Many of you have probably already seen the headlines and are starting to put two and two together. Whatever my reasons for keeping my identity a secret in the beginning, it’s becoming ever clearer that maybe it’s best if I just come clean and reveal myself. So before too much speculation heats up in the onlinediarysphere, I’ll just bite the bullet and get it over with.
Nina Diaz, [MTV’s My Super Sweet 16]’s creator, said that in addition to receiving submissions, she worked with a casting team of five who scoured the country talking with party planners, florists and catering-hall owners, in search of the type of teenagers who make for great television. Each season about 200 are interviewed, but only 8 or 9 make the cut, Ms. Diaz said.
(New York Times)
These are just a few of the nearly 200 rejected My Super Sweet 16 applicants:
Maya “The Hammer” Lowenstein:
“Okay, well, like the theme of my party is going to be like I’m this beautiful old fashioned belle of the ball, okay, but, like, everyone else is my slave. I’m going to have all of the guests dress up in black face and tattered clothes. I’ll sit up on a dais eating a lobster dinner while everyone else gets cornbread and if they don’t like it, we whip them. Daddy says he’s going to give me a Lexus SUV and I want to have some of the slaves carry me around in it. Jay-Z is going to perform in shackles. Then at the end of the party I emancipate everyone because I am their kind, giving, benevolent mistress.”
Rosetta “Queen Mean” Victoria:
“I want my party to center on great dictators. Colleen Atwood, the Academy Award winning costume designer, is going to dress me up to look like Musollini and Pol Pot and then when Fall Out Boy takes the stage I come out like Hitler and everyone has to run around naked, covered in mud while I shriek at them. I’ve talked it over with daddy and he says I can choose one “Jew” to have killed. Sure, there will be plenty of gifts and adoration, but what I want most is something you can’t buy in any store. I want people’s respect, and the only way to get them to respect me is through sheer terror. It’s going to be terribly frightening and IÂ would not be surprised if Lindsay McDowell pisses her La Perla, that whore.”
Roger “DJ” Damien:
“Yo, I got two words for you: prison rape. It is going to be an unforgettable night for everyone involved.”
Q: Worker #3116, are you at work today?
Q: Is it because you got kicked in the eye in karate class last night?
Q: Did you go to the emergency room?
Q: Do you have stitches in your face?
Q: Are you acting like a little pussy about it?
Q: Did the person kick you in the eye because that is the only way you can be defeated?
Q: If the sensei hadn’t called off the fight would you have used your Snake Eats Elephant combination to deliver the death blow to your opponent.
A: I said no.
A: That is not the way it is done.
Q: What does your eye look like?
Q: Does it hurt?
Q: Are you capable of feeling physical pain?
Q: Who would win in a three-way fight between Bruce Lee, Chuck Norris, and Worker #3116?
A: Is Bruce Lee a ghost?
Q: Yes, Bruce Lee is a ghost.
A: Bruce Lee would be victorious. The supernatural always win. Otherwise it would be me. Especially if Bruce Lee was a corpse because then I would really only have to worry about Norris. Or as I call him, Walker, Texas Ranger Whose Ass I Could Kick.
Q: Is this the most boring post you have ever written in your diary?
Q: Are you sure?
Dear Teen People,
The other day I was sitting in the train station when Chris Brown walked in! You can imagine how excited I was, he’s soooo cute. We totally made eye contact but the minute he sat down he put on his stupid mp3 Bean. Then L’il Wayne walked up and pointed at me. I’m not conceited, butÂ I’ve been around enough guys to know when I’m being checked out, and L’il Wayne was totally checking me out, but Chris Brown seemed really nervous, like he didn’t know what to say or do. Like he just couldn’t wait for L’il Wayne to drop the subject. Then he fell asleep.
At first I was kind of disappointed, but then we were transported to this elegant dreamscape based on the roaring ’20s. Before you ask why Chris Brown was dreaming of the ’20s I have a theory: I think it’s because in the ’20s you didn’t really have sexual intercourse until you were married. It will probably make more sense as you read on, but I have a feeling that a world in which you didn’t have to perform with a woman would be a paradise wonderland for Chris Brown.
Anyway, when Chris Brown realized we were in a 1920s train station he walked around really punch drunk, like a zombie, while L’il Wayne pulled on his suspenders and pointed out women. But Chris Brown didn’t seem interested in the ladies at all. In fact, he continued jerking around with that blank stare until…get this…he began dancing with some other men. That perked him up. Then he jumped up on the countertops and read the paper. Then heÂ danced by himself on the countertops, ignoring all the pretty cashiers who were working there. Then he danced with some more men. Then something really strange happened: he flashed red, like with a magical inner glow. This happened at numerous points throughout the dream. The only other person I’ve ever seen glow like that…I hate to admit it…was Tinkerbell, the little fairy from Peter Pan.
Finally he noticed me, but by now I was getting pretty sick of the whole pretty boy dance routine. I mean, how full of yourself do you have to be to dance ALL OVER A TRAIN STATION. Just sit down and wait for your train like everyone else, and if you want to come talk to me then come talk to me, don’t come pop-and-lock at me. And how many times does one man have to get his shoes shined? They’re shiny. Enough.Â So you know what I did next? I just walked away. But I’ll be honest with you, I still liked him. It was just a ploy to get his attention. You know, play hard to get. Well, what do you think he did next? That’s right, he started dancing with all his boyfriends again, shooting out fairy dust every chance he got.
Then he went outside. To chase me? No, to dance some more with his boyfriends. They danced for what felt like hours.
Finally he caught up to me and just when I thought he was going to go in for the kiss he put his hat up to shield us. From what? Was he embarrassed? Oh, he didn’t wantÂ his little prancing boyfriends to see? Well, it doesn’t matter, because nothing even happened. Right when he was supposed to kiss me we both woke up from this boring, overwrought, sexless fever dream, back in the modern day train station. And what do you think he did then? Did he realize that I was the beautiful woman from his dream and come over to talk to me? No, he told his little friend that he “swore he was about to kiss this girl,” but he said it all confused, like he’d never done it before. Like it was THE CRAZIEST DREAM.
So, is Chris Brown a homosexual or what?
BecauseÂ the Bush administration has neither captured nor killed Osama bin Laden,Â it follows thatÂ they have NOT done enough to do either of these things. Belief doesn’t really have a lot to do with it. When it comes to capturing and/or killing people, there are no vagaries. If you do it right, you’ll know. To the 16 percent who responded “yes” I would like to pose a few “Quick Poll” questions of my own:
-Do you believe it is possible to drink water at a constant rate so that you would have to pee constantly without stopping forever?
-Do you believe animated creatures and human beings will ever be able to live together peacefully?
-Do you believe gummy bears feel pain?
Attention world media! You have succeeded. I love Jessica Simpson. Even though her music is like a kidney punch to my ear, and you somehow manage to make even this celestial goddess look foolish by having her dangle over awards show stages on papier-machÃ© moons and shit, oh and that Pro-Active zit commercial WTF?,Â and not to mention the fact that she is a mental retard, I stillÂ love her. Like a teenage girl, I’m consumed with the fantasy that if only she met me I could change her, mold her to my image. Make her not be a zit-faced retarded. And barring that, I could have sex with her body.
BUT, and this is the part where I want you to pay attention: I can go a day without Jessica Simpson news. Yes, it’s painful. Yes, I wonder whether or not she’s okay. Yes, I then begin to wonder why I even bother living. BUT THOSE DAYS PASS, and the next day brings some wondrous photo of my lady love in Uggs shoppingÂ for Chili-CheeseÂ Fritos with Ca-cee or something.Â
You don’t need to take me back to the Summer of ’05. I was there. It was boring. Let’s move on.
Call me, Jess. I’ll teach you how to read and shit.
Friday night at about 10:45 PM I pulled into my driveway and saw two little blue lights approaching from down the street. Then I heard faint music, which grew progressively louder. It was some dude riding his bike with a boombox on the handlebars, just jamming it out on a warm spring night in a residential neighborhood.
Here’s the thing, in terms of raw activity, this is something I respect more than most others. Riding your bike with a boombox strapped to the front letting the world know that you don’t give a shit, you just want to rock and ride, that is boss business. It is so boss you have to work harder when it’s around. Seriously, I’ve only seen a few people ride around neighborhoods with boomboxes strapped to their handlebars and every time I do I think to myself “That is awesome. I’m a fucking piece of shit. What am I doing with my life that’s so great?”
All of that being said, I have an important message for the dude from Friday night: DIRE STRAITS? What the fuck, you cunt? Way to ruin everything. I was going to make a comment about how you don’t even deserve a bike, but then I realized you don’t even deserve legs.
Ding dong, doctor here.
Doctor, ma’am, at your service. Breast exam? It’s free!
How do I know you’re a real doctor?
I’ve said it twice, haven’t I? Also, I’m old, like a real doctor.
Well, I do love a bargain.