The Hall Way

I don't think you realize the lingering effects that The Arsenio Hall Show left on our culture. I'm sure you think some widely accepted phrases and words just magically appeared in our vernacular, and I'm sick and tired of Arsenio Hall not receiving the credit (and by "credit", I mean "blame") that he deserves.

Let's take, for instance, when you would like for an audience to give a performer a warm welcome to the stage, i.e. "Give it up for...Sinbad!". This is an Arsenio Original, and I still hear you people saying it every night, without properly crediting its originator. You are all Arsenio bit-hacks.

Referring to those you love as "my dogs". You know what? I could go on, but I'm too angry. Until the genius of Arsenio Hall is recognized, you people can go sit on a yam and rotate.

Maggie

The Hazelnut Conspiracy

Nope, nothing worse than biting into some fine European chocolates and having that damn hazelnut wrecking the whole thing from the inside out. Who's idea was this? "Let's take the nut that people throw out of mixed nuts canisters because they're so foul and put them in candy!" I blame The Marshall Plan.

And marzipan sucks too. Almond paste is not candy, I don't care how much you make it look like a piece of fancy fruit. It's rank.

No shows this weekend, so buy a Hershey bar and have a party.

Maggie

The Phat of The Land

Sometimes I think about giving up this whole music thing and becoming a farmer. Rising in the morning to the sound of roosters crowing, gathering eggs from the chicken coop for a fresh omelette, milking an old cow named "Bossie" and churning my own butter, falling asleep by candlelight at 8pm while the crickets chirp me off to sleep. Then I remember how unflattering overalls are, and I say screw it.

Stay tuned to thefreakinhott.com. We're going to have some big news for you in the coming weeks. It's not about how I finally finished my underground tunnel into The Osmond Family Compound, so don't get your hopes up on that one. I'm still working on that one.

Maggie

That's Right

In case you didn't know, The Freakin' Hott now has a profile on myspace. Just go to www.myspace.com/thefreakinhott and, if your profile doesn't contain any pictures of your gnarly nether regions, we'll add you as a friend!

(This offer not valid unless accompanied by a five dollar bill, a backstage pass for the new Pyramid game show starring host-hottie Donny Osmond, a shoeful of rice, the birth certificate for your first Cabbage Patch Kid, and yo mama's squeezebox. No substitutions allowed.)

Maggie

No Scrubs

Does anyone know if they launched the space shuttle yet? If I have to hear Brian Williams from NBC News say "scrub the launch" with a naughty twinkle in his eye one more time, I'm gonna find my Blue Swede record and play "Hooked on A Feeling" over and over and over and over until you have a permanent "ooga chugga ooga ooga ooga chugga" stain on your eardrum.

As always, Monday can eat it.

Maggie

Show Tonight!

Tonight's the night! We'll be going on at Revolution in Ft. Lauderdale at precisely 10pm unless I suddenly feel like I look fat in my dress and have to drive home, purge, and change.

There are so many people who have been integral in the success of the band that I thought it would be a good idea to thank those who are so near and dear to us. Then I thought it would be a better idea to thank the people I saw at the bowling alley yesterday instead.

Thank you, Skankarella, for making sure that the back of your terry cloth sweatpants (that were rammed up your flat ass) said "Juicy". Otherwise I would have thought that your non-ass was...perish the thought...not juicy. Whew. That was a close one.

And thank you, Mr. Eight Ball Shirt Guy, for making sure that your t-shirt had the words "Eight Ball" under the picture of the eight ball. Otherwise I would have thought it was a picture of a nine ball for sure. The horror! The eight ball belt buckle was a kicky touch, too. And while your sense of cohesion in fashion is astonishing - you were one of the worst pool players I've ever seen. This is the equivalent of wearing a Ferrari shirt while driving a Ford Fiesta. But I digress...

See you tonight, suckas!

Maggie

Look Sharp!

As I'm sure you know, we go through a lot of preparation before a big show. In this case, for our show at Revolution this Friday the 22nd in Ft. Lauderdale, even more preparation than usual. Thank goodness they put three massage chairs in The Sharper Image store at the mall so we can have all that pre-show tension worked out while discussing the pyrotechnics layout for the stage. The employees at The Sharper Image are top-notch, and only throw you out after the third time you try to take your pants off so you can get a "more intense" massage. And even then, you can just go to the Revlon wig kiosk around the corner, pick up a Sandra Dee #57 and saunter back in, and they're none the wiser.

And we're not just saying that because we want an endorsement deal with The Sharper Image so we can get our own massage chairs for the back of our well-fortified tour bus (code: hatchback coupe). It's just that we hate those bastards at Brookstone with a fiery, burning passion so much and will do anything to spite them. Try to tell ME to get out of your store because I used the solar-powered wine-uncorker/compass in an immoral way? Screw you, bucko!

Maggie

O My C!!!!!

As usual, you know how much I hate those people who get all wrapped up in the crap that goes on in celebrities' lives, but seeing as I'm a self-loather, I'll tell you that Mischa Barton from The O.C. was recently photographed drinking a BEER. Doesn't she know she's underage?! This was the pressing question that The National Enquirer presented this past week.

I find it more disturbing that someone with a few dumptrucks full of money is hanging out at the Troubadour drinking a $4 Corona when she could be drinking a $5 Heineken. Don't the nouveau riche know anything about status? She'll never be a Junior Leaguer with that drinking repertoire.

Wait, did I say I was a self-loather? Nevermind, I meant self-latherer. Disregard this entire post and pass the soap.

Don't forget - Big show tomorrow night at Revolution - Hope you got your Medicaid together!!!!!

Maggie

Brian Jonestown Massacre.

Its not often that I make a Blog update but this one's worthwhile.

Brian Jonestown Massacre will be playing in WPB on August 8.

We don't promote alot of other bands here, because a) most of them are lamers, b) most of them are playing shows the same nights as us, and c) there's plenty of other sites that tell you what's coming up and around. However, this one is really exciting for me, and I have been listening to their new, as yet unreleased mini-album title "We Are the Radio". Folks, it will seriously blow the lid off your head and let the light shine in.

It is kind of up in the air if they will be at Respectables or at The Lounge as a couple of different sites say different things, but those places are right across the street from each other, so all you have to do is show up and follow the dreamy sounds.

We'll be there and so should you. You have been alerted.

Bernie "Aaron" Kopel, M.D.

The Supremes

So, we have a supreme court justice that needs to be replaced. I have devised a plan to replace all supreme court justices with TV judges. Let's run down the list: Judge Judy (as chief justice, naturally), Judge Joe Brown, Judge Mills Lane, Judge Wapner, Judge Hatchett, Judge Greg Mathis, Judge Roth (from Style Court), Judge Doherty (from Divorce Court), and, what the hey, let's throw Judge Reinhold in just for fun. Shake and served chilled over a debate about telemarketers calling my house at eight o'clock in the morning on a Sunday.

Don't forget - BIG show this Friday at Revolution in Ft. Lauderdale. Don't make me send Judge Reinhold to drag your raggety ass out of the house for it. His nostrils get huge when he's angry.

Maggie

Sometimes I Wish...

...that I had not worn this double-layer flowy skirt today. Then I would have known that the opaque underlayer was tucked up into the back of my underwear, leaving only the transparent flowery mesh overlayer covering my considerable derriere as I walked down the hallway at work past everyone's office.

And sometimes I wish I wasn't wearing Felix the Cat underwear when an incident like this occurred.

Yep.

Maggie

Curses!

Curse you, internet radio station, for playing back-to-back Poison hits when I have to go to the bathroom. How long must I wait? How many times does the chorus for "Talk Dirty to Me" go on?

Great. Now there's a double-shot of Slaughter coming on next. Motherhumpers.

And don't even pretend for a second that you never did a striptease in the mirror to "Talk Dirty to Me". I'm picturing you right now wearing a high-waisted acid-wash denim thong and suede fold-over boots. And I'm shuddering...

Maggie

That Rock 'n Roll Girl...A Poem

Nothing could be finer than knowing Miss Liz Steiner.

www.lizsteiner.com

Mags

Rock Star: INXS

Oh, sweet sassy molasses. I'm sure this has probably already been said, but you just might be the most disgusting television show ever made.

I could understand if your lead singer quit the band, a'la Steve Perry from Journey, but your lead singer tragically committed suicide by hanging himself. Scratch that - your lead singer who was the only interesting thing about your band tragically committed suicide by hanging himself. I can hardly wait for a couple years to go by so we can all watch Rock Star: Nirvana. Ooh - Rock Star: The Carpenters! You people make me sick.

On the bright side, though, this situation does invite conversation between people in bands to discuss what they would do if they lost a member. Aaron has already said that the only way he would want the band to go on without him was if he were replaced by Jennifer Batten. Jon has said that the only way he would want the band to go on without him was if he were replaced by Keith Moon. I said the only way I would want the band to go on without me was if the band name was changed to "We Suck Now".

All kidding aside, the remaining members of INXS should be ashamed of themselves. I hope their network television blood money keeps their souls warm while they burn in Has-Been Hell.

Yowsa. That was pretty harsh...and rightfully so.

Maggie

The Ditto Cam

Hey Hey Hey! We're playing at Dada tonight, July 14th, at 11pm. If you're not there, I'll put you on my really, really, really, long list of people who smell.

Speaking of the list, every now and then I like to listen to Rush Limbaugh so I have fuel for my weekly hate e-mails that I send to him. I'm sure he probably doesn't ever see them, but it makes me feel better to call him childish names like poo-poo head and jive turkey. For those of you who don't know, Rush has what is called a "Ditto Cam" in his studio. If you are a paid member of his network, you actually get to watch Rush sit in his chair and talk into a microphone for three hours. Imagine the glee. I wonder if you can actually see the leather on his chair peel off his legs when he stands up. Blech.

Good luck trying to eat lunch after that visual.

Maggie

Hanga Danga Doo!

Dear Kirsten Dunst,

Please put on a bra. I am begging you. I know you're trying to do some kind of Annie Hall thing, but it's just not working. I'll drive you to Sears and have the old lady in the lingerie department fit a nice, supportive brassiere for you. I'll even pay for it.

I am all for bra-lessness, but not in your case. It's all I can do to even barely notice your face or acting ability with those fleshy pendulums flapping around on your (visible) rib cage.

Please come to the last date of our Fiscal Responsibility Tour this Thursday at Dada and we'll sit down and have a chat about your boobehs. I'll bring snacks.

Maggie

The Scent of Skank

The year was 1988. The singer was Debbie Gibson. The name of the song was "Electric Youth", as was the perfume. Easy to save a week or two's allowance to purchase, at a mere $9.99 per bottle. Slightly more expensive than Love's Baby Soft, but so much more sophisticated a scent. Not a gal in seventh grade was to be smelled without it...until Exclamation! came out and tossed "Electric Youth" out on its stretch-denim ass, but that's neither here nor there.

The year is now 2005. The singer is Britney Spears. The name of the perfume is "Curious". The price? $49.50 a bottle.

$49.50? Why, I'm finding myself more curious by the minute! First, your market is teen skanks-in-training, so $49.50 is a bit steep. Second, who the hark wants to pay $49.50 to smell like Britney Spears? Can you even imagine the melange of chihuahua turds, Federline enzymes, and stale Cheetos that wafts through the air when she strolls by? I would be willing to pay $49.50 to NOT smell like Miss Brit. Where do I send my check?

On a related note, keep your eyes peeled for the new scent coming soon from The Freakin' Hott. "Pretentious" will be available at all major department stores, and is $599.00 per ounce. Financing is available for those who are good looking.

Maggie

Destiny Mintifest

The problem with modern-day mints, is that they're simply not "extreme" enough. I want a mint that's so "extreme" that it makes gums bleed when I look at the package. I want a mint that's so "extreme" that when I see a commercial for it my tongue begins to disintegrate instantly. I want a mint that's so "extreme" that it can be used as an interrogative device against enemy combatants. I want a mint that's so "extreme" that its mere existence in 2005 will make my future great-great-great grandchildren cry minty tears of refreshment.

Maggie

The Fashion Faux Pas of Peppermint Patty

Hey there, Ms. Saturday Night! You've got the overpriced dress from Rampage, the fugly expensive designer purse, a brand new nose, a fresh and disgusting Mystic Tan, and the finest contraceptive devices that daddy's money can buy. WHY ARE YOU WEARING A PAIR OF RUBBER FLIP-FLOPS?

Mix fashion genres all you want, but let's keep the beachwear at the beach where it belongs. They make women's dress shoes with a high heel for a reason, sugarlips. Those dag-gummed flat rubber thongs make you look like Peppermint Patty...and not in that oh-so hip mid-90's lesbian-chic kinda way.

That is all.

Maggie

Show Tonight!

Just in case you've been stranded on an island all week with Brigitte Nielsen, we'll be playing at Brogue's in downtown Lake Worth tonight. Once you get those scabs cleared up, you'll be fine, so make sure you get there by 10pm. We're the only band on the bill - and considering there's no cover, your "frugality" won't be an issue. You can call it being "frugal" all you want, but everyone knows you're just a cheap-ass, and we all talk about it behind your back. And it's 21 and up, so you'll have to leave Lolita at home again. You pig.

Some free advice - spend a dollar sometime. It won't kill you...unless it's a dollar you're giving to a silent ninja assassin.

Maggie

There's Help if You Need It

'Do-Rags are now available in gumball machines at Albertson's. And I can certainly see where this could be useful in grocery-shopping-'do-rag-emergencies.

I'm a planner by nature, so I buy all of my 'do-rags prior to going to the grocery store, but it's nice to know that if I'm ever in need of a 'do-rag, the fine distributors of vending machine 'do-rags are there for me. Say I was walking down the produce aisle, 'do-ragless, thumping melons and minding my own business, and Ludacris walked by? How humiliating would that be! The mere thought makes me want to eat a bottle of Nuprin and run out in front of a train.

At least now I can live my life the way I always wanted to, without the fear of buying a deli rotisserie chicken and being caught 'do-ragless.

Free 'do-rag to the first five people that come up and say, "Hustler White Rides at Midnight" at our show at Brogue's in downtown Lake Worth on Friday July 8th.

Maggie

It'll Sweep The Nation!

I was trying to shape up for our big show at Brogue's in Lake Worth this Friday and, quite frankly, I was just bored to tears. I know we all think Pilates are the answer to our flabby woes, but I just can't keep myself motivated to do them with the new age music and slow, controlled movements.

I have an idea: Pirates. Not "pirates". "Pi-rah-tees".

Same thing as pilates, but you wear an eyepatch. And drink rum and pillage towns.

How many calories does an hour of pillaging burn? Anyone?

Mags

Dooney & Bourke Can Eat It

I've always maintained the theory that you can sell the ugliest piece of crap in the world to almost anyone if it's really expensive. One example would be that craptastic vehicle of the nouveau-riche - The Hummer. If you slapped a $10,000 price tag on that monstrosity, people would probably make fun of you for driving it. But you charge $60,000...you get the point.

Today we'll discuss ugly grandma purses: Dooney and Bourke, Louis Vuitton, etc. Let's take a giant piece of cream-colored naughahyde and stamp it with fake cowhide texture, put some horrid, thick tan straps on it, put some gold paint on some fifty cent buckles, and charge $700 for it. Wait, I forgot the most important part: splatter your fugly logo all over it in rainbow colors.

And if you're carrying one of these overpriced red flags for bitchiness and trying to argue with the cashier at Ross over the sale price on a pair of five dollar flip-flops, don't look at me for sympathy. I find your existence to be a slap in the face of humanity and discount outlets everywhere. If you spent half the money you do on ugly purses on something useful, like electrolysis, then you wouldn't be so crabby to begin with.

Maggie

Hawaiian Punch is A Tool of Satan

Oh, Hawaiian Punch. Your delicious Fruit Juicy Red sweetness beckons me to the fridge. I go back again...and again. My thirst is insatiable, eager, and willing and only you can quench my desire. Only you can fill me as I hold you, my fingers growing numb with chilled pleasure as I watch the condensation roll down you like sweat, dripping onto my freshly-purchased copy of Tiger Beat. I need you so badly, I'll forgive that you just ruined my full-size pullout poster of Ryan Cabrera. I hold you to my lips and feel the coolness of your touch dance upon my tongue and I know that we were meant to be. And because you're not marked for individual sale, I am blissfully unaware that with each passing pouch of paradise, I am ingesting 24 GRAMS OF SUGAR PER SIX OUNCE SERVING.

That's right, Mr. Punch. I just found the box you arrived in.

I put you down on the counter. Now that I know, I have to walk away.

The stain of your FD&C Red #26 on my tongue might fade over time, but my resentment for you will last forever.

You son of a bitch.

Maggie