Originally posted on Long Awkward Pause:
We bring you what was really going through Ellen’s head regarding fashion and other oddities at this year’s Oscars:
Happy Singles Awareness Day! That’s right, I have learned that February 14 is officially SAD. I cannot think of a more fitting moniker, as there is no other day on which I am more aware of being single than Valentine’s Day.
Although V-Day traditionally sends most single folks sprinting to the pharmacist to stock up on Lorazepam, I, singlegirlie – the singlest of them all – am telling you it ain’t so bad. No, I am not drunk.
I’ve compiled four articles I’ve written about this “holiday” that are designed specifically to make you feel better. So please read on, and have a giggle on me.
- 14 Celebrities You Don’t Want to Date on Valentine’s Day (NEW! – Long Awkward Pause)
- 15 Reasons Why Being Single on Valentine’s Day Rocks (BuzzFeed)
- Valentine’s Day is for Freaks (Single Girl Blogging)
- Valentine Messages for the Cynical Single Person (Chowderhead)
So whether you get SAD on VD – or get VD on SAD – remember, I’ll be here for you. And now, vodka.
Hey guys, I created a post over on BuzzFeed about our most favorite day of the year! No, not Penis Day – Valentine’s Day, silly! So please, please go over there and Like it, Tweet it, Pin it, Google Plus it (what is it you do on Google Plus, anyway?) and make sweet love to it. Because that will up the chance that BuzzFeed will feature it and you can say you have some serious influence on the internets!
Oh, and if you have time, read it, too. I’m serious when I say it rocks to be single on VD. Because honestly, how many couples actually have a super squishy Valentine’s Day just bursting with romance and epic sex? Like, two. I’ll tell you all the reasons why it’s not just “okay” to be single on V-day, it effing kicks ass! Just keep saying it over and over. It’ll happen.
Go on now, time’s a wastin’!
You know those annoying holiday photo cards that you get every December from your smug married friends? Yeah, the puke-inducing space taker-uppers plastered with kids in Santa hats that generally go in the trash right about this time. Well, we singles may now rejoice, because I’ve dreamed up 5 fun ways to get yourself banned from those holiday card mailing lists forever!
I’ve taken a little gig over at Long Awkward Pause – a pretty kick-ass humor site, where I’ll be contributing about once a month (or more). So please check out my post there right now. Oh, come on, it’s just one click. You exert more energy yawning, for crying out loud.
Here’s a button you can push if it helps:
You can thank me in cash.
Comments are turned off here, please leave one over there because they love that shit.
It started out as a reasonably normal day, except the guy I liked hadn’t texted me in a few days and I was slightly perturbed. But I got up, got dressed, went to work, putzed around until lunch, then microwaved my Amy’s frozen black bean enchilada, like any other day.
My friend had brought Cheetos with his lunch – but just one of those teeny tiny bags that come in a variety 12-pack. He offered me some, and although I could have easily dumped the entire pouch into my mouth, I sampled only four because, you know, manners. Okay, five if you count that one little round nugget that can’t really qualify as a full Cheeto.
While I was sitting at my desk after lunch, I quickly realized that my enchilada simply wasn’t cutting it. And the four-and-a-quarter Cheetos were just a cruel tease. I wanted more. I plucked a dollar from my wallet and made a beeline to the vending machine on our floor. I examined the offerings, but they had only Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.
Flamin’ Hot? Why would I want Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, for fuck’s sake? How am I expected to enjoy the artificial cheese-flavored chemical dust when it’s obscured by artificial flamin’-hot-flavored chemical dust? God! The next closest option was Nacho Cheese Doritos, but I was not looking for a corn chip, assholes! I wanted a tiny orange turd made of mystery meal!
Annoyed but undeterred, I took a field trip to the second floor to see if their vending machine selections weren’t as ridiculously stupid. Much to my dismay, it had the same shit. I could feel my ears getting hot.
I took a deep yoga breath, then went downstairs to the little store that sold office supplies and snacks. And do you know what they had in the chip department? Popchips. POPCHIPS! The fuck am I expected to do with a motherfucking POPCHIP?! I marched straight to the counter and demanded to know why they didn’t carry Cheetos. And the furry, beanied hipster at the counter said he didn’t know. I told him he’d be hearing from my lawyer and stormed out.
I had one final option. There was another little store in the building that carried snacks. Please, Jesus or Allah or Beyonce or whoever the fuck might possibly be listening, just give me this one little thing to make my journey worth all this trauma to my psyche. I ran in and ransacked their vast chip selection. Kettle Chips, Lay’s, more Doritos, Sun Chips, Popcorners… AND. NO. FUCKING. CHEETOS.
Trying like hell to hold back my rage, I asked the cashier if there was any possibility that they might have any Cheetos, in the back maybe? AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE CUNT SAID?
“We have Baked Cheetos.”
AAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!! It was obvious these people needed to be taught a lesson, and I guess I was the one to have to do it. I swiped all seven bags of these “Baked Cheetos,” ripped them to shreds, threw the crumbs in the cashier’s face and lit the entire chip rack on fire.
“THAT IS WHAT I THINK OF YOUR GODDAMNED BAKED CHEETOS!” I screamed.
I ran to the elevator, sobbing, and pushed the button to my floor. Defeated, I sauntered back to vending machine number one, fed it a dollar bill and pushed E2 – Nacho Cheese Doritos. A meager substitute, but clearly the Universe wanted me to suffer. I watched the metal coils unfurl the shiny red bag and it fell to the bottom, just as I had.
Still bawling to the point of hyperventilation, I rushed past my co-workers and slammed the door to my office. I placed the putrid triangle onto my tongue and chomped away through tears. I regarded my fingers, which were shrouded in orange soot, but it just wasn’t the same and I knew it.
Suddenly, a text came through. Probably the Grim Reaper, informing me it was my time. But it wasn’t. It was the guy whose text I’d been awaiting.
“Hey :),” it said.
And in an instant, that glorious Dorito was the best chip I’d ever tasted, and all was right with the world.
Gong! Gong! I am banging the gong to announce the winner of my Super Fun Holiday Condom Giveaway with Sir Richard’s! I don’t really have a gong but if I did I would totally bang it every day. OMG, not like that you pervs. Change subject — watch this funny condom video:
Now, wasn’t that fun? Honestly, I’m too damn sick with the flu and puking like a penis to think of something witty to write, so I’m just going to get to it.
The winner is… Mr. Single Steve! Wooooooooooooooooo!
Now, I know what you’re thinking, and no, I didn’t just choose him because we have the same first name. I assigned everyone who entered a numeral then let an automated random number generator do the picking. So if you have a problem with it, blame math. And incidentally, this chap happens to have quite the funny blog of his own, so I suggest you check it out. Congratulations, Single Steve! DM me your mailing addy and Sir Richard’s will send you the goodies. I hope you and your tallywacker make great use of them.
As for the rest of you, you can and should still buy Sir Richard’s condoms on their website. These guys are free of harsh chemicals, and for every condom you purchase, Sir Richard’s will donate one to a developing country. That gets me hard just thinking about it.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my death bed, which I’ve only recently learned is just your regular bed and not something you buy at IKEA.
I have a confession to make: I fucking hate New Year’s Eve. I’ve honestly had it with the overwhelming social pressure to go-out-and-have-a-fuck-ton-of-fun-or-else on this most overhyped night of the year. I apologize if I offend all the party people inna house, but it’s true.
I wasn’t always such a wet blanket. Like every 20-something who thinks vomiting out your nose is a lofty goal, I used to look forward to New Year’s Eve the way a pedophile looks forward to his first day on the job as the mall Santa. But as each NYE passed, I began to quickly realize that what was supposed to be a rip-roarin’ eve o’pleasure never quite lived up to my expectations.
These days, a night out on New Year’s sounds about as appealing as a three-way with my parents. I’ll give you six reasons why:
At the risk of sounding all George Costanza-y, I have to say that everything on this night is more overpriced than a pack of Gummi Bears in the Ritz Carlton minibar. Restaurants will charge upwards of $150 a head for a prix-fixe menu that features SpaghettiO’s and a Kit Kat with whipped cream. Clubs sucker party-goers into forking over $250 for a VIP pass, which affords you a glass of cheap sparkling wine and a plastic kazoo at midnight. And if you live in LA like yours truly, you must choose to pay $75 to park your car five blocks from the bar or $95 for a cab that you’ll have to wait three hours for.
There’s really no such thing as dressing casual on New Year’s unless you’re going to come sort of church-sponsored shuffleboard tournament. Dressy attire is required as is the obligation to look hot, and if you’re a woman that generally means something strapless, or at the very least, strappy. I’d have no problem with this requisite if it were July, but it’s the goddamn dead of winter and it’s colder than Jack Frost’s balls. Yes, even in LA. In fact, it’s worse in LA, because establishments here don’t believe in coat checks, which means you’re tying your parka around your waist all night, which kinda ruins the effect of the cutout midriff on the frock you just paid $189 for at Bebe.
No matter how hard you try, you just can’t pull off flats with sequins, so heels it must be. On a good night, I can hang for maybe two hours tops in these veritable torture devices. And on New Year’s, you gotta stick it out till at least 12:30, which means I’ve got a date with the podiatrist next week. Trust me, Cinderella’s shoe didn’t just fall off at the stroke of midnight. The bitch flung that thing far, far away, then ran home to nurse her newfound plantar fasciitis.
Because most Americans seem to think the point of New Year’s is to get as fucked up as Courtney Love on a Tuesday, there is always some a-hole who spills his drink down the back of your backless $189 Bebe dress, which will inevitably ooze down your buttcrack and saturate your thong so you’ll feel like you’ve pissed yourself all night.
It’s midnight and you’ve kicked and elbowed your way through the crowd to casually perch yourself next to the hottest guy in the club. As the ball drops, you turn to him for a smooch and he’s tongue wrestling with the second hottest guy in the club. You turn to your other side to find what looks like Dick Clark’s corpse grinning at you with mustard-hued teeth.
The Designated Driver
Nobody wants this job, and for good reason. You are forced to pay an overinflated cover charge to watch your friends get stoopid all night, then play dodgeball with your car amid the drunk drivers in an effort to make it home alive. And with the police checkpoints on the road, you really can’t play the “I’ll stop drinking at midnight then sober up” game, because you’re likely to wind up not only blowing a >.08 BAC that evening, but also a 250-pound inmate named Raul.
Still, each December 31, I find myself weighing these six most excellent reasons to stay home against the one ridiculously flimsy reason to go out: to avoid feeling like a big fat loser sitting on my couch alone on New Year’s Eve.
Honest to Betsy, my dream New Year’s celebration is to have another loser sitting next to me on the couch drinking champagne in PJs and making fun of untalented pop stars on New Year’s Rockin’ Eve, then passing out at 12:05. Ahhh.
Alas, it looks like that’s not going to happen this year. Well, guess I’d better go to the mall to look for a dress. Maybe Bebe is having a sale.