WHERE TO START.  The insistent “breathe!”-cow, the Jamaican (?) rooster, or the key weirdness of the shriveled elf-man and his skinny jeans, displayed to such flexible effect.  Yogie Okey Dokie’s Yogi round-up (sic from video) is the singularly most disturbing thing I’ve received all week, and it is a struggle to pinpoint the most offensive or perplexing thing about it, because there is just so much to work with.  Examples to follow.

  • Um, the opening shot of our new friend Yogie Okey Dokie and his hind-quarters-over-head thing.
  • The dance at 0:18 (trust, it is downhill from here).
  • From 0:31…  I have no words.  NEEMMPPHGGHH… UNGH… yeah, no words.
  • 0:42:  RUN, CHILLEN!!!!  RUUUUUUUUUUUUN!
  • The “chicken scratching in the dirt” at 1:19.
  • What immediately follows (“Nmmmmmemememe.”)
  • What happens right after that (hands-down yogi town.)
  • “Nice anvil, Christian!” at 1:49.
  • Followed by, “Nice tomato!  I’ll save that for my sandwich!”
  • Followed by farm animals going, “Mmmmm, hmmm, mmmm.”
  • VEGETABLE, vegetable, VEGETABLE! (at 2:06) and the subsequent tongue-thrusting insanity.

So… yeah.  Everything IS terrible.  I don’t think yoga for kids is a bad idea at all, and I don’t think that this guy is a pederast – I think he’s just enthused.  But this is such an undeniable and compelling trainwreck I’m pretty sure it qualifies as high art.

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I know it’s my job & all, but I really have no idea about the benefits of the Goji Berry. I’m thinking the big “miracle” can be chalked up to the incredibly, extremely, ridiculously rare phenomenon of this fruit being privy to a high concentration of antioxidants. Like the acai berry. And blueberries. And cranberries. And citrus. And green tea. And white tea. And black tea. And seaweed. And broccoli. And spinach. And, like, almost every other fruit and veg currently growing out of the dirt on this planet. So yeah, I’m not really going to bother researching the Goji. I already know everything I need to know about it already, and what I know is that I have a strange, Pavlovian response to hearing/seeing the word Goji Berry. Whenever I see the word, like in this email:

 

murad-goji

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I automatically bust out laughing. Find out why, after the jump (more…)

My first kiss was an event I feverishly anticipated throughout three long years of junior high.  I had attended an all-girls Catholic school since the age of nine, and the only boys I knew were the brothers of my girlfriends.  These gawky, spotty teens were the targets of near-constant obsession and angst.  A tongue-tied and shy pre-teen, the act of calling a girlfriend was something I would spend half an hour preparing for, a list of possible conversational topics in hand in case a Brother answered and I was lucky enough to stumble into a dialogue.  I harbored a particularly brutal series of crushes on my friend Georgia’s older brother and the members of his garage band, but remained romantically disappointed.  They were, after all, sophisticated high school freshman and regularly in the presence of girls far more developed than me in the breast region; I wasn’t even allowed to wear makeup.  After drooling over the band boys and some secreted issues of Tiger Beat, I composed an idea of what I wanted my first boyfriend to be like.

He had to be mature and sophisticated, like me, and might even be as old as 16.  He would have to be creative so that if he were a musician, he could dedicate his songs to me; if he were a painter, he could paint pictures of me; if he were a writer, he could write anguished poems about our torrid love.  I definitely leaned toward a poet, as I had just read Romeo and Juliet and felt that passionate, fatal love was a very desirable thing.  I understood poets to have a high mortality rate.  He had to be tall with intense eyes and healthy teeth and should photograph handsomely so that I could take pictures of him to school and brag about his prolific creativity, adoration, and general hotness. (more…)