD STARS HERE

TGIF: Toes Go In First

Yes, I'm aware it's not Friday. I just thought a familiar acronym might help the drunk gentlemen in the video below prevail in the epic battle of Man vs. Flip Flop(s):



You're welcome.

Happy Earth Day from Animal Planet

So here's the deal: It's Earth Day. I'm not going to remind you that global warming is a real thing. I'm not going to remind you to reuse and recycle. I'm not going to remind you to "think about the environmnent before you print this e-mail," because if you don't already know this, odds are you're a terrible person.

What I AM gonna do is entertain you with some adorable animal photos.

Please see below.

(Think you've got funnier ideas for captions? You should probably put it in your blog. Oh, you don't have a blog? Then shut up.)

"If this ends up on Facebook, you're fucking dead."

"Hey, is this how we suck face?"

"I'm about to make this apple my bitch."

Polar bear 1: "I don't know what we're yelling about!!"

Polar bear 2: "Loud Noises!!"

"First, I'm gonna Get Low...."
("Has anyone seen my apple bottom jeans?")

"...then, I'm gonna Walk it Out."

"There's more to life than being really, really ridiculously good looking (pause) NOT."


"Eat your heart out, Lady and the Tramp."

"Hey meesta! Get me outta here!
What does a monkey gotta do to get some hair gel around here?!"

Mom Zebra: "Come give mama a kiss before you go to school."
Kid Zebra: "MA! Stop! You're embarrassing me."
Mom Zebra: "Just wait till you're a teenager, you ungrateful punk."

How NOT to Handle Losing Your Job

Apparently Keifer isn't really psyched about his newfound unemployment.

(Courtesy of the NY Post)
Club boots boozed-up Kiefer Sutherland
Posted: 1:57 AM, April 16, 2010

The clock has run out on "24" -- but not on Kiefer Sutherland's thirst for rough-and-tumble action. The hard-partying star was drunk, disorderly and shirtless at 4 a.m. yesterday as four huge bodyguards dragged him out of a London strip club and threw him into a car.

Sutherland -- who's finished filming the eighth and final season of the hit series, which has six episodes yet to air -- started the evening at the bar of the Covent Garden Hotel, where he sampled several different wines, with empty stemmed glasses lined up in front of him.

"Eventually a mate showed up and in between drinks, they popped outside for a ciggie," a witness said. "Kiefer carried on drinking in the bar till 2 a.m. He was then driven to Stringfellow's Gentlemen's Club."

Photos taken about two hours later show a shirtless Sutherland, looking nothing like Jack Bauer, being thrown out the back door of the mammary mecca by four tuxedo-clad bouncers, one of whom had him in a headlock. He was shoved into the back seat of a car and brought back to his hotel, where staff helped him to his room.

Sutherland's lawyer and publicist did not return calls seeking comment. But it was hardly the first time Sutherland has gotten rowdy after a few too many drinks.

Last May, he apologized to fashion designer Jack McCullaugh after head-butting him at the SubMercer lounge after the Metropolitan Museum of Art fashion gala. In 2007, he spent 48 days in jail in Los Angeles for his second drunken-driving arrest.

"It's been the biggest problem for me," Sutherland told Rolling Stone the year before. "I have a few drinks and I'm not so worried about tomorrow and not thinking about yesterday. I am in this moment and I don't give a [bleep] about anything else, and that's that. It's right out of the textbook on problem drinkers."