Last month, I was lucky enough to be mentioned in Richmond Magazine‘s “Best & Worst of 2010″ issue as one of three top twitterers in the city. Next month, I’ll be speaking at a Social Media Club gathering about twitter personalities. You guys, I love twitter. It gives me a place to try out jokes, post updates on my work, and meet potential best friends, every day. Because it’s such a big part of what I’m doing, I’ve decided to showcase some of my most talented twitterfriends here, on Tuesdays. If you are on twitter, I suggest you follow them. If not, just look at what you are missing.
@Schindizzle
Name: Greg Schindler
Location: Palo Alto, Calif.
Web: FunnyOrDie.com
Bio: I’m Funny Or Die’s marketing manager and a plus-sized hand model. I believe one’s character is best revealed by their reverence for Patrick Duffy.
My favorite tweets:
How could you not love him?
Give me a shout in the comments with your twitter handle and who your favorite follows are, then stay tuned for my next twitter pick.
For those of you who don’t know, I began my illustrious (illustrious means “eating an entire jar of creamy Jif with a spoon while wearing dirty pajamas”, right?) writing career by chronicling my adventures in retail at the blog, The Checkout Girl. The site is offline for now, but the thought of my stories sitting around, collecting dust, makes me sad, so I’ll be sharing my favorites here, on Mondays.
From time to time I’ll kick around the idea of leaving behind the glamorous world of the modern supermarket to live the carefree life of someone who works for tips. Why on earth would I do something like that, you ask? Well, I already spend my days being nice to assholes, and my wage isn’t even BASED on that. Why let all that faux-amiability just go to waste? Damnit, man, there are people starving for that stuff in, what, New Jersey?
Not long ago I played a round of “I gotta get the heck outta here” and decided to let my fingers do the walking all over the world wide web to see what was being offered in the restaurant biz. It’s like the internet intuitively knew that I love all things cheesy and USA (all the way!), and returned solid gold (lamé).
Behold, Hooters Girl, a site actually owned by Hooters of America, Inc. Ladies, if you are willing to take a little constructive criticism and leave your self-esteem at the door, this thing is chock full of tips on how to be the best (and most pleasing) Hooters Girl you can be. And, at the end of the day, who doesn’t want to be a better Hooters Girl? Communists, that’s who.
Filed under “Jesus, I gotta tell somebody about this”, I’ve chosen some of the best suggestions to share with you. You can thank me by sending money. Or fried chicken.
The shape and thickness of your eyebrows can completely change your appearance. Be sure to tweeze or wax your brows regularly to maintain a clean look. Tweeze brows if you have any hair growth between the two.
Okay, so no unibrows for these girls but I have to wonder, does this rule include Hooters’ Athens location? That’s right, they are sporting orange shorts with nude pantyhose dangerously close to, you know, the birthplace of Western Civilization. Surprised? Have you tasted their wings? Zeus himself couldn’t conjure a better hot sauce! And it’s not like you can EAT the Parthenon! Anyway, if My Big Fat Greek Wedding has taught me anything, it’s that Greek girls have plenty of brow going on between the brows. And something about Windex.
Also, a “clean look”? It’s like the person in charge of writing these tips has never actually step foot in one of their own restaurants.
We do require that you wear mascara and lipstick or gloss. Remember, you never know when there will be a camera in your face!
In my Mad Men-era opinion, mascara and lipstick are a requirement for any job (ouch! my feminism!), but I’m not big on being told that I have to wear them. Still, these are the people that insist on nylons with dolphin shorts so, really, isn’t makeup just like a uniform for your face? As far as “a camera in your face!”, if you hit the “images” link when you google “hooters” (who the crap would google “hooters”? oh, right), there are tons of photos of people posing with Hooters Girls. It’s like everyone wants a pic of themselves with boobs. Haven’t they seen boobs their whole lives? I have. In fact, if you want to get dirty about it, most of us came out of a vagina and we aren’t constantly posting pictures on Myspace of us with those.
Oh, and the use of what really seem like unnecessary exclamation points feels like they are trying to get you psyched up to look and act like a sexbot. Hey, guess what? Most girls who end up at that site are already there, friends. I know I am.
Always make sure to resist makeup trends that make you appear gaudy. Hooters Girls have an appropriate image to maintain.
Gaudy is out? Appropriate is in? These are girls that wear platform high-heeled flip flops in their off time. Even the fairest redheads among them are frequent fryers over at the fake ‘n bake. It’s not their fault, really, they just haven’t felt good about themselves since Spring Break ’08 when Joe Francis spied them doing upside-down margaritas and making out with their girlfriends between cigs in Cabo and offered them the opportunity (and penis) of a lifetime. Don’t forget to throw the peace sign while you are showing nip. Girls Gone Loco, y’all!
Don’t forget to wear blush! Doing so will leave you looking lifeless!
You guys, they want their sexbots to look lifeMORE, okay? Otherwise, these men can just go back to masturbating to the post-mortem pics of Anna Nicole that are all over le web. Jesus, that shit is free and we are trying to sell pitchers of beer here, so please fake a sex flush before going on the floor. Again, “cameras in your face!”
Roots should never show through! You never know when you will be photographed or asked to go on a photo shoot or promotion. Be sure to always look camera ready!
Holy cow, ladies, you never saw Marilyn Monroe with black roots, did you? No, and you know why? Because she was actually an early Muppet prototype. The truth is, I dye my hair and literally wake up the next morning with tiny growth. I’m starting to think it’s not actually hair but Play-Doh that someone is pushing through the holes in my head, but the voices that live up there tell me that’s not realistic. Probably because they are the ones doing it. Anyway, there isn’t enough dye (or, ahem, bleach) in the world to make sure “roots should never show through!” so eat poop, Hooters.
Skunk-like streaks are not permitted. A natural and styled look is the look you are going for.
Yes, absolutely, walk into any Hooters restaurant and “natural” is the first word that pops into your head. The next is “styled”. And what DON’T want from a Hooters Girl? Anything skunk-like. You can make a dirty vagina joke here, but I’m not going to. Because I’m a lady, yo.
I think we can all take a little something away from the suggestions offered at Hooters Girl. Men, I want you to read this and respect your ladyfriends a little more because being tip-worthy is a lot of work. And not cheap, in spite of how it looks. Ladies, really, unless you are Dolly Parton, we all get complacent in the glam department from time to time and could use a reminder that we won’t be earning any singles that way. The men can make it rain, but they need a little motivation, capice? And me, well, no one wants to see me in tiny shorts and a tank, so I guess I’ll stick with what I’ve got. Besides, where else am I going to find a low-paying job with long hours where I’m disrespected by both customers and supervisors alike? Count your blessings, TCG. Count ‘em hard.
Also, it’s Monday, which means a fresh, steaming pile of Off The Clock over at RVA News. This week, when good celebrities do bad endorsements.
This is a version of the story I told last night at my big comedy show debut. It was well-received and so was I. Thank you to everyone who came out to support me and to Richmond Comedy Coalition for making it happen. If you missed it, never fear, I’ve got a few more tricks up my sleeve.
I once dated a guy who was a 35 year old virgin. He had learned what little he knew about sex from pornography which, in theory, seemed totally endearing and somewhat hot. In practice, though, it left a lot to be desired. And it took a long, long time to get to the practice. You know, because of the whole “virgin” thing. When we finally got to it (my suggestion, naturally), I ended up the sadclown in a 3 ring shit circus.
We headed upstairs in his parents’ house, which was where he lived (hey! how ’bout them stereotypes?), for my first glimpse of his bedroom. It smelled musty, like an old man’s pockets, and was covered in stacks of comic books. Like, every square inch had not just a comic book on it but at least a foot of them. Also, Toy Story sheets.
He tried to undress me in a sexy way but I wasn’t having any of that. I had waited two months and it felt like this might take two more months, so I hissed, “Stop it! Just take off your clothes!” You know, because I’m a lady. Also, we all know that there was no way a virgin was going to figure out a bra clasp his first time out, right? Right.
So, we’re nude. He’s ready. I’m ready. We’re standing next to the bed. I’m a cowgirl and I’m trying to figure out how to get this guy to lay down. He’s standing there, awkwardly grabbing my breasts and kissing me, but in a weird half-mouth/half-face kind of way. Like he missed his mark but kept on trucking like a little trooper.
“Um, hey, you wanna lay down?”
“No, I wanna slide my throbbing love muscle into your beautiful flower.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I want to bury my throbbing cock in your secret garden?”
“No talking, okay?”
“Okay.”
I finally got tired of standing there, naked, staring and kissing in a way that was making my semi into a bye-bye and climbed up on the bed. He was 6′ 7″, I am 5′ 6″. It really was a climb. I laid there as he sort of hung over me on all fours, unsure of what to do.
“Really, if you’ll lie down, I’ll take care of this.”
Still hovering. No laying. Just looking at me.
“Are you going to join me down here?”
“Can I talk now?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“I want to snake my tongue deep into your hot, juicy pussy…”
“I gotta go.”
“Please stay.”
I did. For thirty more minutes of Cirque du MakeMeGay. Porn had taught him such valuable lessons as “girls can climax from just intercourse”, “sixty-nine is fundamental so climb on up there and dangle it in her face”, and “hey, she’s got another hole, fill it!” The acrobatics rivaled those of a Russian gymnast and felt desperate and sad. Any attempts I made were half-hearted, at best. In the end, neither the throbbing love muscle nor the hot, juicy pussy met their bliss.
Not even I’m horrible enough to break up with someone after that shit show, so I hung in for another month or so. We never again attempted what he called “lovemaking”. Barf. We still talk from time to time. He says he lost his virginity with me but I contend he could still claim virgin if he wanted to. I don’t think he does. The good news is, I think he’s got a promising future with Ringling Brothers, should he choose it. Me? My future’s in the rodeo.
For those of you who don’t know, I began my illustrious (illustrious means “eating an enormous red velvet cupcake while wearing dirty pajamas”, right?) writing career by chronicling my adventures in retail at the blog, The Checkout Girl. The site is offline for now, but the thought of my stories sitting around, collecting dust, makes me sad, so I’ll be sharing my favorites here, on Mondays.
I have a coworker that, on top of being a close talker, a too-infrequent blinker, a toucher, and inappropriately familiar, might also be a feeder.
Imagine, if you will, Steve Buscemi with a porn ‘stache and coke bottle glasses that really magnify his creepeyes. Now imagine him volunteering to work every Saturday morning and bringing in breakfast for all of the employees. Now imagine him going to each and every person in the store, standing too close to their faces and saying, somewhat menacingly, “It’s Saturday. I brought food. Go get some.” Further imagine him then pulling up a chair next to the food, which he lays out in a spread in the employee break room, and staring at each person as they wander back to try some. “Eat up,” he’ll say, or, “Good, isn’t it?”, quietly, in a way that very closely resembles Hannibal Lecter.
It’s so scary that I had an honest-to-goodness nightmare about this very scene just a few nights ago. Still, Saturday mornings usually involve me rolling out of bed at the last minute, throwing my unwashed hair into a ponytail, brushing my teeth, and applying deod, and running out the door. Brekkies? Okay, creeper, I’ll eat your brekkies and even let you watch. Whatevs.
His usual jam is breakfast pizza from Ukrop’s. While I don’t like bacon, it’s okay w/Tabasco (that concoction is called the “Sat morn wakeup call”!), plus I am a fat girl. The way he watches my mouth, raptly, with obvious anticipation as I take each bite, is a total freakout. The current rumor, which I may or may not have started, is that the coworkers who don’t partake are followed to the parking lot, shoved into his trunk, and enjoyed on the next week’s pizza. People sausage? Spicy!
This last week, though, Mr. Mangia changed it up by bringing doughnuts. Having already downed a red bull and an apple (breakfast of champions), I wasn’t feeling a march in the creep parade. “No, thanks,” I said, when he cornered me in my department. “Aw, come on, Pink Sneakers (charming nickname which I worked hard to earn by wearing, well, you know), you know you want some of my doughnuts,” he said. “Okay, okay,” I said, just trying to placate him so I could do my job, “I’ll be back in a bit.” He must have then taken his post next to the Dunkin Donuts box but came back about 30 minutes later. “Come on, Pink Sneakers, you can take a break for one doughnut. Come on. I won’t take no for an answer,” he pressured me. I heard him paged to the front of the store and ran to the back so I could say that I had one and it was delicious. When I got back there, my manager was just closing the box and stuffing a doughnut in her mouth. “I didn’t have breakfast,” she said apologetically, her mouth full. “Shhh, you’re safe now,” I whispered and petted her arm with the appropriate amount of drama so she would know I was kidding, “He’s in the front of the store and can’t hurt you. HE. CAN’T. HURT. YOU. NOW.” She covered her mouth and laughed, “I know, right? He’s so weird.” “At least he’s changing it up from ‘people pizza’ today. Those guys are so spicy,” I said, as I walked back toward my department. Over my shoulder, I added, “Oh, and you know he’s humped every one of those doughnuts, right? Enjoy!” The choking noise from behind me was all the answer I needed.
So, I’ve agreed to guest star with Richmond Comedy Coalition for one night, to tell my stories on stage. It’s secretly been a dream of mine, but the reality has already been responsible for a whole lotta stress poops. It’s this Thursday at 8pm. If you are local, please come and convince me that this is not the worst mistake I’ve ever made. Or enjoy my blaze of glory. Whichever…
Also, it’s Monday, which means a new Off The Clock column over at RVA News. As I found myself explaining to the eleventy millionth person what I meant by “double rainbow all the way!” I knew that I had to write about internet memes. Sadly, that was a couple of weeks ago and, as Chaucer said, “Time and tide wait for no man.” So, I am pleased to add to my awesome list the latest and greatest meme: Bed Intruder Song. Get it while it’s hot, then get on over and read my column…
