Category Archives: Meme

I Love Sororities.

In the wake of “The Rape of Betty Childs” last week, and also due to an appointment with the dentist, I never got around to posting a Friday Morning Video. But I’m glad I waited, because this is so, so much better.

Why am I posting it here? Because, Lerlines, where would Betty Childs have been without the Pis? Where would Bluto be without topless pillow fights?

WordPress is being annoying, so you’ll have to click through the image to FunnyorDie.


Recently, one of the fine sisters of Delta Gamma (U Maryland) took her sisters to task for being a bit more loserly than she appreciated. I’m not sure what her role is in the house; I’m guessing she’s in charge of social events, or possibly rush; she’s most definitely not a freshman or sophomore, I know that. In any case, displeased with the public personas of her fellow DGs, she composed a brilliant diatribe on just how disappointed she is in her sisters, and how they’d pretty much better get into shape, lest she get really angry and, say, cunt-punt them.

People have read the letter and called it “insane” and “deranged”; I think it’s brilliant. Despite a stuck caps lock, her grammar is surprisingly good, and she’s a terrific monologue writer. (Tip: use this at your next audition. You won’t be sorry.) Michael Shannon brings it to a David Mametesque level, which usually, to me, means something like “Good god, shut the fuck up and stop repeating yourself,” but in the context of Glengarry Delta Gamma, is an eloquent pouring-forth of profanity bordering on true beauty. It’s a glistening waterfall of verbal daggers.


I’m in agreement with the rest of the internet that “cunt-punt” is most certainly the best phrase, and here’s why: it’s not just the rhyming, or the visual; it’s that it’s not using “cunt” as a derogatory term. Instead, it’s expressing a very specific act of violence AGAINST the cunt. It’s “kick him where it hurts,” only it’s her, and it rhymes.

Then there’s the part where she issues a number of invitations to her sisters, such as asking them to email her back and let her know of their level of mental retardation, and also punch themselves in the face so she doesn’t have to do it for them.


Here’s what I love the most about the letter, though: I KNOW HER. OK, well, I don’t know DG Rebecca. But there was a junior my freshman year, and we’ll call her Mary Jane, who so terrified me that I’m STILL afraid of her. Mary Jane is a wonderful person, by all accounts: she volunteered for Special Olympics as a hugger, for instance, and I loved most of my sisters well enough to know that if they loved her, that she must have  a sweet chocolatey center, unlike Rebecca, who may actually be as horrible as one imagines shrill sorority sisters to be. But Mary Jane suffered no fools. NONE. And man, did she have a mouth.

You see, the true secret of Greek life is this: no way will 60 women all like each other equally. It’s just not emotionally possible. After living with someone for a few years, you forge your close bonds, and your less-close bonds, and one or two, you might even just not get at all. For the record, no, I did not dislike any of my sorority sisters, but some of them–well, we just didn’t get each other.

Of course, not even Mary Jane ever threatened physical violence, but that was 15 years ago, before all those violent video games made everyone crazy.


But when it comes down to it, you’re all in it together, you share the same rituals and handshake–yes! Rituals! Handshakes!– and I know that if I’d been at a party, and someone had done something untoward to me in Mary Jane’s presence, they’d have received a tongue-lashing that would have terrified even DG Rebecca into submission. Why? Because I was Mary Jane’s sister, goddamnit, and she’d fucking cunt-punt any boot-licking asswipe who’d ever disrespect me, even if I was some pledge whose name she couldn’t quite remember. It’s a family; the name “sister” is not an accident.

I hope nationals doesn’t come down too hard on DG Rebecca. Despite using extremely poor judgment in scribing an email (seriously, why couldn’t she scream at them in chapter?), being generally racist and unapologetically privileged, she probably has the group’s best interests at heart. Given a chance, she’ll be the fucking president of the goddamn national alumnae association someday, and do NOT fucking think she will accept that you assholes think you’re not going to donate. Delta Gamma gave you the four most fun years of your entire sorry existence, so fucking pay up and stop putting us off in your whiny little bitch voice.

Either that, or Rebecca: bone up on your screenwriting skills and go to Hollywood. You have a future there.

Suck on that, David Mamet.

** She also mentions Sigma Nu, specifically, and how the DGs would be unhappy if they invited Zeta over. Speaking as a Zeta (Bethany College, ’97) who regularly enjoyed the company of the Sigma Nus: thanks for the callout. It’s appreciated.


Kermit’s response to someone who is 100% Wrong, and won’t shut up about it.

There are tons of people on the interwebs who are wrong and will not STFU about it. Or as I call them, jerkwads. But, is it just me, or have they been even wronger lately? I think they have. Especially the people who make up facts about Hitler so they can compare him to Obama. They are just so verbose and so, so wrong. It reminded me of the scene between late great Peter Falk and Kermit in The Great Muppet Caper. A lot of jerkwads are wrong, but if they sit on your park bench and get in your face about it, just send them this video.


Another “Feminism Happened” Life Lesson from the Better Off Dead Mom.

To be honest, this was not exactly inspired by Better Off Dead. It was inspired by those women…you know Those Women. The ones who are always on Facebook posting things like, “I just spent all afternoon deep-frying BLTs and cleaning the dishwasher for My Man. Isn’t My Man lucky?” When I see one of those posts, my first thought is, “Bitch, didn’t you vote for Hilary?” My second thought is, “You made those deep-fried BLTs for Your Man? What the fuck did you eat? Did you get a sandwich, or were you happy to watch Your Man enjoy the fruits of your labor while sustaining yourself on whatever bits of water-logged food you found in the dishwasher drain?” My third thought is, “Since I actually made that whole deep-fried BLT thing up, should I patent that or what?”

You Can’t Get Depressed with a Name Like Bif

Oh, THIS TV, how I love you. I also love ION, but I especially love THIS TV. It’s like TBS for the great uncabled. Last night, I landed on “Vice Versa,” but despite it being an adorable reminder of Judge Reinhold’s cuteness, I decided to forego it for “Master Chef.” We switched back after they ditched the guy with the worst apple pie, and to my ever-loving gobsmacked eyes, “Making the Grade” came on.

The 80s produced many prep school movies, and like all teen subgenres, had a few wins (“Class” being the best of the best) and  lots more flops (“Up the Academy” being the one I remember best; when an 8-year-old knows a movie isn’t funny, it isn’t funny.). Phoebe Cates, of course, starred in roughly half of them, and had sex “From Here to Eternity”-style in “Private School,” sometime after the the aerobics class and topless horseback ride. but in the Rocket house, the very, very favorite, was always “Making the Grade.”

I was worried about watching it; I’ve been disappointed in my adulthood many times by movies I found hilarious in the 80s. (Bachelor Party, I’m looking at you.) The most disappointing thing about re-watching “Making the Grade” was that they left half of it on THIS TV’s floor: most notably, the scene in which Rand (the playboy’s sidekick) teaches street kid Eddie how to dress preppy. I was appalled: the entire point of the movie is to teach us kids how to dress preppy, especially since we didn’t get The Preppy Handbook way down in Greene County. And they cut THIS scene?

Best line: “Socks: Wear them only to weddings, and then, only to your own.” As a kid in the sticks, I was shocked that preppies were not neat and tidy, that they wore clothes too big, shoes too small, and pants too high. OK, I knew about the pants part.

Then there’s the bit part played by Andrew Dice Clay, with his Stayin’ Alive scene; Jonna Lee, who played the drums in Lovelines (another post) and has a spectacular rack, mostly because they’re real. Mr. Carlson plays the headmaster of the school, every guy wears pink, and Dennis Blunden plays the seniors’ “floor model” for demonstrating proper behavior to “smacks.” Also, Judd Nelson says “BREAK DAAAANCE” and then proceeds to do that, in a series of distant shots and closeups of his face.

NOTE: Less enjoyable are the two black characters: one as Palmer’s housekeeper, and the other as Tracy’s footman. No lie. He’s a footman. And the word “massuh” is only slightly silent.

But the real reason to watch “Making the Grade” is Dana Olsen as the real Palmer Woodrow III. I can only assume that he was actually playing himself, because no other reason for his performance makes sense, considering that he never made any other movies. I can’t find the best part–when he gets drunk and returns to the prep school–so you’ll have to TiVO it and forward to the best parts. Just look for the drunk guy shooting wine into Dan Schneider’s mouth from a bota bag.

Factoid: he also co-wrote “The ‘Burbs.” Which, unlike “Bachelor Party,” gets funnier every time I watch it.

And here: make your own meme.

Need backup? Call Keanu Reeves 2.0.

Next time you’re in trouble, call on the Keanu Reeves Mash-Up Bot, which has all the features you’d expect from a Keanu Reeves MUB. He speaks forty languages, including San Dimas, San Diego, and Sanskrit; he stops bullets with his mind, travels in time, and has sex with three-headed sirens. His skills in the courtroom, the bedroom, and hell are unmatched. And he’s all yours for six easy payments of $39.99. (Telephone booth not included.)

NOTE: KR-MUB 2.0 has resolved most of the bugs from KR-MUB 1.0, including the so-called “Volkswagen bug.” Seeing a VW Bug on the street will no longer trigger KR-MUB to launch into Crispin Glover’s “Get down” speech.


Flames at the Side of Her Face: Tribute to Madeline Kahn (1942-1999) part 1 of 1,678

Flames at the Side of Her Face: Tribute to Madeline Kahn (1942-1999) part 1 of 1,678

When Madeline Kahn’s diminutive, delightfully homicidal Mrs. White tries to come up with the right words to explain the hate she had for the fancy French mistress of her philandering husband, she delivers a line that soon becomes legendary in Clue, a movie filled with legendary lines. A generation has used this line to describe our hatred for everything from high gas prices to leaky garbage bags to philandering husbands to ovarian cancer, and it has served us well. Now, I propose we bring this rage-explaining shorthand to the Internet. We could make it even shorter and just say fatsomf whenever someone pisses us off. Or we could use an emoticon like “o,o” …or we could use this handy dandy meme I made for you. (It clicks through to the original scene…in case you’ve forgotten it.)