Lisa’s Weekly Random Thought

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Anyone who has listened to me on Howard Stern or has seen my latest stand-up special, "Long Live the Queen," knows I had taken a year off from dating so that I could finally start attracting men who are my equal. A great by-product of spending a year on my own is that I no longer am afraid to be single, so therefore, I am a bit more – how shall I put this? – choosy about the men I date.

Below is a fan letter from a gentleman, let's call him Ron, doing what he THINKS is asking me out. His attached picture was GORGEOUS and a year ago, I may have jumped at the chance to meet him. Now, due to my better self-esteem and newfound courage to say "no" – well, read my response to him. And you tell me if I haven't changed.

From: RonInNYC
Subject: (No subject)

Hey lisa hi im ron love ur shows find u very very funny and kinda cute hmmm lol love to talk iwth u if possible feel free to contact me i wont bite unless u ask nicely ha but if ever in nyc lets hang out xoxo ron oh yeah im the guy in the middle

To: RonInNYC
Subject: You

Hey, Ron,

Got your e-mail and wanted to get back to you. You're obviously a fan of mine and a very handsome gentleman, but just wanted to give you some feedback on how to approach a woman of quality like myself:

1) First of all, Ron, love that you find me "very very funny." You leading with a compliment is a good thing. As you know, women eat that shit up!

2) Secondly, you state you find me "kinda cute." Hmmm. "Kinda cute"? Didn't you mean to say "Hot"? "Sexy?" "Voluptuous?" No? What about "Attractive"? Any of the above would've been fine -- of course, without the "kinda." Hell, I woulda thought it was "kinda cute" if you said I was "Cute." But the "kinda"? That makes me wanna spin again! Huge turnoff. If you're gonna give me a compliment, give me a real one. If you don't want to give me a compliment in a certain area, don't even bring the area up.

3) You say you'd "love to talk with me." THAT, I like. I love to talk via email or over the phone with nice chocolate daddies like yourself, and would be pleased to make your acquaintance in that manner. So, before you decide if you'd like to answer this, please put plenty of prepaid minutes on your cell phone and get ready to talk -- and by "talk," I mean "talk" and not "text." I only text in emergencies. I TALK to guys I want to get to know better. Phone contact helps avoid the emotional walls put up by texting and lets a person get to know someone better by actually hearing the other person's voice.

4) Congratulations, Ron! You get mucho points for "I won't bite unless you ask nicely." Although I've heard this before, I still find it sexy and look forward to being bitten if things should work out. Great way to flirt without being overtly sexual. That overtly sexual bullshit is a HUGE turnoff for someone in my position. So, you're a clear winner here.

5) Regarding your picture, all men should learn from you. Always surround yourself when taking a photo by less attractive men. That way, when looking at the photo, a woman will say, "Please let him be the guy in the middle," and will sigh with relief when they read that indeed the guy in the middle is you. Keep those friends of yours around -- you smoke them out of the water!

6) One last bit of advice: "Let's hang out" isn't asking me on a date. I don't "hang out" with men. I "go out" with them. So if you'd like to take me on a proper date -- and IF you don't have a significant other -- you can ask me nicely to go out with you after we've conversed a bit. "Hanging out" is something you do with your buddies or ho's you're not serious about -- and I'm not interested in being either.

Oh, and just to help you out, here is the English translation of the message you sent me. Trust me: educated white women LOVE them some punctuation and capitalization.

Hey Lisa!

Hi. I'm Ron. I love your shows and I find you very, very funny and smokin' hot! Hmmm . . .

I'd love to talk with you, if possible. Feel free to contact me -- I won't bite unless you ask nicely! And if you're ever in New York City, let's go out. I'd love to take you out on the town.


P.S. Oh yeah, I'm the guy in the middle.

Well, Ron, hope you've learned something from my note. If you're still interested in corresponding, you can e-mail me at this address. I find you very cute -- handsome, even -- and I hope you read this with a sense of humor and sense of understanding. Either way, I wish you nothing but the best!

Lisa L.


Lisa’s Weekly Random Thought

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Hi Loyal Subjects! This week is Spring Break, and my thoughts went once again back to my college days, and the most significant event of my freshman year: The Freshman 15. If you don't know what I'm talking about, read on. And if you do, read anyway.

Contrary to popular belief, the Freshman 15 is not the amount of dicks a girl has to suck to get into a sorority. The Freshman 15 is the 15 pounds of fat a coed puts on her ass and thighs during her first year of college.

This Freshman 15 is caused by the student's biological inability to process alcohol by the gallon, and by her steady diet of crap. Considering that the healthiest foods in college are Hot Pockets and Ramen noodles, the weight gain is no surprise. Both these nutritious treats contain enough sodium to cure a pig, and since sodium leads to water retention, the rest is history. To add insult to injury, the birth control pill makes girls retain water too, and freshman girls get on the pill before their first 9 a.m. class since college boys can’t afford condoms with the price of bongs going up. Lack of sleep also contributes to weight gain, and freshmen do a lot of late-night cramming. Oh, and they study late at night too. Add to that the two weeks of binge eating freshman girls do after their "soulmate" is caught banging someone else on their dorm floor, and they're lucky the 15 doesn't turn into 50.

What cracks me up is how freshman girls eat crap all day and night, drink three gallons of beer on the weekend, and then wonder how the Freshman 15 showed up. Girls, I know you're exercising, but empty, meaningless sex burns fewer calories than you think. One word of advice: if you don't want to gain the weight, wise up! Instead of peanut butter, eat celery. Instead of pizza, eat fruit salad. And when you plan on drinking, give plasma. That way, you'll get black-out drunk by drinking half as much beer. See how easy it is to make healthy choices? If I can do it, so can you!


Lisa’s Weekly Random Thought

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

As spring break approaches for college students everywhere, I started to think back to my miserable college days and my even more miserable spring breaks. For me, there were no wet T-shirt contests in Daytona or volunteering in the Appalachians helping those less fortunate. All I did was study and work...and I worked because I had spent my entire year's spending money by my second week away - NO LIE. So I got to pondering about ways to pay one's way through school.

There are many ways to pay your way through college, and they allsuck. You could become a resident assistant and rat on your dorm friends, which is great preparation if your aspirations are to become a slumlord. Plus you get free room and board to be an asshole. The drawback is, if you want to be an REAL asshole, you should have just
entered the police academy.

A step up from RA is TA or teacher's assistant. Basically, this means you're a professor's slave. As a TA, your worst-case scenario is you have a nervous breakdown. Your best-case scenario is you win a sexual harassment case against the university. I personally vote for option number 2.

Some students donate blood to get through college. This makes getting a buzz at Happy Hour easy, but it also makes you way too comfortable with sticking needles in your arm. Donating sperm sounds good on paper until your test tube spluge shows up 18 years later and ruins your dinner party.

Some girls who are whores anyway become strippers. I don’t advise this because it’s a career path with dead hooker as the end game.

The best way to pay your way through college is to do it the old-fashioned way: Beg every cent you can out of your proud parents and, if that doesn't work, sign up for a credit card and yell “CHARGE!” You may even get a free T-shirt out of the deal to boot.


Lisa’s Weekly Random Thought

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

We all watched happily this past Sunday as Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie both lost in their respective Oscar categories. There was no sweeter feeling than watching Hollywood's "Golden Couple" take it in the poopshoot at the Academy Awards as they sat holding hands, flaunting their love in front of me and Jennifer Aniston. That got me to wondering: "Why do I hate the two of them so much -- other than their looks, talent, and all-consuming affection for each other?" Then I remembered. It's that they're the poster children for celebrity adoption.

The new hip thing for the In Crowd is no longer cocaine or pilates -- it's collecting children. Celebrities are acting as if these children come from the Franklin Mint and not from the jungle. It must be fun to treat babies as collectibles. Hmmm . . . I wonder if you can trade two Africans for an Asian?

As usual, adopting kids is just another way for celebrities to show off. It’s not enough for them to send a check to Sally Struthers. No! They have to fly to Africa themselves for the photo op. And it's not like they’re raising the kid anyway. The kid's just another thing their maid or personal assistant has to do for them.

Celebrity adoption fits the selfish celebrity profile to a tee. These publicity hounds could afford to feed the refugee’s entire nation for a whole year, but instead they choose to spoil one lucky pygmy just to get on the cover of People.

There is one benefit to celebrity adoption, however. The stars' real kids love the idea. If they're lucky enough to get a kid from the Dark Continent, they have a bodyguard at school. If their new adopted sibling is plucked from a rice patty, they have someone to do their homework for them while they hit the clubs.

Hmmm . . . maybe this celebrity adoption thing isn't so stupid after all. Note to self: Look into adopting a 23-year-old warrior from Africa to live in my bush.


Lisa's Weekly Random Thought

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Saw one too many knocked-up bitches on the Upper West Side of Manhattan today. Made me think about their situation, and am thrilled to share my thoughts on God's greatest revenge to pregnant beyotches -- morning sickness.

Morning sickness is a foreshadowing of motherhood because every morning you wake up as a mother you will be sick to your stomach. Morning sickness is nothing but the trumpet blowing chunks that your life is about to get shittier. Things are going well, you aren't getting your period, your boobs seem a little bigger, and then boom -- nausea and vomiting.

Pregnant women get morning sickness when they don't take care of their bodies. I don't understand women who wonder why they get morning sickness when their diet consists of eating pickles dipped in peanut butter and chocolate sauce. Some women don't know they're pregnant and think morning sickness is a hangover. Then they find out they're pregnant and the father is a loser, and then they have morning sickness for the rest of their lives.

Morning sickness is actually good for women. It helps them keep their weight down during pregnancy. Women who can't lose their baby weight wish they had morning sickness. It's a license to be anorexic. Eat for two and puke for you.

I like it when the father gets irritated that their woman has morning sickness as if she's delaying his travel plans. "Oh, sorry we're going to be five minutes late so I can have your freakin' baby. Like I'm really happy about this. I just ruined a pair of Jimmy Choos over the deal. The good news, though, is my feet are swelling up so bad, I wasn't going to be able to wear them much longer anyhow."


Lisa's Weekly Random Thought

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Hey, crazy-ass Lisa fans,

Was just talking to my mom, Gloria, and she jokingly asked me if I was going to go to church this Sunday (I think she already knows the answer to THAT one.) So, this got me to thinking about one of the many reasons that Catholic masses suck: THE AWFUL, UNAVOIDABLE CHURCH CHOIR!

First, let’s get this straight: all choirs suck. Catholic ones just suck a little more because you have to listen to them in church. The Rolling Stones would sound like shit if you had to listen to them on a hard wooden seat with the left side of your body asleep from your toes to your taint. Choirs are bad because they make going to church take even longer.
There’s absolutely nothing appealing about a choir. The bitch who’s secretly fucking the priest gets to do a solo that lasts longer than David Lee Roth’s radio career. The men are fags and the women wear gowns to hide the fact that they weigh 350 pounds. To add insult to injury, they sing the same 20 songs they’ve been singing for the past 200 years. C’mon, Holier-Than-Thou A-holes! Mix it up a little. Throw in some Kelly Clarkson -- or at least a song from “Wicked” for the fag priest, would ya?

Simply put, choirs are just karaoke for pious pricks. “American Idol” has made some people think that being in a choir is a first step in show biz. Honey, don’t get it twisted – you ain’t gettin’ discovered in church. No Jew from William Morris is getting up on a Sunday morning and schlepping to St. Sebastian’s to watch your celestial showcase.


Lisa's Weekly Random Thought

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Hey, loyal readers,

Was just watching my DVRs of "Celebrity Rehab," and had to give you my thoughts on one of the creepiest things ever about rehab: room searches.

One of the most humiliating things about being sent to rehab would have to be the room searches. When you enter rehab, they search you harder than a dune coon flying Air Infidel from Baghdad to Washington DC. You are not allowed to bring anything with you to rehab and, let me tell you, you couldn’t smuggle a queaf into that place. The only people who stand a chance of sneaking anything in are the sex addicts because their vaginas stretch like expandable luggage.

The search is a way for people at rehab centers to control you. Of course, there’s the initial room search when you get there, but once you move in, they do random searches of your room – unannounced! I don’t know what they expect to find. Are they looking for the shank I’m making to stab the annoying therapist with, or are they looking for my vibrator?

I don’t even think they’re looking for drugs. And trust me, drugs would be the least humiliating thing they would find. What would you rather they discover -- a small residue of cocaine or the Polaroid of one of your psychologists and a pile of “soiled” tissues? You know that photo is gonna result in an even more awkward conversation than the time you told him how your uncle used to make you feel “icky.” I would rather them find me with a dirty needle than flip through my journal of bad poetry. After three bad metaphors on how peace is like a river, the orderlies would be sneaking me heroin just to make me stop.