Lessons for Boys

1. The first time you say "I love you" should not be when a girl is trying to break up with you.

2. Don't justify your shitty boyfriend behavior with the assumption: "I thought you had low standards."

3. When I make dinner, you better clean the dishes.

4. The anus is an exit, not an entrance.

5. Don't bring up an ex-girlfriend of 3 1/2 years when I'm trying to break up with you.

6. Don't ever bring up your ex-girlfriend of 3 1/2 years.

7. I don't care about how fucked up your previous relationships were. Cry a river, build a bridge, and get over it. And don't forget to empty your baggage into the river. I don't need to hear about that shit.

...more to follow

Losery losers

I spoke to my brother about my sister's idea that only losers don't have kids. He was in 100% agreement: "If you don't have kids, you've lost the genetic race. You are literally a loser." He did agree with me that some people shouldn't have kids, but according to him, the reason is that those people are losers and intentionally or not, they're weeding themselves out for the good of the population. This coming from the kid who didn't know the months of the year until he was 13.

See: http://nakedpicsofhotcelebs.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-mother-is-contagious.html

Make Room for Jerkwads

What the hell is going on with guys on the subway?

I take the subway to work four days a week, and every time I get on the train, I notice two things:

1. There are seven seats per subway bench. That means seven people can sit on a bench.

2. Until you remember that men need two seats.

These aren't small seats; a 200-pound man easily fits into one. Yet he takes up two. (Strangely, he is more likely to do this when he is riding with a friend. The only reason I can come up with is that if a man's clothed leg touches the leg of his buddy, it'll turn him.) Don't guys realize that the subway is public transportation? We all pay to use it. Your $2.25 didn't buy you a temporary living room, and everyone else on the train is just as exhausted as you are. Move the fuck over. Let your arm touch a stranger's. You don't have to call them the next day.

Sex and the City

Just watched a Daily Show interview with Michael Patrick King, executive producer of the TV show "Sex and the City" and writer of the latest SATC movie. In the new movie, the ladies all go to Abu Dhabi, where they'll ride around on camels and buy beaded slippers. Everyone was baffled about why they would do this, but King explained it all to Jon Stewart. His thought process was: Women don't have the money to go on vacation right now... so they're going to want to watch Carrie Bradshaw treat herself to the spa version of the Middle East, while not learning anything about the culture beyond "their shoes are cheap." No. That's not what I want to watch. The reason I loved the show to begin with was that Carrie is horrible and bad stuff happens to her. I want to watch a "Sex and the City" movie where Carrie's friends spend three hours insulting her and she cries. But this movie is going to make a zillion dollars and nobody will listen to me, even for art's sake.

Euthanize me

Euthanize me.

Is that what the puppies are saying? I wonder because I’ve never heard them talk. Have you?

I love how all these good-for-nothing shelters “euthanize” dogs. Let me tell you something about euthanasia: it’s painless killing when there is no other option. That means an incurable disease. If you have a dog at a shelter for five months and you put it down, that’s not euthanasia. That’s murder. And our society is full of murderers.
Two weeks ago I had to quit the refuge where I was volunteering. I had been gullible enough to believe that they were a no-kill shelter. But when I went for a training to walk dogs that had certain behavior issues—biting, chewing their leash, etc.—I found out that they kill their animals and it’s not only when they have a disease but when they get too aggressive. There was a dog that had been adopted and he bit five people, so this shelter—one of the most “reputable” in New York—put him down.
They tried to explain to me what a terrible quality of life the dogs have at a shelter. But I know nothing of dog heaven, so I’d rather keep a dog alive hoping that a good soul will eventually adopt him. That is, unless the dog, mature and tired turned to me and said, “Euthanize me, please.” No, I’d probably just take him to therapy.

Starting at the moment of conception...

...you're doing it wrong.

Apparently, there are people in the world who know the exact date of their child's conception, which suggests to me that they are having sex so infrequently that they don't have to narrow down the possible dates - there's just one. Really, the only way to know the exact date of your child's conception is if you only have sex once a month, and I know sometimes there are reasons to only have sex once a month (if one of you is in the army, for example, or if you're married to Larry King), but why would you bring a child into that? If I ever have kids, I want to be able to tell them, "Yeah, your father and I were boning so much that we didn't notice I was pregnant until you started crowning."

THE RETARDED GUY’S GUIDE TO FASHION:

Or You're Making This Harder than it is

Jeans: Don’t wear light denim. Don’t wear jeans that are too loose. Don’t wear jeans that are too tight. Cuffed jeans and jeans that are too short only really work if you wear them right—in other words, you have to be a hipster and/or worthy of being featured on The Sartorialist.

Shorts: Cargo shorts should be illegal because they make you look like a d-bag. Don’t wear shorts that end below the knee, for fuck’s sake! Most guys think “the longer my shorts, the manlier I look”—not true, ya’ll. Not true.

Shoes: Don’t wear athletic shoes if you are not doing athletics. Don’t wear flip flops if you are not on the beach/near a pool. Don’t wear aqua socks...ever—children who wear aqua socks get picked on for being pussies, so I don't even know why they bother making ADULT aqua socks. Don’t wear Tevas with socks. Actually, just don’t wear Tevas. Fuck it, don’t wear sandals, period. Are Birkenstocks still culturally relevant on the east coast? Whatever, don’t wear those either. Don't get me started on Crocs.

T-Shirts: Seriously? This is so fucking easy. Hanes white v-necks, they sell them in packs of a bajillion. Go crazy, just check for mustard stains periodically. If you’re older than 18, you really shouldn’t be wearing shirts with words on them. As far as band t-shirts go—i'm just speculating here, but no one cares about what you like...probably.

Hats: Don’t wear fedoras. Bowler hats are slightly less repulsive than fedoras but still risky business. Straw hats are ok if you’re a farmer or a scarecrow. If you’re gonna wear a baseball cap, don’t curve the fucking bill like you’re 8 years old and don’t flip it up like you’re OG. No bucket hats--Avey Tare is the only person in the world who is allowed to wear a bucket hat, because he revolutionized music, and you didn't. Knit caps are ok, as long as they’re not so huge that you look like you’re on your way to Hyrule Castle to rescue Princess Zelda. Yeah, I made a videogame joke, fuck off.

Jewelry: NO.
Beard: yes.
Hemp: please, no.

Nick Jonas: yes

Bro from MGMT circa 2k7: nope

Bro from MGMT, present day: yes
Suit: TAILORED…come on, guy.

Elvis Costello!

See? Easy peasy.

xo

My mother is contagious

I had the following conversation with my sister while we were cooking a Mother's Day dinner today:

My sister: Do you think you'll ever have kids?

Me: I dunno, maybe.

My sister (shocked, as if I told her I was a Scientologist): What? Why wouldn't you have kids?

Me: Because once you have kids, your life belongs to them.

My sister: Yeah, but all your friends will have kids too. What are you going to do if you don't have kids, hang out with all your loser friends who can't get anyone?

I'd say there's a gap between "someone who doesn't want children" and "loser who can't get anyone," but my sister clearly disagrees.

See: http://nakedpicsofhotcelebs.blogspot.com/2010/04/theyll-come-after-my-kids.html

When the robots take over...

If you think you have received an email from me, you have not. It was written by my friend Ben.

Every now and then, I'll read an article in a magazine about how relationships are ruined by misinterpreted text messages or emails - Friend A writes, "wanna come to my bbq?" Friend B responds, "uh... dunno, busy" and Friend A thinks Friend B meant to be snide and two years later, they see each other from across a crowded room and hug and make up and hate themselves for hating each other. The point is that without certain nonverbal social cues, messages get transformed. As someone who regularly misinterprets friendly emails as deeply hostile, I understand that my words don't always convey what I mean, and so writing emails is extremely stressful for me. I agonize over emails, worrying that I sounded sarcastic or bitchy. It's not a neurosis - I often sound sarcastic or bitchy, in person and in emails, and that's why I like to have my friend Ben proofread all my emails before I send them.

Ben was born with a gift for writing emails. Periodically throughout the day, I send him drafts of emails I'm planning to send and when his bosses aren't making him write their emails, he helps with mine. Sometimes he straight-up writes them for me, down to the subject lines. Maybe someday he'll write a technology etiquette book or something. I don't know. I do know that soon, I'm going to have to start writing my own emails, because Ben is moving to The Hague, and I'm probably going to end up offending a lot of people.

Medicate

I saw my neurologist a couple days ago for a checkup. The reason I kept the appointment was because I wanted better sleeping pills. Right now, I take Lunesta, which is nice because it's gentle and non-addictive and all that, but it won't keep me asleep for more than eight hours. I don't need to be awake sixteen hours a day. I want a sleeping pill that will knock me out for twelve hours at a time, and I told my neurologist that. "Drug companies don't make sleeping pills that last longer than eight hours," he told me. "They don't think people need more than eight hours of sleep a night."

I need more than eight hours of sleep a night.

Dear Frasier, you suck

I was reading a March issue of New York Magazine when I stumbled upon an article about Kelsey Grammer in which he says of Sarah Palin, "I don't like that so many women are willing to beat up on an attractive woman." There's no way to respond to a comment like that: it sends you straight back to seventh grade, when you realized that boys only cared about what hot girls thought. You can say, "I don't hate her because she's attractive, I hate her because she's an idiot," but if you aren't hot, Kelsey Grammer is not listening. (And even if you are hot, chances are, he's not listening.) You can do the knee-jerk thing and shout, "She's not that hot!" but that would only prove his point, which is that you hate Sarah Palin because you are ugly and she is beautiful. Saying that it troubles him to see women speaking out against a pretty woman is a great debate strategy.

But I think that despite his assholery, Kelsey Grammer has hit upon an important point: women are jealous of Sarah Palin. He thinks it's about looks, because what else would women care about? If he observed the day-to-day lives of the women who criticize Palin, he might find another reason for them to envy her.

Here's how a typical day in the life of a working mother of multiple children goes:

She wakes up and groggily gets out of bed to prepare breakfast, a good portion of which gets thrown on the floor. The kids whine: "You're giving me cereal again?" "Why isn't my shirt clean?" "I don't wanna go to school." She may or may not have someone helping her; if she is anything like my mother, her husband is busy watching the morning news.

She heads to work, where her boss, like all bosses, is a total dick. She is passed over for promotions and raises because her superiors say, Oh, all she cares about is her kids, she can't really commit to this job.

She comes home exhausted. Her kids whine: "I hate this dinner." "Why aren't you paying any attention to me?" If she is anything like my mother, her husband is busy watching the evening news; if he hears the children whining, he asks her, "Why are the children making so much noise?"

She goes to bed, having spent no time on herself all day. Her kids, her bosses, and her husband have barely noticed any of the work she has done for them.

Here's a typical day in the life of Sarah Palin:

She holds her baby for a magazine cover. She is fawned over because she didn't get an abortion. She is held up as an example of a great mom, despite her children's very public fuckups.

She is complimented as a modern working woman despite having quit her one actual job as governor.

People throw money at her for doing absolutely nothing, because listening to her speak is simply so dazzling.

I'm not saying Sarah Palin doesn't work hard as a mother. I have no idea what kind of parent she is. What I'm saying is that zillions of women are hardworking mothers and nobody pats them on the back, not their kids, not their bosses, not their partners, and definitely not any major news outlets, which are still wary of mothers in the workplace. These women don't have the option of quitting their jobs just because "only dead fish go with the flow." While Sarah Palin quits her job and gets attention and praise for everything she does and says, no matter how idiotic, most other women are *actually* doing their jobs and being ignored. So, if women are jealous of Sarah Palin, trust me, Kelsey, it's not about her looks.

While I'm writing posts directly to Kelsey Grammer, let me also say this: The show "Hank" failed because you are not believable as the father of anyone under thirty. It really skeeved me out to see you pretending otherwise, which is why I did not watch your show.

...and it's more funsies when everyone wins!!

I’ve never been good at fake laughing, and up until a couple of years ago, I used to fake laugh really obviously to let people know they needed to try harder. But then I realized, HEY this is stupid! When life gives me lemons, I’m gonna make some fuckin lemon bars and share the extras with my neighbors so everyone is happy and no one gets fat. Similarly, when life gives me a shitty joke, I turn it into an awesome joke so I don’t have to fake laugh, and the poor soul I’m talking to thinks he’s hilarious and no one's feelings get hurt and all’s well that ends well. I know what you're thinking: just how do you make a shitty joke into an awesome joke? Well shut the fuck up and let me explain:

SCENARIO:
-I am talking to someone who, although sweet as pie, really isn’t funny.

-They make a “joke", which is usually stupid/generic/cliché/stolen from Dane Cook who probably stole it from Demetri Martin.

-In the fraction of a second it takes me to laugh, their failed attempt at humor jitterbugs into my brain, where I run it through a conceptual brita filter. Then I take all the bits with any comic potential and rearrange them into something that I can laugh at ironically.*

It's like a game! Essentially, what ends up happening is 99% of the time, I’m laughing at my own joke. Okay, to be fair I’m laughing at someone else’s “joke” which I’ve expertly deconstructed and reassembled in my head. And I know I’m doing all the work, and that doesn’t seem fair and in lieu of fake laughter I should probably just say something like “nice try, jackass” and peace out. But then everyone loses!

xo

*I should probably add: I never do this with friends, because real friends let friends know when they’ve made a shitty joke.

Gimme gimme gimme

I've been reading this biography of Louisa May Alcott the past couple days and it seems like the ongoing theme is "I should do this...but I did this instead." Even in her childhood diaries she writes stuff like, "I have to try harder to be nice, even though I really want to hit my sister in the face." It's making me think a lot about human nature and the nature we're born with. You get rewarded for doing nice things when you're a little kid - you share candy with your siblings, your parents say aren't you sweet; if you hoard all your candy, your parents ask why can't you be generous like your sister? But maybe it's easy for one child to share candy because it's in her nature and maybe the other child really has to force herself not to keep every Starburst she gets her hands on. Louisa May Alcott was more difficult than most children and definitely more difficult than her sisters and her parents gave her a ton of shit about it. And then she died of mercury poisoning.

Compassion, selflessness, bravery, strength of character, generosity, those are all "societal values." But maybe some people can't be compassionate, or selfless, or brave. I've been told that I should be nicer, and sometimes I try it for a couple days (hours), and it really doesn't go well. All the meanness builds up until I do or say something truly awful. Is it a lack of self-control on my part? Or are some people actually incapable of being nice?

Review: What Is a Urinal?

I was going into the subway station the other day. I walked down the stairs holding onto the railing. I passed through some urine stench, gagged, and rushed through the turnstile. So far, normal. But then when I got onto the subway platform, I sniffed my hand and it smelled like I'd used it as toilet paper. Some asshole had decided to piss on the railing in a subway station and now my hand was covered in it.

You'll probably ask, Why were you holding the hand rail? Only old people do that. Well, I like holding onto the hand rail because otherwise my hands get bored, and I shouldn't have to justify using a hand rail in a subway station because I shouldn't expect people to piss on them. It shouldn't be like, "Well, you knew you were taking a risk, holding onto something that people could piss on." But that's the world we live in, and I think I know what's going on here. Some people are confused as to what is and is NOT a urinal. I will explain.

First of all, a urinal is always in a bathroom. Before unzipping your fly, you should check to make sure you are in a bathroom, or what you're about to piss on is probably not a urinal.

All right, you're saying, but once I'm in the bathroom, how do I know where to relieve myself? Urinals are white porcelain boxes lined up against the walls. They have drains in the bottom so that your piss doesn't just sit there. You can distinguish them from sinks because unlike sinks, they have no faucets.

But I like pissing on hand rails, you may say. It's convenient. It's funny when people's hands smell like my piss. And it's *my* piss, piss that I made with my own two kidneys; I should be able to put it wherever I want and you're lucky I'm sharing it with you at all. Why can't I piss on a hand rail? Fair points. The answer is that you can't piss on a hand rail because it's fucking disgusting and if I catch you doing it, I'll scalp you. You can't piss on hand rails.

They can get...smarter?

I got into [another] fight with my boss today. He’s the kind of dick who says things like “you know, Farah, running your mouth doesn’t count as exercise” and “it’s so easy a girl can do it”. Fortunately, we have such a casual work relationship that I can basically walk up to him and be like “you are an ignorant bastard and your hair is stupid” and he won’t do anything about it because he knows I’m awesome and firing me would be a poor life decision.

Today, his beef with me was that I was playing my like omg totally insanely highly inaccessible and super-duper way obscure no-wave, lo-fi, tribalcore, shitgaze music too loud and it was hurting his ear feelings or some whiney bullshit. He started yelling at me to turn the noise down so I started yelling at him something about how this is my favorite song in the universe [this week] and to turn it down would be an insult to the artist and he’d be better off taking his complaints to someone who’d actually give a damn.

Well eventually, he gave up and left me alone because I seem pretty alright most of the time, but when I get riled up about something, I tend not to calm down until I get MY WAY (youngest child syndrome), and he’s well aware of that by now. So he disappeared out of my line of vision, and I got back to work after giving myself a figurative pat on the back for winning yet another one when not five minutes later, that dumb fucking asshole started blasting Rush from the other room. RUSH!! How did he know?! I think it’s time I start keeping my pet-peeves to myself, lest they be used against me in such unethical ways.

Screw you guys, I'm going home

I like kids. I like them a lot. They're funny, they're cute, and they provide insight into your own development. I like talking to them, I like watching them do kid things, I like running around with them at the park. That stuff is all fun.

What isn't fun is playing games with them. They're always changing the rules, first of all ("No, I'm not out. The couch is base.") and if you argue, you feel petty. After all, why do I care if kids change the rules in the middle of the game? But I do care, because it's not fucking fair, dammit.

Second, their games are boring. Do you know what Store is? It's a game where you pick up stuff in their basement, pretend to buy it, and then put it in a pile. Over and over and over. Why do they want to play Store? Or School? Why do they want to play School if they already spent eight hours in school? I don't know. They're kids.

Third, sometimes their games get weird. Cops and Robbers is not a game I want to play with a child. I don't want a child to tie me up. And you can argue that it's not at all sexual, but I remember how fun it was to be chased by the boys when I was a little girl. I remember wanting to be caught.

Frankly, I don't think it's healthy for kids to play pretend games with adults. They should be playing with other kids. You know why they like playing with adults? Because adults never change the rules in the middle of a game and adults go along with basically whatever the kid decides to do and adults don't give a shit who gets the red scooter. When you're playing a game with a kid, you're a prop. And that's kind of bullshit, like, why am I the prop when I've done so much more than you? I can read. I can do long division. I survived to adulthood. You think you're better than me? Fine. I'll just sit in the corner and read a book until my mom comes to pick me up.

Pass the mayo!

I’m pretty sure everyone who knows me knows how baffled and disgusted I am by mayo. As a new year's resolution, I even considered being less judgemental toward people who eat it, but that idea lasted for all of ten minutes. Seriously though, this stuff is worse than cow’s milk--what is, essentially, a homogenized, pasteurized mixture of antibiotics, pus, blood, and (not ya mama’s) boob juice. Yeah...it's worse than that.

First off, consider how it’s made. Who invented this shit? It’s an emulsion of oil and eggs if you make it at home, and I’m sure the store-bought varieties have a ton of added stabilizing agents. So, like…vegetable fat mixed with animal fat mixed with chemicals. MMM I WANNA EAT IT.

Now, consider the taste—It’s not spicy like mustard, it’s not sweet like ketchup, it’s not tangy like BBQ sauce, and it’s not salty like soy-sauce. So what does it taste like? It tastes like fatty, sour, vomit-inducing male ejaculate. It has the consistency of partially coagulated gelatin, it’s slimy, and oh my gosh that smell!! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE WITH THAT SMELL. It always smells like it's way past its expiration date!! Why do you people subject yourselves to this rubbish? Have any of you actually stopped to think about what you’re eating…and why the fuck you’re eating it? I know there’s no accounting for taste, but I’m actually gagging right now just thinking of ---omg fuck it, keep slathering that synthetic jizz all over your nitrate-laden deli meats if you must, just, please, keep it the fuck away from me.

Have we run out of fetishes?

I had to explain another black eye recently. I've had three black eyes from seizures this year, the spectacular kind that ooze pus and swell up so you have to squint all the time, and whenever you walk around in public with black eyes like that, the few people who don't avert their eyes will approach you and tell you, "You don't have to live your life this way." I actually like the invisibility of it: nobody catcalls a woman with a black eye. It's like a giant bruise turns you into a person, and being a person makes you uninteresting sexually. But anyway.

Meeting someone is different. Luckily, I've never had to go on a job interview or something with any visible bruises, but sometimes, you'll meet someone at a party, a friend of a friend, and they always ask, "So, how'd you get the black eye?" And I'd prefer they did this, honestly, because if the subject doesn't come up, they draw their own conclusions about how I got the bruise, and their conclusion is always "abusive boyfriend" and not "epilepsy." So I tell them, I had a seizure, and they ask about epilepsy and what is it and what should I do if you have a seizure? All questions that should be asked, and I answer them, and that's that.

Usually. But there's one question that about fifty percent of men and zero percent of women ask me: "So, have you ever had a seizure during sex?"

And I answer, "Yes."

And they salivate and ask, "So, what happened?"

"I dunno, I was unconscious."

Guys I've dated have asked what they should do if I have a seizure during sex, and I say it's okay if they keep going. Why not? Well, the one guy who tried it told me that he couldn't go on - my face was turning white and it looked like I was choking, so it may not be safe to have sex during a seizure.

However, there's a reason for a guy you're dating to ask you what to happen in the completely possible event that you have a seizure during sex. It's a safety issue, or something. When a guy you've just met asks you about seizure sex, his face giving every indication that he hopes you're into it, you have to wonder: have we run out of fetishes?

You are an animal

Every time I hear of someone being compared to an animal I get annoyed. When someone is really fat you’ll often here the term “foca” (seal) in Spain. Or “the white whale”, as Gabriel García Márquez refers to Eréndira’s (evil, evil) grandmother in one of his short novels. Well, I think this is really offensive…to the animal, of course. What is happens is this…animals have everything human beings lack. In a day spent with a dog you receive a year’s worth of affection received from a human being. They are smarter, they don’t start senseless wars, they don’t live in the past, they hold no grudges, they don’t care about the future, they are independent, they hold their own. So no, you are not an animal. You are a simpleton, you couldn’t live in the wild for three days, couldn’t possibly be a predator without a gun, couldn’t survive an insect-sting without scratching or the stare of a tiger unless he’s at the zoo. You are human.

Fickle Cycle

1. Hey, M.I.A. and Grace Jones and everyone else! Stop talking shit about Lady Gaga! Yes, she’s unoriginal. Yes, it has been done before. Yes, all of her songs sound exactly the same and YES the “Telephone” video is one giant advert for…Wonder Bread? Or is it Miracle Whip? Or is it Diet Coke? Or is it Virgin Mobile? Or is it Oscar Meyer? Or is it arsenic-infused Sue Bee Honey? It just seems like people who “get it” hate everything because everything has been done, it’s impossible to be innovative, god is dead and Animal Collective is breaking up. Blah blah blah, welcome to Earth. Let Gaga do her thang, even if it isn’t really her thang. I'm not entirely sure what kinda vibe she's trying to throw, but it seems like a fun, positive, and glittery one so we should all embrace it, unless you're not into that kind of thing (M.I.A. ahem ahem). I know she’s trying way too hard but, honestly, who isn’t these days?

2. Speaking of which, stop trying so hard! Just because everyone else is doing it, doesn't mean you should too! You are so much better than that! When you try too hard to be "s00 different", it comes off as desperate and people will talk shit (see: Gaga).

3. Wait a minute, what am I saying?! Why should you give a fuck if people talk shit? Ugh, being yourself is so complicated! But it doesn't have to be! Are you a total creep? Weirdo? Are you boring as fuck? Own it! Be all the [creepy/weird/boring] you can be! Not all at the same time though, Jesus! I mean, not unless that's what you want to be!

4. Have you ever held your hands under boiling hot water? Well if you haven't, please don't, but my point is this: after a while, you can’t tell if it’s boiling hot or freezing cold…are ya'll picking up what i'm putting down?

5. It’s okay to love what not everyone else likes.

6. It’s okay to like Jason Mraz.

7. Forget about everything I just said.

Think about it!

xo

A child's unintentionally revolting mind

I hear people talk about the unknowingly magical minds of children all the time, mainly on television. For these people, I would like to present a conversation I had with the six-year-old boy I babysit. We were sitting on his bedroom floor, playing the card game War.

Him: I want to have sex with my mom.

Me: ... Oh. Well...

Him: Sex is when you have a little meal in bed with your wife or girlfriend.

Me: Oh!

Him: I want to do that with my mom.

Me: Well, that sounds like fun.

Him: Have you ever done that?

Me: No. Never.

Cathie, with her marvellous waist of 15 inch, is always a joy.

what the fuck.

http://www.cathiejung.com/

I'm not sure if I should be impressed or revolted by this woman's body. Regardless, it definitely confirms my growing suspicions that corsets are key to curbing the steady rise of obesity.

oh wait, ew.

http://www.corsetworld.com/cathie_jung.html

Pro-Abortion

Imagine it: You're thirty weeks pregnant. Rubbing your swollen belly, you think of baby names as you walk towards the maternity clinic. If it's a boy, you can name it Doug, after your favorite uncle; if it's a girl, you can name it Ricki, after your favorite talk show host. Your family has already planned a surprise baby shower. You're just heading over to see your ob/gyn to get the latest ultrasound picture to put in an album to show your child one day.

But oh no! Protesters surround the clinic, holding up signs that say things like "Kill your fetus!" and "Pregnancy is wrong!" They ambush you as you try to get through the door to see your doctor. One of them hands you a pamphlet that reads:

You have choices. Come to our abortion palace and we'll take that fetus right out of you so you can continue fucking strangers and having fun!!!!!

So far, a pretty normal maternity clinic experience; you think nothing of it. These people are a hassle, but they can't hurt you.

Until one of them comes at you with a baseball bat. "Beat it out of her!" someone screams. You run to the safety of the clinic waiting room, where they can't touch you.

Two weeks later, police come to your door. "I'm sorry, ma'am, you're going to have to come with us."

"Why?" you ask.

"According to our sources, you're thirty-two weeks pregnant. That is a criminal act."

"Criminal?" You are shocked.

"Yes, criminal. Congress just passed a law outlawing pregnancy."

That is what pro-abortion is, you fucking right-wing morons. What I am is pro-choice.

You're doing it wrong

Dear weird 20-something-year-old bro I always see at the gym,

Every time I see you you’re running like a madman on the elliptical. Uh, the elliptical? Isn’t that a chick machine? I mean, I’m a chick and even I feel like a total fag when I’m on the elliptical. You’re always sweating really hard too, even though I once took a stealthy peek at the screen on your machine and…you are exercising at level one. Level one on the elliptical. I probably exert the same amount of energy sitting on the couch yelling at the TV for the rest of the Real Housewives to stop ganging up on Bethany. So stop grunting and panting, because it’s obvious your body is under zero stress considering you are doing the lowest-impact cardio on the lowest level possible on the gayest exercise machine ever invented. And really, what makes you think we want to hear you sing whatever bullshit song you’re listening to OUT LOUD? Do the words “gym etiquette” mean anything to you? No, seriously, elliptical bro, do you have some sort of social disorder? Actually, fuck it, that wouldn’t even be an excuse. I’ve actually started planning my visits to the gym around when you’re going to be “working out” just to make sure I’m not there to hear your ridiculous Ray Romano voice and see you sweating like a coke-head in a coke factory on free coke day. Just, please, get your shit together. I’m only trying to help-- you’re never gonna get laid if you keep doing it wrong.

xo

Lock the grown-ups out

Maude had the right idea, as far as swallowing death pills on her 80th birthday, because what the fuck is there to do once you’re 80? You’ve done everything you’re going to do, and if you still WANT to do anything, you basically have to succumb to the fact that it “ain’t gon’ happen, honayyy” because you are in the process of, quite literally, shrinking down to the cold, dark earth from whence you came. But I digress...

Maude had basically the right idea, only her timing was a bit off (is what I should’ve said). I’d probably take the death pills around oh I don’t know 40? 45? Mostly because I hate middle-aged people and I never want to become one. What the FUCK, middle-aged people? What is your DAMAGE?! You are so fat and lumpy and GRUMPY all the goddamn time, and I know why: it’s because you’re jealous I can apply liquid eyeliner without my hands shakin’ all over the place, and you’re jealous of my shiny hair and wide-eyed stare and youthful glow or spirit or some bullshit--fuck, I don’t know. And I DON’T CARE. It’s not my fault I’m in my early 20s and, theoretically, have my whole life ahead me. It’s not MY fault I can binge-drink with no next-morning repercussions, and I can spend all my money on drugs and cardigans and diet tonic water. It’s not my fucking fault! SO STOP TAKING IT OUT ON ME. FUCK OFF, MIDDLE-AGED PEOPLE. GET THE FUCK OVER IT (via ingesting copious amounts of death pills so I don’t have to deal with ya’lls bullshit baggage plz). I mean, Christ, why can’t everyone age as gracefully as Bill Murray?

p.s. my boss is a dick.

They'll Come After My Kids

My mother's fear of single people is not unlike the religious right's fear of homosexuals, as in, if we start accepting their "choices," my children will start thinking this lifestyle is normal. To prevent us from dying unmarried, she always makes sure to point out the deviants: "My friend Nora - who is single, by the way - was nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize - you know, she's had boyfriends, she just never marries them, isn't that odd? - and she won, the first American woman ever - and you know, she's forty years old..."

Mom's views on relationships came up recently, when my parents were planning a family vacation. Family, in this case, means me, my parents, my 18-year-old brother, and my 20-year-old sister. And apparently, my sister's boyfriend. I took issue with the idea of him accompanying my family on a vacation. The conversation went like this:

Mom: I invited Dorian to go on vacation with us.

Me: Why?

Mom: Well, he's your sister's friend...

Me: He's not family.

Mom: Why do you want to go on this vacation so badly? Are you trying to break up with your boyfriend without telling him?

Note: My mother has met my boyfriend once, for a matter of thirty seconds; when this conversation took place, she had never met him. For all she knows, he could be an escaped convict or a cult leader or a drug addict. Yet my relationship with him matters to her. It matters deeply.

The fact of the matter is, in this uncertain world, you can't sit back and watch your twenties creep by. You have to take a man, any semi-compatible man, and commit to being with him for the rest of your life. Take note. Don't follow my example. Follow my mother's. By the time she was my age, she'd been married and divorced.