Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Sometimes I wonder . . .
Why some people smell like soup. I keep smelling people on campus who smell like soup and I just can't quite figure out why.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Child Abuse
This might come as a shock to some of you who know my family well . . . but we were abused as children. By our very own parents. No, not sexually. Not even mentally or emotionally.
I'm talking . . . cosmetically.
I first came to this realization the other day as I went through some old family photos and I found this gem:
I know what you're thinking. It's just another picture of a brother and sister, hanging out and having fun, right? WRONG. Look closer.
There's a mullet in that picture.
I scrambled through more photos, hoping to find another one that would either confirm or deny my suspicions. Then I found it, the smoking gun:
This profile view shows that my sister clearly had a mullet (it also shows me trying hard not to laugh at it). Now, it's one thing when an adult, who is old enough to discern right from wrong, goes out and gets him/herself a mullet. But to force one on a child? I'm surprised it didn't lead to other forms of abuse, like taking us to monster truck rallys, or putting crack in our cereal.
Mom, Dad--I love you guys . . . I really do. But you should have known better.
I'm talking . . . cosmetically.
I first came to this realization the other day as I went through some old family photos and I found this gem:
I know what you're thinking. It's just another picture of a brother and sister, hanging out and having fun, right? WRONG. Look closer.
There's a mullet in that picture.
I scrambled through more photos, hoping to find another one that would either confirm or deny my suspicions. Then I found it, the smoking gun:
This profile view shows that my sister clearly had a mullet (it also shows me trying hard not to laugh at it). Now, it's one thing when an adult, who is old enough to discern right from wrong, goes out and gets him/herself a mullet. But to force one on a child? I'm surprised it didn't lead to other forms of abuse, like taking us to monster truck rallys, or putting crack in our cereal.
Mom, Dad--I love you guys . . . I really do. But you should have known better.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Welcome
As you may or may not know/care, I recently moved into a house. Apparently when I first went to check it out I was suffering from temporary blindness, because as it turns out it’s a huge dump. Student housing is always something of an adventure, but this one definitely takes the cake. Let me take you on a virtual tour:
First let’s start in my bedroom, which is located in the basement. It features handsome pink carpet, and two (you heard me, TWO) desks! Here’s the first one:
The cinder blocks made me stop and scratch my head a bit, but that was before my eyes passed over this beauty:
Now, can someone tell me what exactly is going on here? I have a pretty crazy imagination . . . but I can’t even begin to imagine what happened to this desk. Did they need the other half for fire wood or something? I stood there staring at this thing for about 3 straight hours trying to figure it out, and finally ended up calling the landlord to see where and when I could throw the thing out. We had the following exchange:
Me: So, I have two desks in my room (I should have said one-and-a-half), and uh, one of them looks like it got chopped in half or something and is propped up on some stuff . . . I don’t really need it so, I don’t know if I can just get rid of it or . . . ?
(at this point I’m expecting him to be surprised at the state of his once glorious office desk, or to be upset, SOMETHING)
Landlord: Nooooo, we need to hang on to that. You can put it in storage if you want.
This of course means that my landlord official wins the Cheapest Bastard of 2007 award. You can tell the desk was crappy even when it was brand new. The only way I’d ever insist on keeping a sawed-in-half, propped-up-on-cinder-blocks desk would be if it were made of solid gold. This thing I’m pretty sure is made out of press board.
Coming soon: New house tour part II
First let’s start in my bedroom, which is located in the basement. It features handsome pink carpet, and two (you heard me, TWO) desks! Here’s the first one:
The cinder blocks made me stop and scratch my head a bit, but that was before my eyes passed over this beauty:
Now, can someone tell me what exactly is going on here? I have a pretty crazy imagination . . . but I can’t even begin to imagine what happened to this desk. Did they need the other half for fire wood or something? I stood there staring at this thing for about 3 straight hours trying to figure it out, and finally ended up calling the landlord to see where and when I could throw the thing out. We had the following exchange:
Me: So, I have two desks in my room (I should have said one-and-a-half), and uh, one of them looks like it got chopped in half or something and is propped up on some stuff . . . I don’t really need it so, I don’t know if I can just get rid of it or . . . ?
(at this point I’m expecting him to be surprised at the state of his once glorious office desk, or to be upset, SOMETHING)
Landlord: Nooooo, we need to hang on to that. You can put it in storage if you want.
This of course means that my landlord official wins the Cheapest Bastard of 2007 award. You can tell the desk was crappy even when it was brand new. The only way I’d ever insist on keeping a sawed-in-half, propped-up-on-cinder-blocks desk would be if it were made of solid gold. This thing I’m pretty sure is made out of press board.
Coming soon: New house tour part II
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Blast from the Past
Here's something I wrote about a year ago, I'm guessing.
Today I flew back from Oregon to Provo, and for some reason a question people keep asking is, “how was your flight?” This seems like an odd question to me, since in my experience virtually all flights are the same. You get on, take off, land, and get off. One time I threw up on a plane, but that’s about as eventful as any of my flights have ever been.
And what do people really EXPECT you to say? “Well, we almost crashed, but the pilot was able to pull us out of that nose dive at the last second. It was a close one!” Do exciting things actually happen on flights? And often enough that it warrants the question, “How was your flight?”
But, just for fun I thought I’d tell you all exactly how my flight was. I was one of the first five people on the plane, so I decided to sit in the front. I was secretly hoping (as I always do) that a cute girl who was further behind me in the line would sit by me. This, by the way, NEVER happens. It has been my strategy all through college. Go into a big auditorium classroom, sit somewhere near the back, with two empty seats on both sides. So far, it’s never worked. I’ve watched an estimated 15,000 cute girls walk right by me and sit somewhere else in such situations. Conversely, I’ve had about 15,000 awkward dudes sit by me in those same scenarios. I always look at them like, "Are you serious? Don't you see what I'm trying to do here?" But they never seem to catch on. Anyways, I’ve learned my lesson, that if I want to sit by a cute girl, I’m the one who’s going to have to sit by HER. I suppose I’m not handsome enough to have the tractor beam affect on women.
Back to the girl on the plane. I was sitting patiently, hoping that my old “get-cute-girl-to-sit-by-me” strategy would work. First, a guy took the isle seat, leaving only the seat between us. Then, all of a sudden, I saw a really cute girl enter the plane. I made sure my jacket and things weren’t obstructing the middle seat, making it a more appealing choice. Then out of nowhere the old, grizzled, decomposing man directly in front of her sat down next to me (and when I say decomposing, I’m not trying to be funny. Seriously, I think he had leprosy). He was approximately 8 feet tall, and his right elbow was digging into my ribs the whole flight. I don’t know what happened to the girl, and in retrospect I’m ok with that. We probably would have engaged in some short, 5 minute small-talk-type dialog, which would have no doubt been followed by approximately 1 hour and 25 minutes of awkward silence/shifting through carry-ons.
The other eventful part of the trip also involved an old man, only this one was slightly less decrepit and much more creepy/molester-y (which I’m pretty sure is not an adjective). He would ask almost every girl who walked by the following question: “ARE YOU A BYU GIRL?” He was semi-yelling, not because it was hard to hear in the plane, but because he’s old, and that’s what old people do. When the girls would say yes, he would say the following: “THERE’S ABOUT (insert large exaggerated number here) BYU GIRLS ON THIS PLANE!” His numbers LITERALLY went from 1000, to 50, to 100, and back to 50 again. What exactly happened to the 950 other BYU girls on the plane during that time span?
He started adding some real zingers like, “THERE ARE ABOUT 50 BYU GIRLS ON THIS PLANE, AND THEY’RE ALL GOOD LOOKIN’.” At one point he turned around in his seat and asked the girls behind him, “ARE YOU ALL BYU GIRLS?” When they said yes, he responded, “LET’S SEE, 4 BYU GIRLS, AND ALL OF ‘EM GOOD LOOKIN’.”
Now I might be overreacting, but I really don’t think 80 year old dudes should be telling college girls how good looking they are, even if it is in a friendly, non-threatening, grandpa kinda way, if for no other reason than it makes ME uncomfortable. Maybe it’s just because an 80 year old man had the balls to tell virtually every girl who got on the plane that she was lookin’ good, while I coward in the corner of the plane next to sasquatch’s grandfather.
After the flight, the guy appeared out of nowhere at the baggage claim and started talking to the three “BYU boys” next to me. This was their dialog:
“YOU FELLAS BYU BOYS?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
“THERE WAS ABOUT 50 BYU GIRLS ON THE PLANE, NOT TOO MANY BOYS THOUGH.”
“Why are you talking to us?”
The most interesting part of that experience was seeing who the old man ASSUMED to be BYU boys and girls, because if there were any doubt in his mind, he would ignore them as they walked by. A couple of guys wearing skater hats and sweatshirts, while sporting a couple of “ungodly” piercings walked by, and the old man looked away, quickly returning to his Readers Digest article. A girl wearing a hoodie (with hood ON) who seemed to have a hint of “attitude” walked by and also got the “don’t look the freak in the eye” treatment from the old man.
In case you were wondering, he never asked me if I was a BYU boy. I guess I just don’t fit the mold.
Today I flew back from Oregon to Provo, and for some reason a question people keep asking is, “how was your flight?” This seems like an odd question to me, since in my experience virtually all flights are the same. You get on, take off, land, and get off. One time I threw up on a plane, but that’s about as eventful as any of my flights have ever been.
And what do people really EXPECT you to say? “Well, we almost crashed, but the pilot was able to pull us out of that nose dive at the last second. It was a close one!” Do exciting things actually happen on flights? And often enough that it warrants the question, “How was your flight?”
But, just for fun I thought I’d tell you all exactly how my flight was. I was one of the first five people on the plane, so I decided to sit in the front. I was secretly hoping (as I always do) that a cute girl who was further behind me in the line would sit by me. This, by the way, NEVER happens. It has been my strategy all through college. Go into a big auditorium classroom, sit somewhere near the back, with two empty seats on both sides. So far, it’s never worked. I’ve watched an estimated 15,000 cute girls walk right by me and sit somewhere else in such situations. Conversely, I’ve had about 15,000 awkward dudes sit by me in those same scenarios. I always look at them like, "Are you serious? Don't you see what I'm trying to do here?" But they never seem to catch on. Anyways, I’ve learned my lesson, that if I want to sit by a cute girl, I’m the one who’s going to have to sit by HER. I suppose I’m not handsome enough to have the tractor beam affect on women.
Back to the girl on the plane. I was sitting patiently, hoping that my old “get-cute-girl-to-sit-by-me” strategy would work. First, a guy took the isle seat, leaving only the seat between us. Then, all of a sudden, I saw a really cute girl enter the plane. I made sure my jacket and things weren’t obstructing the middle seat, making it a more appealing choice. Then out of nowhere the old, grizzled, decomposing man directly in front of her sat down next to me (and when I say decomposing, I’m not trying to be funny. Seriously, I think he had leprosy). He was approximately 8 feet tall, and his right elbow was digging into my ribs the whole flight. I don’t know what happened to the girl, and in retrospect I’m ok with that. We probably would have engaged in some short, 5 minute small-talk-type dialog, which would have no doubt been followed by approximately 1 hour and 25 minutes of awkward silence/shifting through carry-ons.
The other eventful part of the trip also involved an old man, only this one was slightly less decrepit and much more creepy/molester-y (which I’m pretty sure is not an adjective). He would ask almost every girl who walked by the following question: “ARE YOU A BYU GIRL?” He was semi-yelling, not because it was hard to hear in the plane, but because he’s old, and that’s what old people do. When the girls would say yes, he would say the following: “THERE’S ABOUT (insert large exaggerated number here) BYU GIRLS ON THIS PLANE!” His numbers LITERALLY went from 1000, to 50, to 100, and back to 50 again. What exactly happened to the 950 other BYU girls on the plane during that time span?
He started adding some real zingers like, “THERE ARE ABOUT 50 BYU GIRLS ON THIS PLANE, AND THEY’RE ALL GOOD LOOKIN’.” At one point he turned around in his seat and asked the girls behind him, “ARE YOU ALL BYU GIRLS?” When they said yes, he responded, “LET’S SEE, 4 BYU GIRLS, AND ALL OF ‘EM GOOD LOOKIN’.”
Now I might be overreacting, but I really don’t think 80 year old dudes should be telling college girls how good looking they are, even if it is in a friendly, non-threatening, grandpa kinda way, if for no other reason than it makes ME uncomfortable. Maybe it’s just because an 80 year old man had the balls to tell virtually every girl who got on the plane that she was lookin’ good, while I coward in the corner of the plane next to sasquatch’s grandfather.
After the flight, the guy appeared out of nowhere at the baggage claim and started talking to the three “BYU boys” next to me. This was their dialog:
“YOU FELLAS BYU BOYS?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
“THERE WAS ABOUT 50 BYU GIRLS ON THE PLANE, NOT TOO MANY BOYS THOUGH.”
“Why are you talking to us?”
The most interesting part of that experience was seeing who the old man ASSUMED to be BYU boys and girls, because if there were any doubt in his mind, he would ignore them as they walked by. A couple of guys wearing skater hats and sweatshirts, while sporting a couple of “ungodly” piercings walked by, and the old man looked away, quickly returning to his Readers Digest article. A girl wearing a hoodie (with hood ON) who seemed to have a hint of “attitude” walked by and also got the “don’t look the freak in the eye” treatment from the old man.
In case you were wondering, he never asked me if I was a BYU boy. I guess I just don’t fit the mold.
Friday, December 14, 2007
What is the Plural of Penis?
Yesterday at work the five women who sit in my row decided to have something of a party. They ordered pizza, exchanged pink gift bags full of goodies, and of course, completely neglected their work for a good hour or so. It didn’t take them very long to start talking about the one thing they all hate and loath more than anything else in the world—their husbands.
Now, complaining about your husband seems like a strange thing to do. After all, you’re the one who chose to live with him. It’s not like one day your landlord called you to tell you that some “messy, demanding, a-hole-of-a-slob will be moving in with you.” It’s not like the courts have sentenced you to spend X amount of years with someone you can’t stand. It’s a choice, so why complain?
I’m not totally anti-complaining. Lately I’ve been complaining about my crappy camera. It takes about 3 pictures per battery, and will randomly turn off for no reason. It’s a total piece of crap. And I realize that I’m the one who went to the store and picked it out, so technically I’m responsible. But here’s the difference—I’m in the market for a new camera. Instead of living the rest of my life with a camera that I hate, and instead of complaining about it to every living creature in the known universe until the day I die, I’m going to find a new one that will meet my needs and wants. A novel idea, I know.
What really bothered me about the ladies’ conversation, however, was how the language shifted from “they”= “their husbands,” to “they”=“everyone with a penis.” I’m sorry, your husband may in fact have a penis, but he is in no way on my team. You married a guy who talks down to you, doesn’t clean, and who doesn’t help around the house. The fact of the matter is there are plenty of good guys out there who would love to care for you, support you in all you do, wash the dishes and take out the trash. Seriously, there are. But you’re the one who married the dick-head douche bag, you’re the one who turned your back on all the good guys out there, and CHOSE to live with someone you hate. And you have the nerve to complain and say that ALL men are that way? Seriously?
I’m sorry, but it’s women like that who empower crappy men. The fact that they can be treated like dirt, but never leave their man’s side is only encouraging them to act that way. They are, in a way, perpetuating the degradation of women by refusing to stand up for anything more than what they’ve got.
One more thing before I go, I wanted to write a blog about Mitt Romney's recent religion speech, but then I read this (PG-13). He says everything I wanted to, only better. Just a highlight:
"In the practice of moderate and reasonable people, religion is just dandy even if I disagree with the premise. Heck, in some hands, religion is genuinely noble. But if freedom requires religion then your government needs religion to keep you free. If your government has religion then the one freedom it can never give you is freedom from religion, and that pretty much rips the guts out of your freedoms entirely. So really, as far as government is concerned, the only thing that freedom needs is for someone like Mittens to leave you alone."
p.s. Check out the link to Humor-Blogs.com, over there on the right. It's got me currently ranked #10. Thanks for reading everyone, your feedback, thoughts, etc. are always appreciated.
Now, complaining about your husband seems like a strange thing to do. After all, you’re the one who chose to live with him. It’s not like one day your landlord called you to tell you that some “messy, demanding, a-hole-of-a-slob will be moving in with you.” It’s not like the courts have sentenced you to spend X amount of years with someone you can’t stand. It’s a choice, so why complain?
I’m not totally anti-complaining. Lately I’ve been complaining about my crappy camera. It takes about 3 pictures per battery, and will randomly turn off for no reason. It’s a total piece of crap. And I realize that I’m the one who went to the store and picked it out, so technically I’m responsible. But here’s the difference—I’m in the market for a new camera. Instead of living the rest of my life with a camera that I hate, and instead of complaining about it to every living creature in the known universe until the day I die, I’m going to find a new one that will meet my needs and wants. A novel idea, I know.
What really bothered me about the ladies’ conversation, however, was how the language shifted from “they”= “their husbands,” to “they”=“everyone with a penis.” I’m sorry, your husband may in fact have a penis, but he is in no way on my team. You married a guy who talks down to you, doesn’t clean, and who doesn’t help around the house. The fact of the matter is there are plenty of good guys out there who would love to care for you, support you in all you do, wash the dishes and take out the trash. Seriously, there are. But you’re the one who married the dick-head douche bag, you’re the one who turned your back on all the good guys out there, and CHOSE to live with someone you hate. And you have the nerve to complain and say that ALL men are that way? Seriously?
I’m sorry, but it’s women like that who empower crappy men. The fact that they can be treated like dirt, but never leave their man’s side is only encouraging them to act that way. They are, in a way, perpetuating the degradation of women by refusing to stand up for anything more than what they’ve got.
One more thing before I go, I wanted to write a blog about Mitt Romney's recent religion speech, but then I read this (PG-13). He says everything I wanted to, only better. Just a highlight:
"In the practice of moderate and reasonable people, religion is just dandy even if I disagree with the premise. Heck, in some hands, religion is genuinely noble. But if freedom requires religion then your government needs religion to keep you free. If your government has religion then the one freedom it can never give you is freedom from religion, and that pretty much rips the guts out of your freedoms entirely. So really, as far as government is concerned, the only thing that freedom needs is for someone like Mittens to leave you alone."
p.s. Check out the link to Humor-Blogs.com, over there on the right. It's got me currently ranked #10. Thanks for reading everyone, your feedback, thoughts, etc. are always appreciated.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Why Kinkos Blows and Other Stuff
Last night I didn't go to bed. At all.
It's kind of a long story, but in case you're wondering, no, it didn't involve midget pornography (not THIS time anyway).
Basically I overestimated my computer skills, and a project that I thought would take a couple of hours ended up being an all night affair. At around four o'clock I finished everything up, and headed off to my local Kinkos to have it all printed and bound for it's 7:30 AM due date.
So I left the apartment and got in my car, wearing a maroon hoodie, gray sweat pants, a furry Russian hat and dress shoes. Needless to say, I was looking pretty good. When I got to Kinkos there were only two other people in the whole place--a Kinkos worker and a guy (I'm not making this up) printing Mitt Romney pamphlets. It's hard enough for me to understand why you would lend any kind of support to Mitt Romney, but trying to figure out why you'd do it at 4 in the morning would make my head explode.
When the Romney guy was done, I stepped up to the counter and began to explain my project to the clerk:
"Um, so yeah, I've got a 47 page PDF. The first two pages are color and the rest are black and white, and I just need it have them printed--" At this point the worker interrupts me with sigh that sounds something like this: "Pffffpssfshsfhffsssffffffffhhh," followed by a long, drawn out eye roll. He looks at me at hits me with this little gem:
"Uuuuuuh, so like, I'm really behind on everything else I've got to do here, so, like . . . . "
At this point I glance at the clock on the wall. It's 4:15 in the morning, I'm at Kinkos wearing dress shoes and sweatpants, and the clerk is telling me he's simply too busy to help me out with my project that's due in, oh, 3 hours. I was so tired that my brain literally could not compute what was going on. All I could say was:
"Sooooooooooooooooooo . . . " I think I drug that "so" out for about 3 minutes. That's all I could think to say. His complete incompetency and disregard for customer service was shattering my universe and causing my brain to malfunction. Eventually though, after a few more "ppfffffsshshffffspphhhhhh's" and about a 10 minute long eye-roll, he agreed to help me. It took about 2 minutes, and then I was done.
The worst part looking back is how apologetic I was. Sure, I know what it's like to be that employee, swamped and busy, yet forced to deal with goofy customers and their 47 page PDF's. But why should I be made to feel guilty for shopping at your store? Why am I apologizing for keeping you in business? And maybe the best question of all, why the hell am I wear dress shoes with sweat pants?
It's kind of a long story, but in case you're wondering, no, it didn't involve midget pornography (not THIS time anyway).
Basically I overestimated my computer skills, and a project that I thought would take a couple of hours ended up being an all night affair. At around four o'clock I finished everything up, and headed off to my local Kinkos to have it all printed and bound for it's 7:30 AM due date.
So I left the apartment and got in my car, wearing a maroon hoodie, gray sweat pants, a furry Russian hat and dress shoes. Needless to say, I was looking pretty good. When I got to Kinkos there were only two other people in the whole place--a Kinkos worker and a guy (I'm not making this up) printing Mitt Romney pamphlets. It's hard enough for me to understand why you would lend any kind of support to Mitt Romney, but trying to figure out why you'd do it at 4 in the morning would make my head explode.
When the Romney guy was done, I stepped up to the counter and began to explain my project to the clerk:
"Um, so yeah, I've got a 47 page PDF. The first two pages are color and the rest are black and white, and I just need it have them printed--" At this point the worker interrupts me with sigh that sounds something like this: "Pffffpssfshsfhffsssffffffffhhh," followed by a long, drawn out eye roll. He looks at me at hits me with this little gem:
"Uuuuuuh, so like, I'm really behind on everything else I've got to do here, so, like . . . . "
At this point I glance at the clock on the wall. It's 4:15 in the morning, I'm at Kinkos wearing dress shoes and sweatpants, and the clerk is telling me he's simply too busy to help me out with my project that's due in, oh, 3 hours. I was so tired that my brain literally could not compute what was going on. All I could say was:
"Sooooooooooooooooooo . . . " I think I drug that "so" out for about 3 minutes. That's all I could think to say. His complete incompetency and disregard for customer service was shattering my universe and causing my brain to malfunction. Eventually though, after a few more "ppfffffsshshffffspphhhhhh's" and about a 10 minute long eye-roll, he agreed to help me. It took about 2 minutes, and then I was done.
The worst part looking back is how apologetic I was. Sure, I know what it's like to be that employee, swamped and busy, yet forced to deal with goofy customers and their 47 page PDF's. But why should I be made to feel guilty for shopping at your store? Why am I apologizing for keeping you in business? And maybe the best question of all, why the hell am I wear dress shoes with sweat pants?
Monday, December 10, 2007
People Magazine Will Ruin Your Life
There's nothing I love more than going to the grocery store, and it's not because it's the place where I stock up on food and goods that help me survive. It's because that's where I catch up on the lives of all the hottest celebs! Britney got drunk this weekend while breast feeding here 4 year old child? NO WAY! They're going to cancel America's Next Top Model? Write your senators! Angelina Jolie has an opinion on global warming? DO TELL!
This is where you find the answers to all of life's great mysteries, like, is Tom Cruise gay, what rehab center did Lindsey Lohan check into this week, and most importantly, which celebrity is most anorexic-y?
Magazines like People and US teach us important things about celebs and their interesting lives. For example, take a look at this picture with caption taken from People Magazine's web site:
This is where you find the answers to all of life's great mysteries, like, is Tom Cruise gay, what rehab center did Lindsey Lohan check into this week, and most importantly, which celebrity is most anorexic-y?
Magazines like People and US teach us important things about celebs and their interesting lives. For example, take a look at this picture with caption taken from People Magazine's web site:
Hilary Charges Up
Update! Duff makes a morning pit stop at Starbucks in L.A. Plus: Brad & Angelina, Britney, Nicole Richie and more
Hilary Duff drinks coffee? Amazing! And to think she does it while talking on the phone . . . See, these are the things I need to know about celebrities. Then there was this little number:
SPIRITED GATHERING
After some South of the border fun with girlfriend Karina Smirnoff, Mario Lopez catches up with fellow Dancing with the Stars alum Stacy Keibler Thursday at the Heineken USC Music Video Launch Party at the Paley Center in Beverly Hills.
Hey everyone, it's AC Slater! I'm glad we're still keeping tabs on crappy Saturday morning TV stars from 20 years ago. I wonder what Mr. Belding is up to?
Now, people could utilize their time by reading Newsweek, Time, or some other magazine with stories that actually mattered, but frankly the world is an easier place to live in when the biggest story is Jennifer Love-Hewitt defending herself from the latest fat-accusations. You go girl!
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