Lately…….I’ve been thinking a lot about ham.  It’s probably because Easter is coming up and that’s about the only time of the year I ever actually eat ham.  Or is Christmas the holiday I eat it?  I don’t remember, but whatever. 

Ham is such an obscure meat to me.  It seems irrelevant.  I am fairly certain I feel this way for two reasons: 1) I grew up in California and 2) I’m young-ish (23).  People I know don’t really eat ham.  It isn't a religious thing, it is more of an age/geographical thing.  For example, one time I walked to Pavillions for lunch with the new girl at work.  I settled on a Lean Cuisine and a Diet Snapple, whereas she scanned the premade sandwiches and selected ham on French bread.  Seriously?  I mean, there were plenty of turkey sandwiches to go around, but she chose ham without any hesitation.  I tried not to judge, but I was intrigued by her choice in deli meat.  Ham, to me, is the equivalent of bologna.  I don’t think I’ve seen anyone eat a bologna sandwich since first grade.  Then, it hit me…she’s from Minnesota. 

Second thought: I wonder if Prince, also from Minnesota, eats ham sandwiches?

So, what is it about ham that is so vile?  Spiral honey-baked ham, honestly, isn’t thaaaat bad.  The deli-thin slices imitate that of turkey, so it is relatively non-offensive.  Canned ham is a different story.  What the fuck, CANNED HAM?  Canned ham is so incredibly foul, it's like giant Spam!?!  My dad used to make canned ham for dinner probably once every couple of months and I think that contributed to my need to move out.  Like, not just out of the house, but out of Northern California all together.  He would make this shit stretch too, adding the leftovers to omelets and fried rice.  Honestly, I would rather help myself to the fine cuisine served at Gold Digger's, wafted with 40-year-old-Taiwaneese-stripper-taint, than eat my father's sad excuse for fried rice.  

So, I’ve come to the conclusion that ham won’t make it.  In life, it’s survival of the fittest.  With chicken, beef, and bacon in the running, I just don’t think ham stands a chance.  I hypothesize that one hundred years from now, ham will go the way of the blue footed booby, at least in California.  If it is still around, it will become a giant joke, kind of like it already is.  We used to use a can of Spam as a bathroom pass in 7th grade Spanish class.  I feel bad for the pigs and mechanically separated chickens that are slaughtered every year just to become bathroom passes.  It’s fucked up. 

I apologize for the delay in new reading material, but I’ve just now recovered from the hangover that resulted from Friday’s festivities.

Jumbo’s Clown Room has, for months now, been a drunken destination that I’ve lusted after.  Ever since I went on that Dearly Departed Tour (love you, River), visions of dicked chicks danced in my head.  Many a coworker has boasted about the onstage spectacle at Jumbo’s Clown Room; I simply needed to take a peek, myself. 

After two failed attempts, a third opportunity arises.  I can barely contain myself during the final hours of my work week, as I anticipate what majesty is to come later that evening.  The day has finally come to a close, so I touch up my makeup and head over to 5153 Hollywood Boulevard.  Yeah, it’s only 6pm, but that makes it all the more pathetic and sleazy.  I park my car, slip on my tallest heels, and head for the entrance.  Ahh fuck, it just feels dirty: the chain-smoking bouncer, the random homeless dude, a bevy of large, lesbian regulars...perfect.  I flash my ID and the doorman snidely retorts “you’re in for a treat.”  I push aside the velvet curtain.

My excitement fades to disappointment as I notice that all the dancers are young, cute girls.  I think only one had a visible c-section scar.  Fuuuuck this! No penises are being waggled at me, well, at least not until later in the night, and this upsets me!  Noticing my obvious upset, my pal(?) decides Gold Diggers shall be our next destination.  He promises a depressingly sheisty dive bar with strong drinks and illegal immigrants dancing onstage.  I’m game.

Let me tell you, Gold Diggers is the shit…potent cocktails, 40-year-old Taiwanese strippers, chicken chow mein festering under a heat lamp, and a bartender who is VERY proud of her chicken chow mein.  I highly recommend this bar.

Check out the reviews on Yelp, they’re fucking hilarious! http://www.yelp.com/biz/gold-diggers-los-angeles 

xxx,

Alyssa Loü

Recently, however, I stumbled across a few stills from his upcoming film, 'Friends with Benefits', and was quite pleasantly surprised!

Hung like the Galapagos.  Now, it all makes sense to me.

I don't know WHO this guy is, but I'll tell you this much, he is 100% pure certified el bistec stud.  I think that's a beached whale on the sand below him.

As you can see, he is holding a bottle of heavenly-looking chocolate milk.  I, lover of milk in the chocolate variety, begin to search far and wide for this divine beverage that fuels sex stud Sheen.  Alas, it is available for purchase at my local Whole Foods grocer.  I wake up early on Sunday in attempt to beat the weekend grocery store crowd.  Scanning the perimeter of store for the dairy section, I stumble across the yogurts and cottage cheeses and sour creams and what is this....the Broguiere's chocolate milk I have been lusting after for at least a full 24 hours?  Six dollars?  Really?  Okay.  Feeling triumphant, I purchase my prize and rush to my car to begin what I can only imagine to be really really delicious chocolate milk.  I remove my chewing gum, sip some water to cleanse the palate, and indulge in the Broguiere's.  Yeah, not that great.  Definitely not worth six dollars.  Aaand, I'm pretty sure I've gotten fatter because of it.  THANKS A LOT, CHARLIE SHEEN!

If you want chocolate milk, I recommend using Nesquik to flavor your juice of moo.  Thanks.