Thursday, July 28, 2005

Pro-Panties

Get out the hand-lotion, fanboys, for this ass-tastic entry will consist of panties, thongs and/or the lack thereof.
So I was at work yesterday, fending off the world's most massively invasive wedgie ever, when I started considering switching to thongs. I'm a dyed-in-the-wool granny-pantier, because that's the way I like it and there ain't nothing wrong with swathing my ass in Fruit of the Loom 100% cotton. People are always telling me that thongs are comfortable because there is no material to get wadded up, as with my bikini-cut underthings. But there is still the invasiveness. Wadded or not, that is a foreign object creeping up my backside in a frenzied attempt at recon with my colon.
Another pro-thong statement I've heard is "No VPL! Yay!"
Why do people want to hide the fact that they wear underwear? The tell-tale lines where my panties and butt end and my legs begin are hardly something I feel ashamed of. If the skirts and pants you are wearing are A) too tight, B) too short, or C) too see-through to allow you to wear whatever underoos you please, there are larger issues to face here. "VPL ruins the flattering line of your clothing!" No honey, your ripply stucco-butt ruins the *flattering* line of your clothing. If your tube-top masquerading as a miniskirt is tight enough for us to see the cellulite encroaching upon your ass cheeks, and your sphincter is offering to reveal itself completely at any moment...wearing a thong hardly makes it better. Why not just go without any underwear? Because only complete whores don't wear anything under their skirts? Given that I've shot down any possible argument in favour of thongs, they seem to me just a useless fad with a couple of half-assed (you'll excuse the pun) supporting arguments.
The so-called 'granny panties' seem to have garnered an unfair reputation as being unsexy because there is no willful butt-flossing involved. Look. Let's compare thongs to tooth floss, so long as the term butt floss has surfaced. Flossing your teeth is good for you, yes. And yes, it is easier and more comfortable to floss your teeth with a thin thread than with a sheet of fabric. But that doesn't change the fact that the floss still snaps against my gums and makes them bleed from time to time. Now given that comparison, I really am in no hurry ot see if butt floss has a similar effect. Anal bleeding is really not a thing to toy with. My panties are sexy, and I chose tasteful clothing that covers my ass and is loose enough to allow free movement while not tripping me up. I've heard no complaints so far that my choice of underwear makes me a total stuck-in-the-past loser. You know why? Because, deep down inside, no one really gives a shit what kind of underwear you prefer, in spite of the myriad "Boxer/brief" questions asked on those e-mail surveys "Things You Never Knew About Your Friends!" Things, perhaps, which are irrelevant and repetetive? And why, oh why, does the boxers/briefs question appear in the girls only section? Wouldn't it make more sense to ask a guy what HE prefers? But no, it's what do guys want girls to be like and what do girls want the boys to be like? Why not ask them questions pertaining to their own gender, as one would assume they know more about it?
Wrong: Hey boys! Do you prefer long or short hair on a girl?
Right: Hey girls! Do you like to wear your hair long or short?
Wrong: Hey Boys! Do you like sweet, shy girls, or a ballsy girl who asks you out and makes the first move?
Right: Hey Girls! Are you shy or ballsy?
Wrong: Hey Girls! Do you prefer boxers or breifs on a guy?
Right: Hey Girls! Do you even give a rat's ass what a guy wraps his ass-hole in? Y'know, the place where poop comes out?

Survey Says: Nope.

Thongs, the fascination with thongs, and internet surveys which are always the same in spite of having titles like: "Jayne and Katee's Wicked Kewl Survey! FWDFWDFWD! U'll totaly learn sumthin new an interesting about ur pals!"
Only not.

Anyway: Gunned Down.


Jackie's Note:
Emily hits so many points here you'd think she was genius. hee hee. A good point being that no one really cares whether you're wearing "granny panties" or a thong. And it's true! Thongs are usually my preference, I find them more comfortable, but then again I've been wearing them for a few years. It's like a bra, you'll fuss over it for a week and then you won't even feel it anymore. And for the "granny panties aren't sexy, ew, my boyfriend will dump me" bit, oh shut up! If your boyfriend comments at all in a negative way because you've got plain cotton panties and all of his friend's girlfriend's wear hooker panties, he's a weenie and you should kick him out on his heinie as soon as possible. Because honestly, they all look the same on the floor. No seriously. I'm not kidding!

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Sunday, July 24, 2005

Gotta Be KD...

. . . "Ketchup-Dependant," that is.
Now in my younger years, during various stages of Exploratory Taste-Bud Development, I'll admit to adding ketchup to any number of foods, sometimes in copious amounts. Almost any kind of pasta; meatloaf; you name it: it had ketchup on it, or could, conceiveably. My sister even went so far as to add ketchup to her chocolate ice cream in the fourth grade. We've all had our moments, is what I'm saying. But this is beyond anything I have ever heard of, and that included my cousin who would only eat Kraft Dinner with half a bottle of Heinz poured over it.
So today at my workplace, which is a cafeteria-style restaurant type of thing, we kind almost ran out of ketchup. This is a huge deal, apparently, because you have absolutely NO idea how many burgers/hot dogs/french fries/onion rings we sell in a day, not to mention about a dozen other grill items that come with your choice of fries or onion rings.
And that's not even including breakfast items, which come with hashbrowns.
I have seen my fair share of people who believe the sole purpose of the fries is to transport the maximum amount of ketchup into their mouths. (This is a paraphrase of the guy from negativepostitive.org, I still can't find his name anywhere on his site. Anyhow, credit goes to him for that thought.) When I was about 6 years old, I was one of those people. But I grew out of it, see.
Now I have it on good authority that a few weeks ago, a shipment of ketchup was a little bit late, and one morning, we had to go without. We had people purchase whole breakfasts (which consist of two eggs done any way you want them, your choice of brown or white toast with jams/jellies/peanut butter/marmelade/honey, your choice of bacon, ham, or sausage, and hashbrowns,) and when they discovered we were out of ketchup, proceeded to try and get their money back or return their breakfasts to the kitchen, insisting that the food was of no use to them. Like the cooks are really hoping the food will be returned to them uneaten because they have SO many uses for it...
Honest to God. These people get a hot, tasty, varied, and by no means lacking in nutrition, albeit fatty, and yet they cannot consume a single bite without the aid of a chemical-laden-red-dye-number-47 bastardization of an ancient First Nations spiced fish sauce called ke-tsiap (or something similar...can't quite recall the spelling of it.)
Please, the ketchup normally comes in small packages or squeezy bottles, and people are free to add as much as they like to their meals. It is our free gift to you. So in the future, if the ketchup makes all the difference, why not just grab a bowl and spoon and eat your ketchup that way? It's free, so you're saving, like, a bajillion dollars by not ordering food you don't actually need to enjoy the ketchup in all its undefiled glory. And later, if you want some scrambled eggs/fries/hashbrowns/hamburgers with your ketchup, order those too. But don't insult our intelligence and lower our opinions of you by ordering a full meal, then refusing to eat something that has been prepared just for you, as you asked, simply because it has no ketchup with it. This just screams "trailer trash." (Not that I am knocking living in a trailer. There are some very swanky trailer parks, like the ones where retired people live. You know the ones I mean, the "let's dress up and go out to K-Mart for our shot-gun wedding anniversary" kind of trailer trash.) If it's so important to you, why not carry about your own travel-bottle of ketchup? Then, one of two things will happen: A) You will never have to worry about asking for your money back on a ketchup-less meal again, or B) You will realize the sadness of your state and the extent of your mania and seek professional help.
"I can't eat this. I want my money back."
I only want to hear these words if your hamburger has raised its head and mooed at you.

Those unhappy folks whose blood has been replaced almost entirely by Heinz products ------->GUNNED DOWN!

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Sunday, July 17, 2005

An "LOL-OMG-WTF" Free Zone: An Online Conversation Between Your Favourite Gun-Toting Gringas!

Em: I love Gabrial Yared!
Jackie: Me too!
Em: At least his music. I have no clue what he looks like or the extent of his voical abilities
Jackie: Guess who's going to Karaoke night?
Em: Speaking of voical abilities...you? Hee! *voical* Newest word EVER.
Jackie: Karaoke night. I can't spell that word... My workplace is inappropriate.
Em: *fusses with IMDb* Damn Gabriel's compsed for a lotta movies here...I only ever liked him for Possession, but he's done other stuff too. I cannot find my Possession video tape. I know it is at home somewhere. Boo.
Jackie:
City of Angels makes my life.
Em: The one with Nicolas Cage pre-hairplugs, Meg Ryan with the same haircut she always has and the only song from the Goo Goo Dolls that I will ever recognize upon hearing?
Jackie: The same.
. . . p.s. the Unfaithful soundtrack is amazing!
Em: Mmm never heard it. Not a Diane Lane fan after she was rude to my aunt in an airport.
Me likies the Possession soundtrack...oh well...can't find Monsoon Wedding either. Both will turn up.
Jackie:
Ok wanna hear what the guys at work said to me yesterday?
Em: And how!
Jackie:
Behold! The Conversation Went Thus:

*inappropriate comment of a typical sort*
Me - *eyeroll* you guys are so juvenile
Greg - Jackie, ever since the baby it's not been the same between us.
Alex - *laughs*
Me - Greg you're retarded
Greg - When they're that big, they're not just for the baby anymore!

Em: *still fussing with IMDb* Damn I want to see this movie when it comes out :
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0437954/

And hee! Your boobs got made fun of!

I *heart* Italy!

I *heart* the Black Death!

Jackie:
They're like that aaaalllllllll the time!
Greg and I had a fight over my bra size...oooh ooho I love Italy/Black Death too!
Em: Hahaha, who doesn't?
Jackie: *fusses wioth IMDb* Oh, wait.
Em: Duuuuude.
Jackie: Mischa Barton.
Em: I got an Ick Story similar to the one you describe above, only marginally creepier. But it'll keep. Let us get the Mischa-Gunning out of the way.
Jackie: Oh yes, let's. Only we'll have to fire about 50 times each to actually hit her. It's like she's 2-D. She turns sideways and disappears completely. From our eyes, at least, if not our unfortunate memories.
Em: Ick is like my word of choice, and I think it applies to Ms. Barton.
Jackie: *still fussing with IMDb* And Hayden Christensen. NEITHER can act!
Em: Yeah but hopefully she'll be in a silent role as she neither speaks Italian nor can pull of a convincing accent. It's just a guess, as I've never seen her try either, but dude. And Julia Stiles is going to be playing a Scottish woman in the upcoming future. Are there no hot Italian or Scottish women? The men of the two regions are considered hot by default in North America, as their accents automatically single them out as being cultured, sophisticated in a James-Bond-esque, European manner, and able to do things to a girl that have yet to be made legal in North America.
Jackie: Like rape, torture, or dismemberment?
Em: A) Those aren't legal in Europe...at least I hope not. And B) That's not quite what I was going for, but I believe my point stands if I make it clear that I mean *sexy* illegal things.
Jackie: Like bestiality? Or incest? What about syphallis? "It's not just for Europe anymore?"
Em: It's like I'm talking to a 6 year old. A highly-educated, smart-mouthed, vodka-swilling, cynically-jaded, shoots-from-the-hip, take-no-prisoners-or-crap, forward-thinking, buzz-quashing, gratingly-honest 6 year old.
Jackie: That would be the awesomest 6-year-old, EVER.
Em: True. We should totally pool our money and adopt a kid. Or buy one.
Jackie: Like off eBay? I don't think we'd have enough money. Can't you just grab one from the park or one that's lost and wandering the aisle of the grocery store with the pint of fudge ripple they wanted mommy to buy, crying because they had to go wee, but had let go of the shopping cart handle so they can't find mommy, ergo, they cannot find their way to a washroom in time and thusly have wet their Disney-Princess-Print Pull-Ups?
Em: I don't want a kid like that. The fact that they wandered off to fullfill their own selfish desire for ice cream then wee'd themselves in public shows a single-minded, reckless disobedience in order to pursue your own self-interest and a self-centred lack of direction that causes them to pridefully wallow in their own filth rather than ask a stranger for help locating the nearest mommy and/or washroom.
Jackie: . . .
Em: . . . Come to think of it...such a child would be putty in our Gunning Hands.
Jackie: Please note that none of your twisted concern is directed towards the idea of us stealing a child away from its mother.
Em: In all fairness, you seemed to have shot down the idea of adopting.
In any case, Hayden is hot and from Vancouver. As a West-Coast homeboy, he needs our respect for that.
Jackie: But. He. Can't. Act.
Em: True.
Jackie: Point!
Em: "Darth Vader: Dark Sith Lord or Surly, Constipated Teenager With An Articulatory Problem?"
Jackie: The latter. Oh, the latter.
Em: Exactly. I've never even seen any of the *new* Star Wars movies, and I'm *still* all like, "Dude, they make Metamucil in capsule form for a reason, and that reason is so we can easily slip it into the pill-box which contains your other capsulized space food and no one is the wiser on your problems which revolve around bloaty-ness, gas cramps, and Natalie Portman."
Jackie: Haha. Ew.
Em: And Obe-Wan is actually a speech therapist. But nothing can fix Anakin's stilted dialgoue, save for a Tazer to George Lucas' head! Or the gift of a thesaurus! Or some as-yet undiscovered yet talented writer whom they can pay off to write the scripts under Georgie-Porgie, Puddin' and Pie's name. And maybe a few rousing sessions of Space-Scrabble.
Jackie: Mmhm.
Em: And what is Portman's problem? She's spent at least two movies digging Anakin when she was totally in Garden State with the delectable and funny Zach Braff, and then more recently she cozied up to Jude Law/Clive Owen and it was totally hot.
There's better things to be a-doin, honey! Braff, Law, and Owen, to name but a few!
Jackie: Zing!
Em: Okay, speaking of horrifyingly sexual comments at work!
So I'm just standing there, right, doing my job, and this kid who works there, whom we shall call Brad, who I've known for, like, most of my life, comes up to me and is all "The cook (whom we shall call George) wants to know if you're single." "George" is, at a guess, pushing mid-forties, if he's lucky, mid thirties. My response is "Really funny, Brad. Whatever." *walks away*
Then later...
The boss is looking for people to work the evening shift, and George is all like "Hey Em, what are you doing tonight?"
Me: (as anyone with a Hollywood-fueled adolescence knows, this is the usual lead-up to an asking-out) *oh God!* : Uhhh I really have to do my laundry.
Him: Doncha wanna stay here with me *winks* and work a double shift?
Me: *has been there since 5 am and was up hours earlier due to tummy aches* : Uh, I really, *really*, REALLY need to do my laundry. (This was true.)
Him: *turning to Boss* Hey, I *really* need to do my laundry tonight too!
Boss: Shut up George, you're working tonight.

So yeah...I did laundry, and it was good because there was no one to ogle me whilst I separated my lights from my darks.
Jackie: Eww.
Em: I know! But I dunno if he was just shooting the breeze in a friendly way, because the wink didn't *seem* skeezy unless Brad was there to chuckle at me behind my back. Which he wasn't at the time. But you know me, I over think this stuff
Jackie: Mmhm.
Em: Well, shit.
Jackie: Nanyhoodle, I'm going to go watch 7 Year Itch. Good luck wrestling with your indecision over mixed messages and mistaken interpretation of the circumstances!
Em: I hate you sometimes. This makes me wish I worked at KFC and only had to deal with out-and-out comments on my boobage. I can fend off open remarks from nit-wit ass hats. It's the cryptic skeezoids who looks as if they could actually withstand a solid hit to the groin that worry me.
Jackie: Don't forget to stock up on mace!
Em: Shut up.
. . .
Where can I buy some?

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Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Show Me You Care, Mommy.

z0mg!
Okay, so I'm only just getting *into* reading and/or watching Harry Potter and all that shit, and yes it's mildly entertaining, but I ain't about to go psycho on it's ass adn I actually have to sit down with an alotted amount of time to read it before I actually get any reading done. I'm almost finished the Goblet of Fire and could care less when I get to OotP, (The Order of the Phoenix...I mean honestly, try saying OotP out loud, it sounds soooo stupid,) much less the Half-Blood Prince. But seriously, check out the PotterPuffs LJ, just because I have a passion for links, esp. fandom links, and the HP fandom spews out a good amount of hilarity. Those quasi-inspirational links that have thoughtful or dreamy phrases in whispery, pastel cursive plastered against the backdrop of a moonlit landscape, an ocean at sunset, or a misty unicorn make me physically ill. There may be moments were I go "awwww" but never, no never, would I use on of those on my LJ or MSN picture. Those need to be pithy and colourful as well as THOUGHT-provoking, rather than I-can-taste-the-bile-rising-provoking. Same goes for psuedo-serious goth/emo/punk links about being misunderstood and how screaming lets the pain out or being silent keeps the pain away or something about either being disruptive to society or going quietly insane because of this pain these emo-kids seem to be dealing with on a daily basis. I've seen hundreds of these icons, many from the same people over and over. If this is such a problem in society, maybe we need to have the heads of our nation's youth examined?
Which reminds me, I wsas working tonight so I missed the two-hour premiere of Brat Camp. Pity, that. There's little I love more than seeing parents who have obviously missed a step somewhere along the way sending the products of their batshit parenting skills to a psycho wilderness camp in order to change their ways and watching trained professionals make the kids into productive members of society in a way that the parents failed to do.
Nothing says "I love you and want to re-establish the parent/child bond," like making your progeny go rock-climbing without a harness and take part in myriad trust exercises with OTHER PEOPLE.

Anyhoe. I give you...
The Em Icon Song:
I love icons, yes I do...
I love icons, and so should you...
When I can't find new ones, I feel blue,
I'll take some icons, how about you?
Icons make my world go round
Icons turn it upside down
Icons brighten my otherwise dull and coma-inducing existence,
Now I shall end this song at Jackie's death-threat insistance.


. . .

Potter Puffs is love.
Brat Camp is *love.*
Emo must die.

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Saturday, July 09, 2005

Speaking of Weird Ass Night-Frights...

Reminded me of the hella weird dream I had last night. No I didn't eat anything weird, but I did get up at 4 am to go to work the morning shift (which I have to do again tomorrow, so it's almost time for me to go back home and sleep--that is to say, I'm home right now, like, where I live normally, but I'm housesitting, so yeah.)
Anyway. It was a bizarro hybrid of my old job and my new job, in which I am at my current workplace, and yet I am dealing with the personality of someone I used to work with at my old job, who got fired for reasons which shall become obvious later on.
Basically, I was being felt up by the prep chef with little to no warning. Naturally, Dream-Me freaks out and runs away screaming and the rest of the dream is me avoiuding him and him apologizing awkwardly.
Now, I was never actually felt up, the prep chef seems like a nice, responsible, respectful guy (only worked there about a week,) and the problem guy was at my old workplace, and the harassment never progressed beyond overtly sexual comments and innuendos and random compliments that just confused me at first, then made me uncomfortable once I realized their full intent.

Anyhow, the Moral: Molestation--Just Say No! (Even in nightmares. Make that ESPECIALLY in nightmares. Because you can control dreams to a certain extent...at least I can control mine somewhat. So if it happens, and Dream-You lets it happen, you are a sick, twisted fuck with hidden S&M kinks.)

ETA: Damn... "seems like a nice, responsible, respectful guy..." screw that shit. Fucker's got an anger management problem like I've never SEEN before. Went on a rampage last night right around closing and made a kid cry and totally chewed out the cook for the tiniest misunderstanding. I thought he was going to turn green and start yelling "Prep chef maaaaad! Burn! Crush! Destroy Aaaaaaaall!" and then start twisting solid pieces of metal in his fucked-up rage. Given this new, disturbing facet of his personality, it up the Ick Factor considerably with the dream here. I'm not worried about being felt up, I'm worried about getting my face messed up if I forget to fill the used cutlery bucket with the right brand of sanitizer...

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Friday, July 08, 2005

Mindfucking Muffins...

Y'all know that guy from The Simpsons who runs the military supplies/army surplus store?
Yeah. Okay picture him in your head.
That done, make him have a one-sided conversation with you.
Okay. Done that? Ready for this?

This guy came into the cafeteria where I work today, and swear to God, did exactly that. Except every second word was fuck, in either as a noun, exclaimation, or a descriptive verb, such as "fucking *blank*." He bought a coffee, and as he took his own sweet time paying, he asked me repeatedly who was in charge or who owned or operated this place (I said she's be back in 15) and complaining that he'd never seen a worse facility, that he'd seen better in Mexico (a generalization meant to say that Mexico is a dirty place, and we, as Canadians, shouldn't even be on par with them, much less below them in standards.) Now Jackie and I happen to both love Mexico, and resent this assumption. (Jackie's grandparents live there, for crying out loud! Dirty, rat-infested, drug-smuggling, don't-drink-the-water Mexico is not a place where one allows their grandparents to live. Smog problems in the cities and myriad tourist traps along the coast aside, it seems an enjoyable place.)
But back to the carnival.
So he's saying all of this in a soft, stilted patter of words, mumbling a little, as if he were shyly trying to ask me if that is the correct time? I had to strain to catch his words. But caught thenm I did. It was scarier than most things I've witnessed. There was this guy earlier in the day who, because I made a mistake and was going to have to ring in his muffin seperately from his coffee and then the Visa machine took forever to work, walked off without paying for a muffin and I didn't say anything because he was too fast and I was too scared. The guys behind him in line, said, as a JOKE, "oh it's free then," and he's just like "yes, that's right. It's free."

What I should have said: "Pay up for the muffin, asswad. I don't get paid enough to take shit from you. Nowhere in company policy does it state that YOU or anyone gets a free muffin because the cashier has had a bit of a rough five minutes."
What I DID say: *fusses with the paper roll and punches agitatedly at the Visa machine, fighting the urge to stab herself in the face with the pen.*

But the Swearer...
I thought maybe he had Tourette's...I meant, I know several people with Tourette's, and coprolalia is hardly something I can hold against someone if it's involuntary. His quiet rage was so very violent, yet restrained, and he was dressed like some creepy ax-murderer in a tight t-shirt tucked into baggy cargo parachute pants and with his head shaved completely bald.
The fact that he looked a little like my quite recent ex-boss DID occur to me...
I couldn't remember the last time I came across someone who dressed in such an odd way (on paper it's looks normal, in real life it was another experience entirely,) so my first thoughts were along the lines of hoping that his aid would come running up any moment, apologizing profusely and hauling him off as he continued to spout off obsceneties.
Because, harsh as it sounds, my first reaction was that this guy was obviously pulling for Team Canada in the Special Olympics, because buddy obviously can't seem to dress himself and he's talking like he just spent 6 months in electro-shock therapy. (Which someone I know recently went through. Seriously. It fucks your mind more than I or Jackie ever could.)
Or that maybe he was one of those dead-pan jokey-types who like to get the waitresses all riled up or scared then laugh and say, "just kidding," as you stand, sweat streaming from every pore, praying and hoping against all hope that your manager doesn't come in just then.

But no. He finished his diatribe and walked off, and I just stood there, because beyond telling him the correct amount or the change or reading back his order, I didn't open my mouth once. This was late in the day, and I was crashing down from my Coca-Cola high from earlier, so I was operating on auto-mode, in a semi-catatonic state where everything was by rote.
Me and the prep cook had a nice little laugh over it later on, because as a very wise woman once said to me: "[You] don't get paid enough to live by the rules of 'the customer is always right.'"

Special Olympics Headliner WHo Actually Has No Diagnosed Mental Disability------> Gunned Down! Muffin-Stealers----------> Made to Pay for The Muffin They Stole, Then Gunned Down!

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Friday, July 01, 2005

Hilary Duff: The E! True Hollywood Story: "Ohhh Shiny Trendy Faux-Dork Tweenily Implausible Angst!"

So the dog woke me up early for walkies, I went out and was back in by 9 am. We'll see how HE likes it when I have to work a 5 am shift and thus take him out for walkies around 4:30 am.

So while I had breakfast (BigAssBowlofFrostedFlakesOMG!) I pondered over which movie to watch as I have yet to figure out the inner workings of their TV's mind. Last night I had a Harry Potter filmfest, as I haven't seen any of the movies in full until now. As it was, today's selection was either My Fair Lady or The Lizzie McGuire Movie, since I haven't had time to fiddle with the DVD player, otherwise I would watch Ella Enchanted...then again DVD special feautres take me hours alone, so be glad it was VHS-only at this point.
If you're going to watch a DVD, better start around 6 pm and have the whole night free. And plan on sleeping late the next day, cos there are parts you're going to want to watch again.

Since I didn't feel up to the task of admiring Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn's classic performances, Lizzie it was. I knew right away that I'd hate myself for this later...
This might take a while. Don't worry, I packed extra ammo. *loads a cartridge easily and cocks the gun with a jaunty little wave to Hilary Duff* This is going to hurt you more than it's going to hurt me.
Let us begin the carnage.

First off, there's the clever little character of the younger brother, who, though predictable in his actions and eventual end, is cute to watch. He is also a semi-plotter in the downfall of Our Lizzie, so thus he may have the honour of the illustrious title: Junior Gunner in Training. He could do well...very well..in the right hands...he could be magnificent...I can see it now...a Gunner Boot-Camp for Teens with Smart Mouths...
But I digress...
Given the title of this piece, it is inevitable that everyone's worst, perkily blonde nightmare is going to grace the silver screen within all of ten seconds into the film. Looking far more trendy and perfectly made-up and coiffed than any self-proclaimed "dork/loser/nerd" has any right to be, Lizzie bee-bops and gyrates around her room in a manner than we all know would be embarassing for us, but is, for her, an omen of things to come. Kate, the supposedly "popular hot chick" dresses like a 30-year old CPA and looks like a tweeny soccer-mom. You know the guys at your school would be all over the Lizzie and tell Kate to take a hike to the nearest GAP and PLEASE buy something that isn't tailored for a weekend in the Hamptons, picnicking and gathering wildflowers.
So Lizzie's "getting ready for graduation!" This gave me a pleasant shock of surprise. Here was something I had never considered possible: Lizzie...grown up...dealing with adult issues in a mature manner...I dared to hope, for one shining moment...
Then it came out: Junior High Graduation. Why the hell would anyone commemorate Junior High graduation? Sure we had Grade 8 Farewell, but, that was nothing close to a full-scale graduation seen here.
Next, Lizzie is thrown into an impromptu public speech, through some convoluted rule that expects her to have a thrilling speech ready at the drop of a hat. Implausibility Count: 1. Her teachers are over-the-top and just plain unreal. Then again, this movie is at least 25% cartoons...
Naturally, she embarasses herself in a stiff and awkward manner and ruins the whole thing, because, duuhhhh that's what dorks DO. They wait until the moment is right, then their oafishness strikes to render them humiliated to the utmost.
Screenwriters: *high-five* We know teenagers SOOOO well! Everyone is going to love this because everyone can sooooo relate to exactly this situation!
Now, as a regular-run-of-the-mill dork, I can tell you that this only works in movies. Real Dorkdom requires more of a subtle art. Embarassment is more often a constant ebb and flow of day-to-day humiliation and bad luck. People will remember the one time a popular person disgraces themselves, but true dorks are distinguished by their inability to ever rise above their abjectly-constant embarassment.
Now Lizzie must leave the country and go to Italy on a school trip (which you know is only an excuse to bring along her friend/love interest Gordo and some jocks and bitches to make her life seem more miserable than it really is,) because *gasp!* she'll never live it down! Oh my God she's only 13 and her life is OVER!
By the way, in the few eps I caught of the LM TV show, I was rooting for a Gordo/Miranda romance rather than Lizzie/Gordo. Kinda like the Ron/Hermione Movement. The two sidekicks make a great couple, and the star must be left alone to leave them an out for dating a hot new person every week. Given that Lalaine left the show in 2003, I suppose they had to make the movie without her. But a guy/girl best friend relationship with no third-person girl to make it a platonic, group sort of love is just too tempting for the screenwriters to resist...you know from the get-go that Lizzie and Gordo will have a "moment" but continue on as best friends in order to ressurect a sequel.
Anyhow...Lizzie has a tender moment of goodbye with her mother, who is fluttering in a protective, archetypal manner which completely belies her facade of a Cool Modern Mom. As I recall, she found a reason to let the mask slip in every episode. Fascinating glimpses of a well-developed character or flip-flopping helplessly between stereotypes as to appeal to more of the tweenage masses? You decide. Anyhow, Lizzie says a cool goodbye, then runs back and hugs her mom, sniffling and the audience now sees how special their mother-daughter relationship is because they can be open and share as equals...
No tweengirl wants to be open with their mother...and no mother in the audience, however much they may want to, is buying this bullshit. Implausibility Count: 2
So Lizzie sets off to Italy, on the German carrier Lufthansa, which, coincedentally, has no direct flights to Italy from the USA. I would hope they're travelling in coach, because no way in hell would her outfit, no matter how trendy, be allowed in first class. On planes, there is a dress code, and even if you are in coach, people will appreciate it if you smarten yourself up and wear some nice neutral-tones pantsuit. She falls asleep on Gordo's shoulder, and he wakes up and smiles at her, and this would be a nice time for him to drop a friendly kiss on her head, but even I see the creepy implications would be coming too obvious, too early, at this stage. They get to Italy, no one looking the worse for wear, and Lizzie looks resplendant after a 14 hour flight in coach. They arrive after dark to their hotel, and Gordo takes Lizzie up to the rooftops to enjoy the...sunset?
"If I could turn back time!" Apparently, on the Disney channel, you can. Anyhow, the setting is perfect and with a tinge of the romantic and adventuresome, and they make a pact to have an adventure, and you know now it's all going to happen to Lizzie and Gordo will spend his days in hit hotel room, thowing meatballs from room service into the air and catching them in his mouth while waiting to show up just in time to save Lizzie's ass and provide the requisite angst of a possible love-triangle.
Now here comes Fez...excuse me 'Paolo', who sees Lizzie, who looks exactly like his singing partner, who just happens to have left him in the lurch, and through the plot-twists meant to show the darker side of showbiz, with threatened lawsuits against Paolo (because, supposedly, this is all Isabella's fault, so why don't they make her singing partner pay through the nose because it's not like he's famous and fabulously wealthy) he now needs Lizzie to impersonate Isabella and save the day and win his heart! Implausibility Count: 3. If they wanted to show us the nitty-gritty, why not just show the footage of Hilary Duff selling her soul to Satan? (For 'Cheaper By The Dozen'? Honey...get your money back.)
Since everyone lipsynchs while on stage, there's no worries since Lizzie can't sing (except where y'all kow she's going to HAVE to in a public spectacle sooner or later,) and she can't even get a half-decent Italian accent in her English. No one seems to worry or notice, though. No one even recognizes Paolo and 'Isabella' when they are together, except when Lizzie needs a pick-me-up or a comedic bit of autographing to re-enforce the idea that, yes, these people are famous. (In case, y'know, you forget or something. It can happen.)
So in a whirlwind romance with lots of kitschy little Italian modes of transport covered in fire-engine red chrome to make it Euro-modern, Lizzie sees Rome in style, but basically gawps at everything without soaking up any history or relevant knowledge. Lizzie's experience of Roman Culture never progresses beyond "Golly gee, that sure is swell-looking!" and "Ohhhh! Shiny!"
So she learns the songs and dance routine alongside Paolo, with lots of shimmying and glances and touching while alone on a vast stage in a swirly skirt and heels because it's not like they have choreographers or anything for this. Lizzie and her Paolo, always with compliments at the ready, watch a fireworks show which only succeeds in giving Lizzie's face an unnatural colour and her eyes are over-mascara'd and shining like bulging glass bubbled in her face, which is beginning to look not unlike the Bratz dolls of our previous discussion.
In Hollywood tween-speak, that's what we call "wonderment, awe, and budding romance."
Implausibility Count: 4. When someone looks like their head is about to explode, it probably means their about to puke on your shoes, not give you a kiss.
Gordo watches the fireworks alone from the rooftop where he so recently stood with Lizzie.
Awwwwww. Now watch him turn disconsolantly away in the turmoil of his teenage angst!
So now Lizzie's set to perform at a huge event, on stage, in front of millions, (Implausibility Count: 5. I'm not even going to explain this one.) and Gordo sacrifices himself and gets sent home in Lizzie's place (except where he doesn't leave.) She realizes the errors of her way, but decides to stay, because being anything but self-centered at this point would be a major character-consistency faux pas. And Lord knows, this movie is ALL about being consistent.
So, in a twist no one saw coming, Isabella returns and tells Gordo everything, how she is the good one and Paolo is bad and Lizzie is going to be embarassed and that's just her worst nightmare. Because again, supposedly, Lizzie can't sing. Except where, for the purposes of this movie, she CAN. Paolo is going to ruin Isabella through Lizzie being bad, but what he doesn't know is that Lizzie can sing well enhough to match a superstar. And he didn't even clue into this when he was, like, five feet away from her during rehersal where he told her to actually sing.
Now if I were the writers (besides never writing this in the first place,) I would have it so that they turn off 'Isabella's' mic and have Lizzie wow them all and leave Paolo without his master plan. (Wondering: did he form the entire wretched plan the moment he saw Lizzie, knowing that in the real world, no one would enter into such a harebrained scheme of impersonation and double-crossing?) Paolo is *only* 17, so of course he is old enough to be an adult and yet young enough to sex up Lizzie without it being illegal. (Then again, I don't know the laws in Italy.) However, they chose a much more indirect path. Isabella sings for Lizzie, and Paolo's mic gets turned off, and he sings sooo bad. (Implausibility Count: 6. If he sang so badly in the first place, how the hell did her get a record contract? Besides being a pretty face, don't you have to work the small-time gigs and nightclubs for years before you can make it big enough to have some record exec CARE enough to have someone GOOD recorded over you? And if so, why not just paint up the actual singer and make them look good? It seems to me to be less work to make a singer pretty than to make a pretty a singer.) Implausibility Count: 7. Paolo's voice is cracking. Not a lot of 17 year olds who have supposedly gotten through the worst of puberty, with professional voice coaches are able to sing a song in mid-range and fuck it up that bad. Paolo runs off stage and cries, bitching to his security guard who tells him to grow a pair and fuck some gelato to warm up, because
That. Was. Cold.
Isabella and Lizzie are resplendant and sing together, with Lizzie taking centre stage and then Isabella just chills backstage because damnit this is Lizzie's moment and damned if she CAN actually sing. The only part I liked was here because they whipped off Lizzie's fluffy antique skirt to reveal a totally hot new costume, because it reminded me of seeing The Phantom of the Opera on stage when Christine does the super-ninja onstage transformation between verses during Think of Me.
Implausibility Count: 8. Lizzie believes Isabella's story of Isa: Good and Paolo: Bad. Why, we're not sure. To paraphrase: "Who are you going to believe...a boy you've been falling in love with for the past two weeks, or a girl who randomly showed up with Gordo and looks exactly like you except for the hair, and at this point you've got to believe that Gordo has ulterior motives in breaking you and Paolo up, plus this other girl has a vendetta against Paolo because it's been obvious for months that they are on the opposite ends of the good/bad spectrum and hate each other..." now we're just not sure who is telling the truth, but to quote Oscar Wilde: 'The truth is entirely and absolutely a matter of style." And because Lizzie doesn't need boys aside from her tween-love-angst, this movie is all about individuality, finding yourself and girl power, so the truth MUST be told by Isabella, because she has a vagina and Paolo has got to be a dirty rotten liar otherwise there is no cause for Lizzie to fly into Gordo's arms at the end.
Implausibility Count: 9. The dance sequence kicks ass. Now one would assume that Paolo would have been a part of this had he stuck around on stage, and yet the entire thing works seamlessly without him. The male back up dancers are the ones lifting and spinning Lizzie, and the girl dancers don't seem to be at a loss for what to do. One can only assume that Paolo had planned ot stand off to the side and look hot.
What ever happens to Paolo anyway? I mean after he finishes crying? I would have appreciated some plot hole resolution there...have Lizzie and Isabella nad Paolo have a chat or something...to invest so much time in a character, then have him turn out to be the uber-villain planning to *gasp!* humiliate our poor little star with absolutely jack-shit by way of a denoument leaves a little something to be desired. I would have liked to see Paolo as more of a human rather than a bitchy little diva with a one-sided personality and one motive and master plan which backfires. Sure, he acted all nice and lovey-dovey, but we see where THAT got us, didn't we? Welcome to He-lied-and-broke-my-young-and-tender-heart City: Population: You.
Reminds me of Marcello in Under the Tuscan Sun. The moral: never trust Italian Men. It's the Americans who will stand by a Yankee blonde-girl in times of trouble and catch her if she falls. Lizzie gives a kiss to Gordo, but it doesn't lead anywhere as they kind of have an awkward chuckle and head back inside as the credits roll on the fade-to-black shot. Now the "awkward chuckle" is hard to define. It could mean any number of things, from "awkward meaning this was a bad idea, it'll never work out and let's just be friends again," to "awkward meaning this could lead to a sequel where we actually DO hook up," or "awkward meaning wow that was surprisingly hot for me so now we're going to go back inside then sneak back to my hotel room where I will let you tenderly deflower me."
The movie was a glittering tween-fest from start to finish, and if you'll excuse me, I have something infinitely more fascinating to do called brushing my teeth...

Everything I just said except Phantom and brushing my teeth--->Gunned Down!