Rashida Jones
c/o Brillstein-Gray Entertainment
9150 Wilshire Blvd.
Beverly Hills, CA 90212
Dear Rashida,
What up girl? How you livin? I've been seeing you a lot lately, TV, big screen, all that. Them sexy, bottomless-coffee eyes looking back at me saying “I know you dig what you see.” I do, I dig massive. And that’s why we should be together, ya heard? You get me.
I’m no fool so I realize one paragraph isn’t going to cut it; you need supporting evidence. Check this baby, we've got commonalities for days. Your father is an influential musical icon. My father is a deejay for a small-town radio station, and he loves your dad. We both are of Irish ancestry. You went to Harvard and had a supporting role in Boston Public. I live near Harvard and am supported by Boston public transportation. One of my favorite Gap commercials (Everyone in Vests) features you singing and you lend your vocal talents to the first Maroon 5 album. I sing over that shit all the time. It’s eerie, right?
Back in the day, Tupac blasted interracial marriage, specifically between your parents. Your response? An open letter defending the marriage and taking Pac to task, which eventually led to his relationship and engagement to your sister. I’m a wealth of open letters. George Lucas, Big Chicken, Sean Penn, shit, even Mother Nature and chick is an omnipresent entity. Could we be more in tune?
What about your dating history? Tobey McGuire, Seth Myers, John Krasinski. Notice a theme? Talented, funny, dopey dudes. While my talent and hilarity are only appreciated, if not always acknowledged, by the tens (generous estimate) of people that tune into Gorgeous, my dopiness is readily conceded by everyone that knows me.
Peep that, a cornucopia of reasons for you to slide my way. What say we create an unbreakable bond based on mutual admiration of (y)our considerable talents and light a love-fire that burns hotter than 1,000 suns for all eternity? I’m cool with making a stable of vanilla-kissed super babies too. Whatever greases your wheels, darlin.
Tickled and pining,
-Brunswick P. Danforth
Showing posts with label celebrities. Show all posts
Showing posts with label celebrities. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Monday, April 21, 2008
Stop Multiplying
I read today, by accident, that the uglier Simpson sister may or may not be having a baby with the homo from Fall Out Boy. And Beyonce may or may not have gotten pregnant by Jigga's spizza. All of which leads me to believe the world is going to end.
At the risk of sounding irrational, let me explain. First, the facts:
1. Women have babies.
2. Celebrity women have babies.
3. Women love celebrities.
4. Women love babies.
5. People are stupid.
It is a slightly well-known fact that women have babies. Women also love celebrities. We stand at a point in history where every wipe of every celebrity ass is documented in twenty-three different mediums within four minutes of said event. Therefore women know enerything there is to know about these people, including their kids. They love them. They want their own. So women have kids.
It doesn't help that every B-list hack is celebrated for reproducing, even though any retard with an IQ higher than a ham sandwich can put the round peg in the round hole (although he may get the wrong hole). This, in my opinion, has made women think that pregnancy and motherhood is something that should happen NOW, and multiple times afterwards.
And so the planet is turning into a poor Bolivian farming family. Everyone wants kids, and lots of 'em. So they start popping out fuck trophies like they're an assembly line. Pretty soon the world population is tipping 10 billion.
Which brings me to my initial point. Celebrity babies = we're all gonna die.
At the risk of sounding irrational, let me explain. First, the facts:
1. Women have babies.
2. Celebrity women have babies.
3. Women love celebrities.
4. Women love babies.
5. People are stupid.
It is a slightly well-known fact that women have babies. Women also love celebrities. We stand at a point in history where every wipe of every celebrity ass is documented in twenty-three different mediums within four minutes of said event. Therefore women know enerything there is to know about these people, including their kids. They love them. They want their own. So women have kids.
It doesn't help that every B-list hack is celebrated for reproducing, even though any retard with an IQ higher than a ham sandwich can put the round peg in the round hole (although he may get the wrong hole). This, in my opinion, has made women think that pregnancy and motherhood is something that should happen NOW, and multiple times afterwards.
And so the planet is turning into a poor Bolivian farming family. Everyone wants kids, and lots of 'em. So they start popping out fuck trophies like they're an assembly line. Pretty soon the world population is tipping 10 billion.
Which brings me to my initial point. Celebrity babies = we're all gonna die.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Starbucks: A Dilemma
There are plenty of reasons to hate Starbucks and Howard Schultz and hate them I do. Aside from ruining the Supes, Schultz also contributed the eight-word coffee order to modern culture and turned coffee into a fashion statement, a ubiquitous accessory in the hands young Hollywood (after all, what better than caffeine to ease a coke hangover?) What happened to a straight cup o' joe, Howie?
"I'd smile, but I'm using all my energy to carry this giant cup"
I prided myself on successfully avoiding Starbucks entirely when I lived in Seattle, except to go into the original to purchase Pike Place Blend, only available at said location, for friends and family. Only available there until today that is. And there, folks, is the dilemma.
The famous, formerly unique, blend was rolled out at stores across the country today with great fanfare. The original, randier logo even adorns the cups. I ordered a cup with great enthusiasm, but later faced a question that has shaken me to my core; with the recent addition of Top Pot donuts (another Seattle favorite) to the menu, is Starbucks making irrelevant the few local touches it still possessed?
Sadly, I think the answer is yes. Part of the charm of the Pike Place location was being able to get something you couldn't at one of the thousands of other soul-sucking outposts. Now anyone can bop down to one of the four Starbucks on one's block and get a cup of PPB fresh-roasted that day in York, PA (as mine was today). To put this into perspective, it would be like Giordano's offering deep-dish pie in Charlotte, by way of Raleigh. There is something inherently wrong with that. And Top Pot? They serve their own coffee, why oh why would they get into bed with Schultz? I can only assume that Starbucks has a horse dong that is both gentle and satisfying at the same time, metaphorically speaking.
We live in an age where people want what is hip and trendy and famous, without having to leave their comfort zone for the experience. Guess what, nob goblins? An old-fashioned and a grande half-caf soy latte with whip from a strip mall in Flint, MI will never be as good as on the Market steps (even if the drink order makes me want to smack you). Until I can wrap my brain around why you, the collective, think otherwise, another piece of me will blacken and die.
"I'd smile, but I'm using all my energy to carry this giant cup"I prided myself on successfully avoiding Starbucks entirely when I lived in Seattle, except to go into the original to purchase Pike Place Blend, only available at said location, for friends and family. Only available there until today that is. And there, folks, is the dilemma.
The famous, formerly unique, blend was rolled out at stores across the country today with great fanfare. The original, randier logo even adorns the cups. I ordered a cup with great enthusiasm, but later faced a question that has shaken me to my core; with the recent addition of Top Pot donuts (another Seattle favorite) to the menu, is Starbucks making irrelevant the few local touches it still possessed?
Sadly, I think the answer is yes. Part of the charm of the Pike Place location was being able to get something you couldn't at one of the thousands of other soul-sucking outposts. Now anyone can bop down to one of the four Starbucks on one's block and get a cup of PPB fresh-roasted that day in York, PA (as mine was today). To put this into perspective, it would be like Giordano's offering deep-dish pie in Charlotte, by way of Raleigh. There is something inherently wrong with that. And Top Pot? They serve their own coffee, why oh why would they get into bed with Schultz? I can only assume that Starbucks has a horse dong that is both gentle and satisfying at the same time, metaphorically speaking.
We live in an age where people want what is hip and trendy and famous, without having to leave their comfort zone for the experience. Guess what, nob goblins? An old-fashioned and a grande half-caf soy latte with whip from a strip mall in Flint, MI will never be as good as on the Market steps (even if the drink order makes me want to smack you). Until I can wrap my brain around why you, the collective, think otherwise, another piece of me will blacken and die.
Monday, March 31, 2008
HMNIG's Shameless Us Weekly Moment
So a movie is being partially shot in DC. It's called State of Play, and stars Russel Crowe, Rachel McAdams, and Ben Affleck. Now, I think it's clear how I feel about celebrity trash outlets. But friends of mine happen to live next door to the Masonic Temple and Library here in DC where they were filming scenes for the movie. Which is kinda cool.
And of course, Colleen, who lives in aforementioned apartment, collects Us Weekly and People magazines like they're cans of beans before a thermonuclear war. She feeds on this shit. Last week she showed me pictures she took of Crowe and McAdams standing outside her apartment. I think she's trying to sell them.
My second brush with celebrity (the first was running into John McCain outside an elevator at a hotel in San Diego) came Friday night, as I was walking to Brian and Colleen's apartment from my own. Jamie and I are walking, me carrying a twelver of Bud, her continuing a story that has already lasted six blocks. We're walking past the temple, because we have to. Nothing's blocked off, but there are trucks and equipment and people everywhere. Jamie's had a few, so she's talking like she's running out of air. I look to my left, and Crowe is walking past about six feet away. Jamie, deep in her story (and a bottle of wine), fails to notice until I ask if she saw him. By this time we're further down the street, and Crowe apparently already got in a black Escalade. Oh well.
So we get up in the apartment, and there's Colleen, glued to the window with a pair of binoculars. I promptly call her creepy, crack a beer, and start playing Wii baseball. An inning and a half later, I hear girlish commotion coming from the window, along with high-pitched shrieks of "Ben!!" I casually inquire what in hell is going on. Brian says something about Affleck being outside. Jamie, down about missing Crowe, desires to make up for it. So what better to do than open the window and yell, "BEN AFFLECK!!! GOOD LUCK WITH THE MOVIE!" To her delight, he acknowledges with a wave. Well, I guess it's hard to ignore something like that.
I look at Brian, and we share an unspoken desire to hide in a closet so as not to be associated with the drooling middleschoolers that our usually well-mannered and sophisticated girlfriends have been reduced to. Shrugging off the encounter, Colleen boldly asserts, "I wish it were Brad Pitt doing this movie." Ah, well. When you're as deep into The Industry as Colleen is, you're able to make such demands.
I admit, the whole experience was kinda cool. But those magazines still make me sick. If were any more shameless, I would post the pictures that Colleen took. But I'm not, so I won't.
The Temple, with Brian and Colleen's building on the right
And of course, Colleen, who lives in aforementioned apartment, collects Us Weekly and People magazines like they're cans of beans before a thermonuclear war. She feeds on this shit. Last week she showed me pictures she took of Crowe and McAdams standing outside her apartment. I think she's trying to sell them.
My second brush with celebrity (the first was running into John McCain outside an elevator at a hotel in San Diego) came Friday night, as I was walking to Brian and Colleen's apartment from my own. Jamie and I are walking, me carrying a twelver of Bud, her continuing a story that has already lasted six blocks. We're walking past the temple, because we have to. Nothing's blocked off, but there are trucks and equipment and people everywhere. Jamie's had a few, so she's talking like she's running out of air. I look to my left, and Crowe is walking past about six feet away. Jamie, deep in her story (and a bottle of wine), fails to notice until I ask if she saw him. By this time we're further down the street, and Crowe apparently already got in a black Escalade. Oh well.
So we get up in the apartment, and there's Colleen, glued to the window with a pair of binoculars. I promptly call her creepy, crack a beer, and start playing Wii baseball. An inning and a half later, I hear girlish commotion coming from the window, along with high-pitched shrieks of "Ben!!" I casually inquire what in hell is going on. Brian says something about Affleck being outside. Jamie, down about missing Crowe, desires to make up for it. So what better to do than open the window and yell, "BEN AFFLECK!!! GOOD LUCK WITH THE MOVIE!" To her delight, he acknowledges with a wave. Well, I guess it's hard to ignore something like that.
I look at Brian, and we share an unspoken desire to hide in a closet so as not to be associated with the drooling middleschoolers that our usually well-mannered and sophisticated girlfriends have been reduced to. Shrugging off the encounter, Colleen boldly asserts, "I wish it were Brad Pitt doing this movie." Ah, well. When you're as deep into The Industry as Colleen is, you're able to make such demands.
I admit, the whole experience was kinda cool. But those magazines still make me sick. If were any more shameless, I would post the pictures that Colleen took. But I'm not, so I won't.
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