The Trove

The personals section of Craigslist is, well, probably the most fun and depraved resource on the Internet. Here are some choice posts!

19 year olds panites college girl needs cash young - w4m - 19 (brooklyn)

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Reply to: pers-824675260@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2008-09-02, 10:34PM EDT




i will be selling my used panties.. 25 a pair and no i wont meet in person


mail only 25 a pair buy 2 get 2 free...

The  mispelling is KEY.

LETS GO TO BED RIGHT - NEED A PHONE WHORE - m4w (anywhere)

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Reply to: pers-824753779@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2008-09-02, 11:46PM EDT

Seeking an absolute slut. A woman who will not hold back. Tell me who you've fucked, how you did it. Can you tell me what slutty things you've done? Share with me your filthy fantasies, and taboo desires. Nothing off limits, have a dirty mind, and an even dirtier mouth... The more twisted the better.. My cock is hard thinking about it. I need to talk to you NOW SLUT - send an email - you know you have too.

Ha. Ha! Now for the winner:

Ok I will admit it, I have nothing to lose ..... - 50

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Reply to: pers-824685282@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2008-09-02, 10:42PM EDT

I am a breast man........

• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 824685282

Please! Top these.

Ratspotting

Hello lover. I've moved out of my isolation chamber parents' house and into my own place Manhattan! Cue the SATC music and make me a cosmo with extra shoes and handbags in it!

New York is the funniest place ever, the Subway being the epicenter of ridiculous. There are rats all over the tracks. I've started looking forward to seeing them and counting them, like I do with sheep in my sleep or beardy men with skinnypants in Williamsburg. Maybe I can turn that into an Olympic sport! Take that, rhythmic gymnastics.

Last night when I was riding home from Brooklyn at 3 am, this rat was determined to eat a plastic spoon lying in the tracks. I was entertained for hours (or at least that's how long it felt like the train was taking) and I was also hammered and using a dirty column for support. Keeping it classy, always.

I also saw this man almost get swallowed by the train door. He was wearing short-shorts and his legs and torso were caught as the polite woman on the overhead speaker calmly instructed him to step out of the way of the doors when they are closing. He dropped his coffee all over the floor and pried it open with the help of some man. He also cursed a lot when it was over and had this huge grime mark all over his leg, sort of like the polite overhead speaker lady had given him a kiss with her special lipstick! It reminded me of the time in DC when I ran to catch the metro and just stuck my hand in the closing door, assuming that it would automatically open, like an elevator. Instead, it started driving away, with my hand! I yelled "No!" and took my hand back. Thank God! I've been using my hand a lot ever since.

Hillary Clinton's Speech Was All That and a Bag of Chips

Hillary Clinton essentially said everything she needed to tonight during her speech at the DNC in Denver. It was miraculous! Especially with all of the mounting tension around her supporters and that strange P.U.M.A. group that Slate's Dahlia Lithwick compared to a bunch of Miss Havisham's and Lady Macbeth's and other Mad Women in the Attic. Hillary basically slammed John McCain hard-core:

"It's fitting that George Bush and John McCain will be appearing together in the Twin Cities because it's awfully hard to tell them apart."

Bah! Also, she made a pun--which may have received a bit too much enthusiasm from the crowd--that involved one of my favorite Chevy Chase, MD-based lady-franchises:

"To my supporters, to my champions -- to my sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits -- from the bottom of my heart: Thank you."

The speech was impressive, and I think it will make things easier for Bill to take the stage tomorrow night. But hah! The second the speech was over and Hillary's epic Harriet Tubman metaphor was finished and awkwardly lauded,  Chris Matthews, the largest Hillary Clinton supporter of all time, came on TV and starting patronizing her and her followers, calling them "recalcitrant"! I also discovered tonight that Mr. Matthews attends my church, too! Strange how the unvierse works...

Weight-Lossploitation

Yay! For Alessandra Stanley's NYT piece about how freak-showy and misleading motivational weight-loss shows are! These programs carry all the same characteristics of their reality competition kin. The inherent masochism of mind and body, the sinful temptation of food, the dread scale of brutal honesty!

But there's also something smarmy about how weight-loss shows garner such popularity by catering to  our national epidemic's demographic. Many times shows like "The Biggest Loser" and "Celebrity Fit Club" can get by on their pious do-goodery: these men and women will die if they don't seek help soon. But for audiences to stay tuned  an entire season, there must be miraculous results, many times unrelated to extreme diet and exercise. Sure, contestants of a certain weight will naturally and rapidly shed pounds from week to week, but at the same time, there's plastic surgery mixed in there, along with support and free time that many don't have to spare. It reminds me of "The Swan"--Fox's soulless journey to fix people who are chronically ugly and awkward with radical cosmetic surgeries. The message was more transparent back then: it takes money to become prettier, and hence, a functioning member of society. I guess you can't blame them for being upfront, though.

Tropic Thunder's Potential Hilarity Overshadowed by Weird Cameos

Because of a location mishap--I forgot where a movie theater, which has the street address in its name, was situated--I ended up seeing Tropic Thunder last night, mainly for the sublime Robert Downey Jr. It's a film-within-a-film, following an unlikely crew of Hollywood clichés trying to shoot a wartime novel adaptation on location in Vietnam. The first five minutes (a prologue of mock trailers, which include Jack Black playing all seven fat-suited members of a farting, corpulent family, named "The Fatties") had me laugh-crying.

The middle and end drag, though, as the plot falls back on the action sequences and escape-movie fraternity it serves to mock. Tropic Thunder is hilarious at its most over-the-top. But it seems to shrink back as it progresses. That, and Tom Cruise and Matthew McConaubong are poorly cast as greedy, disingenuous Hollywood executives. Sorry, but Cruise plays a horrible Jew--it takes more than prosthetic chest and arm hair. His "with-it" hip-hop dance sequences are the kind that should only surface at large family functions and seldom elsewhere. I was sadly embarrassed for him, and I could sense half the audience was feeling similarly. And McConaughey's character rests solely on a flaccid joke about getting his client (Stiller) TiVo, which gratingly endures throughout.

Downey Jr.'s black-face and Ben Stiller's "Simple Jack" (who has been the spark of much real-life controversy already) are examples of where the Tinseltown's ludicrousness shines. The rest of the movie has consistent laughs, but perhaps falls prey to its own indictments.

Morning Poop Watch

I found myself in an actual shitstorm yesterday morning at the house that I'm dogsitting at. So last night, I tethered Lucy (the ugly, goat-eyed one) to the leg of a table near her bed, where, ostensibly, she would never dare poop.

Not so! Again!

Dogs are creatures of habit, a conniving, barbaric habit at that. When I arrived this morning, it was true, Lucy had not pooped in her bed per se... she just shat all around it. And apparently--judging by one of the volcano-like mounds of a dump that was left--she also stuck her big fat paws all up in it, the recalcitrant, finger-painting kindergartner that she is!

Oh well. I was actually happy with the situation seeing that a) there wasn't as much poop as before, b) the remains were more #2 than #3, and c) it was all in one, easy-to-manage location. Also, the owners are coming home today.

I fed the dogs, let them out (where Lucy had very little business to take care of, obviously), and then tethered the plump pooch back to the table legs from whence she came.

Crursewords!

Yesterday, Ron Rosenbaum got really cantankerous at Slate when he wrote a three-page long (it really should've been one) indictment of the crossword and sudoku craze(!) that is infecting our nation. Ok, so it's a humor piece, but seriously:

"What gets me is the dumbing down, the narrowing of the notion of "puzzle." People, there are real puzzles out there ranging from the metaphysical ("Why is there something rather than nothing?") to the physical (How did consciousness arise from unconscious material?) to the moral (When do human rights begin—at conception, birth, or somewhere in between, and why?) and historical (Was CIA counter-spy James Angleton right about the "mole" who may or may not have changed history?), the geopolitical (NATO membership for Ukraine?) and the cultural (Why did they cancel Mystery Science Theater 3000, the smartest show on television?)."

Analytical! Obviously, no one is really objective about crosswords puzzles or sudoku, since you either hate or love them--the latter for me, please! Let's just agree to disagree then...

Music Treats: Lykke Li

I love the Cardigans. They're one of the most versatile bands of the last decade--no really! their albums are consistently changing, in really interesting ways--and lead singer Nina Persson always has this... melodramatic waif-voice? It all works.

I sort of love Peter Bjorn and John, too. Their last album was just fun and innovative, and a song of theirs was used to sell gay jeans. What can I say? I'm easily swayed.

I loved Jens Lekman's last album, too.

Ok, there are probably more not-so-secretly Swedish musicians that I love, they're everywhere.
And I think I might start loving a new one: Lykke Li, recently profiled in New York. To me, she was one of those, oh, well, I'll check her out eventually. And I did! It's like a rougher and more piano-ey Feist with fewer sequins and annoying Chuck Palahniuk references. And also, this lead from the nymag profile:

"There’s a story from the early days of Lykke Li’s time in New York that says something about this lithe 22-year-old singer’s waggish charm. She was living with three fellow Swedes in a windowless hole in Bushwick. “I got almost robbed like three times,” she explains. Almost? “I talked my way out of it each time. One time it was a gang of Puerto Rican girls, and I can understand Spanish a bit. So they were talking about ‘Oh, should we take her or not? She looks so tiny. Oh, look at her shoes. Yes, let’s rob her.’ And I’m like, ‘No, please don’t.’ And they didn’t."

Isn't that precious!

[Napster]

McHome Sweet Home

John McCain has seven homes--one ranch (now a prerequisite for any prospective 1600 Penn. resident) and six condos, two of which are located in the same beachfront condo complex in Coronado, CA.

Also, The Nation would like you to watch this. Seriously, they won't stop emailing me to "spread the word!" Get off my back Robert Greenwald:



Not that this is groundbreaking campaign news or anything like that. But when the conservative media starts ragging on Obama for his celebrity-like grandeur--and comparing him to, say, our lovable blonde celebutards--it's important to remember who's actually living like one.

And now that funny clip from Paris Hilton about the energy crisis and the Golden Girls:

See more Paris Hilton videos at Funny or Die

My Childhood in Charterhouse

So two years ago, my friend and I used to be obsessed with Mary Worth in that we would make little fake collages of the strips and vandalize them with sharpies. I think I was also reading a lot of Natalie Dee at the time, whose humor mostly consists of writing WORDS next to ANIMAL PICTURES with MSPAINT MARKERS. I found these collages today, cleaning out my room. Many of the comments react to the roundabout way in which the comic was written. I miss Mary Worth and her moralistic ramblings and her seemingly botox'd, expressionless face, though. I don't know if she died or if the Washington Post just got tired of her, but there will always be a plush little retirement community in my heart for her to live and gossip in.

(Click on pics for larger view)

Adventures in Unemployment

I've been living at home for three weeks and my largest source of income is dogsitting, just ahead of mowing my parents' lawn for $10 a pop. I temp, too, but it's not nearly enough hours.

The life of a professional petsitter is not a glamorous one. But in my neighborhood, it pays well, and can sometimes grant me access and temporary proprietorship of homes more expensive than I'll ever, in my lifetime, be able to afford. So this morning, as I rolled out of my bed and straight into my trusty Volvo (Sally Carr!), I expected to hang with the hounds for twenty minutes and then return to my still-warm bed. Not so!

Keep in mind, these events are occurring in a time of the day I call "pre-coffee," or P.C. This daily period is one where my mind cannot retain information in a logical sequence, as thus, events may have been stored in my short-term memory incorrectly. The events occurred 815 P.C. This is what I remember:

The dogs bark a lot. They're both hounds and one is old and smelly and has wide-set lazy eyes that look like a goat's. As I entered the house, they had their usual barking-spree followed by some panting and then some brief relenting of affection. The one with regular eyes growls at me a lot, but I just wave treats in her face usually.

But, this morning, the two were eerily friendly. I left them to romp around in the backyard and prepared their morning feast of veggies and chicken and dry food and various cheese-wrapped medicines--which have all been allocated and neatly separated into labeled ziplock bags in the fridge.

By the back door, as I set the bowls down, I saw the remains of a plastic baggy from yesterday, torn to shreds. So, meh, I threw it out. Dogs will be dogs.

Then, I look back in the hallway and what, you ask, did I spy with my little eye? A sizable pool of diarrhea, of course. (Dogs will many times shit in the house on the first few nights their owners have left, as a sort of "fuck you for abandoning me with this stranger" gesture.) As I made my way over to the pooch's present with a handful of paper towels and a sponge, I turned into the living room to see another pile of #3. And another. And another. And. An. Other.

We're talking nine piles in total, of varying viscosity, texture and temperature. I felt numb. This being P.C., I searched the house for fifteen minutes, trying in vain to find a mop, which, I later did find, sitting in plain sight in the kitchen. Instead, I decided to attack the mess with the sloppiest, most unholy combination of paper towels and sponges one could imagine, all while suppressing the urge to go into the backyard, vomit all over the dogs in retribution, and leave.

I hesitantly fed them and called the owners, who told me that the fat, old, smelly one had done it vindictively and that they would pay me more. I'm supposed to chain her to her bed now, because dogs apparently never shit in their beds. Now that would be unheard-of!

Returning home, I drank coffee, took a long foot bath (I was wearing open-toed shoes) and contemplated crying. Instead, I'll be carrying pepto-bismo the next time I visit.

Great Premises

Fiiiiinally. The Lifetime Network will be gracing my hometown of Washington DC with its own contemptuous reality show about young, blonde women, living in a fast-paced, urban blah blah blah-edy-blaaaaaaaahnde:

"Lifetime Orders 'Blonde Charity Mafia,' a New Docu-Series Set in the Fast-Paced, High-Society World of Washington, D.C."

Don't we all sorta cringe whenever an urban setting is described as "fast-paced"?

It's like: women living in high society, with their high fashions, and children, and husbands (who can NEVER do anything for themselves but they're adorable and aging well), and four hours of sleep a night, and if these women don't over-extend themselves or stab each other in the back, then urban feminism is dead and futile, and words like "jungle" and "mafia" are totally flattering and fierce(!), and totally not hinting at the idea that these women are simply unfunny, stressed-out bitches too entrenched in their small, high-society milieus too realize the sad contexts of their own lives, but at least there's shopping and shoes and 100-calorie cookie packs to cure those feelings of insecurity!

(That's just how I imagine the pitch going. A-doot-ety-doot-doot!)

But this is reality TV, not one of those middle-aged lady-porns. These are young twentysomethings living in Georgetown (gag), who must look their best at Embassy Parties and polo matches in Potomac to raise money for charities. Let's give them some credit for their kindheartedness and bravery in the face of... Gasp! Here come those pesky paparazzi from Washington Life Magazine! Adjust your visors and knotted cardigan capes, ladies, and omg, I can't wait to read about this on Late Night Shots! All in a day's work.

Sluttiest College in America?

Universal Technical Institute