CuteOverload.com posted this commercial a few days back showcasing some alternative uses for one of Samsung’s new phones. The bunny desk computer example is worth the wait.

Quizno’s is giving away one million free subs. All you have to do is fill out a short registration form at www.millionsubs.com and you’ll be emailed a link that will let you print the coupon.

Now every time I hear this song, I’ll picture this animated elf instead of Celine Dion pounding her fist against her chest. Thanks, YouTube.

I just saw a homeless woman on the train who had clearly peed (and possibly pooped) her pants. My first thought was, ‘Oh, god. That poor woman. And those poor pink sweatpants. What an unfortunate color choice. They show everything.’ Then, my second thought was, ‘Oh God, she’s coming this way. Read your book. Don’t make eye contact. What are you doing? I said no eye contact. Just read the book. Focus on the book. Oh sweet baby Jesus! Why is she trying to engage the guy across the aisle in an actual conversation? Doesn’t she know she has soiled herself? Well of course she doesn’t know. She’s crazy. Or perhaps she knows and just doesn’t care. Or perhaps she’s a Sociology Ph.D. student and this is all one big social experiment. Maybe she’s carefully documenting my body language and I’m going to be featured prominently in her groundbreaking research.’

Then I thought what I always think when I see a homeless person and I’ve wrapped up my usual inner monologue of pity, disgust, and intrigue: ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ Then I thought, ‘What in the hell does that mean? That it’s only the grace of God that prevents me from becoming a crazy homeless woman who poops her pants? I am where I am in life thanks to hard work and careful planning, thank you very much. God, this woman looks a lot like Lauryn Hill—if Lauryn Hill lost a few teeth and wrapped her shoes in Target bags. Where the hell is Lauryn Hill, anyway?’

And this, my friends, is why I don’t volunteer at homeless shelters. Too many distractions.

Does anyone else remember this song?

This video should be nominated for best pop video ever produced at a Six Flags theme park recording studio. It’s even better than Taco-Flavored Kisses. I stumbled upon it during one of my regular Friday night searches for “best singer in the world.” This search normally leads me to clips that pit Whitney, Mariah, and Celine against each other, their voices analyzed like mutant powers that the government must study to determine their destructive potential.

I’m still not sure if Vanessa beats out “Fallen Angel” by 2Girlz or “Hooked on a Feeling” by David Hasselhoff for best abuse of a greenscreen, but she’s close.

Once upon a time, I used to find it almost impossible to stop reading an awful book. Like an alcoholic spouse I just can’t bring myself to abandon until the kids go to college, bad books have a way of guilting me into sticking it out until all I’m left with is a dried-up womb and a sense that life would have been better if only I’d moved to Sante Fe and started that catering business. Or perhaps bad books are more like a traffic jam. I keep swearing I’m going to take the next available exit, but by the time it rolls around, I tell myself I’ve waited too long to give up now.

A few months ago, I decided I should finally read Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead and see what all the fuss is about. From everything I’d read, I couldn’t wait for Rand and her no-holds-barred objectivism to turn my world view upside down. I was about 50 pages in when I started to have that tingle of doubt—that feeling that I should at least care a little about the characters by now. One hundred pages later, I knew Aynnie and I were on shaky ground. I still didn’t know who I was supposed to be rooting for and I hadn’t had any existential epiphanies. On the plus side, I heard anyone who makes it past page 100 is considered an honorary level-two Scientologist, so that saved me at least $40,000.

After I kicked Ayn Rand out of bed, I decided to fool around with the chubby old guy who wrote How Starbucks Saved My Life. The dust jacket promised a gripping tale of a man who “had it all, then lost it all—and was finally redeemed by his new job, and his twenty-eight-year-old boss, at Starbucks.” The author had a great story to tell: rich white guy loses his high-powered job, cheats on his wife, and finds himself broke and uninsured shortly after discovering he has a brain tumor. Unfortunately, the book’s summary ruined any possible surprise the book might have in store. I kept waiting for something un-cliché to happen, but the author insisted on rubbing my nose in the obvious. He’s a sheltered white man working at a Starbucks in Harlem. I get it. You’re white and the staff is black. I don’t need to hear for the fourth time how your black boss was so nice and pretty and well-spoken (and did I mention she’s black?). However, the worst part was that the whole book just felt like a giant Starbucks commercial. His boss continually recites gag-inducing words of encouragement about the “Starbucks family” that sound like they were read directly from a management training handbook, and the author gobbles them up like a homeless man who just found a half-eaten cherry scone in a garbage can.

Lately I feel liberated by my newfound book-whorishness—like a 40-something divorcée riding high on the delusion that she can have any man she wants and that her catering business will flourish despite the fact that the mini quiche she prepared for the Taylor-Newton wedding reception tasted like menopause and broken dreams. I stuck with How Starbucks Saved My Life until the end, only to realize my road trip would have been better spent reading an old copy of Entertainment Weekly or the nutritional label on a Hostess apple pie. From here on out, I’m dumping a book the minute it starts to feel like a chore to read another page. Life’s too short and the library is too big to waste time on boring reads.

Are you still there? Oh, good. For a moment I thought I might have crossed a threshold of irony and failed to realize I was encouraging you to ignore me. Now get your dried-up womb to the library and check out one of the books I’m currently reading so we can praise and/or trash it together. Next up, I’ll be reading Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea, The Road by Cormac McCarthy, and The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath.

You know how sometimes you pray for ridiculous things but never expect them to come true? Like everyone on the train/bus not looking at you like you’re crazy and, instead, singing along and performing a well-choreographed girl-group dance routine as soon as you spontaneously sing/shout the lines, “What you want…baby I got it!”? Well I’m here to tell you that all things are possible through the Lord, because I recently learned that The First Wives Club is being made into a Broadway musical. The disturbing part is that apparently this has been in the works for years and no one told me.

Now it’s time I get back to my FWC shrine and light a candle in the hopes that Maggie Smith and Bette Midler will be a part of the production and that Kathie Lee Gifford will NOT have a cameo.

*I should note that in my prayers, I specifically requested the musical premiere in Chicago. Clearly the Lord works in mysterious ways.

If you’re curious how your state and/or city is fairing in the unemployment rankings, check out this list of jobless rates by metro area. The list includes comparisons of December ‘08 unemployment rates with rates from December ‘07. I found it interesting (but not surprising, I suppose) that small cities in rural states like West Virginia, the Dakotas, Wyoming, and Iowa are all fairing pretty well.

I’m not sure how I feel about videotaping your kid while he’s high on goofballs after having a tooth pulled, then sharing it with the world. Obviously I’m not so conflicted about it that I thought it shouldn’t be posted here. Let’s hope this isn’t the beginning of a slippery slop that ends with me running a sweatshop full of 10-year-olds stitching dress shirts for J. Crew. Perhaps this kid will return the favor one day by taping his dad drunk and shirtless as he eats a cheeseburger off the floor.

Do you ever get the feeling that praying is a lot like calling the cable company? Like God purposefully puts you on hold for hours in the hopes that you’ll eventually hang up and deal with the problem on your own? I guess in many ways God’s level of customer service can be even worse than Comcast’s. At least when I call their 800 number, I get immediate feedback. God, on the other hand, never warns you that she’s experiencing unusually high call volume. She doesn’t provide any soothing music or a prerecorded message to reassure you that a representative will be with you shortly. I’d even settle for a reminder that prayers will be answered in the order received.

I’ve tried many different approaches in my ongoing effort to bypass God’s convoluted automated answering system and discover the secrets of the universe. Here are a few of my favorites:

1) Strike a bargain. This has worked really well for me on planes. I offer God a deal she can’t refuse and she doesn’t let me die in a fireball of jet fuel and human flesh. I usually propose a preference for dying in another unpleasant but less traumatizing way or I promise not to complain if I get cancer—but only if I get it when I’m old.

2) Show unexpected gratitude. God, like my mother, keeps track of how many times I call to complain and how many times I call with good news. I haven’t been able to prove this scientifically, but I’m almost certain that thanking God for something simple gives you some sort of divine-intervention line of credit. In the past, I’ve used this line of credit to do well on standardized tests, get a job I really wanted, pay off high-interest credit cards, and consolidate my bills into one low monthly payment. It’s a real life saver.

3) Don’t abuse the emergency number. I think God stops what she’s doing to address my most urgent prayers, but only once or twice a year. So, I only make spiritual 9-1-1 calls when the situation is truly dire—like when I feel a mega pimple coming on right before an ex-boyfriend is scheduled to visit.

4) Threaten to cancel your subscription. This technique is a last resort and can only be used once or twice per god. In addition, you must be fully prepared to find another god if your current spiritual service provider calls your bluff. This approach usually involves threatening to stop going to church or swearing you’ll convert to another religion if your demands aren’t met. Maintain a calm, rational tone and you might just get through to someone with the authority to spare you from disease or remove minute-overage charges from your phone bill.