The Perfect Ratio

I am bringing this blog column back. Mostly because writing full-length book reviews is too daunting and How I Met Your Mother is waiting.

Next gen immigrants

Why they all marry white peeps?

Parents, learn to deal.

Now to get yourself into the right Lahirian state of mind watch like, uh, five minutes of Kumar Goes To That Girl From The Real World's Vagina (commonly referred to as The Namesake), get in a fight with your parents by refusing to eat their ethnic kugel and screaming, "I only eat American food now!" before slamming the door and running out to White Castle. Come home, glutted on grease, and ponder the ramifications of your assimilation.

Bonus fun fact: Kal Penn (Kalpen Suresh Modi; case in point!) America's favorite/only go-to Indian actor was a Women's Studies major at UCLA.

I was color-coding my Hermes, waiting for Yolanda, my personal pubic hair trimmer to arrive, when I got the call.

"What do you mean it's gone?" I said.

"Ponzi? That man from Happy Days? Well, for God's sake, can't they catch him?"

It was explained to me in full over the course of the next few days. I became despondent. My husband asked me what luxuries I could live without. In reply I threw up my rainbow of silk scarves in the air, yelling "Take them! Take them!" while collapsing dramatically on the bed, where I hid a few of my favorite ones under my right breast. In the end I was forced to get rid of two of my cars, and Yolanda, the pubic hair trimmer. But I went further: "Without Yolanda," I said, "I have no need for the Italian villa. I'll not be able to wear a bikini until I hire a new trimmer, so sell it. Just sell the villa."

I tried to garner sympathy for the wealthy but they make it nearly impossible, what with the starched white shirt imperative and brown bagging designer labels. I hereby concentrate all my sympathy on the Jewish charities that were swindled.

As if Christmas time wasn't bad enough for the Jews.

I'm somewhat perplexed by the slew of articles trying to delve into Madoff's psyche to uncover what sort of mental illness brought on this huge financial scam. I mean, sure, the guy's a more virile form of nutty than Burt Reynolds' balls, but concentrating on why he did it evades the simple answer: he could do it.

DEM BALLZ R CRAZY

When you're playing with pretend entities to begin with and someone's like, "Here are five hundred unicorns!" what's to stop you from bragging, "Your unicorns are frollicking in the candy cane fields! They have sweet syrup dripping down their glitterly horns! They're fucking each other like crazy! SRSLY! Big unicorn candy orgy!" I mean technically the SEC is supposed to monitor the unicorns, but who knows what happened there.

It's a system-induced sickness, I tell you! DSM-VI get on that!

Your financial portfolio.

But the biggest Ponzi scheme of all time my friends, is perpetrated by The Hills LLC. I invested emotion in that enterprise. Yes, I'll admit it. In a bunch of dumbfucks I would slap if I ever met them in real life. But investing in dumbfucks on TV is more like investing in principles, since you can't actually personally relate to any of them you attempt to rally around what they represent.

I put my emotions into preventing Heidi and Spencer from getting married on the feminist principle that women shouldn't marry abusive douchenozzles. Yes, Spencer and I both agree that Heidi's friends are all retardos, but you don't stay with someone who isolates you from your F&F! That is like, uh, level one, middle school brochure on abusive relationships.

The only time I ever had a morsel of respect for Heidi was after Spencer proposed to her in Mexico, telling her he had to "take her away from her family" because that was when "they worked at their best." You can actually see the discomfort in her eyes, perhaps mildly registering how fucked up that is, before she says in a fake-Mexican-sounds-like-Italian-accent: "Oh noooo, Monsieur Spencer, I think we should not get maarried."

Then they do. And at that point I was like, "FUCK this shit. I am cashing out." There's nothing left for me. Lauren Conrad's so boring they should use her voice in those sleep machines they sell at Brookstone.

But as soon as I try to rescind my emotion, The Hills just transfers it to Audrina and Justin Bobby, who, in the season finale, are set up to be the new Spencer/Heidi. JB takes Audrina out of L.A. to some sort of Bed & Breakfast, and starts to seduce her on the bed, by, uh, dissing her friends. Apparently the road to romance is isolation? "Now isn't this great, to be here all alone, without your little friends chirping in your ear..."

Um, HELLO, WARNING SIGN. Haven't we learned this lesson before? But still, I reinvest for next season.