Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Forever Wrong!

Law B. Itch

I am not, nor have I ever been, a sweat-pant kind of gal. Only if I am going to, or coming from the gym, would I ever be caught in public willfully wearing bulky sweatshirt material on my ass. In fact, I don’t even like wearing sweat-pants while sweating. If I could figure out a way to safely run on the treadmill in a pair of five-inch heels and a pencil skirt, I would.

Yes, yes, of course it's vanity! My silhouette doesn’t appreciate being swaddled in twenty-four ply, preshrunk cotton. Actually, only college kids and pillows can pull off looking good in any fabric built solely for comfort. I have a genetic aversion to padding any of my body parts with spongy, lump hugging, shapeless reams of fleece that cling to my hips courtesy of that gummy synthetic stuff more commonly known as elastic. It’s just not sexy. Give me stiff, crotch-pinching denim with contrasting double stitching and buttons disguised as snaps any day! Besides, tight jeans are an integral part of the cellulite relocation program which, fyi, I invented.

Wait, there’s more. I also have an unnatural affinity for mind-numbing, reality television. By that I do not mean I'm all into the Food Network, mainly because the words, "I can't believe she's going to substitute a mélange of Bisquick and anchovy paste for clam sauce. Brilliant!" will never come out of my mouth.

What I mean is, I spend an inordinate amount of time channel surfing between "Jersey Shore", "Keeping Up with Kardashians", and "Dancing with the Stars". The appeal of this delicious parfait of mind-Novocain is obvious. An excruciating déjà-vu of past college indiscretions (all of which occurring over seven years ago, so if I were to have caught something, it surely would have shown up by now)? Check. A fascination with the seemingly “idiot rich”? Check. An abiding but delusional belief that one day in the not too distant future I, too, could be just famous enough to get on this show? Yup. I mean, check.

What do my sweat-pant prejudice and my reality show infatuation have to do with one another? The connection doesn’t exactly scream, “Hello Captain Obvious!”, I know. But it does explain how I was introduced to “Forever Lazy”.

Forever Lazy. A sex-aid for fat husbands who pray nightly to the Almighty Homer Simpson? Nope.

Forever Lazy. A diner serving nothing but microwavable meals for middle-aged pot-heads? Nuh uh.

Forever Lazy. A one-piece, fleece pajama made large enough to fit over the clothes of grown-ups while tailgating, talking on the phone, or just eating popcorn with pals and other Plushopiliacs? Bingo!

Are you effing kidding me?!? Dude, seriously, if you’re cold, wear a coat.

At first I thought it was a joke. Actually, I was hoping it was a joke, lest my retinas spontaneously combust from the unexpected assault upon them.

My morbid curiosity (and unfortunate insomnia) compelled me to Google this, um, “naught”-couture tent with openings for one’s arms, legs, and yes, sphincter. My Google search quickly led me to the “Forever Lazy” YouTube channel which revealed a whopping 663,000 views.

This was real. Oh, so real.

Forever Lazy needs to be forever gone.

First, in much the same way people need to be over 21 to buy beer, you must also be under twelve to wear one-piece pajamas. When I become president, this will be law.

Second, if an adult is caught outside the home wearing one-piece pajamas, he or she better be en-route to the nearest hospital with second degree burns suffered while doing, what? Setting fire to the one-piece pajamas. Case closed.

Third, owning or wearing grown-up, one-piece pajamas is an indication of adult-onset-fashion- retardation; a condition causing seriously awful and recurrent wardrobe choices, including a love of maxi-dresses, a penchant for anything plaid (and yes, this includes Burberry, sorry) and a willful blindness to the fact that low rise jeans, plus too tight tee shirts, equals muffin top. Always. Don’t do it.

Lastly, if your friends and family hear the phrase “Forever Lazy” and think of you, you don’t need new friends. You need a f*cking job.

Forever Lazy. When you really need to lose the last bit of coolness your Snuggie left behind.


Tuesday, July 27, 2010

“Food-on-Food” Frenzy

A personal message from Law B. Itch: “Folks, I realize that the following installment of Law B. Itch’s blog isn’t exactly “law” related (although there have been some laws passed recently that do attempt to protect those of us who eat, such as the “no trans fat in NYC” regulation). But sometimes, things happen that just chap my ass. This is one of those times…enjoy!”

Make no mistake, I love food. Actually, I’m obligated to love food, lest I want to be bound by my hands and feet and force-fed fried meatballs until Aunt Chickie downs another juice-glass of Chianti, and decides I’ve consumed a sufficient amount of cow. Yes, I’m Italian.

Yet, despite the fact that pan-drippings and tomato paste are part of my DNA, I feel compelled to take a stand against a recent food phenomenon. As far as I can tell, it began with the creative geniuses at Taco Bell who one day decided, “Hey, why bother creating a whole new, ninety-nine cent food item, when we can just combine two greasy tortilla-wrapped delicacies we already make, and give it yet another, bastardized foreign food name!” And voila! The taco-wrapped-in-a-burrito, wrapped-in-an-enchilada, wrapped-in-a-quesadilla was born. Shortly after that, some fast-food pizza chain thought it would be a good idea to wrap a pizza, inside a calzone because dough and cheese go together like fat and cholesterol.

I’m talking about, or rather railing against, this whole “food-on-food” frenzy. It’s now made its way to traditional, American cuisine. Moments ago, as I was sipping my coffee (and mind you, it was simply coffee, not a coffee-wrapped-in-a-milkshake, wrapped-in-a-pancake), I saw a commercial for Friendly’s latest culinary creation, aptly called the “Grilled Cheese Burger Melt”. What it is, is a traditional cheeseburger, but instead of a bun, it’s wrapped in two grilled-cheese sandwiches! No joke.

Seriously, who is in charge of creating these food-on-food monstrosities? Does some marketing guru round up a room full of under-weight college freshman, get them completely stoned, and ask them to write down what they would prepare for themselves if all they could use were ingredients scraped off their couch cushions, some lard, and a frying pan?

This food-on-food eating trend is officially out of control. Instead of having cute little chili peppers or smiley faces next to menu items indicating fan favorites, we should have chubby skull and cross-bone emblems and warning labels. “Danger! Two grilled-cheese sandwiches surrounding a giant cheeseburger disguised as a single meal can feed an entire passenger compartment of a mini-van. Just sayin’…”

These fast-food (and pseudo-food) establishments aren’t doing our waistlines any favors. I’m not calling for a boycott, but how about we lean on ‘em to stop having stoners plan their menus? And maybe we nominate David Zinczenko (author of the “Eat This, Not That” series, a MUST read) as our new national food czar. At the very least, let’s give the guy a reality show. If anybody can guilt a hot-dog out of wanting to mate with a meatloaf, it’s him.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Hush-A-Buy Harlot

I’m an astute observationist of all things controversial. Not only can I spot disputation a mile away, but I actually comb the aisles for it, shove it in my bag, and pull it out whenever life’s banter becomes too sedate.

It’s my small way of splashing cold water in the faces of those polite chatterers who choose to duck from the intellectual stimulation that rides on the backs of prickly subjects. Hey, somebody’s got to do it. Besides, I can only listen to little Timmy’s game-winning homerun story so many times before I am urged to grab the first pair of defibrillation paddles I can find, and use them on myself.

The topic of cheating is always a crowd pleaser. And since Tiger’s story still has plenty of legal squish (my term, meaning legal thrust or kick) to go around, I figured we should stay here for a while, or at least until something knocks him off the bulls-eye like a well-thrown bocce ball at my Uncle Genie’s 70th birthday party.

Rachel Uchitel, Tiger’s original mistress whose illicit texts are alleged to have prompted Elin’s efforts to custom fit a 5-iron to her husband’s face, just last week, commanded a cool million – ten times over -- from Woods merely by putting a price tag on their private moments.

According to gossip-giant TMZ, “Our sources, and they are good, tell (us) Tiger was so concerned with the depth and detail of information from Alleged Mistress #1, that they folded like a cheap suit, and offered the huge $10 million sum in return for an ironclad confidentiality agreement.”

That got me to thinking. When it comes to sex, should silence be for sale?

On the one hand, there’s something about paying another to keep your secrets that grabs hold of me viscerally, and turns my stomach. Like being served a big scoop of incredulous with some sleazy on top.

On the other hand, isn’t privacy brokering an important line item in every celebrity’s budget?

When one is famous, the ordinary contact one has with those who provide (legitimate) services can, if unchecked, compromise the everyday sanctity the rest of us take for granted.

Nobody wants to buy my panties on E-Bay. But change my name to Angelina Jolie and, without confidentiality agreements to control the, um, entrepreneurial spirits of those I invite into my home, I imagine E-Bay would have to open up a separate “Celebrity Underwear” store to accommodate all the business.

Entering into confidentiality agreements with those who clean the pool, cut your hair, and scrub your toilets, are both legal and necessary. I get that. However, what Uchitel has done, is drastically different.

Rachel Uchitel was not paid for sex by Tiger Woods, presumably, because that would be Prostitution 101. Instead, she followed a “reverse mortgage” model of sorts, and is being paid to keep the sex she wasn’t paid to have, a secret.

She is, in essence, a hush-money whore.

Therein lays the rub for me. Uchitel and everybody standing in her cheap shoes should not be paid for their silence, because the very story they’re selling, should not be for sale.

Forget for a moment, that Tiger is truly a pig. And forget further, that he exercised his lust for dirty dishrags while he was married to an unsuspecting spouse because, except for the incentive to dislike him, Tiger’s infidelity is irrelevant. If he were just a guy playing the field, wouldn’t he be entitled to a reasonable expectation of privacy in his intimate relationships, despite the public’s unnatural desire to know every curve of his pubic hair?

What we do with our private parts IN private, IS private. Whether you’re famous, not famous, rich, poor, cheating or a saint.

Being paid to keep sexual secrets, secret – Uchitel’s modus operandi -- is just as despicable a business model, as what the rest of Tiger’s skank parade has done by squawking for dollars. Not only should there be no need to pay valuable consideration to ensure our pillow talk stays on the pillow, but it should be flat-out illegal to sell detailed descriptions of our “orgasm faces” to the highest bidder.

Looking on the bright side, perhaps Tiger can recoup some of his hush-money by writing his own tell-all, aptly entitled, “The Silence of the Clams”.