The Dalai Lama of Douchery

I look fat.

Shit! I just turned off all the guys who were reading this. Did I learn nothing from Josh Aiello’s seminal article “3 Words He Never Wants To Hear You Say?”

Josh decided to share his infinite wisdom about lady diarrhea-mouth with Yahoo!Shine, a women’s site about all things ladies like lipstick, turkey basters and weak upper arms. Yahoo!Shine was created by mixing three parts Mountain Dew, two parts Massengill and five parts bottomless sadness.

According to Josh, a woman’s…oh excuse me…a girl’s lament about her bulk is the equivalent of a dude cutting off someone’s head times 10. Let him explain:

“To guys, these words are the Holy Grail of annoying things girls say, the abracada bra of instantaneous mood killers. . .”

That is some good analogying. It’s like the King Turd of nonsensical analogies.

I envision Josh looks like this:

Now you may be thinking, how does Josh know these are the three worst words a woman can say? Wouldn’t  “I love Hitler” or “Equal pay now” or “I hate your writing” (I know that’s four, but my brain is fat) be worse?

Josh did some scientific analysis of this phenomenon by interviewing his wolf pack at Buffalo Wild Wings.

Adam, or A-dawg as I like to call him, says it’s like a downer because if she’s talking, she’s unable to continue the blowjob. “She’s either fishing for compliments, she doesn’t like herself, or she actually has gained weight. . .”

Total boner killer

I mean, jesus christ, girls, you with your body issues, which are in no way the fault of a culture and media that value women for their looks and boobies. You are almost distracting me from reading the latest Us Weekly on whose body is definitely not beach-ready.

Adam is this brah by the way:

And the guy is helpless because once you say it, all he can see is your fat mouth spitting out fat words in between crumbs of Entenmann’s. Let Josh set the scene:

 I once dated a really pretty girl who was convinced she was overweight. She told me she thought she was fat so often that when my parents came to visit, I didn’t introduce her to them. Why? Because I doubted whether what I saw when I looked at her was what other, more objective people saw.

Wow. Such a powerful story and what an amazing act of courage. It reminds me of the story of Harriet Tubman when she finally decided to make her escape from slavery. Harriet knew it was only a matter of time she would be sold away from her family and husband John. She tried to get John to go with her. “I won’t go with you Harriet,” he said bravely. “You look really fat right now.” Courage.

So what’s a lassie to do?

Progress.

Incidentally the three words I would never want to hear from Josh are these:

“I got published.”

 

Um…hi…uhhhh….so…..this is awkward.

The Official How To Blog

Today’s post is brought to you by Speaker7.

Oh…um…Hi. How are things? …um…

Well…er…how ’bout that rain? It’s been like raining with water and stuff.

So…um…I’ve been asked to write about small talk so…okay…um…I’ll do that now?

1. Introduce yourself. It will give you something to talk about for two seconds. You might be tempted to make up a name to give you something else to talk about it– “Hi. I’m Casey Anthony!”–but don’t. You could possibly run into this person again, and the next bout of small talk will be even more awkward if you can’t remember what name you gave.

2. Stick to safe topics. Some suggestions:

• weather 

• the room you’re in — “How ’bout this floor, huh?”
• Donald Trump’s hairpiece — “So, do you think his hair is made out of urine-soaked hamster bedding?”

3. Stay away from hot-button issues like:

• politics 

• religion

• motherhood

4…

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Keep on Pushing Me Baby

Did you know that you can give a soon to be 3-year-old an IQ test?

You can.

And when that almost 3-year-old would prefer to hit a balloon around a room rather than answer inane questions, that nearly 3-year-old earns the distinction of “borderline.”

Yes, my son scored in the 2 percentile of “total bullshit bullshittery” category on his IQ test. He was average in other made-up areas and low in I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter Hoopery. I have a glisteny report that details it all and it sort of tastes like margarine.

Three years ago today, my son was born. That day was going to be a gorge-athon of hamburgers and french fries when my water unexpectantly broke and I underwent an emergency c-section because my kid was breech. He was a month early. He came out in the shape of a potato head with the same spindly arms.

He had trouble lifting his head. He didn’t walk until 18 months, but fuck if he didn’t know all the letters of the alphabet by 2.

We got on it early. By six months, he was in physical therapy. Six months ago, he started occupational therapy to help his fine motor skills. His therapists say the same thing: “He’s smart as get out; he’s just low muscle tone.”

Because of his birthday, he’s being moved from the county to the local school district, and this is why he’s suddenly “bordeline” and in the words of Madonna, it’s like I’m gonna lose my mind.

Even the IQ administrator stated the test doesn’t adequately gauge intelligence. So why are we doing this exactly?

Tomorrow he has his first committee on preschool special education meeting. The day I learned about this meeting, my “borderline” son read the word “toys” in a new book.

Something seems a bit off. In the same way, giving every child the same state assessment to judge a teacher’s ability seems like an inadequate form of measurement.

Tomorrow will be a success if I do not throw a chair through a window.

How To Read 50 Shades of Grey

Alice of Alice at Wonderland has a guest post up at The Official How To Blog. I believe it mentions butt plugs so you know it has to be a good.

The Official How To Blog

Alice of Alice at Wonderland has been slogging through the literary anal dribblings of E.L. James for what feels like an eternity. There is only so much “Fair point, well made Miss Steele/Mrs. Grey” and “Laters baby” one can read before one feels as if they’ve been sucked into a Groundhog-Day-like reality of which there is no escape.

If after reading the above paragraph, you still desire to pore through the monotonous ramblings of an author who knows neither plot or character development, then Alice has prepared a handy how-to on how to slog through this pile o’crap.

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Have you wondered what all the fuss was about with 50 Shades, but been scared to read it?  Of course you have!  With this simple guide, you can read 50 Shades of Grey and possibly keep your sanity.

How To Read 50 Shades

1. Download it to your e-reader.  Then if someone…

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Well Fuck.

The Bachelor season finale is tonight, and it’s three motherfucking hours long. There is no possible way I will make it through. Let’s just assume Bland gave some dame a promise ring and will be unpromised-ringed in two months, and dating another low-rent reality star while his agent vies for Bland’s appearance as Donald Trump’s wigfluffer on Celebrity Apprentice.

It’s starting. So much filler. Host Chris Harrison has abused the word “dramatic.” I dramatically hate him. Bland sees wives like the Sixth Sense kid sees dead people.

There’s a live audience? What the fuck? Chris Harrison is bellowing “Hello! We’re live?” and then abuses the word “historic.”  Chris Harrison thinks he’s on Nightline and blathers bullshit about “breaking news” while the dying newspaper industry dies a little more. Yes it is breaking news if a wooden Trojan horse neighs platitudes at a dummy, and the dummy says “poop.”

I’m going to start drinking. I’m going to start drinking whenever someone expresses how difficult shit is and how dramatic shit is. I will be drunk by 8:30.

The ladies get to meet the vagina and peen ensemble that made Bland. Catherine is first. Reality-television hugging. Bland’s sister looks like one-armed Sarah, a former Bachelor contestant and now I’m very mixed up. More wine.

Weird talking between Catherine and Bland’s mom. Bland’s mom suffers from vocal fry. “Bland pooped in the potty at seven,” Bland’s mom shares. “And then again at 27. We’re so proud of him. Can you change diapers?”

The dad thinks there something called The Bachelor process. Why the fuck does my dad not know about The Bachelor process? Why have you forsaken me father?

The father is Sean Hayes in character.

Is it 11 p.m., yet?

No. It’s 8:11. That means I have 2 hours and 49 minutes. I have now begun carving into my face with a drill bit.

Lindddsssayyy is next. Bland is hoping for family clarity. I say blow jobs for all.

Linddsaaaayyyy vocal fries nonsense about meeting her possible reality family. Sean Hayes (aka dad) wants to make out with someone. Yes, Lindddssayyy was the dipshit that wore the wedding dress at the opener. They dull about this for an eternity. Oh good. We have two hours and 40 minutes left. I’m going to go get something hefty and start bashing myself in the face with it.

Lindsaayyyy asks Sean Hayes for Bland’s hand in marriage and then cackles because women’s rights are bullshit.

More bloop with Lindssayyyyy and Bland’s mom. Let’s just assume it’s full-on vocal fry and full-on nonsense. Bland still wants to marry everyone including that pumped up dude he sees in that special glass called a mirror.

People are applauding in the live audience even though they know they’re in for the long haul.  Bland is walking pensively in a light blue tank top. Last date with Lindssassayy. They take a raft ride on the Mekong River. Bland pretends to know geography. “That land is Thailand. And that other land isn’t.”  They make out while the rowers add on to their hatred of America.

There’s not enough wine in the world, gentle reader, to get me through this. And I’m not even a full hour in. You all realize I will be asleep in 20 minutes. I’m somewhat asleep now as Lindsssyayy and Bland make out as I pull my fingernails off.

Lindsssayyyy has something special for Bland. She farts into a sack and makes him smell it.

Love.

We’re now at hour two and I am intoxicated. Intoxicated on love and wine…mostly wine.

It’s very dramatic.

Catherine’s final date. An elephant is exploited. That’s it. Oh, there’s some kissing.

I’m nearly done. I’m sorry. I know you depend on me, but see this whole “spring forward” has fucked everything up. My son has a cold, which means he shimmied into my room a couple of times before finally joining us for a few crappy non-sleep hours. So I’m tired and this is not holding my interest.

Catherine sees blahhing at Bland forever and “tonight is the night” she proclaims so I surmise that means “blow job.”

Bland is feeling “the pressure” of his member stretching aganist his sweatpants. More kissing with cameras present.

Catherine is crying because Bland is not expressing emotion. No one is expressing emotion.

Here is my emotion: Floop.

Chris Harrison is here with his “Bachelor Nation” and if I was actually a part of a Bachelor Nation, I would want a bullet to mesh with my head.

An hour and 40 minutes left. Are you fucking kidding me? I’m asleep in 20 minutes. That is not a guess. That is a fact.

Bland rubs oil on his shirtless body. He flexes his veiny arms as he thinks he can wife up both gals.  Too bad Joseph Smith didn’t make the dream of polygamy a reality. Instead he was murdered by a mob. Romance.

Weird plastic-surgeony ring dude. This makes me want to take my engagement ring and throw it into the woods.

More shirtless Bland. He is prepared to love love and love and love. I need another drink.

Bland is crying because his nipples are rubbing against a shirt.

Liinnnddaaayyy is “so happy” she says as she cries happily.

Bland states this is the most difficult thing he’s ever had to do™.  I eye my bed with love.  I think we have a connection.

The Bachlor Nation is applauding again. Former contestants are going to blather nonsense about pooft.

Chris Harrison pretends this will be all resolved soon, but I know math. This flop is three hours long and we’re only one hour and 40 minutes into it.

Chris Harrison mentions some “infamous letter” and I’m drawn to my bed. I love you my bed whispers. Do you, bed? This is the most difficult decision I’ve ever had to make. Do I go to you or do I watch bullshit?

So he dumps Linddssaeeyyayayyy.

How can there be an hour and 10 minutes left?

Bland is crying.

Lindsaaayy is feeling sad. “This is really sad? Why is this sad?” And bye.

My bed wants me so hard.

Chris Harrison pops up with a “Hey man.” He gives Bland a ”dramatic” letter. There is over an hour left. I’m going to eat arsenic.

There is mix voiceover between Catherine and Bland reading a letter written by Clippit, the paper clip icon of Microsoft Word. It’s that good.

Bland proposes and Clippit says yes. It says Yes! goddammit!

They will be broken up by St. Patrick’s Day.

Now for the late breaking news. . . I sharted in my pants. And The Bachelor Nation loves it. Loves it!

Bland and Lindssaayyyy bleat at each other again. Bland mentions his heart took him to stupid places and Lindssayyy is happy for his two brain cells “and…” Lindssayyy ends her sentence like normal folk do.

I love you all so much and this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do™ but I’m going to bed.

How To Take The Joy Out of Education

Heather from Becoming Cliche has a guest post up at The Official How To Blog today!

The Official How To Blog

Heather of Becoming Cliche joins The Official How To Blog today to tackle the issue of super-duper education policy that has thankfully turned our public school students into bubbling machines. You’ve got a circle that needs to be colored in? By all means, grab your nearest eight-year-old cuz that kid knows what’s up. Incidentally that same child might not know what’s up in the sky because science is optional.

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1) Determine the best way to measure success.  This means test scores. Duh! There’s no such thing as potential that can’t be measured. If it ain’t on the score sheet, it ain’t there, folks. 

2) Use test scores appropriately. Preferably to pigeonhole kids so we know where to focus our attention. No sense pouring money down a sinkhole, after all. Bad score? No Honors English for you next year. What? You didn’t take  Honors English this year? Sorry, no…

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A Peen on Fire

If you have read the latest issue of Us Weekly, you would be aware that I have taken on the duties as the first official A Clown On Fire Wrangler™.

If you haven’t read the latest issue of Us Weekly, then you will be wondering what the fuck that may be.

You are not alone. I’m still trying to figure out my title.

For one of my first official acts, I have landed a coveted interview with a part of his Magnificence™.

Please stop by.

Oh–and there’s also this incentive:

How to peel an orange

Is this you?
“I’m trying to peel this orange, and I just sliced my face open with a chainsaw!!?!”
Well, slice your face open with a chainsaw while peeling an orange no longer!
Merbear of the Knocked Over with a Feather Empire has a guest post up at The Most Official How to Blog that will teach you the skillz to peel the orange billz.

The Official How To Blog

Merbear of Knocked Over By a Feather felt compelled to write about a serious topic that has been affecting many, many people: the struggle of citrus encapsulation, or SOCE.

Before Merbear submitted her informative post, I had been peeling my oranges with a banana peel because I thought that was its purpose. Now I know more and you can too!

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Step one: Check to see how long your nails are. If they are short and nubby, your going to need an extra five minutes, if not longer.

 

Step 2: Squeeze the orange to check for thickness of the rind. Get a good feel for it. Rub it. Become one with it. Learn the language of citrus.

Step 3: Gently place your thumb at the top of the orange. Press firmly, until you smell the delightful aroma of oranges permeate the air. Imagine yourself on a boat by a river…(This process…

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The Boredom Continues: The Women Tell All

I missed the first 20 minutes. I was reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear to my son. It is infinitely more fascinating. Do you know that a red bird sees a fucking yellow duck!?!

Okay so I’m assuming the rejected Bachelor women are getting their chance to vent about  their total lack of judgment. I’m guessing because all I can see is an Olive Garden commercial and it looks very microwavey.

I forget that we began season XCVIIVCV of The Bachelor with 4,502 women. I recognize so few. Host Chris Harrison is attempting to stir the boring shit pot by bringing up the token villain of the show, Tire. Her real name is Tierra, but Tire is better. Brooke(?) gets real: “You’re upset because y’all didn’t also act like assholes and get more airtime,” she paraphrases before fading into further obscurity.

Chris Harrison polls the audience: What do you think about Tire?

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, it responds.

Chris Harrison sticks his hand down his pants and then asks “What’s up with the villain?”

Commercial.

We’re back. Tire is getting coached on the opportune time to show her sparkley vagina. The producers are trying to make us feel the Oz curtain has been lifted and we can see reality, but it still tastes like canned crab.

Now it’s Tire’s time.

And it’s . . . carhorn

I can’t find a better way to describe it. All I know is I’m bored and indifferent.

“And if she didn’t want be your friend, then walk away girls. And you were mean so blah,” bores someone.

“I can’t remember everything,” Tire tires.

“Did you stink eye people,” Chris Harrison asks because he gets quite a bit of money for this stupidity.

“I don’t do stink eye and say ‘Oooh,'” Tire pfftttss.

More banality and the end of the world and middle school ended two decades ago everyone. Congratulations.

This goes on for eons. The Bronze Age becomes the Iron Age. Chlamydia becomes super gonorrhea.

Tire was little Miss Nevada. This is your future, Honey Boo Boo. I’m so fucking sorry.

Tire is engaged to a gremlin. Chris Harrison is aghast that Tire dated it before The Bachelor since The Bachelor is all about twrue lurve. And booooooooooooo.

There’s 58 minutes left. Fucking hell.

Now on to Sarah, of the one arm. She watches as Bland rejects her for too much brains and too little limbs.

“You thought he was the one,” Chris Harrison interjects with a straight face.

“My whole life I’ve been strung along by dickwads and then after the handjobs, they say things aren’t right. Lies like flies, you dig?” she paraphrases.

“How do you move on from this,” Chris Harrison tries to create tension.

Fuck a duck, Chris, she basically says.

Does Splash look like the stupidiest reality concept ever? And I say this after viewing the majority of The Bachelor: The Women Tell All.

Now up is Desiree, the future Bachelorette, and her Bland montage. I’m as bored as the first time.

My recap of this is. . .cream of wheat. Cream of wheat is really blah unless you add something, and there is nothing to add to The Bachelor flavor of Cream of Wheat.

There are 45 fucking minutes left. Is time standing still?

I’m not going to make it. I know Ashley is up next–Ashley of the death stare. And then Bland will be there to bland it up with his blandness. Can we just assume that it will be boring and pointless so I can go to sleep.

Let’s.

Shameless7 Speaker7 Plug7

I have a new post up at The Official How To Blog, which is the most official how to blog on the Internet.

You can read it here.

Aw…don’t cry…sshhh…sshhh…it’s okay. I’m still going to be Speaker7. In fact, I plan to watch the ladies from The Bachelor vocal fry at one another while I bury a corkscrew into my temple, and recrap it all for you tomorrow. It will be…um…

Is pfftttt the right word? Possibly.

This new venture o’ mine is a chance to impart knowledge–albeit possibly bad knowledge–to the world. And if you have a little whatsit whatsit to share, consider writing for The Official How To Blog. You can put it on your resume and people will be like “Shit. This person is, like, super official and shit.”

There might even be an “I blogged for The Official How To Blog and All I Got Was This Stupid Piece of Shit Badge” badge. It will be…um…

Is pfftttt the right word?