(*Note: this is not a post of self-loathing, for I am an unclassifiable species only recognizable by God. Not to worry, your confusion was highly anticipated.)
They're rude and ignorant.
They don't have a cuisine of their own. Burgers are originally from Germany, you jerks.
They're wasteful. No need to shut off lights before leaving home when utilities are included in the rent, right? Argh.
They're self-centered greedy bastards not the least bit concerned with others' well-being. Phil Gramm, if I could pull a Gary Busey and rip out your endocrine system, I do believe the Heavens would shine down. Although, I guess that $37 billion UBS write-down last spring was enough poetic justice for the fiscal year.
To sum it all up, they're just plain stupid. One symptom being their constant devouring of celebrity pop culture.
Now I understand worshiping God, or Allah, or Buddha, or even Krishna (though its websites are blocked on my work computer so it must be wrong) , or even a golden calf. But Britney Spears? Really? She deserves more social capital than the average human that drives with their infant child unrestained on their lap?
And Rihanna getting her ass whooped. Next time you'll know not to spread those bumps.
This reminds me of the time I was about 7 and my father announced to the family on our way out of Sunday mass that he had to see a man about a horse. I thought we were getting a pony. He just had to pee.
And how about that Nadya Suleman?? The thought of 14 baby skulls being violently dispensed from my teeny orfice just bruised my vageen.
We are living in an age of voyeurism, where stalking peers on social networking sites with virtually non-existent forms of privacy, being an exhibitionist peeping tom and masturbating in your 3rd floor window while counting every hair on my head through your telescope, or being obsessed with celebrity lives that serve little purpose other than filling the pages of glorified tabloids like the Post is not only completely acceptable, but expected. I once thought CNN was a decent source of sober news, until Michelle Obama's wardrobe made their headlines, dedicating way too much content to her "urban chic" style.Why it gotta be urban?! Not enough coverage of the First Gal's steeze? Head on over to www.Mrs-O.org! And then kill yourself for your lack of involvement in your own life. But maybe all this Obamamania in the media is a good thing? Maybe it will inspire little nigglets to stop eating so much fucking McDonalds.
So I leave you with this final question of woe: Who is worse- Murdoch or Madoff?
Gosh: (gŏsh) interj. Expletive conjunction of God and shit.
I owe this post to Janna Sikdar, the talented author of high-pitched ideals and the official denial of the Holy Spirit in the critically acclaimed (by critic I mean yours truly, and by acclaimed I mean it sure gets the juices aflowin') blog: The Indalian Job. She recently had a brush with comical death as a result of the Republicans' poisonous saturation of the media. I felt compelled to provide a few words of solace to this woman, as she is a true writer- one who paints excitement into the most mundane of affairs. My words of comfort began:
"Janna, if Gosh kills your funny, it’s like He is violently hewing into my chest cavity with a rusty, infected tomahawk once used to scalp white babies in the fifteenth century, and slowly plucking out bits of absolutely integral arterial veins from my gushing heart."
OK, maybe that's not the most consoling choice of words... next example.
"When I was 13 I thought all hope was gone upon mentally grasping my fate: I would be a professionally trained paroxysmal sot. After all, I had endured intensive training since birth to uphold the Murphy family name with a baby bottle of Guinness here and a tablespoon of Jameson there. Not kidding. My moment of epiphany came when I witnessed my mother first-hand in all her piss-drunken glory... literally."
Gather 'round, children, for I have a great story to share with you. It was about a week after I thought someone had shot me in the vagina. Blurry-eyed and anxiety-ridden, I shrieked for my mother. In a state of joyous inebriation, she began to sob for her only daughter's crossing of the pubescent threshold. In between convulsive weeps, she slurred, "Now my baby can have babies."
Fast-forward one week and there we were, mother and still-bleeding daughter, arm in arm, enjoying the wondrous moon in the 3 AM sky. Lacking the bladder control to withstand the 200 feet stretch to the front door, my mother stumbled towards a street parking sign in search of balance while she relieved herself unto herself. I watched in complete awe as the stream rushed down her thunderous thighs from under her XXL shorts and into her Payless sneakers. It was then that I accepted that if I were blessed with her heavy ovarian flow, I would surely inherit her love for the bottle.
At first I didn’t think anything was funny or happy or good about the situation. Then a few days later I had a real taste of my future and Gosh, darn it , made everything giggitty giggitty. What has come of me since? I've realized my destiny to the fullest: I enjoy my MaCallan up with a splash of water and older than me, and I pour the best Manhattans in Manhattan. And the only thing to stop me from perpetually living the dream will probably be an alcohol-induced liver disease. Slainte!
So, again, Janna, for the sake of all your avid readers and loved ones, keep the faith. Because where else am I gonna go next time I run out of hard liquor?!
"Janna, if Gosh kills your funny, it’s like He is violently hewing into my chest cavity with a rusty, infected tomahawk once used to scalp white babies in the fifteenth century, and slowly plucking out bits of absolutely integral arterial veins from my gushing heart."
OK, maybe that's not the most consoling choice of words... next example.
"When I was 13 I thought all hope was gone upon mentally grasping my fate: I would be a professionally trained paroxysmal sot. After all, I had endured intensive training since birth to uphold the Murphy family name with a baby bottle of Guinness here and a tablespoon of Jameson there. Not kidding. My moment of epiphany came when I witnessed my mother first-hand in all her piss-drunken glory... literally."
Gather 'round, children, for I have a great story to share with you. It was about a week after I thought someone had shot me in the vagina. Blurry-eyed and anxiety-ridden, I shrieked for my mother. In a state of joyous inebriation, she began to sob for her only daughter's crossing of the pubescent threshold. In between convulsive weeps, she slurred, "Now my baby can have babies."
Fast-forward one week and there we were, mother and still-bleeding daughter, arm in arm, enjoying the wondrous moon in the 3 AM sky. Lacking the bladder control to withstand the 200 feet stretch to the front door, my mother stumbled towards a street parking sign in search of balance while she relieved herself unto herself. I watched in complete awe as the stream rushed down her thunderous thighs from under her XXL shorts and into her Payless sneakers. It was then that I accepted that if I were blessed with her heavy ovarian flow, I would surely inherit her love for the bottle.
At first I didn’t think anything was funny or happy or good about the situation. Then a few days later I had a real taste of my future and Gosh, darn it , made everything giggitty giggitty. What has come of me since? I've realized my destiny to the fullest: I enjoy my MaCallan up with a splash of water and older than me, and I pour the best Manhattans in Manhattan. And the only thing to stop me from perpetually living the dream will probably be an alcohol-induced liver disease. Slainte!
So, again, Janna, for the sake of all your avid readers and loved ones, keep the faith. Because where else am I gonna go next time I run out of hard liquor?!
Damn girl, are those space jeans?! Cause yo ass is outta dis world!
"Do you know what you really want? I do. What I really want is for my concealer to match my skin tone." Why, is that so, Jessica Alba? Cause, I dunno, I was kinda thinking that I might really want something a teeny weeny bit more important- like a steady paycheck, immunity to herpes, a significant other insuceptible to my odor, or, heck, world peace! Is it not enough that I have unsuccessfully dabbled on numerous occasions in the realm of bulemia ever since your role as cock tease/female degrader extraordinaire in the 1999 miserable excuse for a film Never Been Kissed ?! (Sorry, anorexics, but I love food waaaay too much to give up cold turkey...pun intended) C'mon! That can't be the paramount desire on your wish list. Wait... yes it can. You are Jessica Alba. Fuck.
Even as a continuously objectified, dehumanized, sexualized, and absolutely terrified member of the female sex, I refuse to subscribe to such superficial fuckheadedness. But, then again, maybe this incessant shove towards longing for physical perfection judged solely in terms of a female's carnal desirability and tangible attributes, while simultaneously dismissing any consideration of personality and intelligence is not so bad after all! What horrid side-effects could it possibly lead to?? Severe depression? Eating disorders? Appearance anxiety? Sexual disfunction? Mental retardation? Shmardation! Nothing serious, really. I think we have already seen the worst repurcussion- the female vulture whose only goal in life is to lockdown a rich Jewish investment banker and become a professional QVC shopper while watching her own ass consume her figure.
Let's quickly look at the discussion of intstinct versus society's bearing on gender roles. In other words, Nature VS Nurture should tell us why females are so gosh darn fucked up in the head. On one hand we have the natural inclination for females to want something constantly sucking on the teet (my God, you guys are lucky!), and on the other we have our societal expectations that for centuries have told females to shut the fuck up and spread 'em. However, in its premature stages of evolution, society is finally allowing females to realize that there is more to life than getting knocked up. For instance, there is masturbation. For a long while this act was reserved for male enjoyment and scorned as despicable and even pegged as a target of punishable censorship when involving females. Nowadays we have women who decide that fucking the president just isn't cutting it anymore- they want to be the president and fuck themselves? Booyackasha.
So, shame on you, few women of influence (heh hem, Jessica Alba), who dare attempt to continue this archaic stance of woman as mere cum receptacle. Well, as long as it is not for career advancements. (There are always legitimate exceptions, people! Us females aren't there just yet!) Oh, and the cat calling has got to stop.
I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME SHRIEK!
Even as a continuously objectified, dehumanized, sexualized, and absolutely terrified member of the female sex, I refuse to subscribe to such superficial fuckheadedness. But, then again, maybe this incessant shove towards longing for physical perfection judged solely in terms of a female's carnal desirability and tangible attributes, while simultaneously dismissing any consideration of personality and intelligence is not so bad after all! What horrid side-effects could it possibly lead to?? Severe depression? Eating disorders? Appearance anxiety? Sexual disfunction? Mental retardation? Shmardation! Nothing serious, really. I think we have already seen the worst repurcussion- the female vulture whose only goal in life is to lockdown a rich Jewish investment banker and become a professional QVC shopper while watching her own ass consume her figure.
Let's quickly look at the discussion of intstinct versus society's bearing on gender roles. In other words, Nature VS Nurture should tell us why females are so gosh darn fucked up in the head. On one hand we have the natural inclination for females to want something constantly sucking on the teet (my God, you guys are lucky!), and on the other we have our societal expectations that for centuries have told females to shut the fuck up and spread 'em. However, in its premature stages of evolution, society is finally allowing females to realize that there is more to life than getting knocked up. For instance, there is masturbation. For a long while this act was reserved for male enjoyment and scorned as despicable and even pegged as a target of punishable censorship when involving females. Nowadays we have women who decide that fucking the president just isn't cutting it anymore- they want to be the president and fuck themselves? Booyackasha.
So, shame on you, few women of influence (heh hem, Jessica Alba), who dare attempt to continue this archaic stance of woman as mere cum receptacle. Well, as long as it is not for career advancements. (There are always legitimate exceptions, people! Us females aren't there just yet!) Oh, and the cat calling has got to stop.
I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME SHRIEK!
i didn't like you until you didn't like me
Please, allow me to introduce myself...
I eat until I’m inundated. Literally. Well, almost. Usually until that little valve in my esophagus closes because my stomach, being that thick walled elastic bag that I cherish it to be, is stretched to its absolute limit- so much so, in fact, that it decides when enough is enough, as if looking down in sorrow upon my bulging belly is not. My stomach refuses those last extra bites of unnecessary caloric intake. Scientifically speaking, that would be considered an involuntary reaction. But to the contrary, I believe it to be very voluntary. It’s part of my self-inflicted exo/endo battle- my hand gleefully forcing more and my stomach reluctantly spewing gastric acids and digestive enzymes until the epiglottis threatens mutiny against my windpipe. And what happens with all that excess food? It sits there, in my long, fragile, mucus-lined throat, waiting for my stomach to hurry and digest, to churn and swish and grumble and open the valve just long enough for another small load of nourishment to plop passed. And then what? Well, normally if I do not disgorge a bit of that oh-so-yummy slop back into my mouth only to be swallowed again, I may take yet another bite of whatever I was inhaling. Then again, I might take another bite just to mask the taste of my regurgitation in the case of the former. Why? you wonder. I lack all self-control.
Oh, and I also smoke when I can barely breathe, consume enough alcohol to make my medulla oblongata quiver with fear, snooze every day all day away, squander money on material possessions until my desperate digging fingers punch holes in my pockets, and date more men than a pirate hunts booty. I wouldn’t call that indulgent, though. Not even gluttonous or extravagant or unconscionable. Definitely not. I would call that sensible and wise. And maybe even grounded. I would call that me.
Hello there.…The pleasure is all mine.
I eat until I’m inundated. Literally. Well, almost. Usually until that little valve in my esophagus closes because my stomach, being that thick walled elastic bag that I cherish it to be, is stretched to its absolute limit- so much so, in fact, that it decides when enough is enough, as if looking down in sorrow upon my bulging belly is not. My stomach refuses those last extra bites of unnecessary caloric intake. Scientifically speaking, that would be considered an involuntary reaction. But to the contrary, I believe it to be very voluntary. It’s part of my self-inflicted exo/endo battle- my hand gleefully forcing more and my stomach reluctantly spewing gastric acids and digestive enzymes until the epiglottis threatens mutiny against my windpipe. And what happens with all that excess food? It sits there, in my long, fragile, mucus-lined throat, waiting for my stomach to hurry and digest, to churn and swish and grumble and open the valve just long enough for another small load of nourishment to plop passed. And then what? Well, normally if I do not disgorge a bit of that oh-so-yummy slop back into my mouth only to be swallowed again, I may take yet another bite of whatever I was inhaling. Then again, I might take another bite just to mask the taste of my regurgitation in the case of the former. Why? you wonder. I lack all self-control.
Oh, and I also smoke when I can barely breathe, consume enough alcohol to make my medulla oblongata quiver with fear, snooze every day all day away, squander money on material possessions until my desperate digging fingers punch holes in my pockets, and date more men than a pirate hunts booty. I wouldn’t call that indulgent, though. Not even gluttonous or extravagant or unconscionable. Definitely not. I would call that sensible and wise. And maybe even grounded. I would call that me.
Hello there.…The pleasure is all mine.
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