Something Bad’s About To Happen.Or Maybe It Already Did.

So, NBC has a new Sunday Night Football theme this year. Unfortunately, it still stars Carrie Underwood, but, while her previous performances seemed to simply be Faith Hill reboots, this year the bigwigs at NBC seem to be going for something a little fresher, a little dancier, a little less Faith and a little more Carrie (a decision, by the way, that I do not support; Faith was exponentially better in her SNF intro). And to this, my friends, I say, they have failed. In a big, big way. This was a bigger fail than Crystal Pepsi or, for you Millennials, Brangelina’s marriage (more on that later).

But because I’m such an optimistic person (notwithstanding that Brangelina comment), let me start with the positives: Carrie’s legs look incredible. Truly. And, well, that’s it. Carrie’s legs are all it’s got going for it. Obviously her diehard commitment to endless lunges and squats –and spray tans – has really paid off.

Now, perhaps the producers were betting on these tanned, toned legs being enough to distract the average football-loving, puberty-reaching, beer-chugging viewer of Sunday Night Football from noticing the rest of the catastrophic performance. But I am not so easily swayed. (I don’t even drink beer.) In fact, all I can feel when I watch this “performance” is embarrassment for Carrie. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the billions of dollars NBC paid her to look like a moron is softening the blow a bit, but, seriously, what is even happening here? Is she supposed to be dancing? Skipping? Shimmying? Because all I can see when I watch it is a woman who appears to be in the throes of a minor seizure. I want to call her an ambulance, not settle in for an enjoyable evening of football.

And does it strike anyone else as odd that for a musician, she doesn’t seem to have much rhythm? And by “not much,” I mean none. She looks like a three-year-old trying to clap along to her Raffi tape (did I just date myself or what?!), with no concern for the actual beat.  

I just don’t get it. But, because I would never be so bold as to tell such an intelligent and discerning group as the ATG Nation what to think, I leave it to you beautiful people to form your own opinions.

You may begin.

Oh Say Can You See...All These Gold Medals?

July 1996. I remember it like it was yesterday (which is weird since I’m pretty sure I was only two in 1996). I was obsessed with the Olympics that year – or, more specifically, women’s gymnastics. The Magnificent Seven was everything I wanted to be: Polished. Successful. Respected. Toned. They were perfection. From Shannon Miller killing it on the uneven bars, to Dominique Moceanu’s flawless floor routine, to Dominique Dawes (my favorite) nailing it on balance beam, these girls were on fire.

The Magnificent Seven back in the day. Y'all, this was 20 years ago.
How is that possible?!!

The Magnificent Seven today(ish)

They were in a position to win the United States's first team gold EVER in the HISTORY of women’s gymnastics. All they had to do was hand in a solid performance on vault. It was cake. They loved vault. They were strong on vault. The gold was all but theirs.

And then...this:

And this:

All of a sudden, the inevitable wasn’t looking so certain. Or evitable.

Especially after this:

In the blink of an eye – or crack of an ankle – the Americans’ victory was in serious jeopardy.

And then, just as it started to look like the gold was all but lost, Kerri Strug, fueled by pure adrenaline and fear of Bela Karolyi, did something amazing - and propelled her miniature self into America’s hearts and Olympic history in the process.

Yes, my friends, Kerri Strug nailed her second vault. Nailed it. And then remembered to salute the judges. All on essentially one leg, as her other leg was seriously injured. In that one second, she made Olympic history and insured that the American women would take home their first gymnastics team gold. As it turns out, the Americans didn’t even need Kerri's score in order to win, but that doesn’t make her performance any less incredible. In that moment, she embodied all that is the Olympic spirit, nay the American spirit. We may disagree on politics, religion, and Taylor Swift’s talent level, but when it comes to the Olympics, we Americans are a united bunch.

It’s inspiring. And, even though I had absolutely nothing to do with any American victory, I feel like I have personally accomplished something great when an American medals. Probably because, as discussed above, we are all one, united in victory, which I'm pretty sure basically means we've all won those medals. Without even leaving the couch - or breaking a sweat. Unless you’re Aly Raisman’s parents.

And speaking of Aly Raisman, if it is possible to capture the magic of the Magnificent Seven, the 2016 women’s gymnastics team has certainly done it. They are America's Sweethearts: The Next Generation.

The 2016 U.S. Women's Gymnastics Team

I'd like to give a special shout-out to Aly, who has repeatedly played silver fiddle to her younger, newer teammates, but has shown nothing but class and dignity through it all. In fact, although it pains me to say it, the 2016 team may be even better than the 1996 team in some ways, specifically in their genuine support of each other. They seem to really like each other and revel in each other’s successes (except perhaps Gabby Douglas, who couldn’t even be bothered to give her teammates a standing ovation. The only way this is even remotely acceptable behavior is if her leg was literally broken, and even then, it's questionable. American gymnasts can do amazing things on broken limbs. See: Kerri Strug).

But, overall, the Americans have represented well in Rio. And the issues with Ryan Lochte et al cannot tarnish it (too much). I hate to pay too much attention to the stupidity that is Lochte, but I suppose it warrants a brief mention. When I first started penning this post, the story was still very much a he said/he said situation as to whether the swimmers or the police were telling the truth. Now, however, there’s video. And this video seems to indicate that Ryan Lochte is a big, fat, lying liar face, which is probably why he – and fellow swimmer Jimmy Feigen – were indicted for falsely reporting a crime.

However, yesterday morning, Feigen agreed to pay almost $11,000 in return for being allowed to leave the country. (The three other swimmers were already back in the U.S.) They call it a “donation” and Feigen’s attorney says the money will go to an “institution,” or “charity.” Apparently this is totally legal in Rio. I believe in the U.S., however, we call this something else, and it rhymes with mribery. Apparently one man’s blackmail is another man's donation.

The fibbing foursome

And that about sums it up. The Americans acted like idiots and then lied about it. The Brazilians overreacted and then engaged in what appears to be extortion. But all's well that ends well, I suppose. The Americans (one of whom is a fellow Longhorn; I've never been so proud) are back in the States, and the Brazilians are a little wealthier because of it. Everyone wins. Or loses, depending on your perspective. We could just leave it there - but that would be extraordinarily boring and so not ATG.

So on that note, here are my unsolicited, unfiltered, and probably uneducated opinions:

1. Rio has been faced with a lot of really bad press during these Olympic Games. From inadequate and unsafe living quarters in the Olympic Village, to Zika, to putting the wrong chemical in the diving pool, to a number of Olympic athletes being robbed and assaulted in their fair city, Rio has a lot to overcome. It makes sense, then, that they would want to make an example out of these guys; make sure that the entire world knew that this most recent tale of woe was in fact entirely fabricated, and that Rio is actually entirely safe not quite as terrifying as we originally thought.
2. If I were one of the three less-famous swimmers who were detained in Brazil after Ryan Lochte’s escape to the States, I’d have been pissed. Especially because it was his interview with Billy Bush that set this whole thing in motion. You didn't seen any of the other swimmers talking to the press about it. It was just Lochte. Being Lochte. And, as is generally the case, the ringleader got off scot-free and escaped without punishment. Life is so unfair. On the other hand, perhaps I’m being too hard on Lochte. It's probably because I don’t like him. At all. In fact, if I thought he was capable of concocting any plan more complex than eating breakfast or scratching himself, I might think he had facilitated this entire thing. Which leads me to -
3. Ryan Lochte is an idiot. Like, a total moron. And could a total moron really weave such a tangled web? Especially when all of his brain cells are so busy trying to remember not to breathe under water? Apparently he could. But, not so surprisingly, this moron also apparently overestimated his brilliance and scheming abilities, which is why he was so quickly caught in his big fat lie. Next time, Ryan, leave the thinking to those of us who don’t have chlorine-soaked brains or look like ‘roided up Smurfs.

Regardless, it’s really too bad that in an Olympic Games full of wonderful, inspiring stories, this is the story getting most of the press.

But, because I hate to end on such a negative note, I leave you with this gem. It is sure to bring a smile to your face and a song to your heart.

Unless you’re from the Philippines.*

*Please note how proud they both appear to be of their performances – and I use the term “performance” loosely. I didn’t even know a score of 0 was possible. But I will give them an A for Effort.

Celebrating the Similar

We at ATG love a good doppelgänger. From celebs to athletes, we love calling attention to each other’s similarities. After all, if we could only learn to focus on our similarities instead of our differences, wouldn’t the world, nay the universe, be a better place? But that’s ATG for you. Making the universe a better place one blog post at a time.

So in the interest of our continued role as the great uniters of the universe, the role you’ve come to expect from us, we bring you this doppelgänger-filled celebration of similarities, sure to unite all the land. And for this installment, we have chosen to highlight the Real Housewives. Heaven knows they could use an extra shot or two of love and light – and perhaps a couple fewer of Botox and Restylane.

Now, don’t expect us to go for the low-hanging fruit. We’ve never been ones to take the easy route. There will be no comparisons of New Jersey’s Melissa Gorga to a horse, nor Beverly Hills’s Kyle Richards to Demi Moore (honestly, I think Kyle looks more like The Firm’s Jennifer Carman anyway), nor even New Jersey’s Joe Guidice to a hobbit. No, we won’t mention a word of it.

And it is precisely because we aim a little higher that our comparisons may take a little more work to see, but I assure you that they aren’t any less true. At least in my head. And if you’ve learned anything by now, dear readers, it’s that if it exists in my head, it’s gospel.

[Disclaimer: As I’m sure we all know, doppelgängers don’t always look super doppelgängy when put side-by-side, so I would encourage you to approach this post as you would an abstract painting. Don’t look directly at the pictures, or, if you must, perhaps try to blur your vision a little. But however you choose to examine it, all I ask is that you bear with me, even if the similarities aren’t super obvious to you at first. After all, we’re trying to unite here. And the first step to unification is agreeing with everything I say.]

Now, without further ado, I give you...  

New York’s Sonja Morgan as Barbra Streisand

Her Ladyship (L) and that Funny Lady (R)

Sonja Morgan, everyone’s favorite delusional diva. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she fancied herself a bit of a Barbra. She is, after all, very important. With very important friends. It’s probably why she finds it necessary to have interns “working” for her. I’m not entirely sure why you need interns (that’s internS, plural) when you don’t have a job, but I guess those care packages for your daughter don’t pack themselves.

New York’s Carole Radziwill as Nicky Hilton

The princess (L) and the heiress (R)

Ironically, Nicky Hilton is the niece of another Housewives “star,” Kyle Richards, as well as the sister of the infamous Paris Hilton, who "we" obviously all know from her “work” in the “film” 1 Night in Paris (not coming to a theater near you and not in any way safe for work).

Carole, on the other hand, was married to Jackie Kennedy’s nephew, who also happened to be a prince. Of something. This makes Carole a princess. I used to think the only thing princess-like about her was her title, but this season she’s begun to take on a bit of a princess attitude as well. And not in a good way. Apparently her new role as BFF to the insufferable Bethenny Frankel and cougar to a vegan chef makes her better than everyone else. Newsflash, Carole: You’re on a reality show. You’re not out curing cancer. You spend your days curling your hair, plumping your lips, and judging people. I’m not saying I don’t support all of these activities, but if the toughest decision you make all day is whether to wear waterproof or non-waterproof mascara, you don’t have much of a leg (of superiority) to stand on. Sorry, princess.

And speaking of the miserable Bethenny Frankel…

New York’s Bethenny Frankel as The Grinch

I know. It's hard to tell which is the actual Grinch.
They're both so unlikeable. 

I completely understand why you may not have ever noticed this similarity. I only see it when she smiles, which pretty much never happens. Because she’s an insufferable witch. Perhaps she needs a little (more?) Who-pudding, a little more spontaneous singing, and/or a little more circle time in her life so that her Grinch-sized heart can do a little growing itself.

But I’m not holding my breath.

Orange County’s Lydia McLaughlin as the sea creatures from The Little Mermaid

It’s the eyes, guys. It’s all in the eyes. Lydia has very large eyes. (Thank you, Captain Obvious.) But I’m not being critical. Seriously. In fact, she’s done quite well for herself considering she’s the daughter of a woman who is not only a serious pothead, but who also fancies herself a fairy. I mean, Lydia’s mom may be a very well-to-do pothead/fairy, but she’s a pothead/fairy none the less.

I’m starting to think, though, that maybe this comparison is a little mean; completely true, but mean. And she does seem like a nice lady. Maybe we can find a more complimentary comparison.

Is this better?

C’mon! Sebastian is adorable!

Okay, how about this? A Disney princess matched with a girl whose mom sprinkles fairy dust on strangers. Perfect.

By the way, this post is already longer than Lydia’s entire time on Orange County.

But since we’re on the topic of princesses –

New York’s Dorinda Medley as Princess Diana

The laundry-loving lady (L) and Lady Diana (R)

Unlike Dorinda, I would assume that Diana (RIP) never got naked wasted in public, nor would she have settled for a vertically – slash – horizontally challenged, red-faced, dry cleaner boyfriend who treated her like crap. At least not one without a title. But other than those small differences, these two are essentially the same person. (No disrespect to either.) I mean, their names even start with the same letter. Coincidence? Doubtful. Sure, Dorinda is a little less refined than the princess, but that’s what makes her so darn fun. And slightly unbalanced.

But, remember, no disrespect.

And for our finale, we move from princesses to kings. Of the jungle.

New Jersey’s Dina Manzo as the King of the Jungle

I think this one is pretty self-explanatory

Her personality may be more reminiscent of a hyena, with her constant screeching and (verbally) attacking the weaker Housewives, but her maxillofacial area definitely reads lion. Besides, if this post were about personality doppelgängers the comparisons would be entirely different. And less interesting. Who cares about personalities anyway? It’s what’s on the outside that matters. (I learned that from watching reality TV.)

And thus ends our smorgasbord of similarities. Are you all feeling all warm and fuzzy – and unified – now? Good, now go pay it forward.

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

Y’all, it’s getting messy. And, while I love a good mess (as long as I don’t have to clean it up), this is almost too messy even for me – perhaps because it involves my beloved, John Christopher Depp. Now, there’s no secret within the ATG nation that Johnny Depp is the only man I’ve ever loved (total lie); still, I’m going to try to be entirely objective here.

But, in the event that I fail in my endeavor to be impartial, let me preface this all by saying (a) no one knows what happens behind closed doors and (b) domestic violence is never okay.

Now that we’ve covered that, let’s try to make some sense out of this mess “we” (royal we) find ourselves in. And we begin with this: Johnny Depp is back on the market. Quite honestly, I was a bit surprised that he ever found himself off the market. I really thought that he would choose life as a perpetual bachelor over life as the ball to someone’s chain (or vice versa). But he proved me wrong last year by making an honest(ish) woman (there was still that unfortunate Australian dog-smuggling incident) out of his one-and-only, Amber Heard. Wedded bliss didn’t last long, however, as barely a year after they tied the knot, she has officially filed for divorce. Must’ve been a slip knot because that undying, passionate, everlasting love definitely seems to have slipped away.

And apparently it slipped away TWO DAYS after Johnny’s beloved mother died. Yep, Amber filed for divorce two days after Betty Sue’s death.

Man, that’s cold. Mourning the loss of the only person who has ever shown you unconditional love? The woman that you have such a creepy and unhealthy close relationship with that you have her name carved into your body? You say your life will never, ever be the same? Oh, sorry to hear that. Anyway, let me break your heart some more; here are papers saying that I no longer want anything to do with you because I find everything about you offensive and irreconcilable. And you smell bad.

Don't we all have owed-to-our-moms tattooed on our arms?

Your timing could probably be improved upon there, Amber.

To be fair, the timing of the filing of the divorce papers, and ensuing restraining order, allegedly coincides with Johnny hitting Amber in the face with his iPhone. And if he did actually intentionally throw something at her head, then he absolutely got what he deserved—two days after his mom’s death or not. On the other hand, maybe it didn’t happen exactly like she intimates. Perhaps he was just really fed up with his phone. I’ve certainly been irritated enough with my own cellular torture device to consider throwing it across the room (#firstworldproblems). I don’t throw it, of course, because I can’t afford to replace it, but I promise you, if I were a multimillionaire, Samsung would have made a pretty penny off of me and my phone-destroying anger. Point is, maybe it was an accident. Or maybe, crazy thought, he didn’t even do it. Isn’t there something about innocent until proven guilty? (Sorry, I’m in law school.)

The happy couple back when they were, well, happy.
Yes, I know that she's too pretty for him.

Obviously I don’t know what the Depps’ relationship was like. As much as I would like to be able to say that I’ve been behind Johnny’s closed doors (euphemistically speaking or otherwise), I haven’t. Perhaps the Depps had an incredibly volatile relationship, as the missus alleges. Or perhaps it wasn’t quite as dramatic as is being perpetuated. There are certainly a few people coming to Johnny’s defense. Character witnesses obviously don’t provide hardcore, case-closed evidence, but they can certainly help—unless you’re Kim Kardashian. There’s simply nothing anyone could say to make that better.

Anyway, one of these aforementioned character witnesses wrote an op-ed about how Johnny’s inner-circle disliked his wife choices from the beginning; how they knew she was bad news, a “manipulative a-hole.” And how she threatened to lie about her devoted husband publicly if he didn’t meet her demands. This implies, of course, that these allegations are all a huge ploy to get her more money in the divorce. I’m not saying that’s her motivation. I don’t know. What I do know, however, is that she’s asking for $50,000. PER. MONTH. ($10,000 per month of which she needs for entertainment, gifts and vacations; and another $10,000 for miscellaneous expenses, including pet supplies and agent fees.) Let me do that math for you. That’s $600,000 per year. Not a bad payday for a year’s worth of marriage, i.e. “work.” HOWEVER, I should also mention that the friend making these allegations is now being sued by the former Mrs. Depp for defamation (and intentional infliction of emotional distress), so I’ll probably just leave that there.

BUT, Johnny has yet another character witness: his baby mama, Vanessa Paradis. Ms. Paradis wrote a letter chronicling what a great man her children’s father is and how she’s never seen the violent behavior he’s being accused of. Now, considering that Johnny and his (momentary) sweetheart, Amber Heard, met and (allegedly) began their more-than-emotional affair while he was still with Vanessa, this letter can be read one of two ways. She’s either 1) an incredibly classy woman who is able to put any hard feelings aside in order to defend a man who’s being unfairly persecuted, OR 2) taking the opportunity to really stick it to the woman who ruined her life, truth be damned. I’m slightly inclined to believe the former, which is either because a) I’m entirely biased, or b) because this guy has been in the spotlight for years and years. And years. And, during those years and years—and years—he’s had many high-profile, long-term relationships (Winona Ryder, anyone?); it’s hard for me to believe that if he had a propensity for violence, it wouldn’t have come up before. Winona had nothing to gain by keeping quiet – remember, this was when she was famous and didn’t need his fame/money. And she stayed with him forever. As did Vanessa.

Johnny and Vanessa BA, Before Amber

The Letter

Amber, on the other hand, needs both Johnny’s fame and money (evidenced by her extraordinary spousal-support request). What does she really have going for her besides being Johnny Depp’s (former) wife? I can see why she would want to milk it for everything she could – not that I’m saying this is what’s happening.

  If a man feels the need to wear elevator shoes when he's with you,  
 it probably doesn't bode well for the success of your relationship.  

BUT, lest ATG be accused of being unbalanced (other than emotionally, of course), I should also mention that Amber too has a character witness: her neighbor and best friend, Raquel Rose Pennington. Raquel lives next door to the Depps and, according to her, came over during the alleged phone attack, entered the condo with her own private key, and found Johnny standing over his beloved with a “magnum sized wine bottle” before “smashing everything he could.” That sounds fairly unpleasant. I can see how that would scare a person, even inspire her to file for divorce two days after his mom died.

So to wrap it up in a pretty pink bow, I’m not saying that Jamber didn’t have a volatile relationship, or even that Mrs. Jamber’s contentions are false. Let’s be honest, Johnny’s never seemed particularly well-balanced, which is probably why he’s such an amazing actor. Given his involvement with the Viper Room and apparent unwillingness to bathe, it’s not hard to imagine that he has a codependent relationship with not only women, but also drugs/alcohol. And then, of course, there was the added issue of his mom’s illness and impending death which was likely weighing heavily on him. Maybe he just snapped (not that I’m making excuses for him).

Or maybe he really is a monster.

Or maybe he was in a drug- and alcohol-induced rage.

Or maybe he has a brain tumor.

Who knows?

But maybe, just maybe, looking at it totally objectively and impartially, this up-and-coming actress found in an aging superstar all the fame and money she could ever dream of—exactly what she needed to jumpstart her career—and once she successfully rode that train to the Easy Street station, she decided it was time to get off, taking with her as much of that fame and money as possible, of course.

It’s possible, right?

All I know for sure is that there are currently a few divorce attorneys thanking their lucky stars that The Rum Diary happened; otherwise, these two star-crossed lovers may never have met. 

Actually, come to think of it, those lawyers are probably the only people in the entire universe who are in any way grateful for the existence of The Rum Diary. 

Fool’s-Gold(en) Globes

All told, I think I watched about five minutes of the Golden Globes last night. I really just can’t handle the narcissism, self-congratulating and back-patting. Not to mention that, as the Saints learned the hard way, it’s hard to get behind any contest where victory is bought and not earned. I mean, do we really think Jennifer Lawrence gave the best female comedic performance of the year?  Uh, no. Melissa McCarthy runs comedic circles around “Joy’s” prepubescent self.

Anyway, as expected, there were plenty of cringe-worthy moments. Some were so bad they were good; most were just really, really bad.

One in the latter category occurred when Matt Damon “won” a best actor trophy for The Martian. Although he had to walk past his wife to get to the stage, push past her even, he failed to acknowledge her in any way. Apparently he forgot that his beard wife plays a huge part in perpetuating the narrative that he’s a regular guy, married to a regular lady, who’s just a down-to-earth family man. Sure, he thanked her in his acceptance speech, but what’s that saying about actions vs. words? In his defense, perhaps he was afraid that if he didn’t rush the stage and get his award quickly, Amy Adams might have a Steve Harvey moment and realize that she’d read the card wrong, ultimately giving the trophy to Steve Carrell instead. Given Damon’s comedic ability, or lack thereof (Stuck On You, anyone?), this was probably a legitimate concern. (Now, had he received the award for the bumbling performance he gave as he floundered his way through a defense of Sean Penn’s controversial interview with El Chapo, I would have totally supported the decision; that was one of the best comedic performances I’ve seen all year.) 

Then there was everyone’s best friend, Amy Schumer, with her actual best friend, Jennifer Lawrence, presenting their respective films as Best Picture nominees (neither won, by the way). Seriously, what happened to these two? They used to be so likeable. Now, not so much (and it’s not even entirely because of Amy’s completely unlikeable persona, i.e. her true self, in Trainwreck). Why do celebrities feel the need to pontificate ad nauseam on things they know nothing about? Newsflash, celebrities: I don’t want to know your personal thoughts/beliefs on, well, anything. Just entertain me like the dancing monkeys you are. 

Dance, monkeys. Dance.

 

Jennifer Lawrence took it to another groan-inducing level in her post-win press conference when she told a member of the foreign press, with a mom-level finger wag, to stop looking at his phone and to “live in the now.” This wouldn’t necessarily be the stupidest thing ever except for the fact that, based on the reporter’s very thick accent, it was fairly obvious that English wasn’t his first language. What everyone else in the world room seemed to understand, therefore, was that given the high-pressure situation and the fact that he was attempting to speak a language other than his own, this reporter had chosen to read his question off his phone in an effort to not eff it up. Nice job, Jen. You probably made him feel like a total idiot for trying not to look like a total idiot. In the end, though, it really wasn’t he who looked the fool, was it?

And speaking of how people looked, I sure hope someone called the police on behalf of Brie Larson because, based on what I saw last night, half of her body has been stolen. I didn’t even recognize the 21 Jump Street actress as she accepted her best actress award for Room. Someone better give Girlfriend a sandwich real quick.

Last night at the Golden Globes (L) and in 2012 (R). Seriously, where's the rest of her?

Then there was Lady Gaga, who rarely disappoints. As an aside, apparently faux British accents and lots of nudity are the only requirements to win a Globe; I can’t really identify anything else the Gags could have done to win for American Horror Story. I am grateful for her win, however, for one very specific reason – and it involves Leonardo DiCaprio. As she clomped her way up to the stage – probably, like Matt Damon, fearing that the Hollywood Foreign Press would change its mind if she didn’t get to the stage fast enough – she knocked Leo’s elbow. His reaction alone was worth the eight hours of torture required to endure the entire broadcast.

  Perhaps she misjudged her new width, provided by those bat wings she has glued to her hips. They're like a cat's whiskers, except in reverse.  

And in case you missed it because (unlike me), you don't feel like watching the above GIF 8,000 times, here's the money shot:

Not much of a poker face there, Leo.

Let this be a lesson to us all: Nothing stands between the Gags and her Globe. Nothing at all. I must say, for a man who has experienced all the dangers of a new frontier, including an enraged grizzly bear, he seems fairly fearful of this lady's touch. This could be for two reasons: 1) he's a fan of American Horror Story and has seen how terrifying her acting character's behavior is, or 2) he happened to notice the ferocious talons she's currently sporting on those hands of hers.

Either way, Mama Grizzly's got nothing on Gaga.

Not-So-Pure Michigan

Love. It’s a many-splendored thing. And what better way to show one’s love than by going to extraordinary lengths to propose? After all, as Gammy says in The Proposal (which, ironically, is on as I write this post), “How a man proposes says a lot about his character.” I mean, if reality TV has taught us anything isn't it that huge, over-the-top gestures are the secret to a long and successful marriage? I wonder then what Gammy would have to say about Michigander William Cornelius Jr.’s New Year's Eve proposal to his girlfriend Sheri Moore.

It was original, I’ll give him that. Any uninspired schmuck can hide a ring in a champagne glass or utilize the “kiss cam” at a hockey game; how much thought does that take? But what about a proposal at a regular old retail store? That takes some real innovation. Surely it doesn’t get much more splendored than a marriage proposal through the loudspeaker at Walmart.

Right?

And after overtaking (with permission, of course) the store’s PA system to offer his proposal, Cornelius presented his lady with an engagement ring that he had procured from the same retailer - valued, I might add, at a whopping $29.62. Talk about one-stop shopping. It’s actually surprising that more people don’t make similar proposal choices. Perhaps Mr. Cornelius will start a revolution.

What I hope will not become a revolution, however, is how the diabolical duo chose to celebrate their engagement. You might think that after plunking down less than $30 on an engagement ring, there would perhaps be a dollar or two left over to splurge on some wedding night favors. But no. Instead of choosing to do things the old-fashioned (read: legal) way, and placing the desired items on, say, a grownup wedding registry, Michigan’s own Bonnie and Clydenelius chose instead to lift $80 worth of sex toys from a nearby mall. Stolen items included a “Bride-to-Be” thong, as well as an edible one, sex candy and a vibrator.

You know, just the essentials. 

A match made in heaven? Or perhaps a little further south?

But fear not, my friends. As the above photos indicate, the devious duo was eventually apprehended. In case you’re wondering, the bride was caught outside of a Taco Bell – another cost-effective choice, I’ll admit – where she immediately blamed the entire thing on her fiancé, despite the fact that there was actual videographic evidence of her sticky fingers. (Sure didn’t take long for her to flip on her man. This marriage isn’t doomed at all.) As for the groom, well, he was found at a table in the mall’s food court. Asleep.

You really just can’t make this stuff up.       

Cheeseburgers in Paradise

Folks, I have big news. Like, really big. Earth-shattering even. Finally, after an excruciatingly long wait and many, many sleepless nights (just me?), the secret to Tom Brady and his lovely wife Gisele Bundchen’s supermodel bodies has been revealed.

And today, my friends, I’m going to share that very secret with you. It’s really going to change your life. Ready? The secret is…

Money.

Yes, the beauty and his wife have loads of those gorgeous greenbacks. And they spend at least some of them on a private chef who makes them delicious meals full of veggies, grass-fed steak, chicken and salmon. All organic of course. According to their chef, “If it’s not organic, I don’t use it.” The Brundchens also ingest no coffee - or caffeine of any kind - no dairy, and no tomatoes because, allegedly, they cause inflammation. Who knew? Apparently I’ve been eating crates of tomatoes in my sleep.

Other helpful hints? No sugar, white flour or MSG. What?! I think my brain might explode. When did sugar and flour become bad for you? Oh right, 1994.

The organically inclined Brundchens

So, if you win tonight’s Powerball, or for some other reason have the million dollars necessary to buy only organic foodstuffs, and, oh yeah, HIRE A PRIVATE CHEF TO COOK THEM FOR YOU, then you too could look like a supermodel. Or his wife. Obviously money doesn’t automatically give you a Sports Illustrated body (see: Oprah), but it certainly helps. And anyone who denies this fact has obviously forgotten what it’s like to be poor (see: Oprah).

Personally, I think this is a genius move on Gisele’s part. If you require your football-playing husband to subsist on a diet of quinoa and seaweed, then when he finally gets a little freedom – say, at an away game – he probably won’t be interested in cheating on you with a woman; he’ll be much more likely to cheat on you with a cheeseburger. Well played, Gisele. Well played.  

And speaking of lifelong marriages (or not), congratulations to former president George H.W. Bush and his lovely wife Barbara who are celebrating their 71^st wedding anniversary today. Those 71 years have surely been fruitful, producing six children (one of whom died of leukemia at age 3), eight years at Number One Observatory Circle, four years at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., and eight years (which I’m fairly certain will be the only years; sorry, Jeb) as the parents of the occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.  

January 6, 1945

Congratulations again to Mr. and Mrs. Bush! May we all be so lucky as to find someone who loves us through 71 years of ups and downs – and who lets us eat the occasional taco. Or tomato.