Archive for June, 2013

Jennifer Lopez: What a Fucking Cunt!™

Sunday, June 30th, 2013



J Lo is sorry about going to Turkmenistan to sing for its dictator, President Gurbanguly Berdymukhamedov. Her “people” had “vetted” the event, but they missed the part about its human rights record.

All you have to do is google ‘Turkmenistan human rights” to learn that it is one of the world’s most repressive countries. Media and religious freedoms are subject to draconian restrictions. Authorities use imprisonment and torture for political retaliation and to suppress dissent.

President B


You can see why J Lo might want to sing happy birthday to President Berdymukhamedov; he looks so nice! She’s not a mind-reader, you know.  And neither is her choreographer, who tweeted during the event: “I wonder where all my Turkmenistan followers are!? Hit me up!” How could he possibly have known that twitter is blocked in Turkmenistan??

Anyway, please accept Jennifer’s apology, especially as she has pointed out that she was hired for the gig by the China National Petroleum Corporation. They’re nice, right? Because China is nice and so are gas, oil and chemicals.

‘Lopez obviously has the right to earn a living performing for the dictator of her choice,” says Human Rights Foundation president Thor Halvorssen.  You can’t argue with that. Even though she’s so obviously a moron and a fucking cunt.

Goodbye to Johnny Depp

Thursday, June 27th, 2013

silly depp


I’m making it official. After twenty years of devotion to Johnny Depp as my go-to romantic fantasy, I’m breaking up with him.

The silly hats and the hobo outfits have been trying. The prayer-hands in response to applause have been embarrassing. The unceasing bromances with every male cultural icon from Hunter Thompson to Marlon Brando, ick.

Through it all, I excused his pretentious bullshit because he was Johnny Depp. He was just quirky.

But according to a new interview in Rolling Stone, Johnny Depp “always carries around a copy of Finnegan’s Wake, which he’s been puzzling through for years.”

Jesus, no.

There are limits to what is forgivable, and this is mine. Just last week, I defended Johnny Depp when my friend denounced him for dating a 27 year old model. I told her that he deserved a 27 year old model. His taste in women has always run to perfect doll-like beauties. Who could blame him, I lectured, he’s Johnny Depp.

But now I’m sorry I took his side. ‘Finnegan’s Wake?? ‘Ulysses‘ wouldn’t be poseur enough for him? Nobody can understand Finnegan’s Wake except my brother-in-law, and the rest of us know to stop trying after two pages. Johnny Depp is like a college girl carrying around Anais Nin. People who try to seem intellectual are just sad.  I’ll always remember a pop singer who said in an interview that her idols were Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina. Every time I hear her voice, I feel sad for her. That’s how nice I am.

Goodbye, Johnny. You were so cute, so sexy, so fucking adorable in ‘What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.’ But it’s over.



Desecrating Your Temple

Thursday, June 20th, 2013

Michelle Kobke poor girl


Everyone is freaking out about Michelle Kobke, who managed to create a tiny waist by wearing tight corsets.

Personally, I find it disturbing to look at, but if her body is her temple, she is free to desecrate it.

Our eyes may not be accustomed to this distorted hourglass figure, but I don’t think it’s any stupider than getting obviously fake breasts.

victoria b


Women are doing horrible things to their bodies all the time and as we have discussed, men are up to no good too.  I don’t know why people aren’t commenting on Angelina Jolie‘s choice of over-sized implants that are so disproportionate to her small frame. Is it because she’s supposed to be an icon of courage and righteousness?



Huge lips, tiny noses, enormous implants, hair extensions, fake cheekbones, it’s all bad. Michelle Kobke’s waist shouldn’t come as a shock at this point.  Our bodies have ceased to be our temples and have become our enemies. My own body is generously providing me with hot flashes and a nice roll of flab where once there was muscle. I’m not going to make my temple a battleground!  I’m not going to do ONE SINGLE sit-up.

Because all my energy goes to my hair.

Rating Douches

Thursday, June 13th, 2013


Douches are easy to come by, but look how special they are when you have three. See here to refresh your memory.

Here’s a good one I found last week:

Douche of the Day


By ‘good’ I mean fulfilling most of the requirements, although he lacks a beard and those things in his ear-holes.

I’d like to have a point system for rating douches, like hunters have for deer, with 10 being the perfect score.

Neck tettoo
Shaved back of the head
Ear plug or septum ring
Sullen expression
Knuckle tattoo

Shit! That’s only seven. What attributes am I missing? Or should a full beard get extra points?

Please help. It’s for science.


Shoe Choices

Thursday, June 13th, 2013

fuck shoes 59 95

Who wouldn’t want these expressive shoes?I love them. Only $59.95 and appropriate for every occasion.

Dissolving 899 95

These shoes, on the other hand, are crap. Worse than crap. They are an insult to humanity. Priced at $899.95, they will only attract the top tier of fashion victims and Daphne Guinness acolytes. If you’re wondering what they look like on a foot, here:

dissolving large


If only we could see her try to walk!

Both styles from Solestruck.

Torturing the Guests

Tuesday, June 11th, 2013

William Macy in Edmond


Over the weekend, we hosted a small family birthday party. We had chosen the movie Edmond for the post-dinner entertainment, confident that none of our guests had seen it, since no one has, except for us and some disgruntled reviewers.

As we watched the movie, I began to regret choosing it. Maybe the guests weren’t in the mood to watch someone kicking the shit out of a pimp while screaming “Nigger! Coon!” or stabbing a waitress with such gusto that the squishing sounds are even worse that the images. I felt guilty for imposing such an ordeal on six innocent (or at least, fairly innocent) people. The movie is a bleak and punishing exploration of White Male Rage, but my husband and I find it hilarious.

My nephew and his girlfriend watched with wide grins on their faces, so that was a relief. I’m not too sure about the others. At least I found a reviewer who regards Edmond as a black comedy. See it at your own risk.

After the movie, we continued to eat and drink. The conversation turned to music festivals and LSD. I recalled a guy I knew who took some acid at a rock festival and never returned to his normal self. His blue eyes remained bugged out with paranoia and who knows what.

Now my nephew took issue with my description of tripping as a psychotic state. He argued about the meaning of psychotic. He denied that the patterns you see on LSD are hallucinations. The argument became increasingly energetic. Others joined in to try to define the word hallucination. My husband got our nephew to agree that if you saw a talking cow, it would be a hallucination. Unless there really was a talking cow in the room, then no.

The nephew’s adorable girlfriend gave an improvised performance of an acid-induced anxiety attack brought on by needing to pee.  Her body language was perfect. It reminded me how grateful I am to not be tripping.

Now we started to argue about using the word ‘read’ as a noun. I find it unbearable. Don’t ask “Is it a good read?” when you mean “Is it a good book?” or “Is it a good essay?” Our nephew strenuously defended this usage, just to be annoying, but complained about using ‘gift’ as a verb. Voices were raised and dictionaries consulted. The word ‘curator’ turned out to mean something so broad that if you buy into the Merriam-Webster definition, you can rightly call yourself a curator of anything you’re in charge of, like nail polish or goldfish.  Fuck that. I need the OED definition, or something else that I can agree with.

The guests stayed until around 2 a.m., but I couldn’t help feeling that somehow I had failed miserably as a hostess. But maybe tormenting people is preferable to boring them? I don’t know. However, that’s been my assumption and operating procedure for as long as I can remember, and I’m too old to change.

The Problem with Living

Tuesday, June 4th, 2013



On Thursday it will be three years. I never expected to still be around. Time doesn’t heal all wounds but it changes your emotional terrain.

A couple of weeks ago, I considered living for the first time.  I was experiencing a patch of happiness that felt like peace.  Naturally, I had to question this. It made me feel guilty and shallow. I forgave myself the guilt and contemplated the prospect of living the remainder of my life as if it mattered.  Living on purpose, not just because I can’t bear to hurt my husband.

It occurs to me now that this is what Max was contemplating. He wrote that he wanted to wake up in the morning and feel like living, not just to avoid hurting his loved ones, but as a choice for himself. He gave up hope that this could happen.

I feel more hope than I did when I was going around looking for someplace high enough to make a successful jump. I feel like I could conceivably find a purpose in life and make a commitment to seeing life through to it’s natural end.

But then I would have to worry about all the stuff that people worry about when they want to live. I’d have to worry about cancer instead of mocking those people on the Cancer Center commercials who want so badly to survive. I’d have to worry about my bad cholesterol, which is sky-high. I’d have to worry about dementia and social security and losing my hair or teeth.

I’m just not sure. I’ve been hovering between this world and the next, trying to cultivate a saving level of numbness. Love can break through, and it does. Maybe instead of jumping off a roof, I can jump into life. It’s a new idea. It’s somewhat threatening. But I plan to explore it.