In honor of Valentine’s Day, I’ve collected some effective pick-up lines to use on very fit athletes here in Olympic Village this year… You’re welcome.
"Like the Olympic Torch, my loins burn eternally for you."
"Why don’t you make like a nesting doll and get in here."
"Let’s put the ‘bush’ in ‘babushka.’"
"You? Me? Two-man luge?"
"I can do a triple lutz… with my tongue."
"I like your ski racing suit. Let me know if you need any help taking it off."
"I may not be a gold medal, but I sure can make you feel good."
"I may not be a gold medal, but if you bring me home, your countrymen will be impressed."
"I may not be a gold medal, but I’ll hang around your neck all night long."
"Wanna go grab some McNuggets?"
"You’re invited to the Opening Ceremony… of my hooha."
Now to be fair, I don’t know if it’s the pick-up lines, or my awesome hat and generally irresistible self, but I am OWNING Olympic Village.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
The Olympics officially opened on Friday, and lots of medals have been awarded in the last few days. And lots of vodka has been consumed by this little elephant…
NBC wins gold for the most infuriating number of commercials during Prime Time coverage. It makes a football game seem uninterrupted. The events were recorded earlier in the day, people, so just show us the damn footage. McDonald’s takes silver for that goddamn McNugget commercial. Biting into an Olympic gold medal is nothing like biting into a McNugget. You don’t become a successful athlete by eating McNuggets all day. You don’t become an attractive skinny actor in a McNuggets commercial by eating McNuggets all day either. And Procter & Gamble clinches bronze with all those cheesy ads about moms. Nothing against moms, really. I’m just tired of watching Howard get all weepy.
Bob Costas’ pink eye, nay pink EYES, nab gold in the “why the hell are you in Sochi?” category. Dude, go home. You look terrible. Maybe your Botox injections in your cheeks seeped into your eyeballs. (Come on, don’t try to tell me that guy hasn’t had work done.) Also, I can’t stand you, and I might enjoy watching the Olympic coverage a little more if you weren’t there. Although Matt Lauer is apparently going to fill in for you, and that might actually make me beg for your return… Mary Carillo and Cris Collinsworth sweep silver and bronze respectively in “why the hell are you in Sochi?” Mary’s a former tennis player and Cris is Al Michael’s wingman on Sunday Night Football. Tennis and Football are NOT Winter Olympic sports, people. Mary took silver because Collinsworth’s presence in Sochi makes a little more sense. He and Costas have such a bromance going on. I bet they’ve taken a few runs on the two-man luge if you know what I mean.
Finally, Hubertus von Hohenlohe is the clear gold medalist for coolest Olympian ever. Screw that, he takes gold, silver, and bronze. This 55 year-old Mexican alpine skier is the f**king man. He’s also a descendant of German princes and is a pop singer known as Andy Himalaya. (I’d like to have him alaya me if you catch my drift.)
No, Ashley Wagner, you did not win any of my medals. You look like a raging bitch. And I don’t care if you’re not impressed.
That’s all my Olympic coverage so far, but there’s much more to come. Stay tuned for more medal updates and some tried-and-true tips for picking up athletes in Olympic Village—it was tough research, but somebody had to do it. Now somebody go get me some McNuggets.
Hello? Is there anybody out there who still watches this lame show? I was once a faithful watcher of DA, but I haven’t even seen this past Sunday’s show, and I can’t say I really care. I’ll watch it, but I won’t like it. Much like Lavinia Swire and her succumbing to the Spanish Flu, I want to ask this show, “Why won’t you die already?”
Alas, to try to catch up quickly, here’s a brief recap of the episode that aired on January 19th.
There were some potent one-liners, such as Edith being as “mysterious as a bucket.” Lord Grantham spoke to Bates about love, which was “strong talk for an Englishman.” Anna thinks a “broken heart is better than a broken neck.” Um, that was harsh. And finally, probably the lamest pick-up line anyone could try on a widow, “I’m sure Matthew was a splendid chap. But he’s dead, and I’m alive.” First of all, a splendid chap?? And second of all, just because you have a pulse doesn’t mean you’re a catch.
Blah blah, Daisy will regret being responsible for sending Alfred on his way to cooking school. Mary might regret turning down Lord Tony Gillingham’s proposal, and Edith might regret signing some lengthy document her checkered-past beau drafted without even reading it, but neither sister will feel regret like Lady Sybil and her Haircut of Season Three. And finally, I regret not seeing the sensitive badass side to Mrs. Hughes before this episode. She can soften the starchiest hearts, by giving Carson the picture of his former love in a beautiful silver frame. And she can call the bitchiest bluffs, by telling Easy Edna she’d better get her non-pregnant ass out of the house.
I choose Mrs. Hughes.
Yesterday was a sad day for anyone whose first TV crush passed away. May you enjoy many fruity drinks on that Great Desert Island In The Sky, Russell Johnson.
Professor Plum, The Nutty Professor, even Professor Lupin can’t hold a candle (or a distress flare) to the hottest, smartest passenger aboard the SS Minnow…
Greetings Couch Potatoes.
Ok, let’s get this out of the way. I should have known when PBS threw up the “Viewer Discretion is Advised” warning at the beginning of Downton that sh*t was going to go down. Poor Anna. ANNA, people. The nicest person on the show had terrible horrible things happen to her downstairs, both literally and figuratively. I know you think I’m a tough broad, but that whole scene was too much for this little elephant to handle. Dude, this is PBS. The very same channel that brings me Sesame Street, Antiques Roadshow, Gwen Ifill and a super buff Judy Woodruff. I do NOT expect to see disturbing sh*t on any of those programs (though sometimes the unmasked greed over some attic heirloom or yard sale purchase on Roadshow is a little disturbing…), so why do I have to see it on Downton? Why do bad things always have to happen to good people on that program? Can’t that program make us happy again? Remember Matthew’s proposal to Mary out in the snow? I loved that sh*t. I do NOT love this. And you know that horrible butler’s master, Lord Gillingham or whoever he is, is going to court Lady Mary and ask her to travel to London, and Mary will want to bring Anna and Anna will be terrified. Or Anna’s pregnant. Or Anna ends up killing the butler herself and she goes to prison and Mr. Bates has to come visit her. Yeah, this isn’t going to end well.
In other Downton news, somebody slipped Tom a mickey AGAIN. Oh, Easy Edna. You’re worse than Ethel the Whore. Moseley had to wear gloves. Egads. Robert had to sit next to a world class opera singer at dinner, the poor bastard. Then he was impressed that she knew her wines and told her so: “This conversation isn’t going to be that uphill after all.” You pompous ass. Edith’s beau should have kept the money you lost at poker just to teach you a lesson. I hope you packed your lunch bag because you just got TAKEN TO SCHOOL. Finally, the last reason that episode sucked was that Dr. Clarkson had yet another too-brief cameo.
It was a bleak end for fans of the Saints, Panthers, Chargers, and Colts, too. Luckily my boys are making it to their conference championship next weekend. Will they make it to the Super Bowl? Only if they can beat the Broncos at Mile High Stadium, which will certainly be a challenge unless Peyton Manning eats one too many Papa John’s Pizzas, gets a wicked case of heartburn and can’t play. And by “play” I mean “get lazy and try to gain yards by drawing the defensive line off sides with tricky audibles.” Personally, I’d love to go to the game just to join the Mile High Club.
And finally, the Golden Globes. Tina and Amy had some great moments and naughty zingers. The Bleep Machine had to go into overdrive. Jacqueline Bisset was batsh*t crazy, and so were many outfits on the red carpet. (I’m looking at you, Paula Patton.) Also crazy, Matthew McConaughey winning best actor in a drama and Leonardo DiCaprio winning best actor in a comedy.
Black is white. Day is night. PBS is no longer wholesome. If you see four men on horseback riding into town, you’d better get the f**k out of the way. Unless those four men are really good-looking.
Love you, McConaughey.
In an effort to be a better blogger in 2014, I have made major advances in my technological skills. It makes sense, because 2014 is the Year of the Horse, and that makes me think of the Pony Express, which makes me think of mail… stick with me here, people.
Behold: I now have an email address— firstname.lastname@example.org
Now, I imagine I’ll instantly be flooded with fan mail, so don’t expect an immediate response to your electronic communication. But feel free to send me comments, suggestions (not that you’ll have any), questions for my Junk in your Trunk posts, photos of elephants, photos of Lady Sybil pre-haircut, and of course lots and lots of praise.
Devoted readers, I apologize for taking AGES to write a new post. No, I didn’t go to rehab. Yes, I do have a twelve-step plan to kick some ass and roast some peanuts. Being a small snarky elephant is more time-consuming than most people think, but one of my New Year’s Resolutions is to be a more regular blogger. So stay tuned, bitches.
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Hello DA enthusiasts, if there are any of you left out there…
Well, we’re back for Seasono Quattro, and what better way to kick things off than with a two-hour, pinch-my-trunk-to-stay-awake premiere. I can’t believe all the hype for a season opener that was more anticlimactic than even the most cynical critic could have imagined. To wit:
1. I knew O’Brien was leaving the show, but I would have thought the writers could have come up with a much juicier departure for her and Her Bangs. She could have confessed her miscarriage-causing sins to Cora and Cora could have had Mr. Bates kill her. Or she could have opened up a B&B in town: Bitch & Bangs. Or she and Mr. Moseley could have fallen in love, rung each other’s dressing gongs if you know what I mean, and run away together. That would have been a better ending for poor Mr. Moseley anyway… Two Birds. One Stone.
2. To replace O’Brien, they’ve brought back Edna the Maid, an old character who tried to honk the horn of former chauffeur Tom Branson. She’s already formed a fast friendship with Thomas, so she’s off to a good start. Bringing back boring old characters is not promising. Who’s next, the creepy burn victim claiming to be the heir? Ethel the Whore? The other half of the Cheerful Charlies? Oh WAIT.
3. The other half of the Cheerful Charlies came back and recuperated at Matthew’s mom’s house. Sure, because that’ll cheer her up. Turns out Carson had a sweetheart who left him for his sidekick. I feel like this plotline could have been developed into more of a tearjerker. Honestly, any woman who would leave that adorable panda bear of a man with those eyebrows and that deep voice is not worth crying over. Her loss, Carson. Her. Loss.
4. Speaking of swooning, why did Dr. Clarkson have such a minor role Sunday night? Isn’t there an illness that needs to be misdiagnosed? F**k.
5. OMG. Rose and Anna went dancing. Alert the media. Jesus.
6. Robert’s really hoping he’ll regain control over the majority of the estate. Come on, are we back to this? I just don’t care if Downton is mismanaged. He’s trying to look out for Mary, who’s still mourning Matthew’s death and the fact that everyone calls her son Master George. But hey, look who’s shown up at the luncheon with the estate handlers wearing a purple sweater! Lady Mary’s back in the house, people, and her mourning clothes are off to the cleaners because DAMN that sh*t is starting to smell.
7. Edith’s making out with married men in restaurants. At lunchtime. Sounds like my average weekday.
8. The Jimmy-Ivy-Alfred-Daisy love square is still going strong, and now Mrs. Patmore has sent Daisy a valentine. Don’t get too excited; there’s no kinky lesbian plotline here with the new electric mixer. Ol’ Patmore was just being an uncharacteristically sweet friend to Daisy. But let me say this: Daisy, girlfriend, if you dressed like this on your days off, Alfred would be all over you:
And that’s a wrap. Wow, reliving a boring premiere is exhausting. Thank God next week’s episode is only one hour. Though my two favorite ladies are also co-hosting the Golden Globes, which are three hours long. Plus there’s playoff football to watch… looks like my DVR is about to see more action than Ethel the Whore.
Well, the Boston Red Sox won the World Series last night. Man, those are an ugly bunch of dudes. And now I realize why it’s called “America’s Pastime.” Because they pass a f**kload of time in between pitches. Seriously? Do you really need to tighten your gloves and practice your swing after each pitch? Jesus. But hey. It’s a great excuse to stay up late, drink a lot of beer, and be thankful our jobs don’t require us to wear really unflattering pants.
So, I realize I’ve already advised you on how to ward off crazy liberals in your co-op’s parking lot through the strategic placement of absurd bumper stickers, but this past weekend I learned through personal experience not only how to ward off any decent human being, but how to be greatly disliked altogether, all through the strategic placement of idiotic bumper stickers. To wit:
I do realize I should preface this by saying that I don’t like any Euro stickers, whether they represent a country, a state, or something “creative” like your local watering hole (I’m looking at you, TBT…). But what really gets my trunk in a twist is a “26.2” Euro sticker. I rolled into town with some buddies and we parked next to a car with one of these pasted to the bumper. “Ooh, look at me! I’ve run a marathon! Whoopdy-f**kin’-do! I’m going to have knee problems and zero cartilage between my vertebrae pretty soon, but at least I’ve got this rad bumper sticker on my Prius!” Liberals, conservatives, couch potatoes, and even other marathon runners despise you.
Then leaving town I saw yet another Euro sticker, but this one read “13.1.” Really? You’re proud that you ran a half marathon? I cannot stand smug underachievers. Christ. You may have run half the distance as someone with a 26.2 sticker, but people despise you twice as much.
Now, the third and final bumper sticker I saw all in the same evening, the pièce de résistance, if you will, was this gem:
I don’t think I even need to explain this one.
Well friends, I’ve been on a few camping adventures this month and as you can imagine I now have some opinions about camping. First, my positive impressions. For one thing, people seem to drink a lot more when they’re sitting around a campfire. Which is awesome. And instead of staring at my ceiling fan and listening to Howard’s white noise machine while trying to fall asleep, I was staring at the Milky Way and listening to the loons. And by “loons” I mean those black and white birds, not the crazy drunkards I went camping with.
Here I am with my supplies for the campfire…
So while camping is pretty cool, there is room for improvement. For starters, there is no f**king way I’m using some park-approved “toilet.” I’m terrified I’ll fall in, or some poo flies will come up and bite my ass. And WHAT is that smell? What the hell do people eat when they’re camping? Prune juice and refried beans? Lamb curry and week-old dairy products? Jesus Christ.
My other gripe is that the sun seems to rise even earlier when you’re camping. So do loud-talking fishermen and little kids for that matter. But when that sun hits your tent, watch out. After drinking by the fire quite late into the evening, there’s nothing that will make your hangover feel worse than lying in a thousand-degree tent. From now on I’m going camping with a screened-in cabana, complete with awning and cool water misters.
Yeah, that sun is really blasting me in the face… and it’s only 6am.
Now here are a few items you should bring along should you choose to go camping.
The Pachyderm’s Packing List:
1. A goddamn pillow so you don’t have to use ME to prop your head up.
2. A banjo. It’s a fun camping accessory, and if there are any nearby campers, you’ll freak them the f**k out and they’ll leave you alone.
3. Heat-resistant footwear. People who drink around the campfire always want to stick their feet in the fire. I can’t explain it, so just trust me on this one.
4. A book or a magazine. Even if you never open it, at least you brought it. If you don’t at least bring something to read, people will think you’re really stupid.
5. A nalgene with a carabiner. That’s how people really know you’re outdoorsy.
6. Last but not least, The World’s Greatest Condiment that should be on every packing list you ever make: peanut butter. Unless you have a peanut allergy, then nevermind. I don’t want you to make that park-approved “toilet” even more disgusting.