Tag Archives: Throwback Thursday

8 Tips to Make Football Bearable for Any Gorgeous and Sassy Girl

The Super Bowl is right around the corner, and perhaps some of you haven’t exactly caught up with football fever. Maybe, like Gigi, you’d rather read a book when a big game (or any game, for that matter) is on TV. But if you’re willing follow these tips, you can make football watching not only bearable, but really fun. In fact, if you get really into football, if can make or break your weekend. Because let’s face it, winning is awesome and feels good. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

8 – Drink heavily.
Invited to someone’s house for the game? Never fear. Most football-watching parties will include beer, wine and assorted spirits, and if you’re lucky—delicious snacks like queso or 7 layer dip. (If the football watching party is at a bar, you’re definitely golden; the only downside is of course the harm to your wallet.) Start drinking when you get there, and you won’t get bored if you don’t get what’s going on during the game.

7 – Learn a couple of rules.
This will take you far. I promise. A quick guide:
touchdown is worth 6 points.
field goal is worth 3 points. If the team can’t make a touchdown and it’s close enough, the team might kick instead. The ball has to go through the uprights. That’s a field goal.
An extra point is kicked after a touchdown and is worth—you got it—one extra point.
If the team tries for a pass after the touchdown and makes it, it’s worth TWO extra points. (This is a great one. Say “Think they’ll go for two here?” You sound like you know what you’re talking about, and any boy will jump at the chance to share his opinion.)
Each team has four downs. Think of a down like a “chance.” You’ve got four chances to either move the ball 10 yards or score. The object is always to get to first down, which is 10 yards away. 1st and 10 = 1st down and 10 yards to go. 2nd and 2 = it’s 2nd down and 2 yards to go. If you haven’t moved the ball 10 yards by 4th down, you’re out of chances and you usually kick to the other team.
(Remember, NO ONE fully understands the kicking rules. Don’t bother with it. The other stuff is more important.)

6 – Choose a team.
There are a host of choices here, as you can go with college or NFL. If you’re really dedicated, you can choose a college team and an NFL team. This means you’ll have an activity on both Saturday AND Sunday. Say goodbye to productivity all autumn long! Once you’ve chosen your team, buy a really cute shirt—a baby tee or a tank top—and wear it on game day. That way you can get ready to go to a football party just like you were going to a real party. Try and get into rooting for your team when it’s playing, or rooting against your team’s biggest rivals. You have to be emotionally invested in a game to enjoy it.

5 – Don’t ask too many questions—and DON’T ask them at the wrong time.
If some sort of crazy play happens and the refs are in a huddle and they’re airing a replay, DON’T ask, “What happened?” Wait until the refs give the call. Boys will just roll their eyes at you.

4 – Pay attention to stupid player names.
Everyone gets a good chuckle out of some guy named Tebucky.

3 – Listen to the commentators say things that don’t make sense.
No matter whether you’re watching college or NFL, the commentators will probably suck. They will say things like, “Look at the way he runs with his legs!” and you’ll be thinking, “As opposed to his arms?”

2 – Watch the coaches to see if you can make out all the curse words.
After a really bad play, the cameras will definitely zoom in on the head coach. You might institute a shot game—take a shot each time he rips the headphones from his head or yells at the refs.

1 – When in doubt, nap. 
If you’re not at a football party or a bar, just go to sleep. Then you can say you were watching football, which earns you cool points, and you also get beauty sleep. WIN.

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tiny hands in South Beach

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, I met a guy who was only in town for the night. We kind of hit it off and exchanged phone numbers and email addresses. This guy turned out to have too much money and frequent flier miles, so he offered to meet me in South Beach one weekend so we could get to know each other better. I took various security precautions to ensure he wouldn’t leave me for dead, but I did not know this meant I was expected to, well, put out.

In honor of PEOTUS’s hands, his inauguration (I will be wearing black, in mourning for our country and general notions of sanity and goodness) and throwback Thursday , I bring you the story of tiny hands in South Beach.

Miami International Airport. There he is—tiny hands. Okay, he’s cute—short (with tiny hands—as I’ll discover later), but cute. I can handle this. We grab a cab and direct our driver to our hotel. “Second-best hotel in South Beach,” tiny hands says to me, as if I care. I nod and wonder aloud, “According to whom?”

Second Best Hotel in South Beach. We check in and find our room decorated in white; very sleek and very modern. I stare at the bed. THE bed. Just one. There’s also a couch…could I ask him to? Ah, forget it. I’ll get drunk and pass out and then I won’t have to deal.

Tantra. Very cool place. Diva recommended it specifically for the aphrodisiac menu. I tear into my entrée and wait for the aphrodisiac effect. Nothing. I gulp some more alcohol and look at tiny hands. Nope, still nothing. What is he babbling about? Oh yeah, something about the millions of trips he’s taken this year. And how he’s a really bad dancer. Thanks for the warning. What the hell? Now he’s text messaging his friend.

“This guy, who I’m talking to; he’s the one who recommended the hotel-second best in South Beach.”

I think about faking a heart attack so I can spend the weekend in the hospital.

Second Best Hotel in South Beach. We return from Tantra slightly buzzed. Well, I am. I’m also exhausted—it’s been a long day. I brush my teeth, change for bed and dive under the sheets.

“Good night! So very tired!” I say, and turn over. I wonder if tiny is a tiny bit disappointed, but then again, so was I when I realized how lame he is.

Lunch. Somehow, we’ve gotten turned around on the directions from the girl at the concierge desk. We’re walking; well, I am—and tiny hands is sort of shuffling and whining about his Adidas soccer slippers. They’re hurting his tender feet. Maybe that’s because (1) they’re brand new (2) they are supposed to be worn with socks and (3) tiny hands doesn’t  play soccer.

Yet he’s insistent on finding this stupid restaurant. We pass roughly 6,000 sidewalk cafes and I’m about to gnaw my arm off when we finally choose one at random. We choose badly, as the waiter is so stoned he forgets about us. Which means I get hungrier and tiny hands gets chattier. This time I get to hear about his Saab and how it really punches on the highway. I watch some hot guys play volleyball and wonder if I could join them.

We’re walking back from lunch when tiny hands takes my hand. It’s all I can do not to snatch my palm out of his. Oh jeez. It’s so SMALL. And sweaty. Dude, is this guy really 13? What’s going ON here?

Beach. I’m lying in the sun, hoping that tiny hands will STOP talking. For just a minute. And if he does talk, please God, make it something interesting. But no. I have my nose in a novel and he asks, “What are you reading?” I answer without removing my eyes from the page.

“So, do you need me to help put lotion on your back?” he asks.

“No, I’m fine.” Reading.

Sweet silence for a few moments. Then, “Are you sure you don’t want to take your top off?”

Would it be more painful to kill him by dumping him in the ocean with raw meat tied to him, or perhaps by burying him in the sand and depositing birdseed on his head?

“So, have your boobs ever been in the sun?”

Raw meat. Sharks. Yesssss.

Finally he says he’s going swimming. As soon as he’s out of earshot I grab my phone.

“GIGI! Help! This guy is so not cool! I can’t stand him! I want to come home! Help!” She giggles and tries to reassure me. After all, I only have another 24 hours to go. Tiny hands unfortunately has not drowned, as he returns and lies down in his lounge chair. Finally, he’s quiet and I sneak a peek to see if he’s fallen asleep. If so, maybe I can grab my stuff and run…fast. I can’t tell what he’s doing behind the mirrored sunglasses. Yeah, mirrored. Don’t ask. So I decide to flip over. “Good idea,” he comments. Oh GOD. He’s still awake. And WHERE is the damn waiter? We’ve been out here for two hours and not a drop of alcohol. And tiny hands has a strict rule about not drinking until 5 p.m. Whatever.

Pool. Good. Pool = drinks and food. Tiny hands gets in the water and I grab another deck chair and a new magazine. Sweet Jesus—there’s a waitress, heading my way with a tray. it’s like she’s in slow motion as she hands me a deliciously cool vodka tonic, and I’m saying, “Yeah, just charge that to the room.” Tiny hands gets out of the pool to join me, drains his Heineken and says he’ll have a vodka tonic also.

“I usually have gin and tonic,” he tells me, while I wonder how long it would take me to drown myself.

I mutter, “Oh?” while focused on the magazine. I may even have it upside down.

“But I decided to try vodka tonic.”

“Why?” Do I look like I care, buddy?

“Because you’re drinking it; and well, because it sounded so light and refreshing that I wanted to try it.”

I grab my own cocktail and down it. He did not just say “light and refreshing,” did he? There should be a list of words straight men should not say—and “light and refreshing” should be on it. And why the hell does it matter what I’m drinking?

Hotel Room Patio. Three vodka tonics later, we’re waiting for dinner. Well, that’s what I’m doing. If I can just keep him out of the room, maybe he won’t try and make out with me. I keep running to the bar to get more vodka tonics, while tiny hands babbles about everything from his cable modem to his mom’s boyfriends when he was growing up to condo fees for the new place he wants to buy in Georgetown. Oh—and don’t forget—this is the SECOND best hotel in Miami beach. THE SECOND BEST. I resist the urge to scream “SHUT UP!” and smile and sip my cocktail instead.

I’m getting out of the shower—door locked—when I hear my cell phone ringing. It’s Diva. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“Hiding in the bathroom,” I hiss.

“Oh no,” she replies, laughing. “That can’t be good.”

“I can’t wait to get the hell out of here,” I tell her. I hang up with Diva and make up songs about how much I hate tiny hands. Yup, the alcohol is helping.

Some Restaurant. Tiny hands and I can’t agree on wine so we order by the glass. I’ve lost track of how much I’ve had. I just know that as soon as he gets up to go to the bathroom, there’s a guy facing me from across the room who shakes his head sadly at me. I start laughing and mouth, “He’s that bad?” He shrugs and makes a motion to slit his throat. I’m convulsing with giggles when tiny hands returns to the table.

“What, are you flirting with someone?” he says. He looks enraged but still…tiny and lame.

I giggle some more, take a gulp of wine and nod. “Yup! He’s cracking me up!” Tiny hands looks wildly around the restaurant but Heckler has fallen smoothly into conversation with his table. I try and catch his eye but he’s a master—until tiny hands stumbles to the bathroom again. Then Heckler starts up again. He’s clearly indicating that he thinks tiny hands is a loser and he can’t understand what I’m doing with him. I shrug. Dude, I don’t have any answers either. More wine.

Outside Some Restaurant. I realize tiny hands also has a Tiny Alcohol Tolerance. And boy are those tiny hands moving fast over my ass. The night has turned windy and I decide if we’re going to Lario’s to dance I’ll need my sweater. Tiny hands and I start walking toward our hotel. And his hands feel permanently affixed to my ass, despite my constant protests.

“Seriously, tiny, stop touching me,” I keep saying, and he babbles about being drunk and how that prevents him from listening, apparently. I tell him I don’t care. Lario’s is out of the question as he has become too drunk to function. Damn those light and refreshing vodka tonics!

Then he says to me, “You got me drunk. You should expect this.” My annoyance quickly transforms to revulsion. I got him drunk? So I could take advantage of him? WTF is he saying?

Quick, think. Okay, we’ll buy liquor. Maybe people from the club at the hotel will drunkenly wander to our patio, and as long as I have people around, he won’t be able to molest me. I drag the Octopus into a liquor store. I’ll put his drunk ass to bed and party with some cool people. He’s all over me—still. “BACK the FUCK OFF,” I snarl, as I’m purchasing a bottle of vodka.

Second Best Hotel in Miami. Back in the room, he heads for the sliding glass door as I grab my sweater. He’s smoking a cigarette and apologizing for being so forward. “I jus…I jus…needed a lil’ nicotine,” he slurs. Outside, I sit in the chair opposite him, longing to be on the crowded dance floor. It’s just…a few steps away…

“Yeah, nicotine will fix your problem, all right,” I spit.

“I promise to stop hitting on you,” he says, getting to his feet and putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah, see, with that hand on my shoulder, you’re already breaking a rule,” I tell him. “THE ONE THAT SAYS STOP TOUCHING ME.”

It appears my party plan won’t work, as I realize at some point I’ll have to sleep in the same bed with mr. handsy. I toy with the idea of running off the patio, finding a group of people and hanging with them all night. But at some point I have to return to this damn room. Tiny hands is smoking another cigarette and complimenting himself on ashing into the water bottle.

“I’m not very comfortable here,” I announce, standing up. “I think it’s time for me to go.”

“Thas’ ridiculous,” tiny hands exclaims, looking up at me and then quickly back the cigarette to see if he’s succeeded in getting the ash into the bottle again. “Where you goin’?”

“Somewhere else,” I tell him and go quickly into the bathroom, gathering shampoo, conditioner, makeup and toothbrush in an armful. I dump them in my case while he struggles toward the bed.

“Awww, come on,” he mutters, patting the bed beside him. “We’ll jus’ sleep. Really. No touching. Sleep nice.”

“Nope. Don’t believe you,” I respond brightly, throwing clothes into my bag at lightning speed. Freedom never seemed so sweet.

“Please? Jus’ siddown. Jus’ sit and talk to me.”

“I don’t think so,” I reply, and hoist my bag to my shoulder. “I’m outta here. Have a nice night!”

I flee before he can stumble after me and grab yet another body part with his tiny hands. In the lobby, I ask the desk clerk where I can grab a room for the night; she directs me to a hotel down the street. I walk through the streets of Miami with a duffel bag over one shoulder, wondering what the hell he’s doing now. My cell phone rings. Oh. That’s what he’s doing.

I ignore his call, check into a new hotel, and have a fabulous Sunday in Miami. Alone.

 

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LA BARE!!! Part 1

Happy throwback Thursday!  Join us as we time travel back to 2003.  It was a simpler time, when we had to buy disposable cameras in order to have photographic proof of how epic our nights were.  This was Gorgeous and Sassy’s first piece of hard hitting investigative journalism.  Enjoy!


Where the Penis Ends and the Sand Begins:  A Review of La Bare 

2:15 a.m. Shakira arrives home at her standard Saturday hour—right after the bars close. She decides to do some research on male strip clubs. For the site, of course. It can be a Gorgeous and Sassy expose! One hour and 45 porn sites later, she’s found ONE club in the state of Texas open on a Sunday night: La Bare Dallas. The gentleman on the phone (my, he sounds hot!) assures her they are indeed open. She falls into a deep drunken slumber, dreaming of La Bare and hoping she can convince Gigi to come along.

12:27 p.m. Shakira struggles out of bed to find the phone, then dials Gigi’s number. If they’re getting on the road to Dallas, it needs to be soon! La Bare opens at 6!

Gigi: Hello?
Shakira: Okay, I have a crazy idea.
Gigi: Uh-oh. Good thing I’m sitting down.
Shakira: We get in the car.
Gigi: Uh-huh.
Shakira: We drive to Dallas.
Gigi: Uh-huh.
Shakira: (pausing dramatically for effect) We go to…La Bare.
Gigi: Yes! Yes! Let’s do it! La Bare!

2:10 p.m. Madame V calls and reminds Shakira, “Well, since you’re doing research for the site, you can write it off. Save those receipts, girls!”

2:35 p.m. Shakira arrives at Gigi’s to load up. The girls giggle over their choice of lunch fare: big stuffed burritos. Heeee.

4:15 p.m. “Love Bites” plays on the CD player. Shakira and Gigi belt out the tune along with Def Leppard. Shakira wishes it wasn’t raining so that she could shoe polish LA BARE OR BUST on the car.

5:26 p.m. The gorgeous and sassy girls proclaim January 12 “Official National La Bare Day”—to be celebrated every year.
“Didn’t someone once say that their g-string/banana hammock things are stuffed with sand?” Gigi is curious.
“Yeah, I heard that too,” Shakira agrees.
“We gotta find out if it’s the last thing we do!” Gigi vows.

5:40 p.m. Gigi screams, “We’re going to La Bare!”

7:10 p.m. Gigi and Shakira spot the club, despite random directions from Yahoo! Maps. They are shocked to find it’s not on La Bare Boulevard. They plan to write to the Dallas City Council to have the street renamed.

7:15 p.m. Perfection! A cheesy motel within stumbling distance of La Bare. Shakira wonders how much rent would be for the month. They are both disturbed to find two of the ugliest and most unfriendly men running the hotel. They surmise these guys are just jealous.  It must be hard to work right next to such tasty man samples.

7:16 p.m. Shakira screams, “We’re going to La Bare!”

8:00 p.m. Shakira tugs her shirt down in the mirror. “I just can’t go to La Bare without cleavage,” she says. Gigi bares her midriff and says, “The menz can’t resist this flat tummy. By the way, WE’RE GOING TO LA BARE!”

8:15 p.m. They drive past the club again. Looking for a camera.

8:17 p.m. Still in search of a store that sells disposable cameras, they drive past La Bare again, waving at the young and handsome valet.  See you soon!

8:25 p.m. More burritos for dinner. Mmmmm. They speculate on what the performances will be like—will there be costumes? Acts? Bondage? Shakira mentions an x-boy who enjoyed giving her strip teases. Inspired, she leaps from the booth to demonstrate to Gigi. The waiter also enjoys the demonstration and applauds wildly. Shakira looks in vain for her tips.

9:00 p.m. Arrival at La Bare! What a beautiful palace. Photos are taken at the entrance, as if to prove it’s not just a mirage. Once inside, Shakira and Gigi are seated right in front of center stage. They cannot stop laughing. Drinks. Stat.

9:05 p.m. “WE’RE AT LA BARE!” Gigi exclaims.

9:07 p.m. The cute long-haired waiter arrives with the drinks. He gives them their change in ones. They laugh some more. “What’s that?” Shakira asks, pointing to a cage-like structure with doors. “Maybe that’s where they keep the gimp,” Gigi suggests. Shakira orders another round.

9:10 p.m. The Challenge: Neither of them can leave the club without putting at least one dollar bill in one sexy g-string. And there are plenty of hard bodies with sexy g-strings.

9:11 p.m. – 11:55 p.m. The girls proceed to get drunk with the WEAKEST cocktails in the history of mankind. A blur of hot menz rove past the their eyes: there’s Zoro and his giant sword, there’s the Intellectual (denoted with his spectacles), the Cowboy, a Marky Mark look-alike, a Latino named Ramon, Naughty “Newbie” Nick and the Master Blaster. The girls remark on the pure genius of the Velcro Pant. Gigi proclaims, “My next boyfriend MUST have the Velcro Pant!” Next up is a mailman who is delivering a very big and extra special package.  The girls still cannot spend their stack of one-dollar-bills, despite invitations to approach the stage.

The devil comes out and plays the fiddle while dancing around a stump. What? “Hmm…the devil’s kinda cute!” Gigi says. Suddenly a pair of Velcro pants come flying from the stage and land on her head: clearly an invitation to approach.  Declining, Gigi throws them back. Shakira cocks her head at the newest dancer. “Is that an ass flex? I’ve never seen that before. Do asses have muscles there? Mmmmm.” She orders another round.

Gigi is thrilled to hear the sweet sounds of her beloved Patrick Swayze’s number one hit: “She’s Like the Wind.” The Intellectual has suddenly morphed into a J Crew model sporting a linen shirt blowing in the “wind” from the fan. Shakira falls off the bench while laughing. Gigi stares in rapture. All of her dreams are coming true.  She is suddenly awakened from her reverie by the feel of a slimy hand on her thigh. Ewww. It’s the Sleazy Waiter. Where’s the cute long haired guy.  They like him better. “That feel is coming out of your tip, pal,” Gigi mutters.

The Most Annoying DJ Ever says, “Hold on to your seats tight because your featured entertainer is going to take you on the ride of your life!” Ooh!  It’s the Master Blaster, who throws what Shakira thinks are roses from the stage. They turn out to be posters of the Master Blaster himself. Shakira grabs the pen and runs to the stage. “Can I have your autograph?” she simpers. The Master Blaster gladly complies, growling seductively at Shakira as he hands her the poster.

12:25 a.m. One credit card tab, 3 shots, and 6 cocktails later, Shakira stands up with her dollar bills. “Gigi, I’m goin’ in,” she announces, and dances her way to the stage. Naughty “Newbie” Nick puts one of her dollar bills in her mouth and leans over to get it with his luscious lips.

12:27 a.m. “Gigi, I’m going in again.”

12:50 a.m. One more shot for Gigi. Blue kamikazes? What the hell are they drinking? “Okay, I’m going in,” Gigi says with determination. “HIT IT, GIGI!” Shakira screams wildly, throwing dollar bills at her.

12:51 a.m. Gigi returns, giggling and smelling like Axe body spray. “It’s like a petting zoo!”

Summary: A four-star joint. The drinks are weak but the menz are strong! La Bare is highly recommended for any gorgeous and sassy girl. Oh—and the sand rumor isn’t true.

1.12.03

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