The Glory of UK Tabloids

Hello, old friends! I’m writing to you today from Leeds, England, a city that I now travel to with some regularity for work. Leeds is actually a lovely little city. It’s got great shopping, beautiful architecture, and even the homeless people here call me “love,” which is certainly a nice change from “bitch ass.” That said, my absolute favorite thing about the UK is still, without a doubt, the ghoulish, sensationalist tabloids that you can only buy over here.

What’s that, you say? You don’t know which tabloids I’m referring to? Well, boy, are you in for a treat. Here – instead of trying to explain what I’m talking about, I’ll just show you two of my favorite covers from last week.

1. Take a Break 

Caroline Nierman

Take a Break is a stellar example of the kind of pure and good journalism I’m talking about here. Honestly, there’s so much going on with this cover that I don’t even know where to begin…IT’S ALL TOO GOOD.

First of all, if your 11 year old son wants to kill your whole family with a knife, is it really still appropriate to say that he’s ‘perfect?’ I feel like that’s a character flaw that should at least knock him down a few points to ‘great, except for that whole bloodlust thing.’

Also, what, exactly, does it mean to keep one’s ‘double’ in a wardrobe? Are we talking about a clone here? And how big was the wardrobe? It was probably the size of a studio apartment in the East Village, anyway, so I don’t really get why that’s such a big deal.

Lastly, how does a person go straight from having nothing more than a cough to having both of her goddamn legs amputated?! Surely there must have been a few intermediary steps between the two? If not, I’m pretty sure that person has a promising lawsuit on her hands (assuming they didn’t unexpectedly chop those off, too).

2. That’s Life! 

Caroline Nierman

Frankly, “That’s Life” seems like a very pessimistic name for a magazine that publishes stories with headlines like ‘Mum Seduced My Man as Our Baby Died.’ Is that REALLY just life? I sure as fuck hope not! Jesus.

And what kind of shameless funeral antics are we talking about? All I can picture is a sped-up montage of two people miming different sex acts while the Benny Hill theme song plays in the background at a funeral. Truly ghastly – but I’m desperate to hear more!

The headline that really caught my eye in the store, though, was “Dodgy Op: I could fit my HAND inside my BOOB,” because HOW?! From a logistical standpoint, I mean. Although the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that having a secret pocket inside my boob could have its advantages. Going out clubbing and don’t want to bring a purse? Just throw your debit card, a fiver and your favorite red lipstick inside your boob and you’re good to go!

The real question is, why don’t we have magazines like this in the US? I’d much rather read schadenfreude-inducing stories like these than whack American articles about Kim Kardashian’s favorite salad fixins. Get with the program, People Magazine!

Great, Now I Might Be Living Over a Portal to Hell

You can imagine how pleased I was when I stepped into my building’s lobby the other day and was greeted by what appeared to be The Book of Shadows sitting on the communal table by my elevator. It’s kind of a thing in this building – people leave their old crap on the table downstairs in the hope that their 1970’s guide to parenting or half-consumed jar of Nutella will go to good use, insead of where it belongs (in the trash).

Sure, the cover of the book says that it’s something benign, pleasant, even: The Standard Treasury of the World’s Greatest Music. With that being said, I’m pretty sure that given its faded, burgundy cover and spooky vibes that this book contains all of the secrets to the world’s evil and should never be opened by the weak, fleshy hand of a mortal.

We’ll put it like this: I just hope that B and I are out for a walk with Jack when some idiot finally comes along, cracks open the cover and turns my building into a portal to hell.

A Merry Belated Krampusnacht to One and All!

A Merry Belated Krampusnacht to One and All!

I was super bummed when I realized yesterday that I missed Krampusnacht this year. Now I feel like I have to pour one out for my homie, Krampus, because I didn’t get to party with him on December 5th. BOO.

For those of you who don’t know who Krampus is, he’s a fun-loving bitch who likes to do festive things around the holidays like stomp on ornaments with his one cloven hoof and stuff badly-behaved children into a burlap sack. (As an aside, I’m pretty sure this is also exactly how Swiss people sexually role play during the winter.)

The origin of Mr. Krampus dates all the way back to Pre-Christian Germanic tradition. In fact, up until relatively recently, he was still considered by those living in the Alps to be the ‘yin’ to Santa’s ‘yang.’ So what does that mean, exactly? Well, basically, where Santa’s purpose in life is to do lame shit like ‘spread joy’ and ‘give kind, thoughtful gifts to children and old people,’ the Krampus lives to get trashed, make kids cry and scare the living daylights out of anyone who sees his devil-ass-looking face. Apparently, he’s also kind of a lech, and he particularly loves the company of zaftig ladies. I’m positive that he and I would get along like a house on fire – specifically, a house that’s on fire because he’s torched it for a laugh.

So hey, even though I may have missed Krampusnacht this year, that doesn’t mean I can’t still drink a few glasses of whiskey one night and trip a pitchy caroller in honor of Krampus, the O.G. (Original Grinch). Let the belated wild Krampus begin!

The Creepiest Sweater Ever?

The Creepiest Sweater Ever?

This is an actual sweater for sale in a store. I don’t really know what the creature woven into the front of it is supposed to be. It looks like a bunch of different weird things, including a flasher, a cockroach, and a cockroach flasher. My boyfriend thinks it looks like an omen in a scary Japanese movie that would pop out from behind trees and shit to remind you of your mortality. Whatever it is, its red eyes and the fact that it looks like it’s fleeing from a predator seriously give me the heebie-jeebies.

Now THIS is a Subway Nut I could get DOWN With.

This. Video. Is. ABSURD. I’ve never seen such an over-the-top response to a simple foot stomp. Honestly, subway foot stomps happen ALL THE TIME. Part of the fun of taking the subway is finding out how many of your toes aren’t broken at the end of the ride. The only instance in which this might be an appropriate response to the situation at hand would be if this woman had guessed Rumpelstiltskin’s name and he STILL insisted on spiriting away with her baby.

A Hair’s Tale

When I was 16, I had my hair chemically straightened for the first time by a surly gentleman in a hair salon in Koreatown. It was a surreal experience; the whole process took – I kid you not – 8 hours, and I was left with a lasting memory when the guy BURNT MY SCALP so badly that the hairs on that patch of head don’t grow right anymore.

Anyway, since then, I’ve been on a quest to find my holy grail of hair conditioners. When I saw that Ulta was selling something online called a ‘Macadamia Natural Oil Deep Repair Masque,’ I knew I had to have it. It seemed so exotic – and people said it magically transformed their hair from dry, straw-like birds’ nests into silky, touchable Mermaid hair. I bought it.

The little brown package finally arrived in the mail a few weeks later. As I was opening the wrapping, I could hear a chorus of angels softly humming a Take 6 song. I felt like King Arthur. And when I finally untwisted the top of the jar and smelled the glory of the Macadamia nut? Well, hey, I’ll admit it – I cried a little bit.

I decided the best way to make use of this ‘masque’ would be to leave it on overnight. That way, it would have time to work into my poor, dry hair, and in the morning, I would look like Alessandra Ambrosio. When I finally rinsed it out, I decided not to put anything else in my hair, to just let it dry naturally. You know, mermaid hair, a chorus of angels, etc., etc. And so I let it dry.

It was like a scene out of a horror movie when, a few hours later, I finally looked in the mirror and saw a member of the Westboro Baptist Church staring back at me.