"I'm A Girly-Girl! Hee hee!"

I don't know who started this whole "I'm a girly-girl!" crap, but I want to know who they are so I can send a pack of skankthirsty jackals to their house. I think the worst offender is Jessica Simpson, so by that right, I have compiled a list of items one must have in order to squeal "I'm a girly-girl" with vacuous delight:

1. Small inbred dog who would rather die than spend another second soaking in its own urine in your $5,000 purse.

2. Have your own line of edible cosmetics that you pawn off on twelve year old girls. I can't tell you what a great idea it is to get sixth graders licking cupcake flavored perfume off of each other. It's good for society.

3. Have your father talk, at length, about the size of your boobs and how magnificent they are. Thank goodness that's not DISGUSTING AND TWISTED or COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE.

4. Be spotted with men besides your husband all over town and then when you're splashed on the cover of every tabloid in the world with the heading "Heading for Divorce!", your comment is always "At least people are interested in talking about me!". (And people think that two people of the same sex getting married will destroy the sanctity of marriage. Now THAT'S comedy.)

5. Take a song about feminism from the 60's and turn it into a spankfest for teenage boys. Change the words from "These Boots are made for walkin'" to "These double D's are made for walkin'" and make sure you wear a bikini while you sing it. That's, by definition, what being a girl is all about, isn't it? Right, you stupid, mindless, disgusting, talentless, shallow, beady-eyed, spoiled brat, money-hungry whore on wheels? If I were Nancy Sinatra I would punch you in your augmented face.

On a lighter note:

Hey! Don't forget about our show tonight, Sept 30th at The Rose and Crown Pub in Ft. Lauderdale for HEADQUARTERS! Get there by 10PM to enjoy all of the festivities! We'll be going on sometime around midnight, but you don't want to miss a single second of the party! Girly-girls unite - and learn what seppuku is all about!

Maggie

Last Minute Show Announcement!!!

The Freakin' Hott will be playing tomorrow, FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 30th, at The Rose and Crown Pub for HEADQUARTERS - the best party going in Ft. Lauderdale on Fridays since Saigon Kick's last show at Summer's on The Beach - and with WAY LESS SPANDEX.

Things get going there around 10pm and go all the way till 4am. $4 cover gets you in and buys your first beer. There will be five bands, three dj's, visual artists with their work on display, AND cheap drinks. Unless you're gonna be trying out for the next season of "So You Think You Can Dance?" you have nothing better to do. And here's a tip for you: The Roger Rabbit is no longer considered a hot new urban dance move, so knock it off. You're really embarrassing yourself.

The Rose and Crown Pub is located at 3680 W. Commercial Blvd in Ft. Lauderdale near 441.

All the cool kids will make fun of you if you're not there - that's goes for you too, grandma.

Maggie

Tuesday Night Music Club

It was Tuesday night so, naturally, I was soaking in a bath of imported strawberry wine with the entire cast of the doomed mid-90's FOX show "The Heights" while being fanned by a loinclothed Joey Lawrence. We were trying to work out a new bridge for "How Do You Talk to An Angel", and admiring Joey's boyish good looks and manly physique, and the discussion started getting pretty heated. I ordered Joey to fan faster, which made his teeny, tiny loincloth fall right off, which gave me the brilliant idea to replace the crappy sax solo in the bridge with a piccolo and castanets duet. Thanks, Joey. I can't tell you how many times your sack has saved the day. And I couldn't agree with you more, darling, that Mayim Bialek is a First Class WHORE.

Then we got to scrumpin'.

The End

M

A-Hole!

I was present for an altercation at a local establishment last night. Two drunken idiots were yelling at each other and getting "all up in each other's grill". At one point, as they were being separated, one of the idiots yelled, "Oh yeah? You're an A-hole!". I'm not censoring anything here - that's an exact quote of what he said - and the best part was that the other guy was still angry after that. How do you not laugh when a grown man calls you an A-Hole? He might as well have called him a "Son of a B" or a "Poopie Head". I guess between all the mojitos and roids, such men lose all sense of humor.

By the way, for those of you who don't know, there is now scientific evidence that the mojito is strictly a chick-drink. If you're drinking one at a bar, you might as well be wearing a Nuvaring and gauchos.

But it's far too early to get me started on gauchos again...

Maggie

A-Hole!

I was present for an altercation at a local establishment last night. Two drunken idiots were yelling at each other and getting "all up in each other's grill". At one point, as they were being separated, one of the idiots yelled, "Oh yeah? You're an A-hole!". I'm not censoring anything here - that's an exact quote of what he said - and the best part was that the other guy was still angry after that. How do you not laugh when a grown man calls you an A-Hole? He might as well have called him a "Son of a B" or a "Poopie Head". I guess between all the mojitos and roids, such men lose all sense of humor.

By the way, for those of you who don't know, there is now scientific evidence that the mojito is strictly a chick-drink. If you're drinking one at a bar, you might as well be wearing a Nuvaring and gauchos.

But it's far too early to get me started on gauchos again...

Maggie

This Is When Cameron Goes Berserk

Don't you love it when you get that Friday paycheck and as soon as it touches your hand, the bills come along and swipe it right out from under you and you're left penniless with another two weeks until you get the next paycheck? I gotta tell you, that's a fantastic feeling. And by "fantastic", I mean "this sucks so bad that I might have to sell my own bone marrow to put gas in the car this week". And it's too painful to even discuss how my weekly new eyeshadow needs have not even the slightest chance of being met.

No shows this week, but we will be at Churchill's on October 7th, so you can start getting ready for that now.

I shot my mouth off pretty much all weekend, so to all those I offended, I apologize. It was the lack of new eyeshadow talking.

Mags

Remain Calm! Those Boobs are REAL!

I can't tell you how many sleepless nights I've spent. How many days I've spent wandering aimlessly about. How many forkfuls of chicken pot pie I had to put down because I was so torn up inside that I was too nauseated to eat. How many bad poems I've written, how many letters I've written that I'll never send. How many times I've watched the episode of The Brady Bunch where Marcia gets hit in the nose by the football and I couldn't even muster up a little laugh. Not one. All this time I've spent. And all of it is because I couldn't stop wondering if Tyra Banks's boobs were real or not.

Thank the booby stars she finally quenched the curiosity of my booby thirst on her new talk show this week, BY HAVING A SONOGRAM ON HER BOOBS to show that there were, in fact, no implants swimming around in there.

I can finally rest easy now. I can live life again, for the first time in a very long time.

It feels good to be the old me.

Maggie

Looking Towards The Future

I was thinking about all of the trends that have popped up in the past couple of years, and of those that didn't last the test of time, I'd have to say that I'm most disappointed about the pearl g-string's fading into fashion obscurity. Finally there was a garment that was figure-flattering AND practical. I can't imagine anything more comfortable than having a necklace crammed up your butt. Let's not dismiss the hygienic factor, too. Just a few hours soaking in a bucket of bleach and you're set to be sexy all over again. What will they think of next? Perhaps the chainsaw g-string? A thong made of bees? The barbed-wire bikini? Million dollar ideas, all of them. Why, I'm wearing fiberglass insulation boy-shorts right now and loving every abrasive minute of it!

What I'm getting at is that there's an excellent, and long overdue, feature article on the incomparable Chris Moll in this week's New Times and you should check it out and take some notes. There's also a genius boi wonder named "Jon Wilkins" (whoever the hell that is) in there as well, and a lovely young lady you probably know best as "Tim the Girl". The tie-in? They're all wearing underwear made of sea glass and jellyfish tentacles in all of the pictures - UNDER their clothes - so don't get too excited. Check it out at www.newtimesbpb.com.

Maggie

That's Crap and You Know It

The fact that it is only Tuesday can only point to one thing: The universe is clearly against me. The fact that Eva Longoria claims to be addicted to Krispy Kreme donuts and admittedly eats dozens at a time can only point to one thing: She's clearly spending as much time vomiting as she is eating. I like a gal who's got a plan. All this time I was just eating and letting my body digest the food. That's one point for bulimia, and zero points for having a brain and a flawless esophagus.

I was reading through the best and worst fashion pages from this past Sunday's Emmy Awards and was blown away by the ridiculousness of the headings. "Desperate Housewives Set New Trend of Strapless Evening Gowns!". Seriously? I guess they're right though. It's been like a week since you've seen somebody in a strapless gown at an awards show. That's one point for the vapid and fabulous, zero points for common frickin' sense.

Sometimes I want to be a red carpet reporter, just so I can tell everyone on it how insanely ridiculous they look, sound, and are in general. And then I would eat an entire box of donuts in front of them and watch their amazement at the fact that I can hold them down without consulting a therapist or visiting the ladies room with the back of a toothbrush in hand.

I don't know though. Maybe if I had nothing to do all day but work out and obsess over how my thighs look on network television - maybe I would eat nothing but egg whites and notebook paper, but I prefer to think that I would just probably exercise a little more than I do now (which is absolutely never) and then tell Star Jones and Joan Rivers to kiss my humongous ass.

Uh oh. There goes my modeling deal with Abercrombie. And to think I went to all that trouble to get a lobotomy for nothing.

Maggie

Cut Me a Break, Hippie Skirt

Have you tried to purchase a skirt lately? Wait, let me re-phrase that. Have you tried to buy a skirt lately that ISN'T some ankle-length, hippie/granny with a splash of sequins, big ol' frumpy-ass, drag on the ground, three yards of fugitty-ugly crepey earthtone elastic waistband piece of crap skirt? Well apparently SOMEBODY is buying them, because that's the only kind of skirt you can find in any store in the universe right now.

As if this isn't enough, the philosophy of the wearer is even worse. Most gals I've seen wearing them have them pulled down so low that they had to get a brazilian wax just to be able to wear it in public without getting arrested. Wearing a potato sack and yanking it down to your pubes does not a sexy outfit make.

Between the dirt-skirts and gauchos I saw in downtown Ft. Lauderdale this weekend, I spent the majority of Saturday evening breathing into a paper bag and darning Old Navy to heck.

No diggity.

Mags

Hey There Hair Metal Guy!

Has anyone else noticed that the former hair metal guys are all wearing flame-y camp shirts and getting Goo Goo Dolls haircuts now and pretending like they've always looked like that? I like to think that if I were an 80's hair metal guy (and I almost was for about five minutes back at Summer's on the Beach in 1989) that I would never give up the tiger-striped spandex, pink cowboy boots, mesh tank tops and Aqua-Netted coiffure. I would wear that stuff till I was 85 years old. I'm kinda sad that you could be standing next to a rock star in line at Piggly-Wiggly and not even know it. I think I might have actually had Rikki Rockett bag my groceries the other day, but I couldn't be sure since he was sans lace-up leather pants and lipstick. Injustice!

You youngin's are wondering what Piggly-Wiggly is, aren't you? I'll tell you when you're older.

Come on out to the show at The Poorhouse this Saturday the 17th. We'll be going on late, but there's no cover and I heard Wilk the Silk just bought some new low-rise bikini underwear.

Maggie

Upcoming Shows and Stupid Celebrity Baby Names!

Tonight - do not forget or I'll track you down like a grilled cheese sandwich - we will be at Ray's Downtown Blues on Clematis St. in downtown WPB for the Sloppy High Fives farewell show. I have no idea when we'll be going on, so GET THERE by 10pm.

Saturday night - do not forget or I'll track you down like some bacon that I'm gonna put on that grilled cheese sandwich - we will be at The Poorhouse in downtown Ft. Lauderdale. We will be going on late-ish.

Wednesday - Britney Spears gave birth to what is sure to be a burden on society, I mean, a baby boy! What ever will she name him? Perhaps Taylor/Tyler Fruit O' The Skanks Spears-Federline? Maybe something more subtle, like Dakota 'Do-Rag Cheeto Ugg Boot Latte Spears-Federline? You can almost hear the suspense laughing in the corner and shaking its head.

Mags

The Freakin' Hott Gets Sloppy!

You know what totally bites the weenie? When you find
a local band who not only kicks a large amount of
rear-end, but actually reminds you what rock 'n roll
is all about...and then they break up or move away.
No, no, no. I am not talking about Raped Ape. What
do you think this is, 1994? Drop the flannel and get
with the program. I'm talking about the sparkling and
fading of one of our favorite local bands: The Sloppy
High Fives.

You know what doesn't bite the weenie? The boys have
asked The Freakin' Hott to join them at their last
blast at Ray's Downtown Blues, this Thursday,
September 15th. We feel honored to be a part of what
is sure to be the most insane party this side of the
Rio Grande, and rumor has it, The Deuce is on The
Juice...so you better wear a helmet and say your
prayers.

Show will START at 10pm, 21 and up, $5 to make you
holla, your mama's on crack rock.

Not my mama.

Maggie

Oucho My Gaucho!

Oh Gauchos. Prepare to be forever cast into the depths of Bad Fashion Hell, courtesy of moi. At least you'll have plenty of cami tops to keep you cool and fancy free while you burn for all eternity. What are gauchos, you ask? Gauchos are those blousy, wide-leg capri-length pants that are so popular with the bronzed and fake-boobied skanks right now...you silly goose.

Here's yet another assumed thought process of those who purchase and "rock" gauchos:

"I feel as though my legs do not look short or wide enough. I know! I'll put on some stupid pirate pants and flat sequined moccasins and that'll fix me right up!"

Ladies, ladies, ladies. No steamy story ever began with, "I couldn't wait to see her slide out of those gauchos..."

Show this Thursday at Ray's for The Sloppy High Fives last show ever. 21 and up. $5 to make you holla. Gauchos need not apply. Details to come...

Maggie

An Open Wet Headed Letter

Dear Those Who Have Perpetually Wet Hair,

There are probably a few reasons I always see you with perpetually wet hair, and none of them are good enough to justify your wet-headedness.

"I just got out of the shower." Buy a blowdryer. I did.

"My hair frizzes if I don't gel it when it's wet and let it air dry." Shave your head. The lead singer of Vertical Horizon did, and nobody makes fun of him...unless you count people who don't SUCK.

"I like the wet look." This is not about what you like, you selfish tart. YOU are not forced to look at you all day - WE are. You are not sexy with wet hair unless you happen to be wearing a towel at the same time and, oh yeah, you're Bo Derek in the movie "10". This is a fact. Look it up.

We've got a couple of shows lined up for next week and next weekend, so we'll let you in on the details after we coiff our pomps.

Maggie

The Long, Winding Road to Skankdom

I know it's been so, so, soooooooo long since I've updated here, but it's been a crazzzzzzzy week or two. First, I had to find shoes that matched my new fuchsia dress, and you know how THAT is. After that, I had to wait for my nail polish to dry. I don't think you people realize the pressure cooker I'm forced to live in.

We played a fantasticly fun show for Austin's going away party at The Billabong Pub with Humbert and I Am Stereo, which was more fun than anyone should ever be allowed to have. Kudos to Rimsky for the mustache, and to Ferny for the reach-around he attempted on Wilkins. He's a brave, brave soul.

We all got together for Aaron's birthday this past Saturday to play poker, wear wigs and coconut bras, and spill many drinks on my freshly mopped floor. I'm going to ask for ten volunteers to come over and help me deal with it: One person to mop, and nine to tell me that my hair looks FABULOUS.

We've got some shows coming up this month, but nothing that's 100% as firm as the oiled chest of Bandito, so we'll keep you informed as the details get straightened out. It seems the dive bar down the street won't commit to our band rider, which consists of a pound of inkless squid, a mariachi band who knows how to play "Breakin' the Law" en espanol, and three gift certificates to Outback Steakhouse.

Don't laugh. I personally know The Thunder From Down Under.

Maggie