Fifty Shades of Trailer Trash

Hold onto your butt plugs, everybody!!

Or insert them. Should we insert them? I think so. I think that’s appropriate.

Tomorrow is the day we get to see the downfall of inspiration and creativity  Fifty Shades of Grey movie trailer!!

This is apparently a big deal, so much so that Beyonce released a trailer for the trailer a few days ago.

My husband showed it to me yesterday because he clearly hates me.

I think I might be suffering from PTSD from my time reading and recrapping the trilogy. That could explain why I tried to remove my eyeballs with a melon baller upon viewing the teaser trailer and I don’t even own a melon baller. I was really using a shoehorn.

The teaser trailer is. . . what is the word I’m looking for. . . oh yes, a giant stinking turdpile (I realize that is more than one word).

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s clear the movie will be as if Show Girls and Battlefield Earth mated and had a love child that was raised by one of those stupid water-fearing aliens from Signs and then went on to be a pink lady in Grease 2. What I’m attempting to say is that this movie will suck with the force of a 1,000 master series intake anal suction cups.

Don’t just take my word for it. I showed the teaser trailer to my two leads.

Maybe.

The trailer is premiering on the Today show and the anchors will be dressing up as characters. Matt Lauer will portray a butt plug, which means he will basically be himself. They then will continue on with the other real news of the day, mainly on expose on which Buzzfeed quiz are you most like.

News.

Hugo insisted we make our own trailer after I jokingly said I could make a better one if I inserted an iTouch up my bunghole.

Those things are painful.

 

Does Social Media Make Us :-(?

Fuck no!

It makes us super, super :-).

Some bozo at some newspaper–yeah, I know. Newspapers! What is it? 1995? :-P–wrote with his quill and ink that social media is a platform to promote a fake life and then make you feel shitty about said fake life when put in contrast with your real shit life and others’ fake lives.

My son accidentally peed on the floor today and then ate a piece of food off the floor. I posted this to Facebook:

I felt better.

In fact I felt :D.

Until I only got 12 likes and not even from the A crowd, you know, the popular gals I went to high school with who now post about how much wine they drink because kids, amirite? Oh my god, and they looovveeee their husbands so much! Happy anniversary to the most wonderful men on the planet. You make us the most sexually fulfilled women on earth!!! We love you, sweeties <3!!!

But what else are we suppose to do? It’s not like we can handle being with our own thoughts. In fact in one science experiment, people preferred to shock themselves with a 9-volt battery rather than spend any moment with their brains at full volume yelling at them about their cellulite.

So we sift through our newsfeed and feel crappy about your most fabulous vacation to consumerism hellscape Disney World and your delectable microwaved-bag-o’-crap dinner at The Olive Garden.

And in retaliation we post this:

So at least there’s that.

Older Ladies Aren’t So Stomach-Churning

Good news, used-up carcasses (aka, middle-aged women)!

Your boobies and lady gardens, while deflated, wrinkled and musty, are still somewhat servicable to the other gender.

Shocking, right?!?

When I packed my vagina away in a Klip-It™ Meat Keeper Storage Plus, I figure that was the end of it. Time to shrivel up like a raisin and live in the woods in my house on chicken legs.

It’s a story as old as a middle-aged, gnarled and misshapen face. You hit 35 and are then put out to pasture so that menfolk can enjoy the younger objects and not be subjected to dry-heaves by your upper-arm flab.

But no! Women over 40 (!?!) are not as grizzled as a ham-and-mayonnaise sandwich left out in the desert sun. They can be–do I dare say it?–not completely repellent.

I wish I could take credit for this brilliant insight; an impossiblity because I possess a woman brain and am therefore using 76%  of its capacity on keeping up my kegels. The credit all goes to walking nutsack Tom Junod.

In an article for Esquire, which I initially mistook for The Onion, Junod pontificates on how 42-year-old women aren’t so gross as long as they resemble Cameron Diaz.

“Let’s face it: There used to be something tragic about even the most beautiful forty-two-year-old woman. With half her life still ahead of her, she was deemed to be at the end of something—namely, everything society valued in her, other than her success as a mother.”

But now, Junod has discovered, he still kind of wants to put his dick in some of these tragic ladies.

And that’s all it took, you old hags. A man to notice your worth.

I only wish Elizabeth Cady Stanton was alive to read this. . . and then get banged by Tom Junod.

Ragebook

As a rule, I try not to be drunk when I look at Facebook.

I have found it leads to stupidity, like, “liking” someone’s status –“It’s wine o’ clock!”– because in your cabernet-haze, that sentence is better than poetry.

It also frees me up to have feelings I normally suppress in order to exist in society; mainly anger and there’s quite a bit to be angry about.

As you may know, the U.S. Supreme Court made a supreme decision that affects more than half the population who have those whore parts. The majority opinion was written by Justice Samuel Alito to get back at the girl who rejected him in high school.

I’ve read a smattering of articles on this because I’m trying to avoid a rage stroke. My understanding is a divided Supreme Court continues to believe corporations are people much in the same way my 4-year-old son believes his monster truck has feelings and is allowing these “people” to use made-up religious beliefs in order to deny some forms of birth control for real people who actually possess human-like vaginas.

That decision, as Justice Ruth Bader Gingsburg so eloquently put it, sucks balls.  Some Facebook “friends” took to Facebook to vent their outrage over this decision. They then posted a picture of their mojitos with the caption: “It’s Mojito o’ Clock!” and that sentence was better than an employer-covered Plan B pill.

I’m a little tipsy at the moment.

And then one “friend” posted this:My immediate pinot-noir-fueled idea was to respond in this manner:

Social media is ripe for this sort of thing. In fact there was this whole article about in Sunday’s New York Times. We relish in the rage of strangers and become willing participants, each piling on his or her own vitriol until we transform into a community of Yosemite Sams.

I erased the “um. . . fuck you” and tried for logic instead: I figured this response would take in the “minefield” the ruling created, but, as the article rightly points out, social media is not a place for nuanced discussion about controversial issues. Short, snippy quips are preferred.

I ended up not doing anything because life is meaningless, amirite? Up top!

Good thing too because that article points out that those who frequently vent Internet rage are in general pretty angry people in real life.

You know the type. They’re the ones who would put corporate profits over women’s preventive health care.

This is Temporary

Usually when a blogger disappears for an extended period of time, the blogger’s return post is all about “Hey sorry, I haven’t posted in a while, but I had been trapped under a heavy piano.”

So let’s just assume that’s where I’ve been and get to it.

I’ve always said I wanted to write a novel.

I usually say this after binge-watching TV. Then I continue my streak of writing nothing and go to sleep because tomorrow, obviously tomorrow will be the day I start writing. No more procrastination on “Magic Tomorrow Day!”

Magic tomorrow day arrives and passes uneventfully. I learn that Lifetime is making a behind-the-scenes Saved by the Bell movie so it’s not a complete loss. I’m so excited. I’m so excited. I’m so. . . scared.

Did I write anything?

No, but *insert famous Scarlett O’Hara quote*

I will definitely start writing once I lose 10 pounds. Once I remove that extra fat in my head, it will clear up the brain juice, rev up the electrons of smart and words will magically appear in sentences that sound more good.

I failed biology.

There is the laundry. Always the laundry. Where does it all come from? Seriously, I own two pairs of jeans and yet my machine looks like a denim emporium. Could this be the subject of my soon-to-be written novel? The protagonist is a plucky vampire-fighter who falls in love with a zombie preacher, but can’t commit because of the laundry and BRAIINNNNNSSSSS.

Shit, that sucks.

There’s people that write and stuff. I’ve seen it. I’ve even reviewed it. Not to blow my own crumpled party horn, but I review children’s books for a librarararaarain publication. I just reviewed one. It was nearly 300 pages about a sock monkey.

That is not hyperbole.

There were a bunch of sock monkeys actually. They couldn’t really do anything, just had thinking thoughts and that’s the story for nearly 300 pages.

My review was only two words: “shit sandwich.”

But, hey, it’s being published. At least this person committed to writing something–albeit something incomprehensible–and completed the task.

I will write, by gum and never use the words “by gum” again. I swear, by gum.

I keep getting tripped up, that’s the problem. I went away on a “vacation”. A vacation is time to rejuvenate the mind and body, but a “vacation” is when one wishes to be killed by a Chuck E Cheese automaton because how much fucking longer are we going to spend in this skeeball prison? My “vacation” was with my parents and preschool-age son. On my “vacation”, my son told me to “go away” an average of 54 times a nanosecond so if you do the math it’s:  x + go away/chuck e cheese – sanity + endless strip mall = no novel.

Today was the day I was going to start writing. It is July 1st and mercury is in the seventh house of cards or game of thrones, however astronony works. I stared at the computer screen for 15 minutes then watched The Leftovers on HBO on Demand. *spoiler alert: way too much dog-shooting.

I had just about given up when I saw this picture on a friend’s Facebook wall:

I take solace in that sign. Procrastination is temporary. So is writer’s block. So is being trapped under a heavy piano.

While I may not write the greatest sock monkey/zombie erotica tale every told today, I may tomorrow.

Or Thursday. Definitely Thursday.