A friend sent along a link to these Hardees ads for biscuit holes. I think he sent it to me because I’m supposed to think the ads are terrible, but I thought they were kind of hilarious. Of course, I also like to shout, “Don’t put on that ring, Scroto Baggins!” when I watch The Lord of the Rings, so maybe you should hate these ads, too. But who can resist a chuckle when the man on the street suggests “creamy sweet holes?” Are they sure this wasn’t shot at a gay pride event?

Am I the only one who thinks they should have hired Madonna to gyrate around while eating a biscuit hole and singing, “My sugar is raw!”? I totally could have seen biscuit holes as the official sponsor of the Sticky and Sweet tour. It’s unfortunate that they were just a little too late on the scene.

Somewhere in Tina Turner’s attic, an oil painting of her must look like the crypt keeper because, as this month’s Ebony cover demonstrates, this woman does not age.

Many people have noted that it’s ironic and a bit sad that Michael Jackson’s passing should resolve all of his estate’s financial problems and then some. I, for one, find it comforting to know his children can now afford the llamas and surgical masks they so desperately need.

I loved Michael just as much as those kids he saved in the 1990 Sega Genesis classic Moonwalker (see below). But how long do we have to wait for some autopsy photos to be released? And when is someone going to point out that Michael’s parents are the last people who should be raising children?

Lastly, I have to give it up yet again to Robyn. Whenever I hear “The Girl and the Robot,” I suddenly want to go to the gym, which is no small feat. Take note, Lady Gaga. This is how it’s done.

I spend a lot of time obsessing about what to do with my life and whining about other bourgeois problems common to over-educated white people with no real problems to fret about. So, I thought I’d take a minute to post a few miracles that I’m thankful for.

1) The train brought me home today on time and unharmed, just as it has done roughly 700 times in the past three years.

2) When I turn on the faucet, clean water comes out. (I often wonder how it got here, what kind of massive pump is required to push it all the way up to my sink or shower, and where it goes when it disappears down the drain. Indoor plumbing is truly a modern marvel.)

3) Someone made dinner for me tonight and it was ready the minute I walked in the door.

4) Everyone (and every pet) I love is healthy.

5) I have a job.

6) I don’t dread going to work every day.

7) If I lost my job, I’d be ok.

8) There’s a huge tree outside my living room windows. It blocks the sun in the summer, lets in the sun in the winter, and makes me feel like I live in a treehouse.

9) My parents know that I’m gay and they love me anyway. They even love my boyfriend.

10) My upper wisdom teeth continue to honor the agreement I made with them as a teenager—they leave me alone, I leave them alone. I keep waiting for them to burst through my gums like some alien spawn ripping through Sigourney Weaver’s sternum, but so far, so good.

Does anyone know if there’s a site out there that lets people maintain a list of things they’re grateful for and share them with others? I know just asking this question could cause the National Cynicism Association to revoke my membership card. Or perhaps there’s some kind of facebook application available? If not, would anyone actually want to read stuff that other people are thankful for? Or do sites like this only succeed when they’re based on horrible secrets and schadenfreude?

This was on Dlisted a while back and I thought it was worth a re-post here. Enjoy!

I wish Dolly had been the commencement speaker at my graduation. I could listen to her talk about her own accomplishments and her boobs for hours.

After watching this interview with Lady GaGa, I couldn’t decide if she was the world’s biggest bitch or if she just hated this interviewer. Then I watched her performance on Ellen and the short-but-sweet follow-up interview (shown below) and all was forgiven.

With only one album under her belt, it’s certainly presumptuous to propose that Lady GaGa could become the biggest pop star of her generation. But if not Lady GaGa, then who? Beyoncé is certainly a front runner (despite the fact that she walks a fine line between pop and R&B). After stealing the life force from several former Destiny’s Child members, B has proven she’s ruthless and driven. Her performances are always incredibly polished and she’s definitely a fashion icon (especially when she’s not forced to wear any of her mom’s bedazzled creations.) Aside from Beyoncé, it seems clear that Britney is the only other contender in the battle to be the new Madonna. But in this comparison, I think Lady GaGa already wins hands down.

When Britney was at her best, the comparisons to Madonna were relentless and were even validated by Madonna herself. But I always thought this comparison sold Madonna short. Madonna’s no rocket scientist, but she seemed aware from day one that she was building an empire—that she would be an artist whose legacy would be dissected and analyzed by media studies majors on college campuses across the country. While Britney finds herself trapped and choked by one media firestorm after another, Madonna was a pyro who lit the match and doused her scandals in gasoline.

Nobody needed to strap Madonna to a gurney or take her kids away because she couldn’t handle the pressure. When Hollywood tried to chew her up and spit her out, Madonna bit back. She burned crosses or made a documentary or cursed on David Letterman or screwed Sean Penn or Warren Beatty or Dennis Rodman or produced a book of erotic photos. When critics panned her as an actress, she took on Evita. When people said she had run out of ideas, she got some cornrows and rapped in a patent-leather catsuit, collaborated with Bjork, took Electronica mainstream, and made cowboy hats a must-have club-hopping accessory.

Lady GaGa mentions Andy Warhol in a lot of her interviews and it’s clear that she’s on a mission to follow in his footsteps and blur the lines between fine art and pop culture. The tricky part is that by revealing such an ambitious plan to the world, it’s very hard to seem humble. The safer bet may be to follow the more widely approved approach to global domination—by covering it in the candy coating of false modesty that has served Beyoncé so well. Of course, this is probably what Diana Ross had in mind, and nobody is taking “Diana Ross 101″ at Yale.

While on vacation, I saw the following public service announcement that took me on a roller coaster of emotions.

At first I thought, “Oh my god! What’s this? A promo for a new TV series in which Sharon plays a ball-busting attorney who pulls no punches? Or maybe she’s a man-eating executive who manages her lady business with an iron fist. Or maybe she’s playing a ruthless photographer who will stop at nothing to have all of her skin flaws washed out by a large floodlight that her personal assistant shines on her wherever she goes.” Then she said she could leave me weak, limp, twisted, and confused, and I was sure she must be talking about that aggressive girl I dated for a few weeks in 11th grade. Then I realized this was some weird PSA to help people learn the symptoms of a stroke.

I’m not sure what’s worse—the way she chokes up at the end or the bizarre flash bulb effect or the fact that her face is cropped so closely I was afraid it would come out of the TV and get me like that soggy girl in The Ring. But, in my ongoing commitment to no longer pity people who have more money than me, I refuse to feel sorry for Sharon. She probably made more money for kicking Arnold Schwartzenegger in the balls while filming Total Recall than I make in a semester of verbally abusing college students for building ugly websites. So, despite her battle with spontaneous brain bleeding, she’ll get no pity from me.

A loyal reader recently informed me that Green Day’s latest album was available for download on Amazon for $4.99 within the first few days of its release. Apparently, this has become something of a trend for Amazon. So, if there’s something relatively mainstream that you wouldn’t mind owning when it “drops” (as the kids say), keep an eye on Amazon for a very temporary price break.

Also, I recently discovered that Amazon runs a monthly promo called 50/$5 in which the editors throw together a random assortment of fifty albums all available for $5 each. For May 2009, there’s an interesting grab bag that includes albums by Death Cab for Cutie, Dolly Parton, Kanye West, Etta James, and Culture Club.

I’ve been saying for years that I wish someone would develop a truly affordable prefab home. Dwell magazine has been pushing prefab for years, but everything I’ve ever seen has run at least $200 a square foot.

MSN recently posted an article about the i-House, a new prefab home developed by Clayton homes, one of the country’s biggest mobile home builders. The base model is around 1,000 square feet and retails for around $100,000. This could be a huge leap forward for truly affordable, (relatively) stylish prefab housing, since the main problem thus far has been a lack of support from major construction companies with the resources to produce a large number of homes while keeping materials and labor costs low.

Check out the Clayton website for a tour of sample models.

Amazon is offering $20 off “fashion sneakers” when you spend $80 or more. I’m not sure if unfashionable sneakers receive any comparable discount.

I’ve got my eye on these brown and baby blue Ben Shermans.

When I was in high school, I felt sorry for Paula Abdul. She hadn’t had a hit in years. Head Over Heels (possibly her greatest artistic achievement) was a flop and I wondered if the world would ever hear from her again. Obviously we all know how this story ends: Paula boards the American Idol money train and laughs at me all the way to the bank (assuming she knows where she is at the time).

Still, I felt that twinge of pity when I went to PaulaAbdul.com after hearing that Paula has a new album in the works. I wondered what possessed Paula to keep milking American Idol for all it’s worth in such shameless ways—particularly after the country showed little interest in “Dance Like There’s No Tomorrow.”

I wasn’t surprised to find Paula hawking fan club memberships for $34.99 on her homepage, but I was a little dismayed that the membership provided a bag of swag that looked like it was assembled from random crap Paula found in her garage: a signed photo, a “personal” letter from Paula, and a tote bag? (For an extra $10, you can get a star-shaped ring that looks like it was purchased with skeeball tickets from the prize counter of a Chuck-E-Cheese.) Then there’s all the crap she’s shilling on the Home Shopping Network, like this blanket with giant buttons and this woodland creature neck brace. Just as I started to sigh and wonder why Paula keeps humiliating herself and selling her soul in $34.99 increments, I thought, “I can work my entire life doing the most lucrative thing I know how to do and I will never be as rich as Paula Abdul.”

But it gets worse. You see, Paula sets the bar far too high. The truth is, despite the fact that I make a respectable salary at my white-collar job, despite my employer’s generous 401K matching, and despite my best efforts to invest wisely, I will probably work for several decades and still not amass the amount of money Melissa Joan Heart was paid for two seasons of Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Hell, I probably won’t make as much money this year as Kathy Najimy was paid for her supporting role in Hocus Pocus. I can’t even remember the name of the actress who played Topenga on Boy Meets World, but I can almost guarantee you she has made more money in her lifetime than I have.

It’s easy to make peace with the fact that I’ll never be Olsen-twins rich. Obviously their level of success is one-in-a-billion and I can tell myself that a certain level of fame and fortune comes with many strings attached. However, it’s a little harder to accept that my current net worth might be less than that of the girl who played Kimmy Gibler on Full House.

Maybe it’s just me. Perhaps everyone else is fine with the knowledge that while they’re ordering water to keep their Applebee’s check under control, Mayim Bialik is buying another vacation house with her Blossom royalties. However, I, for one, will not shed another tear for celebs who’ve passed their prime. From this day forward, I won’t worry whether or not Toni Braxton is going to be able to make her mortgage payments. I won’t lose sleep wondering if Gates McFadden has had trouble getting work since Star Trek: The Next Generation went off the air. And I certainly won’t ask God to send Paula Abdul some dignity and a new hit single. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go stuff some tote bags in preparation for the launch of my Frugal Fag Goody Bag collection. They come complete with a letter thanking you for buying the bag, an autographed photo, and a plastic kazoo or equivalent Dollar-Store party favor, e.g., a troll-doll pencil topper or spooky spider ring.