Caroline Nierman

I almost met my untimely demise the other day at the hands of a real fucking idiot of a cab driver. He actually drove the cab for A THIRD OF A BLOCK while half of my body was physically not inside the vehicle. As in: my head, my right shoulder and my right leg were all OUTSIDE OF THE CAR when he pressed the gas and I was thrown into the seat, my foot still touching the sidewalk in a weird contortion.

For most drivers, that moment would’ve provoked a response like, “OMG! I ALMOST JUST KILLED YOU! I am SO SORRY. Here, this ride’s on me, ok? And you can have the last three sips of this Diet Coke!” For THIS cab driver, it provoked this response: 

[driving obliviously while Caroline screams "THE DOOR IS OPEN!" repeatedly for 15 seconds] 

Finally, he realized that I was basically doing something out of an action movie (specifically one in which Bruce Willis has to toe the line between ‘in’ the car and ‘not in’ the car for what feels like a death-defying eternity). He stopped the car and casually turned off the meter like nothing had happened. 

Of course, I was all, “WTF! Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME? You almost JUST RAN ME OVER, ya JERK! Also, BOY, are my arms tired.” I kept muttering loudly while I paid on my card just so other people on the street could see that I was irate and know not to get inside the cab after I left it (fully, that is – I’d been in the process of leaving it for a mighty long time). 

Do you know, I didn’t even think to take down his number? That just shows you how flustered I was, because normally, I’m all about taking down a medallion number (seriously – in 1997, a cab with the medallion number 1J87 refused to take me, my mother and my sister because we had our dog with us, and I still remember that shit). 

The real, human versions of Barbie and Ken met each other for the first time the other day, and The Daily Mail wrote an article about how much they each hated the way the other one looked. See the news story here. 

Here’s the problem, though: Human Ken isn’t Human Ken as much as he is a clone of Janice Dickinson. Go look at the photo of him in the link above and then come back and click on this one. Am I wrong? They have the same face, for crying out loud. 

It would’ve saved this guy an awful lot of time if he’d just taken a photograph of Janice Dickinson throwing shade to his plastic surgeon and said, “Give me that face, but make it even FIERCER.” 

I think I had the somewhat dubious honor of being the passenger of the oldest cab driver in New York City today. My initial fears about his competency were confirmed when I said, “I’m going to 78th and Madison,” and his response was a confident “78th and York!” 

My first thought was, ‘Well, maybe he just didn’t hear me,’ because I’m sorry, but there is NO accent or weird moment that could make ‘Madison’ sound even remotely like ‘York.’ Then I thought, ‘Oh, God. What if he just has no memory left? Now I have to spend the whole time worrying that my cab driver is going to forget how to drive while we’re crossing Central Park.’ Luckily, we got home just fine, and after shouting and repeating directions about where to pull up and let me off, I was out of the cab and on my merry way.

It is a grave injustice that my extremely elderly cab driver is still needing to work at 154. Sounds to me like someone danced with the devil in the pale moonlight!

The e-mail subject line “Just don’t let the days past you by without enjoying them to the fullest!” seems vaguely like a threat. I can imagine a silver-haired witch saying it with an Eastern European accent and a toothless smile while handing me a cursed trinket. So obviously, when an e-mail with that subject line arrived in my inbox, I really had to click on it. I was met with the following missive: 

Hello, mighty man! How are you?
I feel so lonely these days! I guess you would make a hot company for any playful babe like me! Why dont we meet online to get each other better? I have a number of thrilling nude pics at this dating website. Please be there for me! The registration is free. I will tell you everything in a private chat, sugar!
Cannot wait to see you! >>>>>>>   

Now
———-
To not receive this message again, visit the page below:

or write to:
Nautell Capital Limited, Stasinou, 1 Mitsi Building 1, 1st floor, Office 4 Plateia Eleftherias, Nicosia Cyprus 106

It took me a few reads, but I finally came to the realization that there is a singular line that makes this e-mail creepier than most ridiculous spam. Yes, there, in the middle of all this sex chat and weird adjectives like ‘playful’ and ‘thrilling,’ is the sentence, “Please be there for me!” 

This is the point at which the e-mail goes from being a funny romp in the world of cyber solicitation to something out of an episode of Law & Order: SVU, Cyprus Edition. Does anyone actually think that watching some chick take her clothes off on a webcam constitutes ‘being there’ for her? That person is a shitty person. Or is this a plea for help? Most importantly, why are you making me feel weird and responsible for this bot’s safety, weird sex website? This is a very bad marketing campaign, seriously.

Also, please notice that the e-mail ends with the words, “Cannot wait to see you…Now.” That is fucking terrifying and undoubtedly threatening. Is the Sophia of the e-mail address about to show up at my apartment dressed like a rabbit, or pick me up tonight in a converted taxi cab like the Bone Collector? Jesus. Way to give me a panic attack, Nautell Capital Limited. I’m going elsewhere for my viruses. 

I experienced a new level of disgust and irritation today when I was peacefully walking down the sidewalk, headphones in, and almost got mowed down by a frizzy-haired, middle-aged woman on rollerblades. She came out of nowhere, staggering quickly towards me in an unwieldy fashion like she was doing an old-timey slapstick routine. From her helmet, ankle/knee/wrist/elbow guards and mouthpiece, I could tell that she had invested a good amount of money in looking so embarrassingly stupid and neurotic. Her socks, which looked like they were thigh-highs that had been bunched up and then pulled down, were neon yellow and glowing in the sunlight.

At the last minute, she made a sharp turn and headed across the street in the other direction, her arms flailing as she just barely maintained control over her portly body. A delivery guy on a bike and I watched her leave, and as he turned to me, we shared a look that said, “Hey, bitch – it’s 1:00pm, the sun is out, and we can see you too fucking well already. Next time, leave the day-glo socks at home.”

This is the weirdest, most offensive hat I’ve ever seen, and it costs $235. I didn’t realize that “Lovechild of Charlie Chaplin and Seabiscuit” was a look people actually went for, but you learn something new every day.

As I’ve mentioned before on this blog, I was born with a pale yellow complexion akin to a discolored tooth. I have dark hair and dark eyebrows; I just look better with a tan. So today I went to the Beach Bum Tanning Salon on 86th Street to get a spray tan. 

First of all, you have to be buzzed into Beach Bum, an establishment that sits under a massive awning announcing the fact that it caters to the lily white and vain among us. This means that I stood waiting outside for a good three minutes, which doesn’t seem like that long a time when you’re not waiting to be let inside a tanning salon but really does when you are. After climbing the flight of stairs to the salon, I was rung up by a freckled girl who was animatedly grooving to the City High song, “Caramel,” while she was charging my credit card. Then I was led into the Mystic Tanning both and given a set of complicated instructions. 

“Here,” said the employee tasked with explaining how to use the machine to me as she handed me two plastic bags. In one were sticky foot shaped pads that I was instructed to affix to the soles of my feet so I didn’t end up with leathery-looking feet like a Hobbit. In the other was a shower cap. “Get undressed, wait until the machine is ready, then put barrier cream all over your hands and go into the booth. Wave your hand in front of the sensor and the spray tanning will begin.” 

When she left, I quickly disrobed, trying to minimize the amount of time I stood in the room in just my underwear. The Mystic booth is a closed chamber, but you have to do all the preparing outside of the booth, in a closet-like space that looked like there might be a hidden camera in the vent. I quickly stuck the foot pads onto the soles of my feet, then applied the barrier cream to my hands like I’d be told to. When the machine announced that the ‘warming-up period’ was complete and it was okay for me to get in the booth, I gingerly opened the door and took my position. 

Inside the booth, there were four numbered foot-shaped tiles on the floor. A robotic voice instructed me to place my left foot on Number 1 and my right foot on Number 3, and when I’d done so, the voice piped in and told me that “the spray tan [was] commencing.” 

Let me tell you – there’s nothing quite like standing half-naked in a weird booth in a weird tanning salon while a machine sprays an ice-cold mist all over your body and face. I felt kind of like I was being waterboarded, and I was concerned that I was standing incorrectly and setting myself up to be half orange, like a Bridge and Tunnel version of Two Face. Luckily, I seem to have succeeded in getting a pretty good tan, except for one thing: my hands are a different color than the rest of my body and look like I just got a hand transplant.

There’s nothing like a spamalicious e-mail to put me in a good mood. This gem arrived in my inbox earlier today:

Hi handsome!

If you looking forward about spending great time in a company of funny, cute chick then I’m waiting for u!
I really liked ur photo shots and that’s why decided to send this mail! I’m sure that you wouldn’t stay disappointed after staring at mine too.
So, I wait for you to answer this message and who knows we will go somewhere, drink some vodka, talk about different subjects and who knows I gonna invite you to visit my life!

You can find my profile here: xxxxxxx

With kisses,
Trinity

First of all, just who does Trinity assume I am? “Hi handsome”?! Jeez. This reminds me of that time a waiter called me ‘Sir.’

Furthermore, I’m pretty sure that ‘going somewhere,’ ‘drinking some vodka’ and ‘talking about different subjects’ sound like three suggestions a bunch of aliens would make during a round of Taboo if the category was ‘Humanoid Courting Rituals.’ This begs the question: are we missing out on having contact with extraterrestrials by not checking our Spam inboxes?

I must admit, though – I can’t stop thinking about whether or not Trinity gonna invite me to visit her life! Can you even imagine? Just chilling like Zenon, looking out of a space portal at a red dwarf, drinking cold vodka and chatting with an alien from Mars Attacks. I’m SO DOWN.

Who knows.

With kisses,
Caroline

People are close to rioting in the streets because Instagram wants to claim ownership of their photographs, and I’m having a hard time getting behind their rage. Seriously, what photos are people posting that warrant this kind of self-entitled ire? All I ever see on that website are pictures of kale salads and ugly feet at the beach.

I’ve got news for you, everyone on Instagram: nobody gives a fuck about the sunset you saw from the window of the Denny’s on the interstate, and we couldn’t care less that you tried on a zany hat that you didn’t even BUY. Also, your dog may be cute, but we don’t need real-time updates about his bathroom habits, and finally, WE GET IT, you have friends. Am I supposed to congratulate you on not being Boo Radley?

How about instead of getting so uppity about something so trivial, you delete your fucking Instagram and devote your activist energy to something that isn’t, oh, I don’t know, COMPLETELY self-serving? Kthanksbye.

Excuse me, guy on line in front of me at CVS: could you please explain to me why you shaved 99% of your head but left a small patch of hair intact on your crown and then dyed that hair green? Is that your good luck chunk of hair or something? Has a bird shat on that spot on your head a record-breaking number of times? I’m really at a loss here. Moreover, why green, the color of fungus, algae and rotting flesh? It’s not even a nice green – it’s more of a sickly chartreuse. Just horrible.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that your ‘cool,’ ‘subversive’ hairstyle looks like something in a movie about bullying where the popular boys glue a gangrenous rabbit’s foot to the back of a nerd’s head while he’s passed out after drinking his first beer at his first party or something. It’s bumming me out just looking at it, and I think you should shave it the fuck off immediately, if not sooner.

I was super bummed when I realized yesterday that I missed Krampusnacht this year. Now I feel like I have to pour one out for my homie, Krampus, because I didn’t get to party with him on December 5th. BOO.

For those of you who don’t know who Krampus is, he’s a fun-loving bitch who likes to do festive things around the holidays like stomp on ornaments with his one cloven hoof and stuff badly-behaved children into a burlap sack. (As an aside, I’m pretty sure this is also exactly how Swiss people sexually role play during the winter.)

The origin of Mr. Krampus dates all the way back to Pre-Christian Germanic tradition. In fact, up until relatively recently, he was still considered by those living in the Alps to be the ‘yin’ to Santa’s ‘yang.’ So what does that mean, exactly? Well, basically, where Santa’s purpose in life is to do lame shit like ‘spread joy’ and ‘give kind, thoughtful gifts to children and old people,’ the Krampus lives to get trashed, make kids cry and scare the living daylights out of anyone who sees his devil-ass-looking face. Apparently, he’s also kind of a lech, and he particularly loves the company of zaftig ladies. I’m positive that he and I would get along like a house on fire – specifically, a house that’s on fire because he’s torched it for a laugh.

So hey, even though I may have missed Krampusnacht this year, that doesn’t mean I can’t still drink a few glasses of whiskey one night and trip a pitchy caroller in honor of Krampus, the O.G. (Original Grinch). Let the belated wild Krampus begin!

What’s with people who casually wear Santa hats for the whole month of December? Unless you’re an actual elf who is employed by Santa himself, there is no reason to top off your outfit with a cheap, felt Santa hat, you festive douche. And if you are an actual elf, why the fuck are you dilly-dallying around in NYC when there are presents to be wrapped up North? I’m pretty sure you elves aren’t covered under the “Right-to-Work” law, so get the hell out of here and go do your job.

This is an actual sweater for sale in a store. I don’t really know what the creature woven into the front of it is supposed to be. It looks like a bunch of different weird things, including a flasher, a cockroach, and a cockroach flasher. My boyfriend thinks it looks like an omen in a scary Japanese movie that would pop out from behind trees and shit to remind you of your mortality. Whatever it is, its red eyes and the fact that it looks like it’s fleeing from a predator seriously give me the heebie-jeebies.

Another guy that I met on OkCupid looked very promising from his online dating profile. It said that he was from Louisiana, he was a graphic designer, and he was tall and wore glasses. I was convinced that this was the guy for me. Then I met him.

In real life, he was gangly and awkward, like a male version of Olive Oyl, and his glasses were crooked. He was also, hands-down, the MOST BORING PERSON I’VE EVER MET. He was so boring that I briefly contemplated pretending to pass out/slide off of the banquette we were sitting on just so I could get taken away in an ambulance and not have to talk to him anymore.

Here’s a little anecdote from the hour-long date that really drives home how awful he was. At one point, over our ONE BEER, he asked me if I’d ever seen the movie “The Cove.” I hadn’t, simply because a movie about the systematic slaughter of adorable, innocent dolphins doesn’t appeal to me. I feel like I’ve seen it NOW, though, because when I told him I hadn’t seen it, he proceeded to give me a full recap of its plot that felt like it lasted roughly four times as long as the movie itself. I don’t know why he thought this was good date chat. I’m pretty sure that there isn’t a woman in the world who would find hearing about defenseless, majestic sea beasts being harpooned in the head to be a turn-on (okay, maybe Karla Homolka, but that’s it). Then again, he WAS on a dating website, so I don’t really know why I was so shocked by his social ineptitude.   

Towards the forty minute mark, I remember saying to him, “Well, I’m finished with my beer, so maybe we should wrap this up.” His response? “Well, I still have half of my beer to go.” I should’ve looked him dead in the eye right then and said, “You’re the most boring person I’ve ever met and speaking with you is less fun than having my toe chewed on by a wild rat,” but instead, I just weakly said, “Okay,” and sat there like a lump until he finally finished his beer.

After awkwardly waving goodbye to him the minute we set foot outside the bar, I speed-walked away and never looked back. He must have gotten the hint from my dead-eyed, forty-yard stare, because we never spoke again. Thankfully.

I. Cannot. Fucking. Stand. Rihanna. She’s untalented, she’s too pleased with herself, and she’s way too rich for being so untalented and pleased with herself. Also, her forehead is so huge that she looks like one of the aliens in the Twilight Zone episode “To Serve Man,” but nobody talks about this uncanny resemblence, and I find that frustrating.  

Let’s add on a few more reasons why Rihanna should disappear, shall we? How about the fact that she just got a tattoo of the word ‘Breezy’ on her neck (Breezy being Chris Brown’s nickname)? For the four of you who don’t know who Chris Brown is, he’s the ex/current boyfriend of Rihanna’s who pummeled her face a couple of years ago like he was a bartender muddling fresh mint for mojitos. He’s a terrible, awful, loathesome human being, but for some reason, she keeps going back to him, and that makes me hate her more. Now, maybe it’s just me, but it seems kind of weird that a girl who could date literally anyone in the world insists on dating a guy who does things like, oh, I don’t know, smash her fucking head into the dashboard of a car. So much for the empowered woman she’s always tunelessly warbling about being, eh?

ALSO, Rihanna grabs her crotch WAY too often for me to be okay with it. After all, everyone knows there’s a three-in-a-lifetime limit to crotch-grabs. They’re like wishes from a genie, and Rihanna is making a fool of everyone who respects the rules. Plus, she’s never NOT sweating like she’s sitting in a sauna. It’s truly repellant, and it’s definitely a sign that she is engaging in some not-so-smart extracurriculars (namely, blowing rails of coke in between schmoozing with Diddy and drinking Ciroc in Paris and shit). I can’t wait for her inevitable downfall. It makes me smile just thinking about it.

So concludes the first installation of Celebrities Who Should Disappear Already. Stay tuned for the next one, in which I’ll be discussing why Kim Kardashian should be waterboarded on stage at Madison Square Garden.