With the upcoming release of She & Him’s new Christmas album, Feist’s new warbled melodies dropping into eardrums just a few weeks ago, and Pomplamoose continuing to DIY do what they DIY do, I coined a character for the The Paper Machete to celebrate all the breathy starlets gracing the airwaves as of late. Nadine Valentine can be seen in every indie flick and NBC show, while simultaneously touring with every Pitchfork artist this side of Lollapalooza. She sounds like the love child of Aaron Neville and the Dormouse from “Alice in Wonderland” with a splash of Michael McDonald. She’s equipped with a ukulele, bangs, and tunes that will be repeatedly played in every Apple store and Starbucks until your ears bleed.

You can listen to Nadine plugging her album “Death Takes a Christmas Holiday” here:

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Common characteristics of such females like Nadine Valentine are listed below. (Please ignore the fact that I do fall into some of these categories. I’m well aware of the hypocrisy and have even attempted to sound like these ladies on a few recordings in the hopes of riding on their Anthropolie-purchased coattails. But I don’t have a major label courting my asshole or shoving my songs down people’s throats, so I’m keeping my soapbox close at hand.)

• Nadine is the girl whose essence is fueled by her bangs.
• She knows how to play the ukulele – In fact, it is an extension of her hand a la Evil Dead II.
• Lyrics will cite interchangeable things such as “stars/tears/dreams/moonbeams/heartbreak in your eyes/heart/soul/bones.”
• She is fucking cute…and talented…dammit.
• A rainbow strangled her when she was young.
• She has heard of breath support but chooses not to use it.
• Nadine’s musical idol is a weeping willow tree forlornly whispering its regrets in the wind.
• Her philosophy behind her breathy delivery: “If people like your music enough, they will move closer to hear you sing it.”
• Her last album did so well in sales that she got to take 2-5 years off to recharge. During that time she lived in under a barn in Vermont with a family of foxes.
• She probably has an Etsy page.
• Even though she is stunningly beautiful, the media labels her as “quirky,” thereby completely resetting the standards for any actual quirky girls.
• Vegan gnomes raised her as a child.
• Her porcelain skin secret: She washes her face with unicorn tears.

Coal :: Diamonds as Old People :: Werther’s Originals

What’s the origin of those candies that sit relatively untouched on your Grandmother’s coffee table? Patiently waiting for someone to feast upon them, stationed in their crystal bowl next to Nana’s davenport. Now, don’t confuse Werther’s with some of the other common confectionery treats. Sometimes Grandma unnecessarily purchases melt-away peppermints, other times it’s nondescript green hard candies, or spice jellybeans. Where does Grandma get those? At the supermarket of course! Except for spice jellybeans which come from Satan’s butthole.

So where do Werther’s come from if not from hell or the supermarket? Well kids, when you are old and die, your body is put to rest in the earth. Scary, huh? There are worms down there! Gross! Like a trash compactor, the weight of the earth compresses the body and squishes it beyond recognition. Don’t worry about that pretty face of yours because 1) you’re all ready dead, and 2) after a gagillion layers of mantle are sitting on your face (not like that, dirty bird) you won’t have much face left!

After millions of years, the pressure from the above layers of heavy rock transforms the body into a yummy Werther’s Original. Still a controversial method of retrieving these candies from the ground, Botswanan children mine the caramels and deliver them to factories for packaging.

So while you’re nibbling on Nana’s Nana Nuggets, just think you’re feasting upon a part of history. And there’s probably some dinosaur pee in there too.

Here’s my list of “Rejected List Ideas for McSweeney’s List Submissions”:

• Excuses I’ve made for crying in public.
• “Deep Space Nine” character pairings that inspire masturbation
• Science projects that will end in diarrhea
• Historical political figures whose wieners wouldn’t cause a Twitter scandal
• Top foods to offer an eagle
• Topics to avoid with Davey Crocket
• Dinosaurs you could totally take in a fight
• Standard protocol for burning bridges with those you love
• Worst place to find a Tornado
• Best dated references to impress your co-workers
• Most perverted constellations
• Celebrities I most look like I would hate
• Proper sleeping positions in a bird feeder
• Fighting techniques using a Bowie Knife vs. A David Bowie

“This story you’re telling me? This story is birth control,” I told my sister.

Today I heard stories of people launching babies into the world through their young, ignorant loins. The choice was made to procreate for a reason they saw fit–completely not the right reason, but they had a baby. Before pregnancy, the young couple thought adorable things like, “birth control is expensive,” before realizing they may have to pay for a child to survive. Survive middle school with at least six Justin Bieber concerts under her belt.

Luckily, this child will grow up surrounded by love. Sometimes a warped, manipulative, well-meaning but stupid version of love, but love nonetheless. Add air quotes to the word if you need.

I get older and hear my uterus quietly contemplating its relevance. It’s hard to raise normal offspring. Even if you do have the knack, there’s no telling how much that kid is going to want to light things on fire once he hits puberty. Obnoxious parenting and those who unnecessarily breed act as my birth control. 90% of my methods of birth control are not prescription based and probably also do not warrant such criticism:

• High school Facebook feeds
• Street festival foot traffic
• Children on a moving walkway
• The Jersey Shore
• Airplane baby time bombs (too obvious)
• An entire six top of adults staring at one baby
• Stroller convoys parked outside of bookstores on a Tuesday
• Parents asking children what kind of Starbucks’ drink they’d like
• Parents ordering a child’s regular at Starbucks

I’m not a complete baby Grinch. I love kids. I dislike parents. And although I am solidly agnostic about the possibility of my own future spawn, my uterus melts (or swells, whichever is less gross) when a child laughs at booger jokes, dances to music in the park, or eats sour things:

Penn & Teller inspired card tricks. Female magician inspired skank costume.

Impress These Apes – Week 4 – Thea from Blewt! Productions on Vimeo.

Yesterday before the performance, I went to change in the ladies bathroom into my adult-sized flower costume. (Typical Monday…)

The toilet seat was down. I lift the toilet seat up. BEHOLD! A Secret Shitter left a deuce for someone to find. Was she the type who leaves a shit on purpose, or was she just too busy getting ready for the princess ball that this major dump escaped her!

Gross, but no big deal, right? Just a courtesy flush away from a clean bowl. Fine.

Secret Shitter’s colon was apparently lined with Elmer’s Glue, and one flush did no good. Two flushes did not help. Holding down the handle and letting the water flow over the stubborn shit made it just look like an anemone clinging to the rocks in the tide pool exhibit of a science museum. I pictured the Secret Shitter panicking. “Why won’t the poo go down?” She repeats her strange but heartfelt mantra as nothing changes. It’s as if she were a puppy and her master rubs her nose in the carpet, “What did you do? What did you do?”

And now I was in the same boat. A boat that was filled with poo. I was now an accomplice or at least guilty by association. How do I fix this situation? What would Jesus do?

I found myself dislodging the poo with a tampon, then tossing the shit-kissed packaging into the feminine hygiene depository. I am a good person.

Trying to ignore the idea that I was poking some human excrement, I focused on the humanitarian aspect of my action. I was saving someone from having to encounter the poo. I was a hero. No one wants to face that; I could be the one to save this bathroom with one little poo-push. I know subconsciously I was just trying to erase any connection of me with that tainted stall. Because of course if someone were to use the stall after I unsuccessfully flushed a stranger’s shit down the bowl and abandoned it, they would of course hire a bounty hunter to track down the person who had last visited that stall.

WERE YOU JUST IN THE SHITTER?! WERE YOU THE PUS-BUCKET WHO THOUGHT SHE COULD GET AWAY WITH LEAVING SUCH AN ATROCITY BEHIND? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT KIND OF EFFECT THAT HAS ON SOMEONE? HUH? DO YOU?! POST-TRAUMATIC-SHIT-DISORDER, MOTHERFUCKER. HOW DO YOU LIVE WITH YOURSELF? HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT? I HOPE YOU CRAP-SHIT THE BED, YOU PIECE OF CRAP-SHIT.

I’d cower and hoped he believed I wasn’t one to shit and run.

I am a good person. I will flush your poo.

Head to Neck Ratio. 1:1

Gym “The Neck” Guy hasn’t changed his salutation yet, which leads to additional awkwardness and irrational annoyance towards a perfectly nice human being.

“What’s up?” he asked, rather than “How’s it going” or “How are you” or “I shouldn’t speak unless it’s about protein shakes.”

“…Nothing much,” I said, searching for how to properly communicate the subtext of “I’m polite, distant, and can spit poison, so please don’t strive for a rapport.”

“You know, just at my day job. Same old same old. Kind of boring today.”

“Well, get your workout on. It’s time to have some fun.”

GYM GUY, NO! Time to have some fun?!

I understand that the true challenge of customer service is adjusting your natural spiel when a customer thinks what you are saying is dumb and forced. But what can he do when “Get your workout on!” is phrase that is as natural to him as “Gotta get some lat dips in before lunch,” and “I killed another bunny”?  It’s practically an adverb for him.

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Hey there, gym guy with Texas-sized shoulders and a pitbull-esque neck. Yeah, it makes sense to work at a gym if you want your career to be to maintain a body mass the size of Jupiter. Don’t mind me. I’m just trying to lose 5-10 pounds in my face because I have headshots coming up and I’m trying to avoid landing the role of “Swollen Wisdom Toothed Chipmunk” unless it pays scale. I really don’t have that much to say to you. I don’t “relate” to your truck bench pressing lifestyle.

I understand that you’re practicing good customer service, but I will fail you in any conversation you attempt to have with me. If you ask me how I am, you’ll get a guaranteed generic “Fine.” That’s better than asking, “What’s going on?” I don’t have an answer for the latter. I’ll respond with a “Not much,” with the subtext of “Why do you want to know?”

He says something to the effect of, “Well, at least you get to to work out now,” because (bless his beefy heart) he has no idea that a good majority of the population hate working out.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to come up with the right answer that acknowledges his enthusiasm but conveys the sentiment “I don’t want thick-neck.”

“I just do what I gotta do.” Necessity, brother. Necessity and a normal, irrational womanly hatred for her own body.

It’s okay. We don’t have to talk. I am fine using your over-priced gym. I’m battling sub-par metabolism and the propensity to down large quantities of delicious snobby person’s beer brewed in a fabergé egg. I understand that we will come in contact with one another, but in no means do we have to have more of a “Hello/Hello” relationship.

I just don’t understand your world. Your world of protein drinks and avocado snacks. I’m an emotional one-way-or-the-other type of gal and there’s no room for “the good kind of fat” shades of gray. I don’t understand your contradictory apparel of sweats and spandex. It’s no fault of your own, but I will flub our interactions because jocks aren’t supposed to talk to nerds unless my head is being swirled in a toilet bowl.

The only way we will find common ground is if you let me attach a saddle to your back and you let me ride you like the dragon in “Never Ending Story.” I will feed you plenty of carrots and brush your fur and we will have the greatest of adventures. We will be a team. We will conquer the clouds, Gym Guy. Your name will no longer be Gym Guy. I shall call you Elkaron the Friendly Man-Dragon. As you spew fire from your nose and mouth I will cling to your neck for safety. We will battle unicorns and swoop through the air as adrenaline and wind rush through me. At the end of our day, I will award you with a satchel of magic beans and we will finally speak the same language.

Key Word Search Time!  CLAP! CLAP! CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!

Time to review what brings people to my little corner of the world.  All eight of you.  Hello there.

thea what have you done  - Other than, “Yeah, really, what the hell have I done?.”  This person clicked on the public zit lancing post after googling this.  (Warning: Don’t.  Don’t watch the video.  Just don’t.) Which leads me to ask myself the same question with different emphasis:  What have I done?  Why did I feel the urge to publicize one man’s attempt at personal cottage cheese production?  Why why why on Earth is this something that you want someone you care about to see?  I’m not so much the social activist.  Mother Theresa never picked her scabs in public to teach a lesson, who the hell do I think I am?  This video needs to be buried.

But apparently acne is plaguing America and people don’t know how to confront and deal with these pustules on their epidermississippis.  So they seek help from The Google and more people find me:

lancing zits – The video The Internet brought to us will either help youth succeed in dermatological cleanliness or be a successful forehead/back/buttock dairy farmer.  If you have to lance more than one zit, or any for that matter–”lance” should not be the verb you use in the same sentence as acne–you should just see if you can get part-time work as bubble wrap.

giant zit videos as of january 28, 2010 - I do not want to see this person’s cache.  It’s probably as filthy as his pores.

snowking mandolins – Best band at Pitchfork this year.

butt hoe artist – They must be a fan of his work, or, it’s the artist googling himself to see if people are talking about his tags around the city.  Yeah, Butt Hoe Artist, you’re that good.

butt hoe - Well shit, the motherfucker’s listed in the Urban Dictionary.

bday messages for departed - I know this is probably a sad sentiment, but all I could think of  was, “Zombies don’t need birthday cards, silly.”

norms of a gym - If you are like the Norms in my gym, you “Look Better Naked” because the lighting design of the gym resembles that of Pilgrim times when 1 footcandle of illumination made any frumpy Puritan look like a slutty Lutheran.

Fran Drescher fart - This search came up for a second time the other day.  It’s sparked my curiosity enough to make me search for it as well.  Is there a Fran Drescher fart video that I’m not aware of that I need to be aware of immediately?  Please, give me something to spout off about at the water cooler other than the weather and the YouTubes.  If you’re just talking about her farty voice tone I will be disappointed.

sheer panic at the thought of turning 30 - Don’t come to me with this one.  If you’re not happy by 30 you’re not going to be happy ever.  Wait, are we ever really happy, Pooh Bear?  You’re asking someone who’s trying to succeed as an actor.  Don’t go to the internet to tell you how awesome your life was in high school.  Do something with your life, schlubbo!

BIRTHDAY WISHES FOR A DEAR WIFE – I feel sorry for the poor soul who was looking for some poetic love-phrasings but came across Charles’s brand of affection instead.

Happy birthday my dear wife, love you so much – Whoops.  In the same aisle as that other guy.

how to rip a fart – Really?  You need to look this up?  And you come to this site to guide you?  Uh… Okay, well, it’s like “Put your lips together and blow,” except it’s more like “Clench your colon and bear down until your sphincter squawks or shits.”  Does that help?  I’d suggest googling this again because I’m sure there’s a better site for this.  Maybe Puddingfarts.com can help.  And if you haven’t heard of that site, be forewarned:  They clench and bear down. And it’s exactly what you’d expect from a site

“real talk” coffee mug - If there was any merchandise associated with R. Kelly’s “Real Talk” song–no, not song, not masterpiece… EXPERIENCE–I would buy them for myself.  If you haven’t listened to the Andy Kaufman of hip hop, which is what I tell myself so I can sleep at night, please do so, or just read the lyrics first, and then immerse yourself the brilliance and madness that curls up in a cozy little place in America’s hearts.

Cue stand up bit for when I’m standing up as a stand up and I do stand up with my own “Real Talk” phone conversation with my significant other:

Hey, I’m not calling for any reason.  I’m on my lunch break.
I think I’ll be home around six or six-thirty, ’cause I work til six, but we got real slammed today at work.

And I’m going to the gym, so let’s make it eight-thirty.  I said I’m going to go to the gym.  I’m going to the gym!  Goddamn, AT&T–Real Talk.

How’s your day?  Nothing exciting? What time are you off?  I said, what time are you off work?

Don’t say, ‘”the same time every week,”

‘Cause sometimes you’re going over to Stu’s house for D&D and you’re home past ten-thirty sometimes

I can’t keep track–Real Talk.

Maybe tonight we can go to a movie, or rent a movie, or Dexter will be here early from Netflix, I’m just thinkin’ out loud–Real Talk.

Are you busy?  Or do you just need to eat? Speaking of which we really need to go grocery shopping, I’m just thinking out loud once again–Real Talk.

Did you get the picture I texted you this morning?  Yeah, I sent you of the picture of the cat.  The cat was being real cute and then she got bite-y–Real Talk.

Okay, well I don’t why I called, I’ll talk to you later when I get out of work or after the gym, I love you bye!

[A fight breaks out randomly in the background, and a "To Be Continued..." subtitle star-wipes onto the screen.]

And my favorite:

stupid women – You found me!

To My Darling Wife,

What a New Years, Maria!  I know I apologized earlier while I was revisiting my alcoholic choices in the loo,  but I’m truly sorry I dropped that bottle of vodka as we were on our way to your sister’s house.  You were so excited, at least I’m assuming that’s what that foreign expression on your face meant, but what good is New Years without a drink or two in your system–especially when family is involved, right?  Don’t be upset about missing the gathering.  That’s the great thing about New Years, it happens every year, whether or not you’re alive to enjoy it.  Things go on, such is life.  I’m not saying that to discourage any hope you have regarding your sister’s treatments.

Now, on to more important matters.

I awoke with a start tonight as we were trying to sleep.  I was trying to clear my mind of all thoughts but was unable to do so since being medically diagnosed with my large cerebellum.  And you, with your heavy breaths that would convince anyone in the world to get over the awkwardness of a CPAP Mask–I’m sorry to digress, darling, but you don’t look like an elephant with that mask.  Would you rather be a dead elephant or an elephant that sleeps soundly?  And even if you did pass in your sleep with the mask on, I promise I would not participate in any making-fun-ofs when the coroner arrived.  I would not mention the floating pink pachyderm I drunkenly imagined only to find your cold body lying next to me in the morning still in that pink fleece sack of a nightgown you insist on wearing.  I believe I read somewhere that elephants are cold blooded due to their skin being so thick so that’s probably why I would be fine with a cold, dead elephant next to me in bed… Wait, that doesn’t completely prove my point, but well… I said it was a digression.

Anyway, my love, as you were blissfully comatose with your mixture of pretty blue pills, my mind was racing and I had to get up and pace a bit.  I thought to myself, we’ve just entered a new decade, it’s been a whole year since the episode of your “episode,” and 2009′s resolutions have remained untouched.  I’m not as rich as you would like me to be, and you haven’t attempted that diet you insisted on putting in air quotes. I thought I should make a new list, and since you never really seem to care much about things of worth other than e-cards these days, I made your resolution list as well.  It’s just easier, darling.

1. Join a Gym - It’s important to take care of ourselves, because we don’t want to die young and leave the other to have to pay off extraordinary credit card debt.  And if you need it to be, the phrase “joining a gym” can be a malleable definition.  It could mean fine-tuning an already well-oiled muscle machine, to which I’m referring to my own frame.  It could mean just exercising your tear ducts to control the awful amount of liquid that seeps out when too much boxed wine has entered your system.  Or, just finding the strength to remove your legs from beneath the bed covers.  Either way, it’s for the best.  I don’t want to be married to a fatty.  Again, I know it’s a digression, but you had slightly more big to your bones when we were courting, being a size 6 and all, and I thought secretly buying your dress two sizes smaller would inspire you to fit in it.  Now I claim “my bad” because, as we all know, instead you just looked like a glowing sausage wrapped in rice paper.  I do feel bad for keeping that secret during those three years of our engagement.  I thought your own self-deprecation would eventually evolve into motivation.  So, yes, back to joining a gym.  I’m sure you know of a YMCA or something with all those fruits you hang around with, right?  They look fit.  Most gays do.  Get on that.  Not the gays.  Don’t get on the gays.  They won’t like that.

2. Raise a small dog — Since I don’t like children, I’m sure you can get over those psychosomatic allergies of yours.  Here’s what I figure:  a small dog is easier to remember than that hopeless charity box coin purse you bring around.  It’s easier to run to Pet-Co than to mail pennies in an envelope to a child with a click in its unpronounceable name .  Besides, if I don’t spend my extra change on a sugary snack, I come home unbearably cranky.  Low blood sugar alone may jeopardize our marriage.  I can’t bear to think of such things.  And I mean really, what is 25 cents going to do for a family in need?  Will they buy their own sugary snacks to help them be less cranky about being starving or having a case of AIDS?  Ring up a Zebra Cake and take it home to the family to compliment their dusty bag of rice some hippy brought them?  They have Zebras in their front yard so why would I want to confuse them?  We’re getting a terrier dog puppy and we’re naming it Chumpo.  Or you can name it that clicky name after your charity case.  I don’t know why we’re still on this topic, darling.  These are resolutions to improve OUR lives, not others.

Well, it seems you’ve woken up, so I’ll have to complete my list another time.  God, why did I let you keep that nightgown from your sister’s closet?  You look like a pathetic mascot for a breast cancer walk.  People see you wearing that and they want to get cancer.

I love you darling, Happy New Year!

Yours,

Charles

P.S.  Would you mind taking the trash out in the morning?  My resolution is to get more beauty sleep.