DEJENNERATE.COM BLOG

I don't know what the hell is up with Blogger
I couldn't get in all week.

So does that mean you have a week's worth of interesting and hee-larious insights to share with us?
No...no it doesn't.

Weird Netflix Recommendation
You know, I don't think Netflix is even looking at what the hell I'm renting.

For those of you who don't know, when you rent a certain amount of movies from Netflix, it starts recommending movies for you based on your preference. Now, this task is very difficult when someone like me is a customer as I hate pretty much everything, and the small portion of movies I like are pretty willy nilly. Like one week I rented Bridget Jones Diary, Starship Troopers, and Godfather II, even though I have clearly expressed my firm distaste for romantic comedies, nearly everything sci-fi, and movies that span more than two of the three basic meals.

So since I have no renting pattern, and every pattern I start to make I break almost instantly, I think the Recommendation Gnomes are just thrusting stuff at me completely randomly, and praying to god I won't call corporate headquarters and demand that they be sent to the gallows (which they will do if you are a good customer, apparently. I mean, they're just fucking gnomes after all. Yeah, sure, they serve their purpose, but you gotta whack one every once in a while or they're going to start demanding equal wages, the right to vote, and change the sexual harassment laws to include no discriminating comments about phallus-like pointy hats. Please...I have enough self-esteem issues without seeing a fricking gnome passing me on the highway in his Mercedes Power Wheels, thanks.)

Note to the gnomes: Thanks, but I'll pass on Ultimate Fighting Live, mostly as I have a uterus.

posted by Jenn @ 1:03 PM  

I just saw perhaps the most-puke inducing bumper sticker in the world. To make it worse it was on one of those ginormous, mutant SUVs that needs more gas than the goddamn Battlestar Galactica. Supposedly this is supposed to be some sort of response to the "My kid is an honor student..." bumper sticker, and to be bought when your kids are dumb as bricks.

No matter what my kids grades are, they'll always be an "A" in my book.

Ble-e-fucking-eck.

But, since life is Yin and Yang, as I was trying to gag myself with a spoon to get that bad taste out of my mouth, I walk by another non-mutant, does-not-add-a-new-hole-to-the-ozone-every-time-it-shifts-into-drive automobile that was wearing my new favorite bumper sticker:

My dog is smarter than your honor student.

posted by Jenn @ 1:06 PM  

AppletiniFest 2006
I went to New York City this weekend for a comedy show with two other comedians. Some overarching observations if you are planning on going into the Big Apple in the near future.

• Do not stay in New Jersey with the thought, “Hey, it’s only 7 miles from the city….we can cab it in.” Sure the hotels are half the cost of Manhattan. Unfortunately the Jersey cab rate is about $10.00 per mile. Or at least that’s what we figured it to be when a 10 mile cab ride cost $96.00. For the price to and from New Jersey we could have rented a room in Manhattan and a Colombian hooker for the evening.
• The Laugh Lounge bar in the Lower East Side makes awesome apple martinis. Go there. I don't care if your on the Upper West Side. They are worth it. Trust me.
• Katz delicatessen has fricking amazing food. You probably know it as the deli from the infamous fake orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally (They even have a sign over the table they sat at that said, “Where Harry Met Sally – hope you had what she had!”) Not to mention, they have the ever entertaining promotion called “Send a Salami to a Boy in the Army.” Don’t ask. Don’t tell.
• Do not stay in the Meadowlands if you are planning on drinking the apple martinis in the Laugh Lounge. Because we discovered that informing the cab driver you are staying in “The Sheraton in Meadowlands” translates to “The Sheraton in Maryland” in Drunkense
• After drinking apple martinis until 2:00 a.m., it is generally not advised to wake up at 6:30 a.m. and make the declaration to the other drunks in the room that you are going to go jogging. After I declared this, the other drunks promptly diagnosed me with blunt head trauma.

SWEET!
An actual, honest-to-goodness Boston comic won the Boston Comedy Festival. Congrats Dan!

The Not Quite 4400
This is my 400th post and as with my other century posts....it's shit. Maybe I'll do a special post tomorow, or you can all just hold your breath that I'll get my shit together for post #500.

posted by Jenn @ 2:03 PM  

I’m going to have a really interesting E! True Hollywood Story when I become famous
Because of stories like this. This is from my friend Charlie’s website. I am the Jenn in the story. It is important to know I was on my fifth tequila sunrise when this verbal exchange took place.

And because I love hippos as much as the next person
Charlie has a lot to say about hippos.

Interesting sighting on my way home
On the T (that’s what us Bostonians call our subway, Don’t ask me what the hell T stands for, but my bet is on either Tardy, Tortiselike, Torpid, or TakeYerDamnCarCheapskate), I had an Official Poor Clothing Choice sighting. Next to me was a girl, about 18 or so, with a very large chest. Now, we have all seen big boobs. Shit, I’ve been a member of the Biggie Tittie Committee for years now. But we must agree that there is a difference between Uncommonly Large Boobs and Massive Birth Defect. These boobs definitely fell squarely in the Massive Birth Defect category. And all I could do was stare and think, “Are those a G cup? Maybe an H? HH, maybe? ” I finally concluded they were an I, as in the first letter of the word “Igloos.” , mostly because they would definitely keep an Eskimo family toasty throughout the winter. Thank god she lived in a metropolitan area, for that matter, because out in the country she would be a Pied Piper for baby cows.

Now she chose to adorn these WMDs (Womanhoods of Mass Diameter) in a fluorescent yellow tee shirt (just in case we missed the fact that it was physically impossible for anyone to sit in the seats directly next to her without the Mega-Mammaries infiltrating his or her personal space). As if that wasn’t enough, her shirt was imprinted with equally fluorescent blue lettering and an arrow that said, “Hey! My Eyes are Up Here.” You know encasing breasts that could be used in lieu of a lighthouse to direct lost ships to shore in neon-colored shirts that inform people NOT to look at said breasts makes as much sense as me inquiring the shoe size of a man who has a three-meter long penis.

posted by Jenn @ 9:40 AM  

I stand corrected
Apparently the title to the poem read Sunday night was I WHUPPED Batman’s Ass. My sincere apologies to the poet.

A new addition to The List of Jenn’s Favorite Diseases and Disorders
On my old website, I had a never-ending list of my favorite disease names. One was GERD (Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease), mainly because of the way it sounds. After all, someone tells you have something named GERD, you might as well admit yourself straight into a nursing home. Another was PUD (Peptic Ulcer Disease), which made the list mainly because it is so rare to have a disease named after a dick, without actually afflicting the genitals (and if your case of PUD is actually affecting your pud, pack it up....your condition is terminal). A couple others included:

Dumping Syndrome – which is exactly what you probably think it is.

Male Hidden Genitalia – which one can argue can be an entertaining activity instead of an unfortunate disorder

Ambiguous Genitalia – which I can only imagine is genitalia wearing the comedy glasses/nose combo.

But thanks to my dear friend Furry, I have a new one to add:

Exploding Head Syndrome
Now I can hazard a guess to what this tragic disorder may entail….I know that I had a bout of it yesterday when I learned Anna Nicole Smith has a 20 year old child ….but my guess is wrong. In reality, it is a rare disorder where one randomly hears very large exploding noises in one’s head. I can only assume this is the unfortunate deformity that Adam the Garbage Pail Kid has.

posted by Jenn @ 1:16 PM  

I Whipped Batman’s Ass
This Sunday, I went to see The Bad Poets’ Society at Jimmy Tingles Off Broadway Theater. It is actually exactly what you think it is – a bunch of humorous readers reading hilariously bad attempts of poetic verse. How bad? Well, apparently somewhere in this world there is a man who wrote four poems just on his adoration for cheese. There was a love ballad to Captain James T Kirk of the Starship Enterprise (and Anthony Hopkins, George W Bush, and two poems pining for Jeff Bridges, all writing by the same woman.) I Whipped Batman’s Ass was another particularly enjoyable piece (I think Batman was supposed to be a metaphor for something, though it was hard to determine as the majority of the poem consisted of the phrase “I Whipped Batman’s Ass”). And apparently brutal crimes against fictional superheroes is an untapped poetry market, as the sequel -- I Whipped Superman’s Ass -- was just as well received.

All in all, it’s one of the more original comedy shows I’ve seen. You should go to the next one providing I’m not performing that night.

Fracturing Naughty Parts
My weight lifting program has gotten ho-hum, so last week I increased the amount of weight I lift. In doing so, I severely strained my pectoral muscles. As the pectoral muscles are located in the upper chest, this sort of injury is particularly uncomfortable for women, especially those of us who are, shall we say, blessed. In fact, the only way a man could truly appreciate this sort of pain would be if he attached two pound weights to each of his nipple rings (granted some of you probably do that already for recreation). So for the last week or so, it has been absolutely impossible for me to get into any position whatsoever, without Cheech and Chong causing me pain (Cheech and Chong are the names of my boobs, according to The Boob Name Generator). The only way I can sleep without feeling like I’m trapped in a malfunctioning mammogram machine is on my back with my feet up on the metal arm on my futon. Unfortunately, my body does not tend to drift off into slumber easily when it believes that any minute I’m going to give birth.

Dispatches from the Netflix Queue
United 93 – I saw this in the theater, but rented it again as it is September 11th. Very, very well done film – both realistic and tactful (certainly better executed than the Oliver Stone Hollywood Extravaganza, World Trade Center). A must see.

The Independent – I admit it, I am an insufferable Russ Meyer fan. I have a Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill! poster in my hallway. It doesn’t take much to make me happy in the movie theater-- the 60s, bad girl gang clichés, and gratuitious sex will usually do it (and if you can find a way to throw in severed heads or zombies, I’ll probably put out). This film is a mockumentary about the sexploitation film era that is so near and dear to my dark, scabied heart. Jerry Stiller plays a hilarious role as a has-been Russ Meyerish director trying to get funding for his latest film (a movie about a singing serial killer) in the new millenium. A great rent.

posted by Jenn @ 6:26 AM  

The Bad Poets Society
My dear friend Gene, who I pimp more than my own cleavage, will be a reader of this hallowed event. I’ll definitely be there, if that’s any incentive.

Sick
Been swimming in a futon of phlegm for the last three days. This blog will be back to its normal state of misinformation next week.

posted by Jenn @ 12:28 PM  

Crikey
You know what bothers me about the Crocodile Hunter’s death (besides the fact he actually died, of course. My television diet will forever be deficient of khaki shorts and exaggerated Australian accents)? It’s all these people saying that “Well, at least he died doing what he loved.” Reality check, folks. NO ONE wants to die doing what they love. If we die doing what we love, we don’t get to complete the activity, which is something we very much would like to do. You must admit it would be fairly poor timing for the Grim Reaper to show up just before you reveal your royal flush to a gaggle of supermodels that are pathetically losing to you at strip poker. Everyone would much rather be killed doing something they hate, which is the intrinsic reason we all whisper the phrase “Kill me Now” when Uncle Larry breaks out his stamp collection.

RIP Steve. I hope you are pissing off the snake in the Garden of Eden.

400th blog post coming
A monumental event, for sure. Expect a fireworks show, a skywriter, and multiple dance numbers with extra jazz fingers.

posted by Jenn @ 12:19 AM