entertainment

Is Gangnam Style Still Fresh?

You know, I never really thought about it until YouTube emailed me.

YouTube initially guilted me for forgetting Gangnam Style’s 1-year-old birthday and then posited that existential question:

youtube

I really wanted to answer: “Fuck yes, it is!” But before I did, I figured I should ask YouTube since that’s what the computer was telling me to do and you do not say no to your computer, amirite humans?

YouTube was surprisingly reticient. It wanted to show me parodies of the song, but didn’t–or wouldn’t–provide the answer.

This was a journey of discovery I had to make on my own.

I figured I should probably watch the video having never seen it, but jesus, who has that kind of time? Those candies aren’t going to crush themselves.

Apparently 1.7 billion people found the time. I am lazier than 1.7 billion people.

I decided to consult a trusted advisor.

hugoganghamHugo, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to know if Gangham Style is still fresh a year later.

hugogangham2True, but not very helpful.

Nowhere closer to an answer, I looked it up in the dictionary and realized I had been spelling it “gingham” all along.  Gangnam is something like the Korean version of the soul-killing phrase YOLO, which is an acronym for “Nearly as Annoying as You Go Girl”

What makes something fresh? Doesn’t everything–except radioactive isotopes and styrofoam lunch trays–have an expiration date? I would think anything Internet-based is fresh for about as long as it takes to pin The Towel Workout onto a Pinterest board.

Mathematical formula: Viral video + Today show - quinoa recipe - sharkando = freshness.

Mathematical formula: Viral video + Today show – quinoa recipe – sharkando = freshness.

I guess since YouTube is still talking about Gangnam Style a year later means it is still relatively fresh so I will stick by my original response because, after all, you only live once and you go girl.

Speaker7’s Journey

So it begins again, dear reader. On May 27th, ABC will roll out its stained red carpet and gas up its dirty limo for another installment of The Bachelorette or what I like to call The Loss of Hope.

This season’s “star” is Desiree, a woman tossed aside by Bland The Blandest Bachelor because her brother called Bland “a player.” The correct verbiage is “douchetool.”

I watched a promotion on ABC’s “news” website because all news is entertainment at this point. Another ABC product churned out by Sylvester McMonkey McBean’s Star-Off Machine (re: American Idleautotunes in the background while we glimpse Desiree’s “journey.” It’s as inspiring as a turd’s journey from bowel to sewage treatment plant. As to be expected, there is this:

sadnessI already know what will happen. Men will call each other “bro.” Desiree will profess “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do” while she sends home a man as remarkable as a used tissue. And Chris Harrison will earn substantially more money than cancer researchers for saying things like: “There is one rose left.”

This got me thinking about my own “journey.” In the past, I have watched the rectal sausage produced by the ABC meatprocessing plant, and produced recraps that some find enjoyable and some find lead to acute gastroenteritis. Am I ready to start all over again and accept a mildewed rose?

I guess it comes down to my vision for this blog. It began as a mechanism to force me to write. I would continually say how much I wanted to be a writer, and then plop myself down in front of the TV for hours.

Unlike my other blog, The Official How To Blog, this blog seems rather rudderless. Do I want it to be a recrapping blog? A commentary on current events? A marketing platform for the Shakeweight™?

These are the questions that keep me up at night–or at least until 8:30 p.m. when I crash because I have the constitution of a newborn.

So I leave the question to you, dear reader. I will put forth the effort, but only if you desire it, and I won’t feel hurt if you have reached your limit.

Do you want to read the alcohol-infused ramblings of brainless meat sacks on their “journey” to find “love” and guest appearances  at wet T-shirt contests? Have you grown tired of my recycled jokes where I describe the multitude of objects I will use to bash in my skull? Or is it time we moved on. . . maybe to more serious topics like Tanning Mom’s music video?

Before you decide à la poll, I present you with this:

knight

Ready for Same-Old Same-Old

Ready for Love premiered Tuesday night.

This show is unlike any other reality dating show you’ll ever see, lies executive producer Eva Longoria.

Lots of dramatic music and lighting. Lots of quick cuts and editing that makes Cloverfield feel like Alfred Hitchcock’s Rope. Random reality-show dialogue ensues.

“It’s about to get real.”

“She’s messing with the wrong person.”

“Herpes! Herpes! Herpes!”

There are three “amazing” bachelors. There are three “top” matchmakers. There are two co-hosts. There are 36 women…excuse me…girls. There is the incessant use of the term girls to describe women. There are 12 drummers drumming. There are eight pipers piping. And chlamydia in a pear tree.

Co-host Giuliana Rancic and her husband Not-Giuliana Rancic say this was an “epic” search, and “we’re meeting the best of the best” of women willing to subject themselves to reality television. Not-Giuliana Rancic is the first to misuse the word “literally.” And it is “epic” and like “nothing I’ve ever seen before” except that I have.

Tonight is Tim’s quest for love. Tim is a “rock star” in the band the Plain White T’s.

In the first of 5,678 mini-biographies, Tim confesses that he’s not a stereotypical rock star in the sense that he’s unrecognizable. Tim married his high school sweetheart, but things didn’t work out because he was touring 367 out of the 365 days in the year. He’s sad, yo. See:

timdevasttate

Tim gets to meet four women chosen for him by “top” matchmaker Amber. Giuliana explains that Tim will have to stand behind a wall and not see the four. He will have to pick three based on their personalities. I have never seen this before ever.

Wait…have I seen this before?

thedatinggame

Nope. Never.

Amber is coaching her “girls.”

“Words and lyrics speak to him,” she amazes “Get your message across.”

Wow. I’ve been doing it wrong all these years with my set of semaphore flags.

We get Amber’s mini-biography. She says she doesn’t know how anyone meets people in clubs. “Matchmaking goes with the 21st century.” And feudal China.

amber

And it begins. The four women pop up in boxes.

dollcollectionAnd it reminds me of something…what can it be?

dollcollectionYup, that’s about right.

This is working well for Tim because his Madame Alexander Doll collection is missing a few essentials.

We get mini-biographies of the women, but they’re short because most dolls are interchangable. The French one gets a shot to show her spontaneity by spinning awkwardly in a plaza.

spinningnormalTim narrows down the field and does the same thing with four women chosen by matchmaker Matt, also known as the douche with a British accent:

britishdouche

And Tracy, who unironically refers to herself as “the honest truth.”

thehonestassThe ladies must entice Tim while he only has to breathe with his lungs and eliminate waste with his kidneys. Love!

Some recite insipid poetry, sing and, unfortunately, beatbox. The nine winners get sealed in plastic and placed in a special Matchbox car collector’s case. The three losers are sucked into the bowels of hell.

reallynormalOne of Tim’s chosen harem is Leah, a woman he has known for six years. Leah realized she loved Tim when she heard he was to be on television. Giuliana asks about the nature of their relationship. “We had our moments that have been great,” Leah says coyly. (translation: fuck buddy)

The women are shipped UPS to Tim’s rock-star lair where they are subjected to a Plain White Zzzz’s concert.

forcedconcertAnd I have never seen anything like this on a reality dating show. Have I?

rockofloveNope. I haven’t.

The women meet with the matchmakers for “helpful” “advice” before their collective first date with Tim. Amber tells her women to “build (their) brand” whatever the fuck that means. The date entails finishing Tim’s trite love song. The matchmakers each pick one woman to share one-on-one time with Tim.

Hailey, Amber’s pick, tells an embarrassing fart story and cryingly cries that she’s happy.

Danielle, Matt’s pick, shares her cute list of 50 or more qualities her perspective mate must have.

Christina, Tracy’s pick, plays the piano and stares at him as if she wants to murder his face.

uncomfortable

Now we’re back in the studio for the matchmakers’ critique. Amber expresses her displeasure with Hailey. “You said F-A-R-T? And that word should never be uttered by a woman on a date,” she actually says all the while holding in her 52,560th fart. Matt accuses Leah of retreading the past too much and being boring. “He knows certain parts of me,” Leah says.

fuckbuddy

“I would like him to know other parts.”

Giuliana cuts to the chase: “Did you guys fuck or what?”

Leah refuses to answer. Yup, they did.

The matchmakers each choose a woman for elimination. Hmm…a woman being eliminated from a reality dating show. Have I seen that before?

bachelorNope.

Leah, farting Hailey and Toothy School Teacher are on the chopping block. Tim arrives. For some reason he has a quill sticking out of his lapel. It’s so…rock star? Sure, let’s go with that.

He picks Hailey to stay and she farts back to the Matchbox case. Tim, Leah and Toothy are Star-Trek beamed to some garden for the elimination ceremony, and the giant jumbotron screen goes to snow.

Tim shows his familiarity with reality television venacular by saying “This is so difficult for me.” He ends up sending Leah home with the obvious “if we were meant to be together, why didn’t we make that happen in Austin.”

Hmm. A bachelor with a little brain function.

That I have not seen.

This is, like, stupid almost

Truer words have never been spoken.

Bland looks really red. He is getting ready or red-dy to meet his concubines’ families. Zing! I’m here all week.

AshLee, of the interestingly capitalized name, has been living for this moment or some such nonsense. Yes… “Hey mom and dad! Come meet this man who is also meeting three other sets of moms and dads and revel in the reality! The reality of it all!”

AsHleE thinks Bland is the man “to protect my heart.” I think I should be drunk. Why am I not drunk?

aShlEe’S been thinking about this day “since I was 3 years old.” What the fuck did she just say?

They eat a normal dinner with aShleE’s PaRenTs at a kitchen table stuck awkwardly on the back lawn.

“Bland is, like, making out with other girls and then he, like, makes out with me. And, like, mom, like, do you remember, when I was, like, 4, and you, like, read Peter Rabbit, and I was, like, do you think I’ll ever meet my Mr. MacGregor? And, like, I’m, like, here he is. Like?” ASHLee rambles on at the greatest luncheon she envisioned when she was 5.

AsHleE’s dad looks like a porcupined-version of Cliff Clavin.

We’re now in Seattle with Catherine and her “journey.” Bland catches a fish in the Seattle Fish Market and promptly makes out with it. It’s so spontaneous or incredibly staged.

Bland uses the word “always” a lot to describe how awesome his relationship is with Catherine. “We’re always really boring.” “We’re always suck.” “We’re always contributing to the decline of the universe.”

This is the greatest love story since that commercial I saw about Fiber One granola bars.

Catherine’s sisters exhibit brain function: “You seem like you’re trying to convince yourself that you like him.”

Some “tension.”

Next stop: Linddddsseeeyyy’s hometown in somewhere Missouri. Her dad’s a two-star general so this means something for The Bachelor that I find too boring to try to comprehend.

Bland puts on an army turtleneck while Lindddsseeyy vocal fries orders at him. It makes me wish that a meteor would crash into my face.

On Friday, I watched the movie The Sessions. I highly recommend it. It’s been so long since I’ve watched a movie that made me feel something and made me actually care for the people in the story.

This episode of The Bachelor is the opposite of that feeling.

Lindssseyy’s house has a gun/spice rack. Her mom also vocal fries.

America.

Bland asks for Lindsey’s father’s permission to penetrate his property and *yawn*…story about paratrooping and I’ve gone deaf and sure, here’s your blessing and my lack of caring is like that time I went paratrooping.

There’s an hour left.

Fuck.

I would like your blessing to not watch the second hour.

Thanks for nothing.

Now we’re in Desiree’s sweet hick hometown of LA.

They meet each other in spandex because. . . LA.

Time to meet the fam. An ex-boyfriend shows up instead. He declares his love. “I’ve texted you,” he facebooks. And it feels…LA. Not like this guy is trying to break into acting and shows up at an opportune moment to get his ass-face on TV or anything.

I think I’m going to bed.

But then I will miss why I titled this post the way I did.

Oh it’s a joke. And it’s funny?

No.

Her family shows up. Her mother seems high. Desiree’s brother Nate is the one who sayeth: “This is, like, stupid almost.”

Wrong, bro. It’s, like, all stupid.

Nothing Will Sink This Battleship

I played Battleship with my brother. We would take turns and say things like “B7″ and “Miss” and “H10″ and “Hit”. I remember distinctly thinking: This needs to be a screenplay. 

My eyes swept the board imagining how amazing it would look on a movie screen:

The holes would be so big and the pegs would be so massive.  And the ships would be so much more plasticky. But then I thought: I can barely assemble that miniature guillotine I’m making in technology class. This is something for the big guns. . . if they ever had the balls to take on such a complex story.

Well holy sink-my-battleship! It is coming to the big screen in a mere two weeks. And the trailer looks awesome, at least I imagine it does because I have yet to sit through the whole thing. And it has Rihanna! And ships! And explosions! And rock music! And aliens!  Just as I remember.

Amazing! I can’t wait to watch it five years from now on TBS when I’m hungover from a night of playing Cranium–which would make a terrible movie. But you know what would make a great movie?

Connect 4.

Tagline: If we can connect 4, why can’t we connect for real?

Jani is an uptight television producer who is married to her job. Caleb is a slacker who spends his days sculpting black checkers. They’re neighbors, and in real life, can’t stand one another, but in the greatest plot twist since an alien sunk a tanker ship with giant red peg, they form a connection on a new online dating site Connect 4 Life.

Not a fan of romantic comedies? Then try:

Sorry

Tagline: If these two guys can say sorry, the bad guys will be sorrier.

It’s Detective John Jenson’s retirement day. He expects to go out with a whimper not a bang, but he wasn’t counting on being assigned a crazy new partner on his last day on the job. Kip Kipplewhipple is a loose cannon who plays by his own rules. He might move five steps forward but then take seven steps backwards. The two will have to learn to work together when the chief’s daughter is kidnapped by cubic zirconia smugglers.

More of a fan of psycho-sexual thrillers? Then check out:

Twister

Tagline: You can twist all you want, but sometimes you get knots.

Nick Scar can’t be held down by any woman. He calls the shots, but he wasn’t expecting to get twisted up in Erica Chambertonfield’s dark world. She is beautiful, exciting and possibly deadly. Nick can’t get enough. He finds himself being put in positions he never thought possible–his right foot by his head, his left hand stretched back by his butt. It’s so exciting, but what happened to Erica’s former lovers? They disappeared she says nonchalantly giving the wheel another spin.

And for those more partial to uplifting dramas, I give you:

Life

tagline: Life–where you make the rules.

Carl Donaldson is your average joe, working an average job and living an average life. But averageness is not enough for Carl. It’s time to get out there and start living. He quits his job as a thumb factory quality assurance officer, and hops into his car. He picks up a new job as a lawyer, finds a wife, a blue boy and a pink girl and buys fire, life and auto insurance. He then retires and dies–all in the span of 20 minutes.

The Brain is a Battlefield

You know how you’re belting the words to Pat Benatar’s Love is a Battlefield while on the toilet, and your husband asks you: “Hey, wasn’t that song in a movie?”

And you reply: “Yes, yes it was. It was in the Legend of Billie Jean starring the sibling sensations Helen and Christian Slater plus the voice of Lisa Simpson, Kingsley Shacklebolt.” And then you realize you couldn’t name all nine U.S. Supreme Court justices even if the condition of your brother’s scooter depended on it. You know there’s that jerk Tony and that other jerk Little Tony and that jerk who allegedly put pubic hair on a Coke can, and some dames.

This is me. This is the state of my brain. It is packed with useless knowledge and devoid of any real value.

Hey did you know that Ricki Lake was in a movie with the villain dude from Some Kind of Wonderful and they each ate bags of sugar babies so Ricki thought that meant love and the movie was called Babycakes? No, well it’s true because 15 years ago I watched it 735 times on Lifetime.

What was the War of 1812 about? Um…….sugar babies famine? Too many sugar babies? I have no sugar-babies clue.

There is so much I don’t know. Here is a short list:

  • Any dimensions – When you say “It’s about 2 square miles long” I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. I might look like I do because I’m nodding my head and saying “Yeah, okay. Yeah” but that’s because I’m trying not to look stupid.
  • Any sewing in any capacity – How do you hem pants? Beats me. I think they should just make clothes with a series of perforated edges, and you can just tear off swatches until you get to your size. This is why I don’t buy pants and wrap a tablecloth around my bare legs.
  • Geography – Believe me, I’m with you public school teachers, when you lament that kids don’t know nothing ’bout geography. When you say “They don’t even know where Idaho is,” I shake my head in disgust right with you–but here’s the thing. I don’t know where Idaho is either. I know it’s in the United States and that it’s oddly shaped and potatoes are grown there. That’s all. Is it by Wyoming? Maybe.
  • Constitutional amendments – I don’t even know how many there are. I know it’s likely more than 19 because the 19th amendment gave women the right to vote as their husbands tell them. I know there’s that one about speech and guns and…um…the right to paraglide?
  • My real bra size – I can’t believe that the underwire is designed to cut into the skin. That can’t be right, right? I know I must have been sized up for a bra at some point, but I have no memory of it. I can tell you the number of Ralph Macchio posters I had on my wall when I likely went to get fitted for a bra. Forty-seven.
  • How to adjust the heat in the house – One shouldn’t need a Phd in heating, ventilation and air conditioning to turn the heat up, but when I press the up arrow to turn the heat up, nothing happens. And then I die from hypothermia
  • Spelling - I can spell some words–like I spelled all the words correctly in this sentence without the WordPress autocorrect. But there are lots and lots of words I cannot spell. Initilizie. Statisitic. Preemplotry. Buttpluggs. And the autocorrect didn’t even step up to help me.

I swear what I don’t know could fit 10 square miles of Idaho farmland if I knew what that looked like.

Here’s what I do know. I know the cute little kid from The Christmas Story, the one who stuck his tongue to a frozen pole, did porn. I know Nancy Cartwright, the voice of Bart Simpson, is a scientologist.  And I know verbatim the exchange Judd Nelson has with himself in The Breakfast Club: What about you Dad? Flip you! (I watched the edited for TV version a lot)

I recently gained knowledge of this picture:

We are doomed.

When someone asks “Hey, what was that Gettysburg Address rap all about?” I will respond: “I don’t know, but I do know that one day in April 2012, Kayne West had his pants partly pulled down. And it was equally if not more important.”

Gift Ideas for Every Mom

It used to be so easy with Mother’s Day. You took a frozen orange juice container, glued a piece of shag carpet around it–and presto instant carpet-covered frozen orange juice container.

But moms want us to “step up our game” apparently, according to Cosmopolitan magazine, and Cosmopolitan magazine is rarely wrong. Its expose on the “50 Things to Do With Your Boobs” was revelatory (#47 – Shuck corn), as was its expose on the “50 Sexy Ways to Sexily Shuck Sexy Corn” (#26 – Go heavy on the anal bleaching).

Not all moms are the same. Some like overpriced gunk made by the tiny fingers of orphans working in non-ventilated sweatshops while others like products that need to be included in the magazine per the advertisers marketing agreement.

So what if you’re unsure of your mom’s type? Luckily Cosmo breaks it down into 12 essential categories of motherhood. I have lumped some together and narrowed it down to four, having learned much from Cosmo’s expose on “50 Sexy Ways to Reduce the Amount of Sexy Time Spent on Sexily Writing Sexy Blogs and How to Keep Him Coming Back For More” (#26 – Limit the number of crotch shots to 9)

Sentimental/Techy/Stressed Out Mom

Got a mama who tears up over cat food commercials? That goblet containing the ocean whitefish reminds me of my third wedding *sob* … Does it then remind her she has a fifth wedding to plan, and she needs to decide if she’s going to go with the candied almonds in a mesh bag or the engraved toothpicks for the wedding favors and she starts to get so stressed out? And you have to say Chill out, mama, and she screams back You were a mistake!! A beautiful mistake *sob*. . . and the cycle repeats for another 17 hours.

So if that’s her, then get her this:

Ionic Salt Bowl Lamp

Girly/Party/Trendy Mom

Does your mother speak in vocal fry? Wear her hair in pink pigtails and pink ponytails and pink whaletails? Does she rock ‘n roll all night and party everyday? Does she say the latest catchphrases like “I’m da bomb diggety dog doody wad dilly bum bum noodle noodle casserole stew”?

She sounds wonderful.

Then get her this:

Perfect for wet T-shirt contests.

Sporty/Artsy/Quirky Mom

Jesus–is this done yet? No.

Okay so does your moo-moo Zumba (Sporty Spice) while sculpting (Artsy Spice), but instead of using clay she uses Hamburger Helper (Quirky Spice)? Then this is the must-have:

Works with Hamburger Helper.

Adventurous/Traveler/Mommy Mom

Is your mom always out and about, wanting to visit the latest war-torn spaghetti factory or taste sea foam biscuit ice cream raisins? Is she also a Mommy Mom? And what is a Mommy Mom? Is she a mom who acts infantile and wants you to baby her? Or is she a mommy with a second or third family and that’s why she’s always leaving under the guise of being an adventurous traveler? Who knows?

Just get this and we’ll call it a day:

This Post is Brought to You By Metamucil

There are heroes out there people.

We might disagree over what makes someone a hero. I personally think it’s butt-accentuating tights. You might think a hero is someone who has the ability to blog about heroes wearing butt-accentuating tights while simultaneously watching The Voice without pouring cement in one’s ears.

You might be onto something, although I’m not sure because someone is shrieking into a microphone and it’s hard to concentrate. That is some voice.

But I think we can all agree that the act of heroism is elevated by the right product placement.

Take our latest hero who went against the grain by not donning a cape. Instead he used a handful of “cheese”-flavored Pringles to fight crime. He is Snackman.

I learned about him from the Today show where Matt Lauer is paid tens of millions of dollars to explain it all. It wasn’t Matt doing the story, but rather one of the female anchors who kept trying to get Snackman to “pop off” his shirt. She would make a great Awkwardwoman because this exchange could not be more awkward.

Snackman diffused a fight on a New York City subway by getting between the kicking legs of a man and woman, all the while never breaking his stride of munching on his stack of Pringles. Did the dried potato flakes have something to do with Snackman’s heroism? Or maybe it was the Pringle man’s pristine mustache? Or the buckets and buckets of salt? Who knows?

In fact, according to Awkwardwoman, Snackman has approached Pringles about possibly getting some kind of endorsement deal. “Next time we’ll get you to pop that top!” she cackles and cackles.

Please, please stop.

He left with a gift basket of Pringles, and he carried it very heroically.

Wouldn’t it be great if other heroes did the same?  Not carry Pringles baskets, but sought out advertisers. Like, maybe it would make history less dullsville and more wowsville.

Take Paul Revere. Booorrrrriiinnnnnggg. He rode a horse and bellowed about the British coming, which–granted–was important information. But what if he also could have let the general non-Loyalist public know about some outstanding solutions to their dilemma of what to serve for dinner?

Just think if he had to deliver those pizzas in a 30-minute window? Pretty freakin’ heroic.

Or George Washington. He had shitty teeth. I could forgive that if he crossed the Delaware with his fingertips caked in Cheetos’ dust.

Or Harriet Tubman. She was pretty bad ass, but wouldn’t it have been awesome if she shared some tips on how she evaded slavecatchers?

Or take Lincoln. What the frick does that Gettysburg Address even mean, yo? I don’t care, because now he looks like a dude who could just hang and play hackysack.

See, don’t they seem so much more hero-y?

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I see things different because I’ve added fiber to my diet and now I can shit with the best of them.

I’m Speaker7, and I fight crime with Metamucil.

Get Your Mommy War On

Hold onto your bonnets, ladies–the Mommy Wars are back.

Your first question might be: What if I don’t wear a bonnet?

Good question. In the case of non-bonnet-wearing, grab the nearest lady item like a box of Massengill or a DVD of Sex and the City II. Now hold tight because the Mommy Wars are back.

What are the Mommy Wars? you ask.

Oh, you sweet, sweet little woman bird or you precious man bird, if you’re a guy and have continued reading past the Massengill reference. Let’s get educated!

Um…okay, I should admit that I know dick about the Mommy Wars. But I am a librarian, which means I can shush with the best of them, and I had a baby cut out of my uterus, which means I can classify myself as a mommy. Still you might want to head to some Mommy blog or to your actual mommy or watch Mama’s Family to learn the rich history.

You’re still here? Fine, let me search the databases, archives and primary documents (this sounds so librarian-y™ but really I’m just looking at Wikipedia), and let’s take the wheels off this bus. They ain’t goin’ round ‘n round no more. And if that driver tells me to “Move on back!” Mommy’s gonna cut a bitch. I hate that goddamn song.

Okay so the Mommy Wars began when a stay-at-home mom and working mom got into a cat fight over which type of Bounty cleans up spills better. It was vicious, and by the end, over 200 rolls of Bounty quicker picker uppers were needed to soak up the bile.

Blogs and books were written, mainly about rich women’s struggles to have it all or to have it all–while giant corporations continue to put shit in our food that will eventually cause our total zombification.

Things seemed to die down until in February, Gwyneth Paltrow told a magazine “I’m rich and successful, and I told someone you have to compromise to be a wife. Now I’m going to jet off to Italy.” Many people said “I didn’t read that, what did she say? Yeah sorry, wasn’t listening even now.”

Okay so the Mommy Wars flared up yesterday when some rich lady threw a verbal grenade at some super rich lady. The rich lady was like “bitch doesn’t work ever” and the super rich lady said “Butler, hold my calls because I’m gonna push the nuclear button and destroy all humanity. Or I’m going to tweet I’m a stay-at-home mom to five boys, that’s hard work. . . oh and my Mittens is doing kind of shitty with women in the polls because of the shitty things his political party does and says so thanks for turning the focus on this issue.”

This caused mass hysteria. The #IWantToEatJustinBiebersHairpiece was knocked from its number one trending perch. Some person hyperventilated on TV. Another Republican said we need to respect a woman’s choice and then laughed hysterically.  Someone made this travel mug:

The country quickly divided into two camps: Those who make millions in politics and media, and those who don’t give a shit. I am in the latter. That’s why this post ends now.

Facebook Facepalm

National Public Radio aired a story offering friendly advice to teachers about posting on Facebook. The basic premise is that teachers don’t have the same leeway as others because of the nature of the job. So this status update would not be the best choice:

Neither would this photo:

The story went on to give examples of teachers who lost their jobs over such infractions as calling homosexuality a “perverted sin,” referring to their students as “future criminals” and posting photos of themselves covered in chocolate sauce gyrating next to a stripper.

Fair enough.

Now I don’t want to seem like a scold or anti-freedomy™, but broadcasting your awfulness to the world is not always the right course of action especially when your job is to teach students to take tests made up by people seeking to annihilate all forms of public education. I’ll admit I like to cover myself in applesauce while gyrating next to stuffed animals I dressed up as strippers–in fact I’m doing it right now–the difference is I don’t take pictures of it or let people know about it…oh, sh*t. Unlike.

But should this just be applicable to teachers? Yes, teachers are revered in our society–just ask Wisconsin Gov. Scott Walker, but if I am not allowed to call my students sludge buckets for the entire world to see, why are you allowed to inundate me with updates about your hiccups?

Now this has never been done before–a blog first, or blirst™–but I’m about to devise a list of Facebook Etiquette, or Facebookquette…no, that doesn’t work…how ’bout Speaker7’s Guide to Non-Asshattery on Facebookery? Score. I’m going to trademark it. ™

Speaker7’s Guide to Non-Asshattery on Facebookery or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb™:

  • Don’t write about your hiccups. Or that you’re tired or hungry or yearning to be free. No one cares, unless you’re an actual baby. Then I would be impressed by your ability to spell hiccups, and I would steal you away for an appearance on the Today show calling you the Facebaby™.
  • Don’t post photographs of your fabulous vacation destination that looks nothing like the hellhole I call home. I can’t afford a vacation, jerk, so thanks for rubbing it in my facebook. Oh, you’re not home? I’m going to go break into your house.
  • Don’t post that you’re going to break into someone’s house. That’s going to get you arrested, and you saw how hard that was for Paris Hilton. She’s a warrior.
  • Don’t call Paris Hilton a warrior. Even though you are kidding, humor doesn’t translate well on Facebook, and people will think you’re stupid and out of touch. Paris Hilton is sooooo 2000.
  • Don’t write FML about anything unless you a literally fucking your life, and if you are doing that, post pictures.
  • Don’t write angry diatribes about slut women or gay immigrants under my status update about watching the Republican debate and vomiting into a bucket. We clearly don’t see things from the same perspective, and ranting like a dehydrated former child star won’t change things.
  • And finally, never use Facebook.