*We've got tits! That's right. A&M now has a female writer complete with anatomically correct parts. Enjoy Caity's time of the month, a segment written for the female side, from the female side of Apples and Moustaches.
By Caity -
Today, I would like to extend a warm "fuck you" to the state of Georgia. Specifically, to anyone involved in the writing, implementation and/or enforcement of Georgia Statute 3-3-20, regarding the sale of alcoholic beverages on Sundays, election days, and Christmas Day, which states:
(a) Except as provided in subsection (d) of this Code section or except as specifically authorized by law, no person knowingly and intentionally shall sell or offer to sell alcoholic beverages on Sunday.
Thanks to your Puritanical asses, I was forced to watch the regional theater production otherwise known as the Oscars stone sober last night. Apart from cribbing all of Jericho's Oscar picks and, therefore, winning $10 off my roommate, that was probably the most painfully boring 3 hours of my life, including the time I got tricked into chaperoning my little cousin's elementary school sock hop. And I had to do it all without my best friend--Kettle One.
I know what you're thinking. "Well, Caity, you should have planned ahead and stocked up on Saturday." To quote Jack Donaghy: Thank you for telling me what I already know--you should work for the Huffington Post. This isn't my first rodeo, smart ass. I tried to stock up on Saturday, but my friends had to cancel their trip to New Orleans for Mardis Gras, so I took Mardis Gras to them. You see, then, the only thing that ever came of my planning ahead is a headache and confusion about why my sweatpants are in the kitchen and there is an unopened pack of raw bacon in the bathroom. True story.
Except for watching Hugh Jackman and Zack Efron battle tooth and anal beads for the title of most obvious closet case in Hollywood, all the drinks in the world couldn't have made that show entertaining. Consuming copious amounts of vodka would, however, have given me something to do during the 2 HOURS of technical awards besides shout obscenities at my television and wait for the next parade of has-beens. Cuba Gooding Jr, anyone? However, I will never--never--get over being robbed of my celebratory "Even Helen Keller Could Have Seen That One Coming" double-shot when the camera honed in (twice) on Angelina Jolie's fake ass smile during Jennifer Aniston's presentation.
This brings me to my next question: Who the hell is manning the sinking ship that is Jennifer Aniston's career? Now, I spent my formative years watching VHS tapes of Friends, so this comes from a good place, but whoever let her go onstage with that would-have-been-cute-2-years-ago braid and Jack Black needs to be shot. It was probably the same person who let her appear in a movie called "He's Just Not That Into You." I mean, why? The snarky commentary writes itself.
Hot tip of the day:
If you find yourself at the center of a very public divorce, don't spend 4 years conspicuously "not" talking about your ex-husband and his road whore of a baby factory, only to turn around and take half-hearted bitch slaps at them any chance you get, while promoting an unfortunately titled shitshow of a movie. And if you do, under no circumstances, should you choose the Oscars, where they are both nominated and sitting front row, to parade your C-list, tool shed, cabana boy as if anyone's impressed. And finally, if your masochism compels you to such self-immolating behavior, at least insist that you be the one to slowly open the envelope, take a long glance at her no-talent ass, and hand Best Actress to some other hoe.