Comedian Jenée: People are Idiots » Comedian Jenée: People are Idiots

She Bangs…But Won’t Be Banging Him

Jenée — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 05:31:03 +0000

It’s taken me a few days to post this because there’s a lot that I’ve had to process and come to terms with. After John-John and before Clooney-pie, my celeb crushes were Antonio Sabato Jr. and Ricky Martin, who are probably the two most beautiful male specimens to ever walk this planet.

Antonio is so stunning that, as a friend can attest, I swerved my car and almost caused an accident the first time I saw his Calvin Klein underwear billboard on Sunset. That’s some powerful art. Then I saw him at a party and there’s a slight chance that I may have ever-so-gently brushed up against him as I passed. But I swear it was not intentional, I simply miscalculated the four feet of open space that surrounded him.

As for Ricky, I made my lust for him known in a comedy newsgroup, which is what began my rivalry with Suzy Soro, who also laid claim to him (as if SHE had a chance with him. Hmmph). Naturally, this elicited a considerable amount of ridicule from our comedy brethren about Ricky’s sexuality.

I figured the boys were just jealous. So what if Ricky has never been photographed in public with a girl on his arm? That just means he respects a woman’s privacy. And so what if pictures were published of him working out on a beach with a male buddy? Can’t two gorgeous, muscled men in banana hammocks help each other stretch without it being considered homosexual? I mean, geez, look at these pictures- how could anybody possibly think he looks gay?

I even tried to use Ricky’s purported homosexuality against the religious folks, saying that if there really was a God, He would ensure that such a magnificent creature would propagate, so either he’s straight or there’s no God.

I hadn’t taken artificial means into consideration.

This week came word that he impregnated a woman with a turkey baster and she’s just given birth to his twin sons, following in the footsteps of Clay “I’m not gay (but I soooooo am)” Aiken. As much as it pains me to say it, I finally have to admit that Ricky Martin is…wow, this is tough for me to write- give me a moment for the tears to subside…Ricky Martin is…a butt pirate. A salami biter. A friend of Dorothy. Light in the loafers. He’s as queer as a 3 dollar rim job from Richard Simmons.

Ricky Martin is gay.

Ok, I said it. And I don’t feel any better about it. This confirmation has really thrown my brain into a tizzy. Not only do I have to accept that my Ricky is gay and that I’ve exhibited George Dubya levels of denial, but I also have to acknowledge that, based on my own argument, this information means there might be a God. And if there is, it means God is a misogynist. Ron Jeremy is straight but Ricky Martin is gay? If that’s not the work of a woman hater, I don’t know what is.

God may be a Tom Leykis fan and Ricky Martin may be gay, but he’ll always be straight in my fantasies- even when Antonio Sabato Jr. is right beside him.

Write a comment

Things That Make Me Happy #213

Jenée — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 16:06:11 +0000

… Hearing the words “please,” “thank you” and “I’m sorry,” especially when said by my nephews without any prompting.

… When my nephews yell “NENE!!” and attack me upon arrival, even though it tends to destroy my back for a couple days.

… Time I get to spend with my nephews (well, up to 72 hours. There are only so many conversations about superheroes I can take).

… People who have their money ready.

… Lines that move quickly.

… No lines at all.

… New episodes of Lost, particularly ones that are Desmond-centric.

… Suited Big Slick in the hole.

… When the U.S. provides humanitarian aid to our enemies.

… When karma skips her lunch break.

… Rumors that George Clooney and his latest girlfriend have split (at least, until I’m his latest girlfriend).

… Empty red-eye flights.

… Polls that place Obama way ahead of McCain.

… Finding drink ice in foreign countries.

… When people write my name and include the accent mark.

… Voice mail messages that say, “You don’t have to call me back.”

… The smell of the woods, the sound of the ocean, the sight of the American flag, the feel of a kitten, the taste of victory (sprinkled with salt natch).

Write a comment

Three Minutes In Hollywood

Jenée — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 11:45:27 +0000

The action never stops.

1:12 am- Two guys run full speed toward my car. One tosses a bag to the curb as they keep running.

I’m guessing they weren’t getting a jump on the next Olympic trials.

1:15 am- I have to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting Ron Jeremy who darted in front of my car. I know he doesn’t look like he can dart but I assure you, he darted. The funniest thing to me is that even in the dark I knew it was him before I ever saw his face. He’s certainly got his own inimitable style. This of course got me thinking about the inevitable headlines had I actually struck and killed the beloved Mr. Jeremy:

“Comedian Brings Ron Jeremy’s Life To A Head”

“Driver Doesn’t See Dick Run”

“Woman Whacks The Hedgehog…For The Last Time”

“Poker Pro Offs Pro Poker”

“Porn Star Reaches His Climax After One Final Blow”

Write a comment

Nobody Should Put Baby On The Cover

Jenée — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 09:07:25 +0000

Rumor has it that photos of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt’s twins may have been purchased for as much as $11 million. Given that this is not the first time magazines have paid such high prices, I’m inclined to believe they do so because celebrity baby pictures actually sell magazines.

WHY??????

I get that my interest in all things baby is not on par with the average person’s but for the life of me I can not understand what is so fascinating about pictures of someone else’s newborns. They all pretty much look the same to me. I would understand the curiosity if the babies had cleft palates or cone heads– you know, something a little out of the ordinary. But we’re talking about Angelina and Brad whose bodies are incapable of producing anything that isn’t sublimely beautiful; I’m sure he poops chocolate smiley faces and she pukes rainbows.

Maybe I’ll want to see pictures of their offspring 10 years from now when the older adopted ones get pissed that they didn’t get their parents’ great genes and beat the crap out of the younger ones but in the meantime I’ll pass on the baby pictures and wait to buy the issue that features celebrities with cellulite. Now those are great pictures.

Write a comment

15 Minutes In Hollywood

Jenée — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 20:33:56 +0000

2:30 am- A man crossing Hollywood Boulevard pulls a role reversal when he stops midway and signals for a cop car to complete its right turn. The cops motion for him to finish crossing but he continues signaling forcefully for them to turn. They go back and forth like this a few times until the cops decide that instead of making their right turn, they’d prefer to have a little chat with this obviously intoxicated pedestrian. I avoid any sudden movements in their vicinity.

2:37 am- I enter 7-11 and pour myself a cappuccino but the cup doesn’t fit under the nozzle so when I pull the filled cup out, some scalding liquid drips on my hand. It’s just hot enough to leave a dark red mark but probably not hot enough for a lawsuit. Damn.

2:39 am- I take my place behind the SIX people already in line… at 2:30 in the morning.

2:40 am- A tranny waiting for someone ahead of me compliments my outfit. I want to return the compliment by saying her outfit is “fierce,” mostly because I’ve never actually said “fierce” out loud and I want to see if I can pull it off. However, I’m not entirely certain if that’s a compliment or if straight white girls are allowed to say it and since her heels give her a good six inches over me, I decide she is not a suitable test subject so I merely respond with a meek “thanks.”

2:44 am- The grande finale: tranny fight! While I don’t advocate violence, I totally advocate watching a fight between two trannies should the opportunity ever arise. Stilettos and mini-skirts that provide the potential for a little dong slippage always make for amusing altercation attire. Naturally, I’m rooting for my fierce new friend even though she’s struggling to decide which gender identity to commit to for the brawl. Fortunately, she doesn’t disappoint when security guards break it up and she yells, “Bitch broke my nail!” How often do you get to hear a fight between two dudes end with that line?

Write a comment

Night Tremors

Jenée — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 18:52:54 +0000

My psychic powers are at work again. Last night I had a very vivid dream in which a friend of mine was flabbergasted that I hadn’t felt a powerful earthquake that had just occurred. It’s been years since I’ve experienced an earthquake, which is why I thought the dream was odd but we just had a fairly strong one a couple minutes ago. It was one of the longest earthquakes I’ve ever felt- I had plenty of time to debate whether I should get out of bed and throw some clothes on. Laziness won out over personal safety. The batteries in my remote are dead so of course that means I can’t turn on the tv to find out the details and I’ll just have to wait for it to pop up on the Internet. I’m hoping the epicenter was nearby because if it wasn’t, an earthquake that long could spell a lot of trouble…

Write a comment

Shark Week!

Jenée — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 10:43:07 +0000

It’s that glorious time of year known as Shark Week on the Discovery channel. I missed the premiere episode so I went to their website to find out if the videos are available online. They’re not but I did stumble upon their “Shark Yourself” feature and of course I had to waste my time playing with it. I like the first one better- I really think some shark teeth covered in bling bling is the right look for me. As for the second photo, it’s the closest anybody will ever come to seeing me eat fish without gagging.

Tags: shark week, discovery channel, shark yourself

Write a comment

Google Loves Me Again

Jenée — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 00:12:20 +0000

A couple months ago I noticed that my visitor stats had gone way down and I was no longer getting any referrals from Google. Even for a term like “Jenee” for which I’ve always been the #1 result, I didn’t show up at all. Through some searching I learned that this happens with sites that Google deems to be spam sites and I couldn’t understand why mine would be flagged as such. I thought maybe I’d used one-too-many “fucks” or “cunts” so I put in a request for reconsideration.

Then while fixing some code with my theme I discovered by accident that there was a ton of spam-like hidden links contained within my index file that bulked up my homepage to a hefty 1MB. It turned out there was some major security issue with my old version of Wordpress and a lot of people’s sites got hacked and then banned by Google. I’m happy to say that I’m finally back on Google’s radar.

It’s bad enough when your friends have forgotten you’re alive but when Google won’t even acknowledge your existence it’s a sad day indeed because when a blogger blogs and Google isn’t there to crawl it, she doesn’t make a cyber sound.

Tags: google, wordpress, hack, spam

Write a comment

Free At Last, Free At Last, Fuck You Vaseline, I’m Free At Last!

Jenée — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 17:27:59 +0000

One of my earliest blog posts was about the lip balm addiction I’ve suffered from for more than a decade. Over the years I’ve made the occasional attempts to quit using and, though I usually didn’t last for more than a couple hours, sometimes I managed to get through the day but as soon as I put my head on my pillow I realized sleep would be impossible without dipping into my giant jar of Vaseline that sits on my nightstand right next to my salt shaker (that’s a whole ‘nother addiction).

I hit rock bottom many times. I would get into my car and fret over my naked lips so I’d grab the emergency Chapstick I keep in my console (along with some salt packets) and desperately swirl my finger around the tube that’s been empty ever since it was stored in the car I had two before this one. I would have to scrape what residue I could get out of it from underneath my fingernails then I’d rub it across my lips knowing deep down that all I was really applying was some greasy finger oil. Then I’d cry out, “Why? Why? Why must this gooey goodness have this control over my life?”

Then last week something amazing happened: I realized that a good 16 hours had passed without a slathering and I wasn’t experiencing the usual withdrawal symptoms. I decided to see how long I could go without it and I actually made it through the night! For three days straight, I applied absolutely nothing to my lips, a feat I haven’t accomplished since I was back in a training bra. Over the last five days, I’ve had to wear lipstick on a couple occasions and apply SPF 15 sunscreen to my lips while in the sun but I swear that isn’t the reason I’m laying out 14 hours a day.

I realize I have a tough road ahead of me, one that involves the annoying habit of licking my lips every couple seconds. And I fear that first incident when someone pulls out a tube of lip balm and offers it to me. Will I be able to say no? Is there some kind of LBAA (Lip Balm Addicts Anonymous) keychain to help me garner the sympathetic congratulations to which I’m entitled? Most importantly, is this something I should write to the Vatican about? The sudden disappearance of this addiction is a miracle in itself but if a day ever comes that I utter the phrase, “This is too salty,” it will surely make a believer out of me.

Tags: lip balm, vaseline, chapstick

Write a comment

My Hand, My Wishes

Jenée — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 06:33:33 +0000

On Monday’s finale of The Bachelorette, a big deal was made over her suitors asking for her father’s permission to propose to her, an archaic tradition I can’t believe is still practiced. It made sense back in olden days when a marriage meant the loss of a good farmhand or butter churner but in today’s age of food processors and women living on their own for a good while before marrying, it’s rather insulting to the woman.

Asking for the father’s permission suggests that the father has control over his daughter’s life and subsequently, the husband will be in control. Fuck that. I don’t want anybody thinking he’s the boss of me and I have no interest in a henpecked little man who thinks he needs to ask permission for anything. Asking for the father’s permission also makes him the boss of his future son-in-law, as exemplified on the finale when Sean Penn’s request was followed by the father’s order that he cut his hair. While I agree that he’d look better with shorter hair, I don’t want my dad thinking he can give style orders to somebody I’ll be appearing in public with.

It’s one thing for a guy to tell the parents (not just the father, you misogynistic bastards), “I’m going to ask your daughter to be my wife and I hope you’re okay with that… but if you’re not, tough shit.” But asking for permission is ridiculous because what if the parents say no? Would the guy back off from the woman he loves? Of course not, which makes it an empty courtesy. Granted, it would never go down like that in my household because if I ever brought a guy home to my parents it would be my dad who would beg the guy to marry me before I could even make the introductions.

Write a comment