This is what it sounds like when doves predict the future.

Ahhh.... 2012. This is how I feel about you:

20 tweezy Fabulosity

I'm super stoked about this year and have been accidentally writing 2012 for the last three months.  Sorry, check recipients.  


However, 2011 proved to be a good year for me - I got a new kitchen, didn't get pepper-sprayed in the face and the worst thing that happened to me was a bit of urinary grief.  So thank you to all my supportive readers, Cupboards and Brizo for helping with my kitchen, GE for some Kentucky adventures and the architects of the Charlotte airports that made bathrooms so close to the gates.

I expect lots of amazing things to happen this year if I continue on my current trajectory of fabulosity.  I don't make resolutions but I thoroughly enjoy that warm and fuzzy feeling you get from new beginnings like when you start a new book or buy new underwear.  I must admit I've got a pretty warm and fuzzy feeling about the upcoming year and it isn't related to Charlemagne sitting on my newly-underweared lap. 

Here are some awesome events I expect to happen this year:

January 

I'll write a post about Tangerine Tango - Pantone's new color for 2012 - but it won't be as good as last year's.  I'll lose a follower because of its lameness but gain a few new ones after a well-placed double entendre.  Hooray for the sauce!

My instagram addiction will reach its zenith with a beautiful picture of the Tennessee landscape and then immediately crash and burn when I post a picture of my breakfast.  

Someone will kick me in the throat for saying 20-tweezy.

February

I'll be super excited to add some faux fur accents to my wardrobe this season but my fashion sense being what it is, my efforts will go horribly awry and someone will mistake me for a yeti.  My wounds will heal but I'll always have a limp.

I'll be exceedingly happy when my inbox overflows with potential matches after setting up an online dating profile.  Confused as to why all my matches end up crying in the fetal position, I learn that I accidentally set up my profile on Christian Mingle.  

March

After watching an episode of Good Eats with Alton Brown, I will be inspired to grind against a pillow try to incorporate parsnips into my cooking repertoire.  After a few awkward moments in the produce section and some disastrous attempts in the kitchen, I'll finally have a mediocre understanding of cooking with parsnips.  VICTORY!

I will also accomplish a DIY project I've been planning since Christmas.  I will make it much more complicated than necessary but it turn out awesomely and be repinned on Pinterest 7 bazillion times.  I will make arrangements to have that fact carved onto my gravestone.

We ain't slowin down yet...

April

I will be fucking awesome this month.  When it stops raining....

While it is raining, I'll be able to design some super fantastic merchandise for the blog that you could purchase for very reasonable prices and give as gifts to lots of people who will think you're the most awesome gift giver in the world.  

May  

I will receive a picture of someone wearing a ModernSauce tshirt.  It will be their mugshot but it won't make me any less happy.

I will write a hilarious post about monkeys and postmodern parking decks in Southern cities that will cause several readers to literally urinate on themselves.

Siri will remind me to renew my restraining orders against the few Christian Mingle matches that didn't end in tears.

June

My stalking of tile stores in anticipation of my future bathroom renovation will finally prove fruitful when I find the tile of my dreams.  I will cry tears of joy.  More tears will follow when I learn the price. 

The warm weather and my selective memory will inspire me to plant some new things around the Ranch.  My optimism knows no bounds and it will look beautiful!!

The thrift store proves to be particularly bountiful this month. My bank account does the happy dance.

July
FIREWORKS!

The new plants are dead (possibly from errant fireworks) but I don't care because I'm wrapped up in True Blood again even though it continues to get shittier and shittier.

I will have a brief and curiously intense love affair with the color combination of plum, currant and citron yellow.

My years long search for comfy yet affordable chairs for my living room will finally drive me to insanity and I will make guests sit on old tires I found on the side of the road. 

August 

Using large amounts of wine, I will entice my neighborhood gays to scatter large rocks and shrubs in the house to bring the outdoors in because it's so fucking hot around here I can't stand to go outdoors.  Once I sweep up the dirt the Ranch will have that great Southern California feel I've always wanted.


MARGARITAS!!!!

I finally made it through a Pure Barre class without crying!  My ass looks fantastic and I celebrate by bingeing on funnel cakes.  Powdered sugar is gawd's delicious dandruff.

Still going saucy...

September

Being that this is my 32nd birthday month I will sparkle from the inside out!  People will stop me in the streets and have me bless their babies, my milkshake will bring all the rabid cats to the yard and I'll leave a snail trail of glitternaise wherever I go.  Being in your thirties is amazing!  

I will buy myself the most awesomenest shoes ever created.  They will make my legs look like dangerously long sex columns.  But they hurt too much to wear them out of the house so no one will ever see them.  My feet hurt just typing this sentence.  But it's worth it.  For the dangerous sex columns.  

October 
I will spend 5 seconds in ecstasy thinking I have won the lottery after playing the same lucky numbers for the past 7 years: my body measurements.  However, I quickly realize I am one number off because yet again my bust just doesn't measure up.  I should switch that measurement to the length of my dangerous sex column legs...

I secretly begin planning for Christmas decorations.  So excited!!  Visions of Jonathan Adler ornaments dance in my head.

November

I will find a side table for my living room so glorious I will have a decorgasm right there on the spot making the junk store clerk very uncomfortable.  

The blog is really starting to get some traction and I will gain a few new readers taking my total page views to 87!  Fuck yeah!


MOTHERFUCKING PIE!!!

December:

I will finally overdose on glitter this holiday season but it will be worth it despite a scary few minutes in the ER.

I will spend my Christmas in an eggnog bath reminiscing about how badassical 2012 was and doodling hearts around myself and the next year in my trapper keeper.

Come and get me, 2013.

I can't wait to make up the awesomeness that will happen during that year!  I will speculate that there will be even more funnel cakes and fabulosity.  

Possibly less Prince though...

Today's post was part of Let's Blog Off - where a gang of bloggers all write about a similar topic - in this case 20 tweezy.  *neck block*  Make sure to check out what everyone else is looking forward to in the new year.  They might have better plans but I guarantee I have better gifs.

Honoring America's greatest treasure: National Food Pornologist Day

Thanksgiving is a day to recognize the what really makes our country great - the food pornologists.  Put away your shirts with buttons, adorn yourself in your dressiest sweat pants, let that muffin top loose and prepare your reserve stash of napkins because the gravy is about to runneth over, motherfuckers! 

Onto your pants.

[Insert timely Monica Lewinsky joke]

You holiday food whore, you.

I love Thanksgiving not only because it is the gateway drug to Christmas - my favoritest time of the year - but because it is an exercise in logistics.  Fuck portion control and the 'no thanks, I've had enough" attitude of quitters and fascist assholes, there is a science to properly forcing Gastronomic Olympic-sized amounts of food into your body in a way that will allow you to do it over and over again.  

For a day every November, I'm like a binge eating scientist for the ole US of A.  A Six Sigma black belt of food-to-stomach engineering.  It takes a master's degree in physics to figure out exactly how much food I can shove in my face hole to maximize repeated deliciousity.  Fortunately I have all of those qualifications because this is America gawddamit!   A magic land of opportunity where I can be a whore for casseroles AND a super smart scientist of food things because of feminism and all.  It's called progress.   

And according to manifest destiny I WILL look yonder to the end of that table and annihilate every casserole in my path towards total and utter gluttonous success.  I will shed my horribly restrictive shackles (pants) and crawl along the table righteously and gloriously over the hillbilly mountains of squash casserole, past the ashes of Sherman's destruction and the shallow remnants of gluey mashed potatoes while I hum the Battle Hymn of the Republic and salute thee, oh gravy.  

Past the carcasses of our fallen brethren and a deep-fried fowl and onward through the plundered fields of green bean casserole I will stake my claim just like Tom Cruise in Far and Away - that documentary about American pioneer Scientologists.

On a covered wagon through the western desserts of crumbly cornbread dressing washed down with cranberry sauce, I will dry hump that empty casserole dish hard enough enough to give it smallpox because I'm also a medical doctor for the day and that's exactly how that works according to the time I spent in 8th grade playing Oregon Trail.

Finally, to the far reaches of our golden coast of the dining table where Paula Deen awaits me with ooey gooey pumpkin cakes and a stick of butter she will annoint our naked bodies with while we writhe ceremoniously to the beat of Native American drums and gourds filled with dried beans played by Taylor Swift.  A bald eagle will drop bits of pie into our upturned mouths.  Mouths hungry for tradition and sticky sweet goodness - desires born of a world built upon cans of sweetened condensed milk and cheese logs.  

We will not stop with the ceremonious writhing until all of the offerings have been consumed to honor Marthia, the gawdess of hearth and insulin production and Amazonitus, the gawd of Black Friday deals.  Our frenzied ritual will end in the greatest orgasmisplosion of fireworks that our founding fathers Abraham Lincoln and the baby jeezus have ever seen.  

With Reddi Wip on top.

What I'm saying is, I am rather partial to Thanksgiving fare and can't wait to finally cook some holiday meals in my new kitchen.  

Here is one thing I will cook in it for National Ford Pornologist Day:

I almost creamed my sweat pants when I saw this recipe for cream-braised Brussels sprouts via the always delicious Orangette.

It's better if the cream comes from the teat of Marthia but sometimes it's hard to find.  

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.  Hug a food pornologist this week.  For America.  

But not too tight - they might explode and then that would be a waste of science.

Today, everyone from the Let's Blog Off gang - that rag tag group of bloggers that convene every two weeks - is talking about Thanksgiving.  Go here to be a voyeur on everyone else's thoughts about National Food Pornologist Day.

Marking Your Territory

As we lay in the smoldering ash heap of the American Dream of homeownership, let's not forget why we all did this.  THE MONEY!!!!!  

Ahahahahaha!  I'm kidding.  We never had any money.  Only good credit and the twinkle of overextended dreams in our eyes that burned with the intensity of a thousand suns.  Suns which are now just dying embers in that ash heap that we huddle around for warmth because we can't afford the gas bill this month.  

Ahahahahaha! I'm exaggerating.  I can afford the gas if I only get my hair done every 8 weeks instead of 6.  SACRIFICES!!!

I don't know why y'all bought a house but I bought mine because I couldn't stand the kitchen and bathroom in my apartment so I went somewhere with an even uglier kitchen and bathroom.  And paid money for it!  Also, buying a home is what you do when you’re an adult after finally giving up your life of crime and buying cereal solely based on its fiber contents. 

Or trying to pretend you’re an adult by covering up all of your previous failures and heartaches with a few shallow coats of paint and new tile.

Stray paint footprint from a renovation via emma's design blogg

Not enough hugs growing up?  Buy a house and give all your love to it!  That'll show 'em! *sob, sob, sob*  I'd rather work out my childhood traumas on real estate rather than birthing my own children and ruining their lives.  Considering how often I kill plants, my unborn children are lucky.  I love you too much to actually give birth to you, non-existent babies!  You're WELCOME.  Now excuse me while I slowly kill this bush with my unending compassion and nurturing neglect.  

Because I OWN this bitch.  

And because I own it I've scraped grime out of the cracks in the floors with dental tools, torn down the ugliest wallpaper man has ever designed until my eyes bled (probably because of the asbestos), hosed down the ceiling to scrape the popcorn off and then washed the filth that dripped down the walls (probably from the years of chain-smoking), stripped paint until I thought I was going to die (probably because of the fumes), painted almost every inch of this house more than once, dug holes in the yard until I almost passed out (probably because it was an old buried brick wall and not a root) and stripped, drilled, nailed and screwed countless other details in this place that are way less sexy than the words stripping, drilling, nailing and screwing might imply.  But this place still never felt like home.  It was familiar and comfortable, but not Home.

Of course, during all that work the pervert ghost of the former of occupant was still patrolling the hallway so it was hard to feel like you're at Home when you think someone is watching you change clothes.  And most of that work was (is) spent fixing his DIY bullshit.  I wasn't making the Ranch my home - I was unmaking it HIS.  And getting dressed in the closet.  Because ghosts can't see through walls. Obviously.

This is how you do a real height chart.  via dolescum

But somehow over the last year or so there was a shift.  The ghosts of the past went away and I didn't kill as many plants.  Most likely it was related to the exorcism of the kitchen or the fact that I invested in succulents.  Both are likely possibilities.  

But it wasn’t even the new kitchen – it was the damage I did to the new kitchen and everywhere else.  The accidental knife gouges on the butcher block counters, the one door trim that I painted like shit but was too exhausted to fix and still it sits, the spot on the hardwood where I dripped paint stripper and that corner on the new kitchen door jamb that Charlemagne rubs her face on every day before dinner that has left a dirty smudge but I just don’t have the heart to wipe off.  Partly because I can't believe a clean all-white cat can make so much grossness and people should probably study it and because kitty filth is kinda the cutest.

Except for hedgehog filth.  I bet that's pretty damn cute.

Home is mine.  Or Charlemagne's depending on what part of the door jamb we're currently discussing...  These aren't the things I've purchased, but the way I inhabit the things I have.  Home could be a house or a voice or a body, a car, a job or a community.  

Ownership isn't a necessity although it definitely helps for the tax credits, but merely a feeling that you were able to put your mark on something.  Maybe someone.  Perhaps it's even put its mark on you.  Like a little knife gouge or animal pee right in your heart.  Awww....

Home is where you rub your face on the wall and dry hump the sink, leave footprints and chart your growth and one day scrape your own grime out of your bathroom.  Just generally mark a territory with your own sweet brand of personal stench.  And nobody washes it off.  

Until you die and someone buys your house and they clean up your filth while you haunt them and watch them sleep.  That’s the circle of life for renovating.

Taking part in another Let's Blog Off blog carnival today where internet people ask what a home really is.  Skeedaddle over here to read the other participants.  If you do I'll rub my face on you!

They don't make sunscreen for your soul.

So as of last week I’m now a 31 year old specimen of humanity (yay!) and still going to keep the “freshly 30” in my bio because I’m only 1 year through with this decade and that’s only like 7% of my thirties which is still small enough to count as fresh.  

I'm like milk that is no where near its expiration date!  Well, I should stay away from milk analogies because I drink almond milk now (FUCK YOU CASEIN!) and that shit lasts forever so I should change my bio to say “fresh like 3 week old almond milk and just as nutty!” [Insert nut and sauce joke here]

Unfortunately it looks like your math skills don’t get better with age...  BUT other things are definitely improving. When I hit 30 I discovered that the fear and anxiety of my youth were on a dimmer and I got my metaphorical hands out of their metaphorical boxing gloves and learned how to turn that switch down.  And NOT how I used to turn it down with booze or gummi bears or booze-soaked gummi bears (although those are still rather nice from time to time).

Last year I was finally able to conquer my drive-thru bank teller phobia and now I’m confidently depositing checks and picking up prescriptions like a boss.  Fuckin BOO. YAH.  (Ok but erry time I still say a little prayer/warning to the undergound pneumatic tube monster to not fuck up my Gringotts deposit.)  

This year I’m going bigger and badder than evil pneumatic tube goblins.  I’m turning inward.  *shudder*  I’m coming after YOU, Self!  And my boxing gloves are off in case you didn’t read two paragraphs before this one.  And I’m going to be proactive because apparently not all of my crippling neuroses were left behind in my twenties - it’s a dimmer after all, not an off switch.  

I bet the same electrician that fucked up my undercabinet lighting also installed my emotional wiring.  Asshole.

I’m already doing good - seems like forever ago I needed a shot of liquid courage, an hour’s worth of gangsta rap or a Nepalese strength mantra courtesy of Oprah and the Moon Goddess Emporium to find enough swagger to get me to mow my front yard in plain sight of gawd and everybody because I KNOW my neighbors were just judging my lawnmower tracks and state of my yard work clothes or... or... just looking at me.  *GASP*  The horror!

I think that person in the car just drove by and looked at me - for the love of gawd how will I go on???!!! *hides behind holly bush*

Rockwell, where are you when I need a good theme song?

Why are you looking at me Mr. BibleThumper??  Do you really keep sending me your missionaries to question my eternal salvation or are they secretly measuring my height/weight for the correct amount of roofies you’ll need.  No I do NOT want to see the new paneling in your bonus room!

Hey, keep your eyes in your own yard Mrs. SmugPansy. I see you over there in your church slacks and fancy hat on your hands and knees taking the scissors to your grass edge - do NOT think I won’t decide to quit cutting my grass just to spite you and your fellow rose bush retirees.  I’ve seen Hot Fuzz so I know what a group of seniors can do when their community aesthetics are threatened but y’all go ahead and come at me.  I’m tipsy and been listening to Crime Mobb for an hour so knuck if you buck, grandma.  Knuck if you buck.

After several years it appears my neighbors will not be bucking and are most likely not sex offenders or serial killers.  So now I just need oversized sunglasses, a hat, a long-sleeved shirt buttoned up to the neck and ski pants to feel normal while I do yardwork and protect my tender soul from their stares and possible honking.  Progress!  

And if I can conquer all that without getting trapped in Mr. BibleThumper’s newly panneled Bonus Room of Depravity I think I have the mental fortitude to be able to give up a little bit of control and walk into the daylight in other areas.

There is nothing douchier than taking a picture of yourself for your own blog.

Well helloooo, interwebs.  I’m Lacy.  You might know me as Madame Sunday, the HBIC of this here blog.  My turn-ons include long walks around Denver, eating mashed potatoes without wearing pants, fucking shitty contractors in the face, keepin it real and privacy.  I know that last part may come as a surprise since several times a week you read my most secretest inner monologue about saucy things like my bladder, other lady person parts, my shithole house and its devil magic, imaginary monsters and slew of other possibly embarrassing facts about my life.  I’m totally fine with all that - if anything, the intricacies of lady person parts imaginary monsters really aren’t discussed enough in this world.

It turns out that having an online pseudonym is really great for sharing your shameful love for cheap alcohol while still protecting your privacy.  It’s not that anything the Madame does is different from me - sometimes “she’s” more me than me - but I ain’t dumb!  Real life wants to get all up in my biznasty sometimes and we can’t be having that.  

But what the hell. Maintaining my special military-grade privacy doesn't require a pseudonym. Fabulosity might but we'll worry about that later. My name will now forever be associated with cheap alcohol and I’ll just have to live with that.  Sorry, real life job/family/friends/future self.  

It’s a good thing the 7% of my thirties helped me develop a glittery layer of over-sized sunglasses, long-sleeved shirt buttoned up to my neck and ski pants to protect my shy soul bits from the scariness of internet freaks.  Not you, the other internet freaks.  

However, Mark Zuckerberg can kiss my cartoon ass and you still can’t google me and get any results anywhere - bwahahahaha!  Except if you work at Google and then you know EVERYTHING about me and all my monsters and WebMD searches but I’d really rather not think about that...


Sometimes those monsters are real and they live underground, in your front yard or in a computer server somewhere cataloging your every interweb move. I've got my eyes - cartoon and otherwise - on you too, Big Brother!
And don't get it twisted - I'm still the Madame of everyone's favorite shithole ranch of amazing awesomeness. Now you just know for sure that I don't have a humpback. (Anymore.)


And in case you were wondering...

I decided to get all exposed today for the Let's Blog Off blogging challenge.  This week everyone was supposed to discuss their views on privacy and I totally hijacked that topic for my own selfish and nefarious ways.  Mwahahahaha!  Make sure to read all the other participant's commentaries about privacy because they will probably discuss important newsworthy things and not conspiracy theories and monsters.  

Happy Fourth of July where the finalists will get a chance to compete at Fashion Week.

While the rest of you Sousa-playing 'Mericans were out settin shit on fiyah and celebrating your 'Mericanexiness the Madame was, well, kinda doing the same thing with some peeps at the Ranch.  No Expectations style, of course.  There WAS a crock pot involved for chrissake so how classy could it be?  But for our festivities replace Sousa with the Hoarders marathon on in the background and the only fiyah we had was the look in my eye when the peach pie came out.  It burned with an intensity that could have dwarfed a million suns.  

I like pie.

I also like culinary experimentation and vodka.  Oddly enough the two frequently appear together and on this Fourth of July in this year of Divine Fabulosity 2011, the Pomoj was born.

The Pomoj (po-MAHJ) is a mixture of Pomegranate vodka, POM juice and OJ which just happened to be the only drinkable things in my fridge mixed together in some combination to your liking.  I couldn't even tell you the ratio but you really can't go wrong.  So pleasing was it to the taste buds attendees were inspired to style a quick photo.  The new kitchen does that to people.  

The resulting picture was so pleasing to the eyeballs that the first annual ModSauce Design and Styling Competition of Amazing Awesomeness was born.  

Using the cocktail and whatever objet d'art is nearby each person had to make magic happen:

Nice use of a mini bottle of Crown Royal - keeps it classy - and the greenery provides movement and energy.

The simple yet elegant composition could have only come from the architect in the group.

We need to hurry up because the ice is melting and I'm thirsty...

This is the Madame's entry as you can see from the Venuto head making a shy appearance, the plastic trailer in the background and it's googley-eyed shell animal inhabitant. 

I was drinking the Pomoj at this point...

However I think the real winner of the impromptu quickfire challenge is this stunning display of Americana - the booze and fireworks; the delight of colors and contrasting textures; the juxtaposition of classical, kitsch and modern.  Perfection captured in an iPhone.   

We must be all dorks of the highest order because this was the best thing to happen on any Fourth of July celebration I've been to in a long time that didn't actively involve gunpowder.  Some people like to incorporate the usual family traditions and heritage into their holiday celebrations but I like to save that for Christmas and Thanksgiving where I can use it to torture myself and my family with painful memories.  Whatever other traditions that were once forced on me fizzled like a dying sparkler used to write out raunchy words on the night sky.  Except for traditions that actually included sparklers. I still like those at ALL holidays.  Makes Arbor Day that much more fun.  And raunchy.

Who needs traditions when you have a Pomoj, a camera phone and a few minutes of free time?  Apparently I still do because there was no stopping our creativity and it was so fun we've decided to make it a tradition for next year.  For America.  

Spurred by success in the kitchen we continued with our new holiday non-traditional tradition elimination challenge and the rules are:  1 shared item.  5 minutes of styling.  5 photos.  Unlimited opportunities. 

Good thing I have so much junk at my house for styling purposes.  In this case a weird blue cloud vase with golden neck that everyone was now forced to use in this made up competition.  O beautiful for spacious skies and all...

"Preexisting Condition"

Tortured yet innocent American soul in a white prison cell possibly run by the Iranian guard or kitteh taking a nap underneath the watchful eye of a Jonathan Adler vase?  You decide.  But the asymmetry keeps me off balance in a good way.  Vern Yip wants to spoon that slumbering kitty.

"Grounded"

The snail, his colorful fantasy trapped in a cold glass box, can only dream of a life far beyond the clouds to a world where he is a ram racing with the speed of the wind.  A magical world with basil so big it'll make Tom Colicchio have to change his pants.  Just like on Pandora.

I need to quit buying so much shit.

"The Story of O (as in Omigawd those shoes hurt so much and I can't wear them outside of the house)"

Looking like she came straight from the Real Simple School of Styling is your favorite saucy lady person with a collection of blue things so deeply insightful as to make your ovaries explode.  Those are the harvested eggs in the jar up front.  Is it a commentary on the box (or lady sphere) that we force gender into or just a dyed-to-match orgasmisplosion of boring?  Nina Garcia looks unimpressed.

"vine not included"

A stark portrayal of the nature of catalog life in this country, "vine not included" is a lonely look into America's spending habits.  Or is it a story about the phallic thrust of commercialism in this country as it ultimately falls limp on the consumer.  Good gawd not another Pottery Barn catalog in the mail, shit!  You just killed Kelly Wearstler AND unfortunate amounts of trees.

No winner was determined in this elimination challenge but feel free to vote for your favorite in the comments.  The winner gets another Pomoj, a chance to fantasy dry hump Jonathan Adler and a signed picture of the blue cloud vase.  I'll sign it, not the vase - that would be stupid.  The rest of the losers get 5 minutes of uninterrupted face time with Michael Kors as he looks down his nose in disgust.

I think in the generous spirit of not forcing traditions on people and just letting them happen organically I'm going to start a ModernSauce competition where I force all of my readers to use one item - an apple or decapitated Barbie Doll, you know, things everyone has - and make you ghetto style it using shit you already have in your house.  If enough people send in pictures I'll post it on the blog for public consumption, ridicule and shaming.  How else do you properly show your love for the old US of A (or this blog) than by making a glossy editorial of weird shit you've spent your money on?!  

In the case of a tie, a winner will be determined by RuPaul after a runway walk.  It's the most American thing I can possibly think of.

The Let's Blog Off gang - hooligans who twice monthly offer up common topics for us bloggers to get chatty about - are talking all about traditions today.  So was I as it seems.  Not on purpose but it worked out that way.  I just go where the Pomoj takes me.  To read all about what other people are thinking about traditions go check out the rest of the participants here.  

ModernSauce: (Not) edited for content and formatted to fit your screen.

I think sometimes that if this Madame didn't have crushing shyness or break out into really awkward (and oddly enough, sometimes racist) impressions when put on the spot that I could have a pretty kick ass television show.  I don't know what channel it would be on (pay per view?) but I know it would have to allow for filthy language and compromising situations.  Corporate sponsors would be the orange Sour Patch Kids and Tanqueray.

Tony Sinclair shows you how it's done.

This show cinematic experience that will define a nation would be one that I would host with a revolving menagerie of all my friends, tweeps and blog pals.  Kinda like the Charlie Sheen podcast or Uncle Luke's Freak Show but less classy.  But since this madame also hates having all of your gawddamned judgey eyes looking at me I'll have to host it in disguise like an old Sally Jessy Raphael guest - bad wig, scarf over head, sunglasses and hooker makeup with my voice altered.  Where in the world is Madame Sandiego?  We'd start each episode with a round table discussion about the week's events wearing pajamas and two martinis in.  Did you see The Judds this week?  Girrrrlll, I think Naomi and Kim Zolciak need to go into biznasty together with the combined forces of their elegant style.  


The main segment will be a scavenger hunt through a Hoarders house.  Items on the list might include a tiara (or a toddler), Karl Pilkington's head, Tom Selleck's mustache, something you'd find on Pawn Stars, a shitty Southern accent by anyone on True Blood, any of Oprah's favorite things and possibly this:

Bonus points if you uncover one of the Sister Wives holding a giant stack of coupons.  You better hope you get the youngest one because it might be to your advantage during the final weigh in at the end of the challenge.  If there's a tie it will be resolved by finding out who can smize the best.  The winner receives the entire series of The Golden Girls on VHS.


The cooking portion would just be my guests and I eating tacos and watching this:

But it ain't all glitter and fun exploitation of people less fortunate than us - we'd keep real journalism alive by throwing in important news updates every 10 minutes like traffic in your area, debating whether the European Central Bank's use of higher staff inflation forecasts is really justification for raising interest rates, checking in on weinergate

You've seen his bulge.  And I know you love it.

and getting weather updates from Kim Kardashian's uterus (cloudy with a chance of whore). 


During the travel segment I'd get to travel to exotic places all over the world to explore new cultures (just like the cast of Jersey Shore) and tour architectural destinations and saucy interiors.  And ghost hunt in them.  With Chip Coffey and some pyschic kids.

We'd have the best time finding the White Witch, Chip.

Then I'd meet Andrew Zimmern to watch him eat the local cuisine while I just stick to the jar of peanut butter I packed with me.  Or not if there are scallops involved.

You so nasty, Daddy.  I love it.

I'd like to offer practical advise as well so Kenny fucking Powers can give us tips on how to throw a fastball or I'll include a short segment by Brini Maxwell on crafting and how to appropriately accessorize for all us fancy ladies.

At the end of each show I'll have some final thoughts on fabulosity just with you and me where I read you a poem I wrote after downing a bottle of wine, do some interpretive dance to the Law&Order sound repeated on a continuous loop or just talk in depth about rainbows.  Whatever is most relevant to my soul at the time. 


So until this show of amazing awesomeness gets made my favorite show will have to be It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia.

(That's just this week.  Obviously my favorite show of all time is Star Trek: The Next Generation.  Duh.  Ahahahaha just kidding - it's Perfect Strangers.)


Go check out the other favorite guilty pleasure tv shows of the rest of the Let's Blog Off participants here!  If none of them say my fake show I will be really pissed off.