Grace Van Cutsem is the three-year-old goddaughter of Prince William, a flower girl at the Royal Wedding, and the heir apparent to the face of every person whose internet status currently reads: OVER IT. She’s also Nobody Puts Baby in a Horner’s Best Part of the Royal Wedding, which is sad, because even though I’ll probably never be deeply invested in anything that requires me to wake up at 4 AM (even if it is supposed to be the Biggest Media Event of Our Times!), I was all but certain Victoria Beckham’s hat had that title on lockdown:
At the onset of “Notes on ‘Camp’,” Susan Sontag pulls a quote from Oscar Wilde’s Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young:
One should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art.
In both cases, this probably explains why I have long adored JWOWW’s mixed-media abstract expressionist piece, Two Cantaloupes in a Banana Hammock:
Anyways, I’m clearly not the only one who sees Oscar Wilde’s camp musings have come to life on Jersey Shore. The Roundabout Theater Company recently produced a series of shorts where the stars of its new production of The Importance of Being Earnest (Santino Fontana and David Furr) quote the cast of Jersey Shore in the only way that could improve perfection: as if Snooki et al. were themselves Oscar Wilde characters. It’s better than inventing the freakin’ poof, so without further ado, “Jersey Shore Gone Wilde”:
Well, the subtext here is infinitely creepier than Beyoncé’s utterly delightful “Move Your Body” (which is what the cool kids are Jazzercising to these days), and we’ve regrettably already seen this bad idea before, but at least future child brides of the world now have a sassy pop anthem all unto their own? OH, THANK GOODNESS.
Seeing as it’s no secret over at this little corner of the interwebs that I love me some Harry Potter (interpret that as you will), I’ll spare you a voluminous amount of word vomit now that there’s a trailer for the concluding chapter of the film series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2. Suffice it to say, I’m not ready for it to be over (obviously), and I don’t know how I feel about the whole 3-D thing (can you blame me?), but whatever! I’m still so excited! How excited? Keep-me-away-from-your-birthday-cake excited! What? This kid knows what I’m talking about:
Look, I’m not saying that I had any doubts after witnessing her work the hell out that Betty Page wig and deliver her lines in the oh-so-exquisitely-camp way she did in the video for Lady Gaga’s “Telephone.” Nor were there really any lingering doubts whatsoever after watching one of 2009’s unheralded gems, Obsessed. All I know is that when America’s fiercest First Lady, Michelle Obama, says, “I want you to make a video promoting exercise in the fight against childhood obesity,” Beyoncé asks, “Can I do it in a dazzling neon explosion of fetching heels and knee-high socks?” And if that’s not further proof that Beyoncé is the best, f*ck me if I know what is.
As you’ll see, he’s very good at what he does, which is ACTING-slash-MODELING:
Leave your aspirations at the door, Nomi Malone, and it looks like you’ve been dropped as Swan Queen, Nina Sayers. There’s always someone younger and hungrier and non-union coming down the stairs behind you, and he has arrived! IT’S BRAD’S TURN!
(On a side note, where did that monologue come from? Was it from Garden State? I feel like it had to have come from Garden State, because yikes! And if it didn’t come from Garden State, well, yiiikes.)
Despite every crack I’ve made about Sandra Lee, I finally hopped on her crazy train and rode into the recipe world called Semi-Homemade. Yes, like some drunk sorority girl dancing atop the bar at an Alpha Delta Pi mixer, I decided last night that I would be try-curious. The only difference was that nobody would be taking me home afterwards for some sloppy on-top-of-the-clothes action followed by a barf in my trash can, but you know what? That’s the difference between food sluts and regular sluts, and I can be okay with that. (Slut Barbie knows what I’m talking about.)
It’s also worth noting that Sandra Lee’s semi-homemade dishes follow her “70/30” philosophy (70% store-bought, 30% fresh), whereas my lazy ass couldn’t be bothered to use anything that hadn’t been sitting atop my cupboard (boxed mashed potato flakes) or in my freezer (a beef pot pie). Hell, even the cheese was pre-shredded, so I guess my shepherd’s pie merely qualifies as “barely homemade.” Whatever. The recipe’s simple, so I encourage you give it a look:
While I recognize that this video’s apparently a few years old, Monday mornings are always the best time for adorable video affirmations, so who are you to really disagree? Take it away, Sadie:
I’m sorry, but if that doesn’t hit you like a roundhouse kick of cuteness and youthful optimism straight to your baby maker, either you’re helpless or my fake ovaries (fauxvaries, if you will) are acting up (blame it on the Coldplay poster) and channeling one of my favorite scenes from Mean Girls:
After all, is there any better a way to serve as a reminder that Jesus died for our sins and was resurrected so the world may have Cadbury Creme Eggs than somebody else’s future topic of therapy? I don’t think so. Happy Easter, y’all!
I’ll admit that I don’t really know much about hockey, save for the fact that it always strikes me as a hilarious excuse to watch grown men on ice skates beat the crap out of each other over a little disc. Is it like some bizarro butch version of Joan Crawford’s The Ice Follies of 1939?
I don’t know.
What I do know, though, is that Joan’s costumes are absolutely glamour-gonzo, a young Jimmy Stewart wants to do things on ice that have never been done before (!), those ice skating numbers look like bargain-basement Busby Berkeley insanity, and why haven’t I seen this movie yet?!? Again, I just don’t know, but what I do know is that this guy LOVES him some hockey:
As I’ve spent a considerable and sufficient amount of time away from properly and consistently tending to this little corner of the internet, and as said considerable and sufficient absence has made me realize has made me realize I must recommit to said little corner of the internet, the following changes shall be enacted in Nobody Puts Baby in a Horner’s bold new era of blogging recommitment:
Nobody Puts Baby in a Horner 