Let me begin by saying: this is the first and last time I will touch anything to do with politics on this website. Why? Because politics is a clusterfuck of lies and deliberate ignorance. As far as you’re concerned, I am apolitical. This, however, is just too ridiculous to ignore.
Listen, I understand that Mitt Romney is a very wealthy man and has always been as such. His father was the Governor of Michigan, for fuck’s sake. So, I get it. He just has a different, uh, perspective on how things work.
And the world according to Mitt Romney looks a little something like this: the average person tweets what they had for breakfast on a solid gold iPhone, eats caviar for a mid-day snack, and makes $200,000-$250,000 a year.
No joke. He actually believes the average income range is $200,000-$250,000. For the record, his people have clarified that he meant household income, not individual income. Ah, that makes so much more sense.
I mean, yeah, almost 50 million people in this country currently use food stamps, and about 40% of people live paycheck-to-paycheck. But I guess the difference between Mitt and me is that he’s surrounded by financial and economic experts, so he really gets it.
God, how have I wallowed in my ignorance for all these years?
Sure, I have a college degree. And, sure, I work full-time and still have to skip the produce aisle if money’s tight, along with almost half of the working population. Big fucking deal. Over half of the working population have their heads on their shoulders. And, for the record, less than 80% of the workforce has ever experienced this whole lack-of-funds thing. That’s hardly a common experience. I guess as someone who has as useless a degree as a BA in English, I just don’t understand basic economics. (I mean, I don’t, but I do understand Google.)
On behalf of the 84% of the population that makes $100,000 a year or less, I am truly thankful, Mitt. You have opened my eyes to the true nature of things. Left or right? That’s irrelevant. What matters is that I have been living a lie. Now all I need to do is dust off the ol’ hooker boots and pull myself up by the straps.
The other day, while walking around picking gum off park benches and busking on street corners, I had a realization: I feel trapped by my bank account. I mean, I know that hosting and bussing at a restaurant that needs neither is fucking sweet. (Getting paid to stand around like an idiot? Yes please.) But seriously, I miss the days when the world was my oyster and I could (theoretically) be anything I wanted. On my terms.
So I thought about what I could do to change that, and I believe I have found the answer. Easy and high-paying? Minimal time commitment? Free lifetime passes to Disney World? Yes, yes, and yes. And, by the way, fuck Disneyland. I mean it. They don’t have a mini-log flume in mini-Norway, do they? No, they don’t.
So, you know how they say that acting is easy? That anyone who can read could do it? Well, I have several things to say to that. First of all: I don’t know who “they” are, but I think they have something. Second: I can’t imagine it’s terribly easy to stand on a line of tape and recite lines with the correct feeling or intent, especially if those lines were written by, I dunno, Christopher Nolan. (Is that a cool enough name-drop for you fuckers? I didn’t even see Inception; it looked dumb.) Third: I am lazy, and I want to make money without actually doing anything or contributing to society in any way. That is why I have come up with the solution to all of my problems: The Disney Channel.
My main problem is this: I’m obnoxious. As in, pay-attention-to-meeee kind of obnoxious. As in, played lamb #4 in the Christmas play when I was a wee lass, was placed in the back row, and, quite literally, pushed Mary and Joseph aside in order to get a better look at the crowd.
As in, hijacked my acting class’s well-thought-out play when I was eight, deciding to become a witch with powers instead of, I dunno, extra #6. As in, did a stage version of The Wizard of Oz, played the Wicked Witch of the West and stayed out on stage cackling and running around with my broom for a good five minutes beyond what I was told to do. At summer camp.
Okay, to needlessly restate: I like attention. But my problem is that I’m not very good at acting. I make goofy faces at the most inappropriate times. I’m talking sturgeon face when I find out that a friend’s hamster has died or the customer I’m serving asks for a booster seat. I flub up lines. I laugh at inappropriate times—mostly funeral and death scenes, that sort of thing. I either phone it in or completely overact. But, damn it, I am determined to make money by memorizing some lines and not doing much of anything else.
That’s why I can’t wait to hit 30. Why? Because then it’ll open up the only door I ever need to walk through: The Disney Channel for adults. No, this isn’t some creepy lets-make-Disney-porn thing. If you were hoping for that, go away. Just go. No, no, no. What I am saying is that the actors on that show are all horrible. Just horrible. They make Hillary Duff look Oscar-worthy. Oh wait…
But the caliber of acting is something someone mediocre, like me, can deal with on a day-to-day basis. Okay, so my thing here is this: both kids and adults on that channel are giant corn-filled turds walking around on-screen. Yet the adults don’t have to succumb to the whole YOU-MUST-BE-WHOLESOME-WE-OWN-YOUR-BALLS pressure. There’s no Hannah Montana’s Dad Does Hollywood, wish as Billy Ray might.
No, there are no Demi Lovatos or Miley Cyruses or…creepy twins…for the over-25 set. Why? Because the viewers—stupid little kids—only want to focus on those to whom they can relate. Other stupid little kids. The wild flailing gets the kids’ attention, and the product placement and “oh” faces hold it.
So those actors are the ones who get mass marketed and shipped overseas to make peace signs in front of hundreds—or thousands—of screaming fans. And the adults are the straw men, the people to fill in the background and look really, really stupid. I will do that with relish.
Need me to say, “Brenton, do your homework before you go off chasing another criminal at this random tiki hut hotel in which we live!”? I can do that. I can fucking do it. I will raise my eyebrows, even my voice. I will send my arms flailing about. But I will keep my feet planted, and when the camera isn’t trained directly on me, I will freeze up and stare. That’s right, stare.
To boot, adults get the benefit of being strung along on the same failing show, season after season. That is, until Disney decides to make some kind of spinoff. But, again, once you cross that magical threshold into the over-25-and-ignorant-of-everything-in-your-general-surroundings set, you get all the Disney benefits without having to do any of that awful promotional shit and cocaine. And if your character isn’t directly related to the spin-off and you get the axe from the next four seasons of Throwing Pudding at Adults, it’s okay. Disney likes to do most, if not all, of their hiring in-house.
That means that as soon as Mom of Tiki Hut Kid is no longer needed—pesky coke problem, running the kids ragged—I can wait in the wings of my fabulous, mouse-shaped mansion for Disney to approach me with a new script.
“Totally brilliant idea, Lisa! Get this: you’re a single mother. You’re an artist. You guys live on a commune made of ox-hair, and the concierge hates you guys. Your kid is precocious and often outwits you, regardless of the 20+ years you have on him. The twist? He’s secretly the most successful commercial artist in the world! Right under your nose! You’ll almost walk in on him painting and sculpting a few times, but don’t worry. Markay will outsmart you time and again in order to protect his secret and your feelings.”
But that’s not all!
“We’re thinking of calling it Undercover Artist and, for the type-setting, get this: we’re going to drape some tarp over the words. Get it? He’s hiding his talents from you. He’s under cover. He gets into all sorts of wacky adventures, doing everything from traveling to trying to cover up his identity and days-long absences to bringing prospective buyers over to his ‘gallery’ aka his bedroom. Hilarity ensues, and his gender-balanced best friends help him along the way. And no one knows he’s a kid!”
Bonus? I will be able to fulfill my lifelong dream of being soaked in slime or an otherwise viscous liquid. And, in that universe, it will make sense, god damn it, when I find myself covered in a mud-like substance. Besides, how many people actually watch this shit? I mean, besides kids, but, again, they’re dumb.
It’s win-win. I get to go on with my lazy self, hardly lift a finger, and my parents won’t hang their heads in shame. Not too low, anyways. I mean, think about it. I would be able to call myself an actor. I’d be on television! And everyone and everything on television is important.
You know what? I don’t get why people say Hollywood is out of touch. I think they’re doing pretty okay. Disney: call me.
For about a year, I worked at a pizza place while I was trying to do what twenty-somethings do best and find myself. (As it so happens, I had been passed out in my own sick behind a bagel shop, but whatever. Journey of self-discovery and blah.) The restaurant was largely geared towards kids, what with the goofy shit on the walls and the board games behind the counter.
One of my main jobs was to clean up after the little angels. You know, picking up the pizza that they would drop on the floor, wiping the boogers off of the table tops. Stuff like that. To be honest, it wasn’t so bad, because most of the time people would just ignore us and let us do our job.
But one night, there was a basketball team celebrating the end of its season with us. Nothing says “Congrats on three months of exercise!” like gobbling up a nine-topping slice of heart failure.
At one point, we were trying to tell them politely to get the fuck out by picking up dishes and whatnot, but to no avail. As we tried to circumnavigate the drunk parents and the obnoxious kids, we came upon a large pocket of kids huddled around an iPhone.
“Excuse me,” my coworker said.
The kid with the phone looked up briefly then went right back to playing Fruit Ninja.
“Hey, excuse me, we have to get these plates,” she said again. This time he didn’t look up.
“Hey!” I yelled. “She’s talking to you.” He begrudgingly moved two feet to the left.
That’s when I looked up and noticed: kid with cell phone there, kid with cell phone there, and there, and there. As the days went on, I noticed kids walking by our restaurant with iPhones and Droids and touch screens and sliding keyboards galore.
They all looked like zombies, concentrating, mouths agape, on Words with Friends. I mean, they were playing with each other, but they weren’t interacting. There was a lack of humanity in their fun. And it got me thinking about kids and how effing spoiled they are.
I mean, generationally, adults will always give the same old: “Kids these days! Why, in my day, I only had a block of wood and some lead paint to play with.” But this time it’s a little different. Giving nine- and ten-year-olds cell phones that connect them to apps and games and the internet is speeding up the process of becoming a jaded little asshole. It’s hard to be connected to the real world when you’ve got to figure out a way to draw “petal” in Draw Something.
True, I grew up with GameBoy and Tamagotchi, but, in my experience, parents at that time were still connected to the real world, so kids had to be as well. Now parents are glued to their smart phones, and they’re teaching their kids the same habits. Mommy’s busy honey. Ask Facebook if it’s okay to go to Susie’s house.
But, children need to adapt to the modern world just as much as adults do. And this has left me wondering: are cell phones truly detrimental to their development, or are they just the new Tamagotchis? Is there truly a purpose to spending $300 on Little Johnny, or is it just another way for parents to ignore their kids and vice versa?
In short: do kids really need cell phones? So, just for scientific purposes, I decided to compare my cell-phone usage (as a real, live kind-of adult) to that of a ten-year-old.
My conclusion? I probably need to grow up a little bit, but kids still don’t need fucking cell phones. And if they do, they can get those phones that store five numbers: mom, dad, grandma, 911, and Domino’s.
Bad news, guys. As if increased cannibalism and Snooki’s pregnancy weren’t enough, 2012 is shaping up to, indeed, be the end of humanity. Why? Oh, nothing really, just the creation of a black hole right in the center of Canada.
To what am I referring? The seventh seal of the Apocalypse: Avril Lavigne, of “Complicated” fame, and Chad Kroeger, that unholy, ramen noodle-headed, self-satisfied singer of Nickelback, are engaged.
Gather your canned goods. Find an atheist to take care of your pets after the Rapture. It’s coming. That’s right. Not only have they been in the same room as one another, they spent enough time together to determine that they want to buy a little Canadian house and live in the snow and make terrible music together. Rumor has it their wedding date is set for December 21, and it’s going to take place in Mexico.
We all know that, if this isn’t the end of the world, they will eventually procreate, as awful people are wont to do, unleashing upon the world a new generation of three-chord power ballads, heavy eyeliner, and bull horns. Freddie Mercury is rolling over in his grave. It’s official. Music is dead.
Ahh, the smell of a fresh blog. There’s nothing like it. Especially when you know that, eventually, your blog will be rank with the morning-after musk of the lowest forms of modern culture: everything from “fashion” to “music” to “television” and “books.” Everything I write about is but a mere shadow of what it claims to be. But I digress.
Welcome to Orange Juice and Toothpaste, a place that explores the best and the worst of the world of pop culture. And who I am? Oh, no one, really. Just a lady who has spent a sad amount of time slugging out in front of the television and surfing the internet.
And what better way to start off Orange Juice and Toothpaste than to discuss Justin Bieber? He is, in my opinion, the pinnacle of our collective obsession with terrible things. To be honest, I put a bit too much thought into what he does from day to day. Does he ever just, you know, take a “me” day and walk around the house with an avocado face mask and toe separators? Are his glasses real? What keeps him up at night? What does he do with his time now that he’s 18?
But what really stops me in my tracks is wondering what life would be like for my favorite Canadian (sorry, Bryan Adams) if he weren’t famous. Or worse, what’s going to happen to him when Disney decides to dump his post-pubescent ass. That’s why I decided to develop his professional resumé. Just in case.
2424 Canada Street
Reach me by carrier pigeon only. (Provincial cell phone temporarily disabled.)
Objectives and Skills
I am an ambitious young person with great communication skills. One might even say I sing when in the presence of others. I am a hard worker and will dance around the competition. I am seeking a part- or full-time position wherein I can go Overboard and Be Next to You. My ultimate goal, however, is to utilize my great skin and rosebud lips, and to become a tester for Revlon.
Take care of three-year-old. She cries and I’m like baby, baby, baby, oh.
I make sure there is One Less Lonely Girl. NO MINORS as of March 1, 2012.
Specializing in razor cuts, layering, and feathering.
Motivational Speaker 2008-2010
Tell people (mainly girls ages 11-15) to Never Say Never.
Phoenix University 2012-Present
Walt Disney Jr.-Sr. High School 2008-2012
High School Diploma
Senior Superlative, Best Hair
1st Soprano in All-Canada Children’s Choir
References Available Upon Request