OMGz! You guys, I’m so stressed for college! On the real, I open up the Sarah Lawrence supplemental information page every night and just stare at it, afraid that if I touch it I’ll accidentally submit it and they’ll reject me. I’ve wanted in on that beautiful New York campus since middle school, and I’m pretty much determined to get that oversized envelope, even if I have to slit a few prospective SLC throats. I’m all giddy inside just thinking about it! Not the throat slitting, the dorm sheet shopping. But threats usually work with me…
It’s all happening so fast- too fast! College is supposed to be so diesel, but I’ve been stressin’ over these applications for some time. And yeah, maybe if I just sat down and did it one day I could get it all finished, but homegirl’s got Saturday rehearsals and on Sunday I give blind orphans tetanus shots. Well, I totally plan to in the near future.
I could always enter the convent or get a job answering phones for my Dad, because it’s not like I’m going for the Greek life (because I’d only join a fraternity, but for lack of testosterone and experience with the illustrious keg stand, I can’t), but I’m so excited to write term papers and stay up late being pseudo intellectual and drinking coffee and energy drinks (tooth decay, yum!). Is that lame?
I wish I had taken the SAT’s more than once my junior year (hint, hint, little sister), and that I had been more involved in sports (my resume makes me look fat). But I know that somewhere out there, there’s an admissions officer dying to read my glorious essays, because they’re looking for a kid as ridiculous as me.
So, I guess what I’m trying to say here is, keep on keepin’ on, seniors, it’s gonna be worth it in the end because we get to move away from home and sleep in a twin sized bed next to a stranger and Lysol our shower shoes weekly while simultaneously living the American dream. Sigh… I can’t wait.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
I don't remember eating corn...
I’d like to preface this commentary by saying that this article is totally relevant to autumn because everyone knows that’s when the Indians harvest corn.
Corn creeps me out. On the cob, in a can, or in tiny pieces on my plate, I hate it. Even the way it grows is sketchy; don’t play like when you walk through a corn field you’re not watching your back for children with fangs to come out and eat your face. You hate corn, too. You just don’t know it yet. I’m about to expose corn, and it’s gonna blow your mind.
First, it doesn’t taste that great. Seriously, think about the things you eat that have corn in them. Have you ever said to your fellow diners, “OMG, you guys, the corn in this is making this chicken pot pie so dank”. No, you haven’t, because corn is superfluous.
Secondly, when you bite into a piece of corn bread (which, is delicious and doesn’t taste like corn), it ruins the glorious down home taste if there are tiny pieces of corn in it. You know it does… you either have to pick them out or stop eating it all together. I had to warn my grandma that if she ever pulled that one on me again she could count me out of changing her bed pan when the time came. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I mean, I can see why politicians eat corn because it’s what America was founded on. If it weren’t for Squanto and his bros we wouldn’t even be here right now. But they taught us how to plant corn so we could survive and we thanked them by killing them and taking their land. Thus, neither Native Americans nor true patriots should ever eat corn because that glorifies warfare with our peaceful neighbors and the first true Americans.
Also, the shiny shells of the corn are not digested by your body. I think you can see where I’m going with this one.
I hate corn. You should too. If America boycotts corn consumption it will probably stop altogether because corn is not a staple in the diets of many other cultures, with the exception of the Latin cultures that eat corn chips, which I also support because where there are corn chips there’s bound to be guac. We can still make cornmeal for cornbread, but most importantly, by quitting corn we can use corn oil for ethanol to stop global warming and the war in Iraq (because we’re really only protecting our oil, and if you don’t believe me, ask Tim Davis).
So, Cardinal Gibbons, stop eating corn, if only because it’s gross, but more importantly, because it can save the world from the ozone layer and our reliance on oil consumption, and that’s anything but corny. CORN SHUCKS!!!
Corn creeps me out. On the cob, in a can, or in tiny pieces on my plate, I hate it. Even the way it grows is sketchy; don’t play like when you walk through a corn field you’re not watching your back for children with fangs to come out and eat your face. You hate corn, too. You just don’t know it yet. I’m about to expose corn, and it’s gonna blow your mind.
First, it doesn’t taste that great. Seriously, think about the things you eat that have corn in them. Have you ever said to your fellow diners, “OMG, you guys, the corn in this is making this chicken pot pie so dank”. No, you haven’t, because corn is superfluous.
Secondly, when you bite into a piece of corn bread (which, is delicious and doesn’t taste like corn), it ruins the glorious down home taste if there are tiny pieces of corn in it. You know it does… you either have to pick them out or stop eating it all together. I had to warn my grandma that if she ever pulled that one on me again she could count me out of changing her bed pan when the time came. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I mean, I can see why politicians eat corn because it’s what America was founded on. If it weren’t for Squanto and his bros we wouldn’t even be here right now. But they taught us how to plant corn so we could survive and we thanked them by killing them and taking their land. Thus, neither Native Americans nor true patriots should ever eat corn because that glorifies warfare with our peaceful neighbors and the first true Americans.
Also, the shiny shells of the corn are not digested by your body. I think you can see where I’m going with this one.
I hate corn. You should too. If America boycotts corn consumption it will probably stop altogether because corn is not a staple in the diets of many other cultures, with the exception of the Latin cultures that eat corn chips, which I also support because where there are corn chips there’s bound to be guac. We can still make cornmeal for cornbread, but most importantly, by quitting corn we can use corn oil for ethanol to stop global warming and the war in Iraq (because we’re really only protecting our oil, and if you don’t believe me, ask Tim Davis).
So, Cardinal Gibbons, stop eating corn, if only because it’s gross, but more importantly, because it can save the world from the ozone layer and our reliance on oil consumption, and that’s anything but corny. CORN SHUCKS!!!
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
i'm fat because i can relate cheetos to relationships...
Cheetos and I have an ongoing love affair. Because of our secret love I find that I pine for their faux cheesy goodness on lonely Friday nights, making the occasional booty call to my favorite calorie filled snack.
Actually, I would hardly call Cheetos a snack for me. Quite frankly, I attack them with uninhibited animalistic passion, constantly yearning for more than just a convenience store bag. Family size, if you please.
Because Cheetos and I spend so much time together, I shudder to think of what would happen were they not in my life. They are not only a staple of my diet during the loveless days of my existence; they are in and of themselves a boyfriend.
I have many different boyfriends available on the well-stocked shelves of my local supermarket. Some are one time flings, others…I crave. For instance, the limited edition Cheetos that turned my tongue bluer with each bite were not only a one night stand, but one I regret whole heartedly. Then you have the cheese balls, a downright snack food tease. By only supplying itself in tiny yet delicious morsels, I am never quite satisfied and after a while, start to feel like I’m wasting my precious time and should have gone for the one Cheeto that never fails me: the original puff. It is he who is safety, a snack you know will always be there, outside the Quickie Mart, in your grocery store, in the hands of Britney Spears and various road tripping tweens…the puff will never die. With all of its preservatives and artificial ingredients making for a cheesy paradise; but after a while, these too get old. So safe, so finite, so…blah.
So I must move on. And when I do, I find that I rebound with the crunchy cheeto. The skinny one that no one really likes, but it’s been around for a while so they feel bad kicking it to the curb completely. Yes, this Cheeto is the ex that wasn’t man enough for me. I enjoyed it as a naive child, unaware of the glorious opportunities awaiting me if I would only open my eyes and really look for the Cheeto that would take me away form my first love and start me anew with it’s sweet yet salty flavor of love. The skinny Cheeto is the geeky boy I never really had feelings for, but dealt with anyway because I was too stupid to know better.
It was his exotic cousin that would leave a burning sensation on my taste buds. The elusive Fiery Hot Cheeto. It opened my eyes, showed me a world through rose colored glasses and then, in the end, let the slow burn sink in and ultimately leave a bad taste in my mouth. This Cheeto is the bad boy, the one I can’t seem to forget, the one I think about as I stand, tapping my foot, unsure of my Cheeto future. Should I risk the Fiery Hot? Or will he once again, like last time, bring tears to my eyes as I slowly run out of water. I gave that Cheeto everything I had and I tried to hold on, but in the end, I had to let go.
So where does that leave me? The X’s and O’s Cheeto’s that seem alright for a while, delicious like the original puff but a little bit edgy but oftentimes unavailable or the Twisted Cheeto that I see occasionally at parties, we have a drink and a few laughs, I think about how it might be if I take the bowl home with me and let them spend the night; and just as I’m about to leave with my newfound friend with benefits, I remember how large he is…how it hurts me mouth when I try to enjoy him for a long period of time, so I make an excuse and head for the door.
Yes it’s true…Cheetos and I will always be hand in hand, always needing each other, holding on and sharing our hopes and dreams, watching our favorite TV shows and leaving each other for another. They’ll love me til I can’t love anymore…because like love itself: Cheetos just want to give all they have to someone, letting them enjoy the sensation while it lasts, but no one can tie Cheeto down, no one can change him. That’s why at the end of the day, Cheetos will just break your heart and make you fat.
Actually, I would hardly call Cheetos a snack for me. Quite frankly, I attack them with uninhibited animalistic passion, constantly yearning for more than just a convenience store bag. Family size, if you please.
Because Cheetos and I spend so much time together, I shudder to think of what would happen were they not in my life. They are not only a staple of my diet during the loveless days of my existence; they are in and of themselves a boyfriend.
I have many different boyfriends available on the well-stocked shelves of my local supermarket. Some are one time flings, others…I crave. For instance, the limited edition Cheetos that turned my tongue bluer with each bite were not only a one night stand, but one I regret whole heartedly. Then you have the cheese balls, a downright snack food tease. By only supplying itself in tiny yet delicious morsels, I am never quite satisfied and after a while, start to feel like I’m wasting my precious time and should have gone for the one Cheeto that never fails me: the original puff. It is he who is safety, a snack you know will always be there, outside the Quickie Mart, in your grocery store, in the hands of Britney Spears and various road tripping tweens…the puff will never die. With all of its preservatives and artificial ingredients making for a cheesy paradise; but after a while, these too get old. So safe, so finite, so…blah.
So I must move on. And when I do, I find that I rebound with the crunchy cheeto. The skinny one that no one really likes, but it’s been around for a while so they feel bad kicking it to the curb completely. Yes, this Cheeto is the ex that wasn’t man enough for me. I enjoyed it as a naive child, unaware of the glorious opportunities awaiting me if I would only open my eyes and really look for the Cheeto that would take me away form my first love and start me anew with it’s sweet yet salty flavor of love. The skinny Cheeto is the geeky boy I never really had feelings for, but dealt with anyway because I was too stupid to know better.
It was his exotic cousin that would leave a burning sensation on my taste buds. The elusive Fiery Hot Cheeto. It opened my eyes, showed me a world through rose colored glasses and then, in the end, let the slow burn sink in and ultimately leave a bad taste in my mouth. This Cheeto is the bad boy, the one I can’t seem to forget, the one I think about as I stand, tapping my foot, unsure of my Cheeto future. Should I risk the Fiery Hot? Or will he once again, like last time, bring tears to my eyes as I slowly run out of water. I gave that Cheeto everything I had and I tried to hold on, but in the end, I had to let go.
So where does that leave me? The X’s and O’s Cheeto’s that seem alright for a while, delicious like the original puff but a little bit edgy but oftentimes unavailable or the Twisted Cheeto that I see occasionally at parties, we have a drink and a few laughs, I think about how it might be if I take the bowl home with me and let them spend the night; and just as I’m about to leave with my newfound friend with benefits, I remember how large he is…how it hurts me mouth when I try to enjoy him for a long period of time, so I make an excuse and head for the door.
Yes it’s true…Cheetos and I will always be hand in hand, always needing each other, holding on and sharing our hopes and dreams, watching our favorite TV shows and leaving each other for another. They’ll love me til I can’t love anymore…because like love itself: Cheetos just want to give all they have to someone, letting them enjoy the sensation while it lasts, but no one can tie Cheeto down, no one can change him. That’s why at the end of the day, Cheetos will just break your heart and make you fat.
I just wanna say...
that I wish the Sarah Lawrence admissions office would return my calls...
I feel like a desperate teenage boy trying to confirm a friday night date with a girl I know is totes out of my league.
Just... gimme a chance...
I feel like a desperate teenage boy trying to confirm a friday night date with a girl I know is totes out of my league.
Just... gimme a chance...
cravin' more cravens.
Did anybody see that kid smoking the meth in the corner at Cravens’ house? I don’t really know how that party escalated, but I’ll tell you one thing, I felt like I was in one of those glorious teen movies, full of debauchery, recreational drug use, and most importantly: Steve Cravens.
Cravens was a sober Simon Cowell in a world of pilled out Paula Abduls. It was tragic, yet beautiful. However, I’d would like to reprimand him for lack of adequate parking. It would have been in everyone’s best interest to grab the guy with the light sticks outside Solid Gold that I feel obligated to provocatively double beep at because he’s wearing an orange tech vest at 2pm, to have him wave the VW’s and occasional Camry’s in and out of his tiny street.
That party was blazin’ (literally). Not only was the turn out sick but I saw kids I thought were as good as dead holding Buds and mingling with the bros. Killer. Yes, ‘twas a glorious Saturday night, even thought Saint Thomas was packing their kids into limos for a night of slow dancing next to the buffet and planning fights against the Chiefs (Indian warfare trumps Raiders, like… what the hell is a Raider?).
It was totally, boss, Cravens. Well done. I commend you on your ability to pack almost every senior currently or previously enrolled at Gibbons just two streets away from our beloved CGHS and two more streets away from a slumbering angel, Patty Burke. You’re a hardcore son of a bitch.
And though we heard there was a hotel party that was slammin’ (kind of, not really) we just want to say that a Steve Cravens party is like a Dorito, you just want more. It’s the MSG…or, maybe… it’s the rush of hearing Tara French got her shit copped out of her car.
Cravens was a sober Simon Cowell in a world of pilled out Paula Abduls. It was tragic, yet beautiful. However, I’d would like to reprimand him for lack of adequate parking. It would have been in everyone’s best interest to grab the guy with the light sticks outside Solid Gold that I feel obligated to provocatively double beep at because he’s wearing an orange tech vest at 2pm, to have him wave the VW’s and occasional Camry’s in and out of his tiny street.
That party was blazin’ (literally). Not only was the turn out sick but I saw kids I thought were as good as dead holding Buds and mingling with the bros. Killer. Yes, ‘twas a glorious Saturday night, even thought Saint Thomas was packing their kids into limos for a night of slow dancing next to the buffet and planning fights against the Chiefs (Indian warfare trumps Raiders, like… what the hell is a Raider?).
It was totally, boss, Cravens. Well done. I commend you on your ability to pack almost every senior currently or previously enrolled at Gibbons just two streets away from our beloved CGHS and two more streets away from a slumbering angel, Patty Burke. You’re a hardcore son of a bitch.
And though we heard there was a hotel party that was slammin’ (kind of, not really) we just want to say that a Steve Cravens party is like a Dorito, you just want more. It’s the MSG…or, maybe… it’s the rush of hearing Tara French got her shit copped out of her car.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
WHORE-O-SCOPEZ
Aries (March 21-April 19)- Just like your astrological sign, the ram, you’ll be ramming all the fine fellas or ladies this month, thanks to Jupiter, who is totally in alignment with your two silky, smooth moons.
Taurus (April 20- May 20) - Due to a botched boob job, your love connections will indeed be slowed this month by intense nipple discharge. Didn’t get a boob job? I guess your parents lied to you about your birthday then…
Gemini (May 21- June 20)- Mars is in place for you this month, ensuring an STD if the necessary precautions are not taken. Remember, abstinence is the best protection!
Cancer (June 21- July 22)- Just like your sign, the crab, be sure to remember this month that these crustaceans belong in the ocean, not in your pants!
Leo (July 23- August 22)- Your significant other will be dumping your desperate booty this week because you’re so freakin’ clingy. Might as well beat ‘em to the chase…
Virgo (August 23- September 22)- Still reppin’ your sign with “virginity” stamped on your forehead? Count on a sleazy Italian man to take that burden away from you this month. Be sure to get tested the by the following Monday.
Libra (September 23- October 22)- Three words: Cosmo Kama Sutra.
Scorpio (October 23- November 21)- Your parents will catch you reading 101 Days of Great Sex at your local Barnes and Noble and never look at you the same way ever again… sucks to be you.
Sagittarius (November 22- December 21)- Don’t go strolling in dark alley ways this month, as Venus ensures that all sexual predators are targeting the Archer…that’s you.
Capricorn (December 22- January 19)- A love connection will hook itself up around the 27, but soon you’ll realize they’re playing you and be forced to tell them they’re straight up buggin’ by the 29. They’ll try and get you back but don’t trip, you know they just like you cuz them jeans fit so tight.
Aquarius (January 20- February 18)- When the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars then peace will guide the planets and love will steer the stars…this is the dawning of the age of Aquarius! Age of Aquarius! Aquarius! Aquarius!
Pisces (February 19- March 20)- You will soon find yourself in an interracial relationship that your grandparents don’t approve. Make sure to remind your grandpa that Jin Wu’s phone ain’t no phone, it’s a Helio, son!
Taurus (April 20- May 20) - Due to a botched boob job, your love connections will indeed be slowed this month by intense nipple discharge. Didn’t get a boob job? I guess your parents lied to you about your birthday then…
Gemini (May 21- June 20)- Mars is in place for you this month, ensuring an STD if the necessary precautions are not taken. Remember, abstinence is the best protection!
Cancer (June 21- July 22)- Just like your sign, the crab, be sure to remember this month that these crustaceans belong in the ocean, not in your pants!
Leo (July 23- August 22)- Your significant other will be dumping your desperate booty this week because you’re so freakin’ clingy. Might as well beat ‘em to the chase…
Virgo (August 23- September 22)- Still reppin’ your sign with “virginity” stamped on your forehead? Count on a sleazy Italian man to take that burden away from you this month. Be sure to get tested the by the following Monday.
Libra (September 23- October 22)- Three words: Cosmo Kama Sutra.
Scorpio (October 23- November 21)- Your parents will catch you reading 101 Days of Great Sex at your local Barnes and Noble and never look at you the same way ever again… sucks to be you.
Sagittarius (November 22- December 21)- Don’t go strolling in dark alley ways this month, as Venus ensures that all sexual predators are targeting the Archer…that’s you.
Capricorn (December 22- January 19)- A love connection will hook itself up around the 27, but soon you’ll realize they’re playing you and be forced to tell them they’re straight up buggin’ by the 29. They’ll try and get you back but don’t trip, you know they just like you cuz them jeans fit so tight.
Aquarius (January 20- February 18)- When the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars then peace will guide the planets and love will steer the stars…this is the dawning of the age of Aquarius! Age of Aquarius! Aquarius! Aquarius!
Pisces (February 19- March 20)- You will soon find yourself in an interracial relationship that your grandparents don’t approve. Make sure to remind your grandpa that Jin Wu’s phone ain’t no phone, it’s a Helio, son!
We Heart MySpace Sluts!
Between choosing a new layout, blogging on our current situation, passing that chain letter about the clown that killed the babysitter (we hope you passed it on, because we heard its true), and finding out if we’re in your who I’d like to meet section, SVH just doesn’t have time to friend request you. We’re sorry, it’s not our fault, we love to look at your new pictures, especially the ones with the totally deep captions that so apply to your life…we feel you, but we’re running a publication here, and after long passionate hours of inappropriate touching to pictures of you we simply have to unwind by watching some videos of you jamming out and making a totally adorable ass of yourself!
MySluts, we are so jealous of you (friend us!). Your quiz results for what alcoholic beverage are you totally beat ours; sex on the beach is SO much better than jell-o shot! It just shows our personality is sub par to yours, because you if we had to label some of you the first word that popped into our minds would indeed be margarita! But we stand by our conclusion that the What Victoria’s Secret Model Are You quiz is totally unjust as none of us are Brazilian.
Why can’t we be you? If we had any idea how to get those sexy glitter letters and party girl icons to put in our headline, we would. But we couldn’t pull it off! For shame! Your friend list rivals ours, your pictures are sexier than ours, and worst of all we don’t have the balls to warn all those haters that you’ll go off on any biznatch who tries to judge you because you’re going to be yourself and nothing else. Hey, if the true you likes to fall into the same category as an alcoholic beverage and wear a Very Sexy Push Up Bra (there goes Victoria’s Secret plummeting our self esteem again…) then you let it rain and broadcast it all over your page, but don’t forget your online Bob Marley shrine!
MySluts, we are so jealous of you (friend us!). Your quiz results for what alcoholic beverage are you totally beat ours; sex on the beach is SO much better than jell-o shot! It just shows our personality is sub par to yours, because you if we had to label some of you the first word that popped into our minds would indeed be margarita! But we stand by our conclusion that the What Victoria’s Secret Model Are You quiz is totally unjust as none of us are Brazilian.
Why can’t we be you? If we had any idea how to get those sexy glitter letters and party girl icons to put in our headline, we would. But we couldn’t pull it off! For shame! Your friend list rivals ours, your pictures are sexier than ours, and worst of all we don’t have the balls to warn all those haters that you’ll go off on any biznatch who tries to judge you because you’re going to be yourself and nothing else. Hey, if the true you likes to fall into the same category as an alcoholic beverage and wear a Very Sexy Push Up Bra (there goes Victoria’s Secret plummeting our self esteem again…) then you let it rain and broadcast it all over your page, but don’t forget your online Bob Marley shrine!
Tuck and Roll, A Matter of Life & Death? Hell Yes.
The administration is trying to save your liberty whilst keep you lookin’ jazzy and you don’t even care. Yeah, you heard me, we are on the eve of freakin’ anarchy and there’s only one thing that can truly save us- the real golden rule: tucking in your shirt. Contemptible as it may seem to you, this isn’t about bringing back the grunge look of the early 90’s (though that was bitchin’)- this is about civil rights, people.
Becky Thatcher would be rolling in her grave if she saw the amount of 60% cotton, 40% polyester flaps I see glaring at me around campus. What do you think this is? The hypocrisy of it all! Becky has sweatshops full of ethnic children slaving night and day to sew together tuckable amounts of fabric so you can look totally boss… and you’re throwing it away to look like a scrub. Hey! Mama didn’t raise no fool. (lol)
On a lighter note (but not really), everyone looks fat in their uniform. But black men have been know to prefer “thick” women, so next time you hook yourself up with a tight new pair of khakis, shake your groove thang and remember to holla atcha boy.
No uniform violation is quite as school reputation altering as the untucked shirt. Sure, you forgot your belt, so you slid your tootsies into some Birkenstocks (you lesbian), or maybe you even let your sideburns grow into lamb chops that need more than a shear; but do you realize that every single person you pass on the public streets of the tri state area judges and condemns Cardinal Gibbons because you look like a damn idiot. Not even your monogrammed pocket can save you now…
So let’s avoid total revolution, let’s make Mama Thatcher and Pauly O. proud, and let’s allow Tyrone to get all up in our crevices. By tuckin’ our stuff we can keep America a democracy and get a sweet new booty call (cuz we phat ya’ll…what!?!) Keep it real, Chieftains, look down and make sure its all the way around.
Becky Thatcher would be rolling in her grave if she saw the amount of 60% cotton, 40% polyester flaps I see glaring at me around campus. What do you think this is? The hypocrisy of it all! Becky has sweatshops full of ethnic children slaving night and day to sew together tuckable amounts of fabric so you can look totally boss… and you’re throwing it away to look like a scrub. Hey! Mama didn’t raise no fool. (lol)
On a lighter note (but not really), everyone looks fat in their uniform. But black men have been know to prefer “thick” women, so next time you hook yourself up with a tight new pair of khakis, shake your groove thang and remember to holla atcha boy.
No uniform violation is quite as school reputation altering as the untucked shirt. Sure, you forgot your belt, so you slid your tootsies into some Birkenstocks (you lesbian), or maybe you even let your sideburns grow into lamb chops that need more than a shear; but do you realize that every single person you pass on the public streets of the tri state area judges and condemns Cardinal Gibbons because you look like a damn idiot. Not even your monogrammed pocket can save you now…
So let’s avoid total revolution, let’s make Mama Thatcher and Pauly O. proud, and let’s allow Tyrone to get all up in our crevices. By tuckin’ our stuff we can keep America a democracy and get a sweet new booty call (cuz we phat ya’ll…what!?!) Keep it real, Chieftains, look down and make sure its all the way around.
i still hate you, bethany hamilton
Preface: So, last year a couple of my bros and I were going to create an underground newspaper but we got caught by my freshman year history teacher, it was called Sweet Valley High, and that's where all the SVH comes from. It would have been such a fantastic little paper that could... alas, thou art a cruel, cruel man, Mr. Hamilton.
Bethany Hamilton owes her future to the tiger shark that created the remnants of flesh that dangle from her right arm. Yes, this mini mogul seems to the staff of SVH a mini genius for making a career out of a freak accident. During one of our routine Google searches for teenage girls and severed arms we came across 123,000 hits, three of which involved Miss Bethany Hamilton, one of which involved David Hasselhoff (seriously).
While paying homage to Bethany’s website (www.bethanyhamilton.com), we discovered the awful truth that leaves so many mistaken as to Bethany’s situation pre-tiger shark: she was not a professional surfer. Sure, she wanted to be, but Lance Bass wanted to be an astronaut and that just goes to show that sometimes it just doesn’t work out. Well guess what, America? On the morning of October 31st, Bethany had her arm ripped off by a tiger shark… happy Halloween, baby. And from that moment on, she no longer had to dream, for she was of international fame. I think we all remember where we were the day we got the news that a precious thirteen year old blonde had an appendage clipped from her body. Oh, you don’t? Whatever, her sponsors sure as hell do.
That’s right, we said sponsors. Rip Curl, Claire’s, and the Pass It On billboard campaign, among others. And with a book released on October 24th, 2004, appropriately titled Soul Surfer: A True Story of Faith, Family and Fighting to Get Back on the Board Hamilton-heads could read about her life story (which was boring until the part about the shark attack) and then reflect on the tragic event in their Bethany Hamilton Stoked About Life diary; but not before they picked up some Stoked About Life perfume or lip balm, so they can smell just like B! (SVH and B are on a first initial basis).
But it’s not over yet, kids! That crazy Bethany Hamilton still needed to appear on the cover of SG magazine, an episode of ABC Family’s hit show “Switched”, Oprah, The Tonight Show, 20/20, Ellen, People Magazine, Time Magazine, and the mother of all news media: Channel One. (I think we all know if you’ve been interviewed by Seth Doane, you’ve made it). After all that press coverage you’d think we’d be sick of Bethany and want to go back to Nicole Richie and Stavros Niarchos III, but you’d be wrong because someone gave this girl a movie contract! Yes indeed, soon you’ll be able to pay twelve dollars to the Bethany Hamilton empire when you go to see her feature film: Soul Surfer which is said to be a cross between Blue Crush meets Rocky meets Chariots of Fire, and if that doesn’t generate Oscar buzz I don’t know what will. (But just in case you can’t wait that long you can pick up Heart of a Soul Surfer, Bethany’s documentary, before hand.)
Yes, it’s all great that Bethany got back on the board, don’t you forget it (not that you could with all these reminders), but let’s just remember how many people aren’t famous for getting back to what they love after an accident- like climbing back in the boat after your arm gets severed (a la Logan Aldridge, oh you’ve never heard of him?) In fact, SVH is somewhat ashamed to be giving Bethany more attention by allowing you to feast your peepers on this article.
Indeed, Bethany Hamilton can be called a Soul Surfer, but if we were going to be able to pay for college and garner international fame because of a little arm rippage, we’d be frolicking with great whites in a Speedo. And you can say you’d rather have your arm, but let’s all just recall Bethany can now afford to buy your arm if she wants it. Not that she would…that nub puts the sexy in successful.
Bethany Hamilton owes her future to the tiger shark that created the remnants of flesh that dangle from her right arm. Yes, this mini mogul seems to the staff of SVH a mini genius for making a career out of a freak accident. During one of our routine Google searches for teenage girls and severed arms we came across 123,000 hits, three of which involved Miss Bethany Hamilton, one of which involved David Hasselhoff (seriously).
While paying homage to Bethany’s website (www.bethanyhamilton.com), we discovered the awful truth that leaves so many mistaken as to Bethany’s situation pre-tiger shark: she was not a professional surfer. Sure, she wanted to be, but Lance Bass wanted to be an astronaut and that just goes to show that sometimes it just doesn’t work out. Well guess what, America? On the morning of October 31st, Bethany had her arm ripped off by a tiger shark… happy Halloween, baby. And from that moment on, she no longer had to dream, for she was of international fame. I think we all remember where we were the day we got the news that a precious thirteen year old blonde had an appendage clipped from her body. Oh, you don’t? Whatever, her sponsors sure as hell do.
That’s right, we said sponsors. Rip Curl, Claire’s, and the Pass It On billboard campaign, among others. And with a book released on October 24th, 2004, appropriately titled Soul Surfer: A True Story of Faith, Family and Fighting to Get Back on the Board Hamilton-heads could read about her life story (which was boring until the part about the shark attack) and then reflect on the tragic event in their Bethany Hamilton Stoked About Life diary; but not before they picked up some Stoked About Life perfume or lip balm, so they can smell just like B! (SVH and B are on a first initial basis).
But it’s not over yet, kids! That crazy Bethany Hamilton still needed to appear on the cover of SG magazine, an episode of ABC Family’s hit show “Switched”, Oprah, The Tonight Show, 20/20, Ellen, People Magazine, Time Magazine, and the mother of all news media: Channel One. (I think we all know if you’ve been interviewed by Seth Doane, you’ve made it). After all that press coverage you’d think we’d be sick of Bethany and want to go back to Nicole Richie and Stavros Niarchos III, but you’d be wrong because someone gave this girl a movie contract! Yes indeed, soon you’ll be able to pay twelve dollars to the Bethany Hamilton empire when you go to see her feature film: Soul Surfer which is said to be a cross between Blue Crush meets Rocky meets Chariots of Fire, and if that doesn’t generate Oscar buzz I don’t know what will. (But just in case you can’t wait that long you can pick up Heart of a Soul Surfer, Bethany’s documentary, before hand.)
Yes, it’s all great that Bethany got back on the board, don’t you forget it (not that you could with all these reminders), but let’s just remember how many people aren’t famous for getting back to what they love after an accident- like climbing back in the boat after your arm gets severed (a la Logan Aldridge, oh you’ve never heard of him?) In fact, SVH is somewhat ashamed to be giving Bethany more attention by allowing you to feast your peepers on this article.
Indeed, Bethany Hamilton can be called a Soul Surfer, but if we were going to be able to pay for college and garner international fame because of a little arm rippage, we’d be frolicking with great whites in a Speedo. And you can say you’d rather have your arm, but let’s all just recall Bethany can now afford to buy your arm if she wants it. Not that she would…that nub puts the sexy in successful.
blogalicious
So, I recently realized that a lot of people think I'm a silly bitch and are interested in reading my deep thoughts on life, hence: ek does it for the lolz. I'M SO GLAD YOU THINK I'M HILAR!
Anyway, I'm really just trying to get into college at this point (holla, Sarah Lawrence!) but all this rehearsal with the musical and this editing of our shitty high school paper, among other editing, and... just... being the most badass individual I can be is really time consuming. Sigh...
This is basically a compelation of my glorious writing which equivalates to basically what i think about... stuff. I wish I could make it more fabulous for your little peepers but at the moment I just don't have the time. But, either way, enjoy!
Over & Out.
Anyway, I'm really just trying to get into college at this point (holla, Sarah Lawrence!) but all this rehearsal with the musical and this editing of our shitty high school paper, among other editing, and... just... being the most badass individual I can be is really time consuming. Sigh...
This is basically a compelation of my glorious writing which equivalates to basically what i think about... stuff. I wish I could make it more fabulous for your little peepers but at the moment I just don't have the time. But, either way, enjoy!
Over & Out.
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