Here’s a recent lead about Ms. Baldy Top from the Associated Press…
NEW YORK (AP)—Britney Spears has been ridiculed for everything from her 55-hour first marriage to her backup-dancer second husband and her recent pantyless partying escapades. Now that she’s entered rehab, though, the joke is over.
The “joke is over??” Is this guy fucking kidding?? That would be like saying the Iraq War was over when Bush did his little Top Gun imitation aboard that aircraft carrier and proclaimed “Mission Accomplished.” The only thing that’s “over” right now for Britney are her chances of NOT being joked about. Call us jaded, but when a filthy-rich pop star shaves her head like a Manson girl and ducks in and out of rehab like David Crosby, people are going to make a few wisecracks.
Case in point: check out our home page today. We’re debuting not one, but two new Britney spoofs that apparently didn’t get the memo about the joke being “over.”
So what are you waiting for? Check them out right f’n now on:
superdeluxe.com
As a newbie to the Southland, I’ve tried my hardest to assimilate without putting my Yankee foot deep into my expletive-spewing mouth—’cause apparently that’s unladylike… or some shit like that. Surprisingly, it hasn’t always worked. In fact, I’ve already formed several opinions and prejudices about my new home in Atlanta, GA.
Biscuits = Good; Grits = Bad
Lauded as a Southern specialty, biscuits are, in fact, even more finger-lickin’ good when they’re not accompanied by a red bucket of chicken. And they’re delicious anytime—with breakfast, as a side dish or even as late night munchies. I’m still waiting on lab results to find out what’s in white gravy.
The same cannot be said of grits, which, as far as I can tell, are just a conduit for butter and/or cheese. Even the French wouldn’t eat this mushy, oddly textured paste. I would understand people digging this stuff if all Southerners were the toothless hillbillies seen in history books of yesteryear (and on The Simpsons), but this is the new South, people!
Moving Violations
The drivers in this fuckin’ town are insane—they offer no mercy to casual motorists, crossing streets (on those rare blocks where there are actual sidewalks) is like a game of Frogger, and I’m fairly certain they’re drunk most of the time. Oh yeah, there are no hand-free cell phone laws in Atlanta. Good luck, motherfucker.
Moreover, Atlanta has its own traffic rules, the most significant of which can be broken down into a simple formula and some mathematical values:
1. Atlanta Speed Limit = Posted Speed Limit + 15 mph
2. Points for hitting pedestrians = 1; points for hitting anyone on a scooter/Vespa = 5; points for hitting anyone on a Segway = 10.
The Hills Have Eyes
This is fuckin’ hill country. If you’re not going up a hill, you’re probably going down one. And chances are, you won’t see other motorists until they’re mere feet away from your front bumper. Pretty fun to drive on, otherwise. And good for walking to alleviate possible Biscuit Ass*.
Northern Charm Gone Bad
Generally, unless you’re comfortable with your local companion, you probably shouldn’t refer to their ethnicity and/or religion as “cracker-ass cracker.” I know, this is tempting after sipping on some fine Southern whiskey, but trust me on this one.
They keep me way too busy here at Super Deluxe to ever attend Miss Daisy’s Finishing School in my spare time (though perfecting a curtsy was part of my job orientation), so I look forward to more anthropological inquiries and interaction with the locals. Until then, I’ll be perfecting my peach cobbler recipe whilst jamming to Lil’ Wayne. That’s just how we do in the dirty dirty.
* Fat ass due to mass biscuit consumption.
I know I was very thankful to Super Deluxe in my last blog, but things have really changed since we launched. First off, I didn’t realize that people who don’t work for Super Deluxe would be able to see our Web site. What’s the point in that!? Secondly, there’s been an awful lot of talk last week about a launch party that everyone went to last Saturday. I couldn’t believe it because, well… I wasn’t invited.
As they say on the Intertext, “WTF!?”
I mean, isn’t it bad enough that I didn’t get invited to any Christmas parties? Isn’t it bad enough that no one seems to care that my half-birthday is next week? Isn’t it bad enough that nobody ever told me I don’t have to pay for the bagels on Friday? Isn’t it bad enough that I share an office with someone who eats black beans just to spite me? And, isn’t it bad enough that that son of a bitch Henderson is trying to kill me?
See, everyone showed up on Monday with big bags under their eyes and hickeys. A couple people were limping, most of the design department looked like they had spent a day in jail, that son of a bitch Henderson was still wearing a lampshade—and one lady kept throwing up all morning and telling this one programmer that “it was probably a mistake” and that they should just act normally.
So, I started asking around, trying to figure out what had happened and why everyone was smiling but avoiding bright light. Most everyone scoffed or denied that anything had happened, and one guy from editorial even snapped his fingers and said, “You got served!” I don’t even know what that means.
I went on to Super Deluxe and read the blogs posted by someone calling himself “El Douche A.” At first I thought we had been hacked because I looked on our extension list, and we don’t even have anyone by that name working here. Then, I looked at the list again and realized my title on it read: “Raging Pantload.” Since there were links and references to photographs in the blogs, I followed them and found dozens of photographs of my coworkers drinking, laughing, necking, frolicking, and doing something that I’m told is called “tea-bagging.”
I was really quite offended and upset. What have I done to deserve such treatment? My boss keeps telling Human Resources to “fix the glitch,” and someone keeps putting mayonnaise on my keyboard. Most of my coworkers won’t even make eye contact with me—and that son of a bitch Henderson has tried to push me down the stairs more than once. Is it too much to ask to be invited to company parties or, at the very least, to some meetings? I mean, I’m a pretty awesome dude (as far as acquired tastes go). I have interesting opinions, I shower often, I use action figures as bookends, and I’ve been thinking outside of the box for about six weeks now.
Damn it, I’m tired of being the only one in the building who doesn’t stagger into work at noon, all bruised and knocked-up and reeking of Boones Farm and Bengay. So, please, Super Deluxe, recognize the three or four positive qualities I possess and invite to me future company functions.
P.S. Bastards.
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