I've Got Klout I Didn't Even Know About

If you're on Twitter you know about Klout.com. It measures your influence on the Internet. The higher the score the more fake important you are.

Hot Comes To Die - 58
Dooce - 68
President Obama - 89
Lady Gaga - 92
Justin Bieber - 100

I thought the scores only went up to 100 but there's a level 120. I think they had to add that for Bieber.

Sidebar: Don't ever make the mistake of smelling the perfume JB put on the market. It will kill you dead.

In my case, my fake importance surprises me. I'm not saying I don't get a lot of RT's on Twitter. That's when some people decide you said something smart or funny or stupid and all of Twitter needs to hear it. And they RT it, or Re-tweet it. So your stupid tweet goes out to even more people than your own followers. And like that annoying Joe Namath commercial from the 70's "and so on and so on and so on." You're worldwide stupid!

But when I saw this I was doubtful. 1000 RT's of ONE of my tweets? Seriously?

But this one is even better. I've had 500 unique mentions on Facebook? I'm not even on Facebook. Some people think I said something clever enough to transfer over there? That would imply that I'm not clever at all because it's FACEBOOK. Where all my high school friends and comedians I wouldn't sleep with congregate. Which is why I'm not on it.

And yet I'm on it.

And more importantly? I'm now black.

The 6th Day Of Christmas

I'm already tired of doing this.

I'm Tired Of Writing

Thanks for doing this Lisa!

I Wonder

I wonder why Sodoku is so popular.
I wonder why most people are terrible at math.
I wonder why no one reads anymore.
I wonder why more books are being published than ever before.
I wonder why my parents made me eat lima beans.
I wonder why you never see anyone eat lima beans.
I wonder why Donald Trump thinks his hair looks good.
I wonder how much he pays his wife to agree with him.
I wonder why 82% of the population can’t find Wyoming on a map.
I wonder if that’s why only 493,782 people live there.
I wonder why women are obsessed with shoes.
I wonder why men aren’t.
I wonder why we’re on the Earth.
I wonder if anyone from Neptune knows we’re here.
I wonder why all of my ex-boyfriends are idiots.
I wonder if that makes me an idiot for going out with them.
I wonder if Woody Allen knows his therapy didn’t work.
I wonder if any of the therapy I had worked.
I wonder how I’m going to meet kinder women and smarter men.
I wonder how I’m going to meet smarter women and kinder men.
I wonder if Conan O’Brien knows he’s not funny.
I wonder if David Letterman knows he is.
I wonder why Jay Leno is still on the air.
I wonder if the other three even know Jimmy Fallon is on the air.
I wonder why we elected the dumber of the two Bushes twice.
I wonder why we elected either of them once.
I wonder if this is the End of chat.

Wherein I Still Can't Get A Real Post Together And Throw Up Something A Reader Sent Me. Thank You Reader Whose Name I've Forgotten.

Wherein I Take A Cheap Shot Because The Post I'm Working On Is Still Not Ready

The Best Of September 2006

This was my first blog post ever, called Plastic Surgery For Dummies. I have added italics to it as a year ago I didn't know that in Blog World that was acceptable. In Screenplay Writing World, adding italics is a big no-no and pegs you as an amateur. I am also laughing at my references to Jude Law and Colin Ferrell. They were huge then, now, not so much. Which is another no-no in Screenplay Land, no topical references as your movie could be made twenty years after you wrote it, which just happened to a friend of mine. Unless you're mentioning icons, like Van Gogh or The Beatles, it's doubtful the future will remember L'il Kim. Unless the future is really fucked up.

And to those of you who are sitting at your computers bitching that I must be too lazy to post something new, the answer is Yes I Am.

There are two kinds of New Yorkers who move to Los Angeles. One is dreaded and hates L.A. because there’s no winter/smoking/people who read. Then there’s me. I loved it because there were hot cars, hot homes, and most importantly, hot people everywhere. Not to mention my building had a pool and a view of the Hollywood sign. I know there are gorgeous people who live in other parts of the world but it couldn’t possibly compare to the pulchritude this town spits out like olive pits from a dirty martini. And Los Angeles was littered with car dealers to the stars, Realtors to the stars and plastic surgeons for the rest of us. This is where Hot comes to die and the Mother Ship had called me home.

Even though no one in L.A. has actually had plastic surgery, is ever going to have it or would ever admit it if they did happen to have it while accidentally sleepwalking into downtown Beverly Hills for a three p.m. appointment, there sure are a lot of people ahead of me when I go for my Botox shots to my plastic surgeon’s office. I admit to having it because I love it and will be having it to the end of my life. As a matter of fact, I’ve booked my doctor for my embalming or autopsy, whichever comes first. I’m going to exit this world looking glorious, especially since I’m surely not going to feel that terrific.

I just don’t understood women who say they would never have plastic surgery. I’m pretty sure Janet Reno does not spend all her free time returning Jude Law’s calls or texting Colin Farrell. I once heard Cindy Crawford interviewed and she said that if she felt she needed it, she would have it. Cindy Crawford, not Broderick Crawford.

I wasn’t obsessed with my looks until a week after I moved to Los Angeles and was walking down the street with my mother. We ran into an old family friend who hadn’t seen us in many years. The friend looked at us and said, “Wow, you two could pass for sisters,” and I thought, ‘Man, how bad do I look?’

So I bought a jar of face cream that claimed to reduce the visible signs of aging and I tried it. It didn’t do much for my face but I used it on my 1998 Toyota and now it looks like a 2001. I knew then that the only thing that really reduces the visible signs of aging is death. And an upper and lower blepharoplasty.

When I had the eye job I told my friend Metia and she replied “You’re kidding, you can’t even tell.” Well, if you could tell, it wouldn’t be called an eye job; it would be called a lawsuit, now wouldn’t it?

Then I wanted my nose to tip up so I had a piece of my ear put in right above my nostrils. The manager of my Hollywood Hills apartment complex asked me if I could hear through my nose. So apparently there are some people here who don’t read. Restylane? Captique? Mesotherapy? Sculptra? Had it, had it, had it, need it.

A lot of people are afraid of surgery and I can understand that. When I had my eye-lift, the last thing I remember before I went under anesthesia was the doctor holding a scalpel, the fluorescent lights and the smell of burning flesh. I was mortified. Do you know how bad you look in fluorescent lights? The nurse asked me to count backwards from 100, giving me the illusion that I was going to be awake for a really long time. Meanwhile, no one makes it past 98. Why don’t they just make you count backwards from 2?

The truth is that I’d rather have plastic surgery than go to the gym with all the mutants oozing toxins out of their pores. If I see toxins coming out of any part of my body, bring me a margarita and check me into the Chateau Marmont.

Because my friends all know I’ve had plastic surgery, they ask me if they need it. Yes. Even if they don’t think they need it now, yes, they need it now. And for those of you stalwarts who think you don’t need anything done ever or are too afraid or too cheap I can only say this: When your rear grazes your ankles and you’re carrying your breasts around in a little red wagon and your husband is sleeping with the baby sitter, don’t come crying to me. Just remember that King Solomon had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines and I’m sure he has male descendants out there somewhere. And I’m sure the hot ones ended up in Los Angeles.

End of chat.