"The Miserable"

Alright well, it has been a few days and it's been a whirlwind at work. Lots to do and not enough time to blog and work. *sigh* Generally, this is not an issue for me so I will not complain. 


However,... today I saw the cast of the new Les Miserables movie and I just had to tell the world what I think about it: 


Amanda Seyfried was cast as Cossette. Yes, I just said that. Travesty of the umpteenth degree.


It makes me want to throw my lunch up in my little blue garbage pail at the side of my desk. I imagine the casting directors feel the same way right now - or they should from the stench of their failure on this one. Am I saying she CAN'T be Cossette? - Nooooo,... that would  be overly judgmental of me. Am I saying she should not be Cossette? Abso-fucking-lutely. 


It's like I am the only person in the world who realizes that Amanda Seyfried looks like the human incarnation of those creepy Celestial Eye Goldfish! Why are your eyes so big?!? - and more importantly, why do you still get to act alongside the hottest men in the world (i.e Justin Timberlake, Channing Tatum and Hugh Jackman) despite that fact? If the media is trying to make me feel like even a regular girl like myself can get these heart throbs than thank you for that, but something tells me that's not it. I think they have actually fooled themselves into believing she really IS hot - as if she hit her movie quota for hotness or something. But, can anyone name a guy who has Amanda Seyfried on the top of their "Elevator List"?? Didn't think so. 


Keep your globe-sized eyeballs and get out of what was supposed to be my most anticipated movie of the year. Goddammit! This is not Letters to John, Amanda - your half-assed acting is just not going to cut it and will, in turn, ruin what could have been the most epic film adaptation of a musical in this day and age. And, I knowwww... it's not your fault, but to the casting directors:


I hope you're proud of yourselves.

LAWTON OUT.

Wine & Bleach

So last night I made a string of wildly ridiculous observations after the application of bleach blonde hair dye which may or may not have been in there too long and 3/4 of a bottle of wine. 


1) I cry at almost anything mildly emotional. I am not talking about those commercials about abused pets or starving children in Africa (though these are two types of commercials banned from my viewing for that reason), but things like the Olympics. I am that person that actually cried watching BOLT (an animated tale of a dog - made for small children) and not because the dog died or anything (no no) but because at the end he finds his little girl again. If someone's dream is coming true, or they are falling in love, or their heart was just broken, or they lost their animal, or the cool kid stuck up for them, or they won, or they lost - I am crying like baby. The one that gets me EVERYTIME is 'TV love.' Anything that has anything to do with TV love is too much for me. Real love - HA! Piece of cake. There are no ridiculous songs being sung outside windows, or someone purchasing a star in your name in real life okay? The most romantic real love gets for me is East Side Mario's on a Saturday - or my fiance offering to pay for ALL the groceries this time since I am low on cash this pay cheque. Nothing to be deemed tear-worthy.


2) Free-bras remind me of chicken cutlets. In fact, it appears they also feel like chicken cutlets. Which makes me wonder why we would ever bother wearing them in the first place. I can barely get myself to handle raw chicken to make a meal, never mind stick it on my breasts for what they have decided to call 'support'. When I look like I just walked out of a 70s film in the heat of August, you cannot call it 'support'. They should look like Meghan Fox not bloody flapjacks. Though, if you ever get stuck on a date wherein your new interest MUST see these hideous excuses for a bra, all you have to say is this: "Annnnddd (like you have another surprise for him)... I brought dinner." Give a cutsey little Vanna White pose and smile. Hopefully he'll laugh. Let's face it, the alternative is having to stare at his disgusted face as you peel these things off and wipe your breasts down with a baby wipe because otherwise your chest will start collecting all sorts of souvenirs (dog hair, fluff, sheets). 




LAWTON OUT