Consumption

I, Too, Sing ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBAW

I've gone extremely girly for the last two weeks, and that's fine. I am in fact a female, and therefore enjoy all the privileges of dousing myself in liquid honeysuckle and behaving like Belle Watling on a bender. However, the siren song of Footbaw is beginning to echo in my ears, and it must be obeyed.

Although Brett Favre is giving his all for ruining the preseason today, there is a ray of hope. A ray with piercing cornflower eyes, tumbling locks of purest gold, and a demented, godless smile on his Viking face. A ray named Jeremy Shockey.

Shockey (28; I had no idea! He's timeless) is a four-time Pro Bowler and is the sole reason the New York Giants made it to the playoffs. His off-field activities include drinking, whoring, Americaning (it's a word! He went to the U, BABY!), and poking Tom Coughlin with a stick until he cries. He used to shoot his older friends with a BB gun to make them pay attention to him (FACT!). Under normal circumstances, the utilization of a gay slur would make my eyes swell with furious tears; when Shockey calls Bill Parcells a homo, the tears are of unmitigated adoration. Does this make me a bad person? Yes. Do I care? No. I AM WOMAN.

The point of all this is to say that Jeremy Shockey--volatile, mentally unbalanced, gleefully anarchic Jeremy Shockey--has been traded to the New Orleans Saints. He is now playing football in the most corrupt city in the world, where he can rampage through the French Quarter with hand grenades and hurricanes in his clenched fists, demanding that every woman he sees immediately disrobes before him, snorting uncontrollably while he shovels fried dough into his gaping maw. If you can think of a better scenario for the National Football League or humanity, please let me know immediately.

Buy this jersey, belt it, and wear it with some gold lame underwear. Then take a casual stroll through the Quarter at three in the morning. If you feel you must, spritz yourself lightly with HGH and tiger musk. The pieces should fall into place from there.

FREEDOM ISN'T FREE WHERE'S MY DRINK

The Company Store's Primaloft Comforters

I sleep cold, by choice.  Back home I was ill-rested all summer, every summer, because it was too hot to get under the covers.  In Los Angeles, this involves a year-round  ritual of jacking the AC down to 65 right before bed and burrowing into a nest of pillows and blankets like a very pretty and accomplished desert rodent.  Yet even the sturdiest of air conditioners doesn't have a prayer of matching the chilly snap of a winter we never see this far south. 

Enter Primaloft.

I love love LOVE The Company Store.   Everything's all clean lines and classically pretty, and their stuff lasts forever.  I discovered their Primaloft comforters my last year in Knoxville when I was living in a hundred year old house with no heat or air conditioning and windows that refused to shut.  Primaloft is a down alternative found in camping gear, and is (warning: science) the least gross down alternative in the world, ever.  It doesn't form hard little balls inside the blanket or disintegrate into dust when washed, it won't make you sneeze, and best of all for we warm-weather nesters--it's completely breathable. 

These comforters are huge and soft and fluffy to such a degree that you'll be tempted to just wander around the house all day with it wrapped around you like a toddler with a security blanket.  You can wash them in your own machine (ever try hauling your down blankets to the clearners?).  They have four different weight classes available depending on your warmth needs.  Mine's a medium, and I can rest quite snuggily under it in Southern California, in July, for an entire night without breaking a sweat. 

Summation:  If you're going to buy a comforter, buy it from The Company Store.  And if you're going to buy one from The Company Store, do it now, because their famous Comforter Sale is upon us.  During the sale you can pick one up for $100-200, which is a total steal.  Sleep tight!