Volcano of Love

I'm starting a vh1 dating show and the concept is as follows:

I find about a thousand mentally ill twenty-somethings with sexxxxxxxxxxxxy bodies and bad attitudes.

Now this next part is important because it involves you: AMERICA gets to choose what twenty eight douche bags wind up as contestants through texting and online voting that costs you money. Thanks, by the way, because that money will be used to further my secular gay fascist agenda.

They all go to a house in Malibu or wherever

NO WAIT they all go to a house on top of a live volcano and compete for the love of Amy Greenhouse.

The judges will be: Tyra Banks, Daisy, Heidi Klum, Sister Patterson, New York, Rahne Sinclair, Brett Michaels, Tila Tequilla, Bubbles, Ricky Lake, Ricky Rachman, Richard Mulcahy, Tim Gunn, Nina Garcia, That scary military guy from Celebrity Fat Camp or whatever it was called, and last but not least Lydia Lunch.

At the end of each episode Lydia Lunch brutalizes whoever she wants regardless of who the judges vote out and throws them in the volcano.

And yes, this entire show exists for the sole purpose of seeing Lydia Lunch throw Brett Michaels into a volcano...oh yeah and also to find true love IN A WAY.

ohhhh wait!

I almost forgot about this.

have a nice day.

what about my vagina?

Jake and I are renting the Friday the 13th remake tonight and I'm expecting a lot of "what about my vagina?" moments. Are you familiar with the concept? It's kind of like a bizzaro version of the much more sanitary "Here I am!" moment that pseudo-celebrities get when they make appearances in crap.
Specifically, the "what about my vagina?" moment refers to when a female character in a movie/book/play/comic book/tv show/basically anywhere that starts out soft-spoken, nerdy, and/or fully clothed (usually even including a hat and glasses), suddenly or gradually remembers that they have a vagina and therefor need to get out of control sexxxxxxxxxxy. This need to sex it out is so powerful it can correct their vision (making glasses obsolete) and raise the temperature around them to 90 degrees (resulting in removal of clothing and sweat-soaked t-shirts regardless of whether or not it is actually warm where they are).

In order to keep myself from entering into a rage when these moments occur, I always try and figure out what the writer thinks is going through the woman's mind as she transforms. I think for Friday the 13th it'd go something like this:

you know what? FUCK IT. I'm all full of boobs and vagina and someones trying to kill me so I might as well let it all flop around town for a while. UGH I'm really getting distracted by my glasses and hat and shirt and seriously, having good vision and a warm hat is SLOWING ME DOWN. If I'm gonna survive this I can't be weighed down by all this fucking FABRIC and EYESIGHT. I Know! I'll get soaking wet and then crawl under a car or something but OH NO I wont fit under a car with my hair in a ponytail! I better take that scrunchy out and mess my hair up a little. Maybe the killer will be my boyfriend.

(Then she gets murdered.)