The Good Ol’ Pricks Debate

I watched the entire GOP debate last night and while my stomach muscles are still strained from all the dry-heaving, I felt compelled to actually write a post to share the highlights.

There were so many good things happening—so, so many. So many fantastic visionaries on one stage, so many enthusiastic audience members cheering the worst things, so many witnesses to the demise of the American democratic system.

It’s really hard to pick a favorite moment, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try.

It began with a shot of the most popular candidate at the moment, Donald Trump. I believe his face truly represents the face of the Republican Party:

There was that special time when Trump was asked about his penchant for calling woman “fat pigs”, “slobs”, “disgusting animals” and “losers who don’t appreciate megalomaniacs with Easter-grass toupees and micropenises”:

Then there was that beautiful moment when the audience cheered wildly about Trump’s claim of referring to only one woman as a “fat pig”.

I also enjoyed when Trump gave “evidence” about his claim that Mexico only sends the criminals, drug dealers and rapists to this country:

Or the moment Trump said his solution to immigration was to build a wall and that he asked former Florida Gov. Jeb Bush to do it:

There was the time Wisconsin Gov. Scott Walker made this face:

And then made this face:

And then opened his mouth and I finally understood the concept of the banality of evil:

Or that time when Sen. Marco Rubio was asked about his support of allowing abortions in cases of rape and incest, and looked like a deer in headlights and began voraciously back-pedaling without the assistance of a bottle of water:

Or the moment when the millionaire candidates tried to out-poor each other:

The time Mike Huckabee challenged the claim from the movie Hustle and Flow that “it’s hard out here for a pimp” and blamed pimps and prostitutes for social security’s budget problems:

The moment Ohio Gov. John Kasich used the “I have a gay friend” defense to deflect a question about same sex marriage:

The entire time Jeb Bush looked like an uncomfortable, sad man:

How about the fantastic Facebook questions?!?:

Or when Rand Paul challenged Trump’s “hair” to a fight:

When Trump asked the moderators if he could have one minute to squeeze out a fart:

Or when Ted Cruz broke into song:

Breathtaking, really. And we still have over a year until the general election!

Oh boy…the dry heaves are starting again.

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.

Speaker7 Explains About Dames

Oh for the love of pete! Why are you women so hard to understand? Seriously–like what’s with the shoes and the chocolate and the shoe chocolate and the chocolate shoe and shoes and shoes’ chocolate shoe of chocolate?

It’s enough to make a guy crazy or at least write an incredibly insightful article titled “20 Things Men Will Never Understand” that was recycled from Maxim cologne ads and rejected According to Jim scripts.

I have a vagina. I just checked. I feel I might be able to shed light on these things of 20 that men will never understand.

1. Why you say the opposite of what you mean.

First let me say that this is such a good article. Women are all the same. All the same. From Miley Cyrus to Malala Yousafzai, we are one giant monolithic group that likes to say “I’m fine” when we mean “I want to jab this corkscrew in your frontal lobe”. Why do we do it? So we don’t murder you. And shoes. I like shoes and math is hard.

2. Your fascination with shoes.

Yup. We gals like shiny baubles and laser pointers. All of us. Even women without feet.

3. Why you won’t tell us what’s bothering you.

This seems like a retread of the first mystery of non-understanding. See the answer to number 1.

4. Why you won’t order your own fries.

Easy. We’re all fat. And we can’t tell you that bothers us because we can’t tell you what is really wrong and I’m fine and shoes.

5. How you’re so good at multitasking.

This is true. I’ve been able to simultaneously roll my eyes and look up how to spell “simultaneously” at the same time.

6. How you’re able to sleep like that.

Obamacare.

7. Why you ask about our exes so much.

Because we’re all Bravo Real Housewives and get into catfights and meow and shoes and mandatory transvaginal ultrasounds.

8. How you expect me to remember all those details.

Because our lives are so very, very small.

9. Why you ask questions when you know you won’t like the answers.

Did you get paid for this? Because I don’t get paid for my writing and if I did, I would probably get less, right?

10-20. Chocolate, communal trips to the bathroom, periods are yucky, drama, other demeaning tropes.

You honestly don’t understand what a period is? Well sometimes when a mommy loves a daddy, a mommy’s lining in her womb will shed if a daddy doesn’t plant a special baby flower in there. The lining along with a copious amount of blood flows out of the mommy’s hee-haw. And presto! Shoes. Shoes and chocolate.

Hoped that help and by the way, I’m totally fine.

 

You Love My Lady Blumps

I’m in a bit of a blog slump.

I’m calling it a “blump.”

As you can tell I have quite a way with. . . um. . .you know, those things? Those things that fall from people’s mouths, but you can’t see them? You hear them. Those things or as I call them. . . um. . . invisible mouth falls. I am an invisible mouth falls-smith.

So the writing isn’t the toaster at all. Quite the contrary, it is quite fishsticks.

The problem is one of motivation.

I am totally crushing it in other facets of my life. For instance, my pizza shop is doing extremely well in Webkinz world.

And just yesterday, I took off the pair of sweatpants I had worn for three consecutive days in a row and put on another pair of sweatpants.

But I’m just feeling, as the French say, ma voiture est jaune.

I am not alone in this malaise. Becky of the unbelievable Becky Says Things blames the polar vortex and Nicki of the amazing Nicki Daniels Interview blames the cabin fever one succumbs to when one lives in the polar vortex.

They may be on to something.

It might have something to do with this book I’m reading. It’s called The Sixth Extinction and it’s about our role in the extinction of countless species which may ultimately lead to our own extinction. To put it simply: we are fucked. Royally.

I just finished the chapter on frogs. Frogs are the cockroaches of animals. They can live anywhere except for Antarctica because SMART! They have been around longer than dinosaurs. And now they are dying and becoming extinct. Likely when I just typed this sentence, another frog species bit the dust.

So everything is awful and the world is ending, and this might be why I don’t want to write about Lindsay Lohan’s new reality show at OWN. What am I saying? Of course I will be writing about that.

There still is some pffttt happening. And the pffttt could be because some people have gotten a woody in the pants from the polar vortex. As if extreme cold is normal and not something to freak the fuck out about.

So there.

Blumpsville.

At least I know how to end a blog post appro

Trump Stump

Oh, bless his little orange, puffy face!

Donald Trump may seek the GOP nomination for govenor of New York.

This is news, people.

In the same way, it was news when Donald Trump declared he was running for president those 4,001,321 times. Or when he fashioned that ridiculous hair mop he wears on his head from wood shavings and a can of KRAFT® Easy Cheese.

The frequent-bankruptcy-filing “billionaire” says he is considering running because he is a paranoid delusional narcissist who believes he farts gold nuggets believes he can win.

Trump was at some Republican fundraiser on Friday to talk about the dangers of over-tanning prove that a person can still communicate even when it’s clear one’s brain is disconnected from one’s spinal cord.

I’m not a fan of Gov. Andrew Cuomo. I voted for him only because the other guy wanted to convert prisons into “welfare dorms.” Now if Trump seriously gets the nomination, and that is a big bloated if, I will once again be forced to cast a vote for a politician who routinely denigrates my profession as an educator–as if we are all educators at Donald Trump University.

At the $100-per-person event, Trump outlined his platform. He would turn New York into the energy capitol. He has volunteered to act as the state-wide gas bag. He supports hydrofracking and wants to repeal the NY SAFE act, which requires ammunition dealers to do background checks and the creation of registry of assault weapons. It also requires mental health professionals to report credible threats made by a mental health patient.

Trump stated that he himself is licensed to carry a gun.

I wonder if I can find that number to make a report.

More importantly Trump touted his number one issue–how to stay relevant beyond his woman parade pageant and his nonCelebrity Apprentice snoozefest.

Like I said before:

News.

Fifty Shades of Grape

On a recent trip to the liquor store, I learned that this exists:

Bottle also serves as a handy butt plug.

I knew of other tie-ins with the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy like a soundtrack, a neck tie and a flushable tampon (maybe) so the inclusion of wine is not all surprising.

Wine plays a big role in the books–at least it did for me because I needed to drink quite a bit of it to slog through the 15,000 pages dealing with Ana’s dampness and Christian’s hair-thrusting.

The wine website includes a choice Christian quote that reminded me why I was drunk most of the time:

“If you spill the wine, I will punish you, Miss Steele.”

Awwww……..

So romantic?

I planned to write a post saying the wine likely tasted of hackneyed writing, greased butt plugs and despair, but that felt too easy, and, as you may be aware by reading my recraps of the series, I enjoy inflicting pain upon myself.

I felt humiliated purchasing the bottle so I figured it put me in the right mindset to sample it.

I feel so defeated…let’s crack this puppy open!

I must confess something. I’m not exactly sophisticated. While I do sometimes wear a top hat and cape whilst watching Real Housewives of Dogpatch, I know very little about the art of drinking wine. I know there’s a lot of sniffing and swishing and spitting and sobbing and drunk Facebooking, but that’s about it.

I decided to do a search and thought about the perfect search terms to get exactly what I needed:

This led to a picture of Christian Bale in American Psycho. Not bad, Google.

I tried another tactic and found an article on how to taste wine “like a pro.”

Apparently it is important to place the wine into a glass rather than an old shoe or a taxidermied hamster. Fair point, well made, wine-tasting article.

I didn’t want to use any ol’ glass, but something extra special.

Next, you hold the glass in your hand rather than something else like a foot or nipple clamp.

Nailed it.

You swish it around or I swear to god, I will beat you…sorry, sorry,…I just channeled Christian Grey for a second. Swish it around in the glass, then taste it with different parts of your tongue. This makes more sense then dumping the contents over your head.

It’s recommended to pair red wine with cumin-spiced burgers topped with Harissa mayo.

whole wheat pop cakes were likely a second option.

Hmmmm. It sort of smells like feet or tires, but maybe that’s the Hugo mug?  It tastes a bit bitter and makes my tongue feel numb like I just injected it with novocaine. How bizarre–the exact reaction the books had on my brain.

I’m forgetting one of my important drinking rules, which is never drink alone.

It’s 5 p.m. somewhere, right? Up top. For those unfamiliar, Hugo and Goofy were the stars of my Fifty Shades recrap. What do you think Goofy?

Hugo?

There you have it, folks. Two butt plugs down.