Billy’s Ab Bootcrap

               Oh, Tae Bo. Being academically obligated to take part in forcefully enthusiastic, hip thrusting, air punching schlock in 11th grade gym was nothing short of unenjoyable. As a class we stood in rows of four, following routines that played before us on a crappy television provided by the library. My friend, Danielle, and I stood in the back row too cool to participate in the Tae Bo activities, only actively engaged when monitored by our strange gym teacher (better known as Barry Manilow’s doppelganger). Rarely did he monitor us though. His too-tight nylon sweatpants contracted around his glutes as he obeyed the on-screen commands of Billy Blanks, unaware that his class behind him were either fiddling with their cell phones, sneaking out the back door, or slouched against the walls in misery. Of course there were several overachievers next to him, participating almost as hardcore as he was. After this experience, I promised myself I’d never watch another Billy Blanks exercise tape. Oh well, some promises were made to be broken.

Most famous for his Tae Bo workout tapes, body builder Billy Blanks presents you, “Billy’s Ab Bootcamp.” This turkey was M.I.A. from my residence hall’s movie rental inventory for a few months and once it magically reappeared, I had to check out what was so great about it that made it worth holding onto for that long. Well, this DVD will do as promised. It will give you abs…from holding in laughter. In this case, heed some of Billy’s advice and “Blow the air out of your abs.” Or as I like to pretend to hear, “ass.”

               Although filmed in 2005, the hue of the stock footage, poor lighting, and grainy resolution makes you believe it was product of the early 90’s. An initial observation to make is on the ultra-cheesy backdrop. Its appearance seems to be an imitation of the American flag, but without the blue square and fifty stars. I was slightly confused; are there copyright laws on the American flag that prevented them from using the actual design? Next to be noticed is a spooky portrait of Billy hanging on the left side of the studio; he is squatting in pose while a spotlight illuminates his silhouette. Next is the music. The beat (or lack thereof) resembles one from a (usually out of order) crappy arcade game that is commonly found standing solo in a strip mall.

               The participants’ exercise attire incorporates army camouflage in some form or another: patterned sweat pants, patterned shoelaces, patterned bras, etc. I assume this was an executive decision made by the producer as a way of supporting the theme of “boot camp.” It comes across as just that…campy. Not in a badass way, but in a way that borders on parody. Don’t become too concentrated on the elements I just mentioned though; Billy will startle you as he jumps in front of the camera shouting his introduction. As the troupe counts in unison behind him, Billy welcomes you to boot camp and offers scripted words of encouragement to kick off the hoorah.

My eyes constantly fell upon a fit woman in the front row, whom Billy referred to as “Shelly.” As the others around her look uncomfortable with agony, Shelly purses her lips seductively to demonstrate muscle strain. During the hip thrusting exercise, she is kind enough to throw in several sex faces with lip biting for further impact.

The women’s emotions range from uncomfortable to inconvenienced, shifting into the realm of being desperately cheerful. I am also bothered there was not someone- cameraman, producer, costume designer, lunch caterer, Billy himself- that suggested that a little too much camel toe was visible on stage. In the back row, there are several uncoordinated women that frequently examine their surroundings, wide-eyed in wonder. Their formation is poor despite being selected for the small cast of an exercise video. They make me believe they were picked off the street and asked to volunteer moments before shooting began. The rest of the women let out an impromptu “yeah” or “let’s go team” every once in a while. To top off the conclusion of each routine, they clap merrily while wailing, “Woo!”

               As far as male participants, there is only one in this crowd of women. Not much can be said about him except his attempts to look tough by blue-steeling throughout the video. His facial expressions transition back and forth: In pain, blue steel, in pain, blue steel.

Meanwhile, Billy stands front and center yelling for you to “bring it back,” “hold on eight,” and “take it down.” He awkwardly walks closer and closer to the camera, ogling at it like a caveman discovering fire. After long drawn out pauses and stares, he bounces back and tells you to keep up your momentum and commends you on your formation. At one point Billy seems confused. He says, “I want everybody to count. Was the good English? (looks to someone off stage, pauses, nods) Yeah, that was good English.” I can’t even make a joke for that, it is funny on its own.

For the most part, Billy’s Ab Bootcamp is crap. The participants are uninspiring as they are frequently off beat, stop to fix their hair dos mid routine, fall over, stare open-mouthed into the camera, and grit their teeth to look hard. Billy seems to be oblivious to this because all he seems to do is gallivant around slapping asses and grabbing body parts as a way of extending formation. Bless his soul. He doesn’t let anything get in the way of lending supportive words or demanding you to blow the air out of your ass abs.



Filed under Netflix Hall of Facepalm

Mourning With Nicholas Cage: The Crappiest Way to Deal With Death

               Exactly six months younger than me, it is his seventh birthday today. His modestly sized California home is decorated to the fullest extent. Neon balloons hover around the room and streamers are draped onto every surface. Neatly wrapped presents (obviously wrapped by mothers) are stacked on a table by the foyer window. His friends, all twenty-something of them, are either in the backyard or playing with the toys in his bedroom. He and I are perched behind a half wall that separates the hallway from the living room. Rooms filled with guests, but he is attached to my side and me to his.

               “You see them?” he asks.

               I slowly rise to peak over the half wall, binoculars pressed to my face. I see a cake stand of donuts on the kitchen table, just across from the living room.

               “They are beautiful,” I gasp in desire as I sit back down. He and I formulate a strategy to get our hands on the fried confections. Our mothers have told us that we are to wait until they deem an appropriate time to eat. He pulls a walkie-talkie set from his hoodie pouch: one red and the other silver. They had been an early morning present from his parents. He hands me one.

               “This one is going to be yours and this one will be mine,” he says adamantly. We adjust the frequency of the walkie-talkies. The interactions are barely audible, but it is good enough for us. He stretches night vision goggles around his head. Our elaborate game plan is ready to be put into action. I stay stationed behind the half wall while he makes his way to the other side of the house.

               He crawls along the carpet, occasionally stopping to look at his surroundings. We exchange spy-like banter through the receivers- words like “Roger” and “Clear.” He somersaults beneath a table, clearly seen by the adults above him. They pay little attention; they are too involved in discussions of the Y2K scare and the new line of Martha Stewart home décor at K-Mart. Noticed but ignored, he makes it to the other side.

               “Do you see me?” he asks into the walkie-talkie.

               “Yes,” I respond.

               Since our meeting in the mid-90s, he has become my best friend. He lives three houses down. He is the expectant knock on my screen door in the mid-afternoon, usually dressed in some costume with the request for me to join him outside. His bike is frequently found lying on my front lawn and mine on his. He is quick-witted and smart. He has a toothy grin surrounded by dimples, the kind that will make him a heartbreaker when he grows up. He is to be the childhood friend I will probably fall out of contact with in years to come, but will always manage to reconnect for future events- weddings, hometown visits, that sort of thing.


               I am eleven. I have moved several miles away and the process of growing apart has begun. Yet something has compelled a confession to my babysitter that I have a harbored crush. My babysitter encourages me to disclose my feelings. She is seventeen, an age that still allows her to believe in indestructible happiness. She grants me phone privileges; I flip through the junk drawer to find his phone number sloppily written in blue pen. I go forth. It is four months before the window of opportunity closes.

               A giggle slips between my words.

               “I really, like you, you know?”

               He laughs. I hang up because there is not much left to say. It is surprising how much you think to say after you realize the chance to say it is suddenly gone. But enough of that mushy-gushy absurdity. After all, I’m only eleven and the ability to understand the significance of time is marginally smaller than that of an adult.


               I am twelve. He turns twelve soon. We have grown apart more as expected. Yet his mother promises we’ll still keep contact after I move four states away.

               I brush my teeth in the bathroom of my family’s new home in the Oklahoma boonies. The walls are decorated with black wallpaper that is accentuated with a watercolor fruit pattern, causing the florescent lighting to be more forgiving. My mother brings in a box of knick knacks and my father follows behind her. She reaches in the cabinet beneath the sink; I shuffle over slightly to get out of her way, causing toothpaste to drip from my mouth onto the counter.

               The news is almost said in passing. The few words I will remember are, “accident,” “Thanksgiving,” and lastly, “died.” I stand breathless with a mouth full of toothpaste in a tacky graphic shirt that reads, “It’s not me. It’s you.” I lean over the bathroom sink wailing. The counter’s rounded edges are too slick to grasp, but I try to clutch it regardless. My parents seem alarmed by my reaction.

               “You know what, how about a movie? Would you like that, baby?” my mother says gently.

               She shifts through a box in the living room and comes back with a DVD of some crappy Nicholas Cage flick. I sit alone in my new bedroom and stare at the television that has been quickly assembled by my father. Eventually, I peek through the blinds and look at the sky. My religious upbringing has taught me to believe that heaven is somewhere beyond it. He died in Oregon though. I believe that to mean he is above the sky that covers Oregon, not the sky that covers Oklahoma. I am disappointed; I am looking up at no one. I look back to Nicholas Cage, the only person trying to console me.


               His death is rarely spoken about until eleven months later.

               My history teacher, a firm believer in “live life to the fullest” philosophies, has recently assigned us a project where we present the history of ourselves to the class. We are to assemble a memory box filled with our cherished possessions, memories, and interests. My presentation is today. I rummage through my memory box at the front of the room, presenting my favorite CDs and several pieces of Hot Topic jewelry that represent my “style.” I had placed his obituary at the bottom of the box. No reason in particular, I just wanted it there. I would have included his pictures, but my mother wouldn’t give them to me. She said looking at them would be unhealthy. Printed on computer paper, the ink of the obituary is faded due to a near empty cartridge. For an eleven year old boy, it is pretty lengthy and horrendously overwritten by an underpaid reporter who never had any sort of emotional attachment to him.  

               I pull it out and hold it up in front of the class, as if they can read the tiny print from their seats. I don’t get to say much. Months of suppressed sadness creeps to the surface and sobs interrupt my presentation. I am a blubbery mess. The class attempts to conceal their laughter. I leave the room as I promise to never share anything with anyone again.


               The crappiest way to deal with death is to not deal with it at all. Hypocritically, I choose not to think of him often. I cannot decide if this is because I’d be too heart-stricken by pain or even more heart-stricken at the fact that memories of him aren’t clear anymore. I still haven’t seen our pictures together. Nine years later, my mother still thinks it to be unhealthy. I don’t remember much of what he looked like, besides the miniature school photo that accompanies his obituary.

               I have, however, thought of those walkie-talkies and their fate. They probably stayed stashed beneath his bed a while after his death. His family eventually had to face the unimaginable experience of packing up his things. Keeping the important and favorite items, there is possibility everything else was donated to Goodwill. There is possibility the walkie-talkies were bought by some mother for her child, eventually to be packed up and donated again when that child outgrows them. I resent that hypothetical child. In my theory, that child gets to outgrow childhood.


Filed under Weekly Woes

The Crappiest Music Playlist for Breakups

If you are one who invests anything into a relationship, you may agree that break ups suck. But as a twenty-year old woman consumed with estrogen and painful optimism, they may rank a little higher on the misery scale. Not much can be said about the days where you can only muster up enough strength to buy a cup of coffee which you end up drinking half of before leaving it on your desk to rot for the next week. The cup leaves a ring around the wooden surface, not to be wiped away until three weeks later when you have to frantically scrape it with a Lysol wipe, before resorting to using your finger nail to pick off the residue flake by flake.

School work is pushed to the backburner as you spend your days reading magazine advice articles about how to get your groove back and you sob as you doubt that you will ever regain the sophisticated flair you believe you once had. But like all of life’s events, there is music that can aid the pain of a break up. These songs are not included in that category. The following make up the crappiest playlist for getting over a failed relationship.

#5: I Will Survive- Gloria Gaynor

If you were to type “Breakup Songs” into the Google search engine, chances are high that this stupid song will appear like ants at a picnic- it will be everywhere. Nothing makes you more equip for survival as a soloist than crumpled up Kleenex scattered around your room and hair that hasn’t been washed for Lord knows how long. As I analyze the lyrics, I cannot help but wonder if the antagonist of this song was a wife-beater wearing, beer guzzling tyrant.
“And so you’re back from outer space
I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face
I should have changed that stupid lock
I should have made you leave your key
If I knew for just one second you’d be back to bother me.”

Wait, a former lover (that made you feel like shit most of the time) appears in your home unannounced and your first response is some sassy zee-snap hip popping? Call the police.

“And you see me with somebody new,
I am not that chained up little person still in love with you”

They chained you up too?

#4: A Thousand Miles- Vanessa Carlton

“It’s always times like these
When I think of you
And wonder if you ever think of me
Cause everything’s so wrong
When I don’t belong in your precious memories”

Followed by…

“If I could fall into the sky
Do you think time would pass me by?
Cause you know I’d walk a thousand miles if I could just see you tonight.”

This person supposedly (and sadly) wants little to do with her; however she will take the time to walk a thousand miles to see them? Perhaps they moved a thousand miles away to get away from you and if that is the case, I am sure an encounter with you after you’ve walked a thousand miles will be ill-received. Time to get over it, honey. Walk a thousand miles to my dorm room and we can both cry into our Ben & Jerry’s.

#3: Everlasting Love- Natalie Cole

As I have mentioned in a previous post regarding online dating, this song is the serenade for every couple that has recently been emerged into a gleeful infatuation. That, and also the most common song heard on the loud speaker of Kohl’s or Burlington Coat Factory. The shrill of the piano and overall joy transmitted through the lyrics is enough to make you crawl under the covers.

“Loving you
Is some kind of wonderful
Because you’ve shown me
Just how much you care
You’ve given me the thrill of a lifetime
And made me believe you’ve got more thrills to spare, oh”

Oh, yes, they have got more thrills to spare- but they won’t be using ‘em on you any longer.

“You’ve filled me with happiness I never knew
You gave me more joy than I ever dreamed of
And no one, no one can take the place of you”

No one can take the place of them, yet they are no longer involved in your life. The only conclusion that can be made is now you have a big open hole that cannot be filled. Bummer.

#2: Single Ladies- Beyoncé

Beyoncé, oh Beyoncé. The supposed mother of twenty-first century female empowerment. As I (shamefully) spent the first few days bedridden after my split, this song frequently popped up on my computer’s playlist. Nothing made me leap from bed, simultaneously throwing the ice cream cartons to the other side of the room, faster than to turn this song off. Perhaps it was the smug “Wa-uh-oh’s” and overall melodic encouragement to shake my ass.

“Cuz if you liked it then you should have put a ring on it
If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it”

But they didn’t put a ring on it…because they didn’t like it.

“I got gloss on my lips, a man on my hips
hold me tighter than my Dereon jeans
acting up, drink in my cup
I could care less what you think”

Well, obviously you must care a wee bit about what this particular person thinks or else you wouldn’t pen an entire song convincing them to snap their fingers and mournfully say “Damn” as you strut by. And on a grammatical note, it is “couldn’t care less,” not “could care less.” If you couldn’t care less, that means that you legitimately cannot care any less than you do. If you can care less, that means there is still some caring involved.

#1: We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together- Taylor Swift

As I sat at the front desk of my residential building, I asked many lobby dwellers what song would send them spiraling into a fury if going through a break-up. Little did it surprise me that the most frequent response was, “Anything by Taylor Swift.” Considering ninety percent of Swift’s discography relates to the “done wrong girlfriend,” it was hard to pinpoint one song that could adequately represent this list. However, the general consensus of the front lobby pointed towards the 2012 anthem for scorned, cocky women everywhere: “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.”

“I’m really gonna miss you picking fights
And me, falling for it screaming that I’m right
And you, will hide away and find your piece of mind
with some indie record that’s much cooler than mine”

I can’t relate to this song. No one has cooler indie records than me.


Filed under Musical Waterboarding

The Crappiest Dye Job: Clairol’s Born Blonde

1000947_520039_A_400Have you ever heard the phrase, “It is not the car, it is the driver”…or something of that variation. Hopefully you can see what I am going for. Now, I cannot say this is a crap product. But as a vain teenager with vast inexperience in the art of hair dye, this product sent me into a tizzy.

As a natural blonde for eighteen years, I decided that college would be the age of sassiness (whatever that meant) and to be, well, sassy, I needed to change something about my outer appearance. Considering I wasn’t ready to put down the donuts, losing weight was out of the question. Dying my hair dark brown was an impulse inspired by the extra boxes of hair dye in my mother’s bathroom closet.

After realizing how your attitude can change with a simple color alteration, I became hooked on hair dye my freshmen year of college. I spent approximately $310 keeping up with the superficial habit. I still hold the receipts at night and cry. Also, I am sure all the girls with whom I shared a communal bathroom really enjoyed the reek of weekly root touch ups and hair dye removal kits (for real, Color Oops has a scent that lies between rotten eggs and decomposing body). In the second half of 2010, my hair went as follows:

July 1992-July 2010= boring blonde
July 2010-August 2010= raspberry kool aid
August 2010-September 2010= brown pipe water
October 2010= Elvira black (good God.)
October 2010= Candy corn (white to orange to yellow)
October 2010-November 2010= Gingerbread Latte (orangey reddish wonderful)
November 2010= Macintosh brown
December 2010= Passable

It was in October of freshmen year that my mother picked me up for the weekend. We planned to stay at a hotel in Syracuse. That night, we made a quick run to Target where I blew money on fashion magazines and a lip cosmetic called Mother Pucker. It was there, in the aisle between the Q-Tips and tampons, that I figured my two months as a brunette had ran its course. I was ready to go back to my blonde hair. Well aware that it was not possible to go from dark to light, I thought I could defy the nature of chemistry and succeed. 

I spent $10 on Clairol Born Blonde. The box’s advertised a promise of restoring my hair back to its blonde glory. This is one of those instances when I wish my mother would have been motherly and prevented me from purchasing it in the first place. However, she simply shrugged and stated I was young, so this was the time to make mistakes. See? She saw it coming. I must remember this is a woman who told me I was beautiful when I slathered on red lipstick, bronzer, and black eye shadow at age fourteen.

We got back to the hotel and I immediately went to the bathroom for the crappiest dye job ever. I opened the box and threw the directions directly to the trash. I knew what I was doing. A half hour later, standing before the mirror with white roots, I continued to tell myself that. I washed the product out after an hour. The roots were granny white, the middle was Tropicana orange, and the tips had settled at a banana yellow. It was perfect for the Halloween season. However, I had finally blossomed into the esteemed college freshman that wanted to feel at least a tad attractive at frat parties, so the candy corn hair was short lived.

But geez, what an awkward moment it was when I did the grand unveiling for my mother.

“Is that how you wanted it?” she asked.

“Yes mother,” I said sarcastically, inspecting the strands in the mirror, “Looks kind of badass, does it not?”

My mother shook her head, “It doesn’t look good.”

I never understand why people feel compelled to criticize something you already know is crap. I will not say this product didn’t do as promised. It did turn my hair lighter. However, I still cringe every time I walk by it in the drugstore. Eeep!


Filed under Weekly Woes

The Crappiest Online Dating Sites

I first signed up to an online dating site when I was a high school junior. Of course, feeling like a “distinguished” teenager too good for the spitball-crazy boys in my grade, I figured I’d peer into the “real world” to see the possibilities waiting for me. I signed up for a free week trial at eHarmony, where I lied about my age and my name…naturally. Those commercials with cheesy renditions of “Everlasting Love” and dancing dupes seemed promising enough.

Unlike the MTV show Catfish, I was not cruel enough to mess with anyone who was seriously seeking a relationship. That would just be bad karma that’d eventually sentence me to a life of the stereotypical old maid. However, I did take the time to flip through profiles of businessmen in Manhattan, construction workers in Missouri, and computer programmers in Silicon Valley.

I could make a very successful career out of being an online dating biography consultant. Think of the possibilities. The partner of your dreams could be somewhere on the site. He/she stumbles across you and all you can say about yourself is “I like to travel” (many people do), “I like to eat” (deprive a person of food for two days and I am sure that becomes a universal statement), and “I like working out. All day, every day.” (Sure). The internet is a vicious place, where rejection is a million times easier when only faced with a computer screen. Speak up. Be different. You don’t have to be a wizard at spitting game, but don’t be so vague. If you have a calculator collection, can recite every line to The Godfather backwards, and have a deep love for your golden retriever, Rusty- you may not know it, but there is someone out there for you and your chances of finding them decrease with every cliché interest you list.

(For men): The sole exception when it comes to being honest about your interests: If you list R. Kelly as an inspiration, your profile will be closed faster than a brothel in the southern Bible belt. Oh, and to the jackass that ended his bio with “Only message me if you can handle this”- it is approaching five years and I still remember you. You really thought you were bad, didn’t you?
eHarmony, though not as good as (yes, I had an account with them too), was a classy joint. There were respectable people who presented themselves accordingly. In comparison to other dating sites, eHarmony was a five-star bistro while the others were the pretzel carts of the internet.

It was years later when I was facing a falling out with my boyfriend that I figured I would take another gander at the wicked world of online dating. I broke away from the safety of eHarmony and Match. I ventured into icky territory and gathered the crappiest online dating sites.

The Top 5 Crappiest Online Dating Sites


The site is chocked full of stereotypes with screen names like: “WranglerinWranglers,” “dirtyandpurecountryredneck,” and “Ridethiscowboyshorse.” Sigh.


I never actually looked through this one, but their advertisement blurb was enough to get a spot on this list. “We have millions of Sugar Daddies from: Christian Sugar Daddies, Jewish Sugar Daddies, Muslim Sugar Daddies, Latin Sugar Daddies, Black Sugar Daddies all looking for love. Only on Sugar” After being on the site for a hot minute, I was contacted by a “Sugar Daddy Agent.” Damn, all I had to do was say hi:

Sugar Daddy


This punch line of a site opens with one of those annoying introductions that feature a woman walking onto the screen and enticing you to sign up. These things are annoying, especially if you have multiple browsers open that you have to quickly click on different windows to find where the voice is coming from. When you click on the screen, the woman sashays into a freeze. So, you do. You decide to log on for free, just for the sure lolls you will experience. It is mostly glorified porn-esque pictures, probably stolen from various places off the internet. The profiles are equally amusing to read through and I have my suspicions that the site is actually operated by Nigerian princes ready to pounce at the chance of getting your information.


Granted, this is not the first place someone would look for a date but hey, it could happen. Inmates make a profile where they give a bio and what they are looking for in a pen pal. You are able to see when they went into the pen, when they get out, and why they were placed in there to begin with. In terms of community service, it seems like a good idea and one that could have a positive impact on another person. Many seem to want more than a pen pal and boy, are they picky with their requests. Borderline perverted in some cases. When you have been incarcerated with murder and arson, can you really afford to be choosy?



Self-explanatory. Craigslist is good for obtaining a used futon, not a soul mate.

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Filed under Weekly Woes

Rubber (2011)

It seems as though National Geographic wasn’t rushing to do a documentary on tires any time soon. Luckily, Quentin Dupieux took it upon himself to give the public what was needed and long overdue. Just what my life so far was missing- a murder mystery where the culprit is a busted tired that embarks to avenge its abandonment in the desert. Considering Rubber premiered at the Cannes Film Festival, you know it has got to be classy.

Rubber (2011)

The opening to the trailer grants the audience intimate insight into the
average morning of a retired tire (get it? reTIREd tire?). According to Wikipedia, the character of the tire has no official name or acting credit. I am sure there is a tire somewhere out there that is pissed. Anyways, for the sake of this post we will call him Killer Rubber.

Killer Rubber takes naps in the Mojave. Killer Rubber enjoys midday strolls. Killer Rubber’s every movement is serenaded with whistling.

But get in Killer Rubber’s way and BOOM! There goes your head. Flying. In flames. Scorch. This is when the audience realizes that Rubber may be a tad too scandalous for their tastes. This is when parents realize that this film may not be suitable for their seven year old son, Edwin, an aficionado of monster trucks.

When the authorities embark on a man hunt for Killer Rubber, it is questioned to what brand he belongs to. The cop relies, “Brandless.” Well shit, the tire has gone rouge!

As the trailer progresses, you’ll see what appears to be a sting operation where a lady seductively tries to lure Killer Rubber into blowing up a mannequin head. Perhaps this may be a peek into what becomes the central romantic relationship in the film. We’ll find out.

The trailer ends with Killer Rubber lurking in a hotel shower.
Then there is an unexplained turkey prop at 2:13…
I don’t know.

Full review to come.

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Filed under Home, Netflix Hall of Facepalm

Color Me Badd: Acapella Sex Hell

Color_Me_Badd_-_C.M.B. If there was any reason to look at my parents with a glance of embarrassment, it would be the fact Color Me Badd was actually (kinda, maybe, sorta) a hot commodity around the time of my conception. They made a subtle entrance into the mainstream in 1991 with their musical mating call, “I Wanna Sex You Up,” in which they vocally seduced lady listeners everywhere with the promise, “We can do it ‘til we both wake up.” Even an 8th grade sex education class will teach you that that is not how it done, if it is even possible in the first place.

It was initially hard to believe their debut album, C.M.B., earned triple-platinum status but then I remembered that even Vanilla Ice was taken seriously in the early 90’s. Yes, three million copies and I am certain half ended up in thrift stores and various yard sales across the United States. That is how I was introduced to Color Me Badd. It was the grand ol’ summer of 2012. My days consisted of selling greeting cards and preparing for a road trip down south. On a Saturday morning I was driving through a beautiful residential area in my home of Saratoga Springs, New York. On the curb of a colonial home rested a boxed with “Free” scribbled in Sharpie. Always embarrassed to show any interest in instances like this, I looked around to assure that no one was around before exiting my car.

There was C.M.B., floating atop a sea of McDonald’s Happy Meal toys and workout videos. The cover screamed early 90’s with its cheesy font, neon starter jackets, and light facial hair neatly groomed above the upper lip. In the corner was a sticker advertising the selling price of ten cents. Considering I had been shifting through the same music on my joyrides to work, I thought I should live a little bit- try something new. My boyfriend has always been a cheerleader for new experiences, so I partly attribute this influence to my decision to take a chance on Color Me Badd. The disk was almost flawless in its condition, leading me to believe the owners’ listened to it once and then forgot about it for twenty-one years. I popped the CD into my car stereo and found out why. This band blows.


Their entire discography consists of overly syrupy lyrics that were intended to set the mood for romance. If you can make it through one album without cringing or sighing, then you can probably manage to get down to some Color Me Badd.

Some of Color Me Badd’s lesser known classics include:

Choose (1993):

“Anything you want me to
I will live or die, you choose

(Really? I get to choose the fate of your existence? Boy, oh boy, you must love me so.)

This I swear
Walking hand in hand
Through the sands of time
As I peer into the past
Foreign steps are terrorizing”

(Huh? How does that fit within the context of this song? It appears that Color Me Badd was attempting to transition from their common sap ballads to ones with political undertones. Watch out Springsteen, you don’t stand a chance.)

From the Back (1996):

“Oh, yeah, CMB, once again it’s on folks

(Once again? Was it ever?)

As yeah, sexual, exoticness
One time for your mind
Two times for your soul

(CMB is so confident in their pelvic-thrusting abilities that they just know your soul will be fulfilled after two rolls in the hay. After all, their prowess is more spiritually awakening than religion.)

You’re all alone
I bet you’re thinking to yourself
Why your thighs are sitting there by themselves


When we are playing doctor baby, I’ll be Mister Freaky M.D.”


Rosanna’s Little Sister (1998):

“Rosanna’s little sister
Watched me as I kissed her older sister’s lips
With a passion that always missed her
It was dark outside my window
But I could see her from the light
She was standing perfectly naked

(There you have it, folks. The way to snag your older sister’s man is to stand naked outside his window in the dead of night.)

Turning up the heat of the night
Noisy floorboards, creakin’ doors
I finally made it down the corridor
To the room I’d never seen at all
But dreamt of a thousand times before

(Does this or does this not sound like something that would be found on a pedophile’s playlist?)

I wanted to get inside her head
Under the covers, inside the bed
I looked around and turned to see
Rosanna lookin’ up at me”


Slow Motion (1991):

“And I could never love you fast, babe, not you
I take my time and love you all night long
How do you wanna do it baby?
Oh, 20 miles an hour is the speed I drive
Ain’t nuthin’ wrong, I just take my time”

(Get off the road, jackass. If I was on the highway behind someone going 20 miles an hour, it would be more like a flip off than knickers off.)

Don’t get offended if I fall a little behind
Baby, yeah, all right
20 miles an hour and uh, your rump is mine, yeah”

Farmer’s Daughter (1998):

“The farmer’s daughter got a one track mind
Give me some time to let me show you baby
Your daddy is in the house
He ain’t lookin’
I noticed you been peekin’ at me
Suga, want to hit you girl behind the haystacks
You’re finger lickin’ like a funky chicken”

(It is sad that the band mate who wrote this song left to pursue a full-time career in songwriting. This song tries to go for a bumpin’ & grindin’ vibe, yet I cannot get past the country references accompanied with some monotone moaning in the background.)

Below is a video of from the Color Me Badd Glory Vault.

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