Archive for the ‘Horrible Stuff’ Category

The Gucci Dead Animal Shoe, $15,000

Wednesday, October 14th, 2015

gucci shoe 15,000A sharp-eyed reader sent me to this shoe, which looks like it’s trying to run away.

Run, Gucci goat-hair slipper, run as fast as you can!

You know what, the poor thing is dead. Too late.

[These} slippers are one of the most talked-about designs from Alessandro Michele’s debut runway collection. They’re finished with the label’s signature gold horsebit, nestled in the floor-sweeping honey-colored strands that also line the shoe.

The floor-sweeping honey-colored strands of a dead goat is what I see here but let’s try another view.

gucci shoes ew

Now, with feet inside, you can see how these little critters will keep you company all day long, with floaty dresses as well as casual jeans, according to the editor’s styling tips. If they start to get smelly, just blame the goats. If your friends and associates don’t gasp in envy at your edgy taxidermy-driven style, you can show them your receipt for $15,000 and say. “Now what, bitch?”

Sadly, that figure is Hong Kong dollars, so in fact the price is a bargain at only around $1,900 USD.

In France or Russia, these shoes might have sparked a revolution. Here in the US, we just roll our eyes and go off to bed with murder in our hearts.

Death Cafe: Stupid Or Awful?

Thursday, September 17th, 2015

death cafe website

Death Cafe is sort of a coffee klatch for would-be coroners. At present, it’s more of a movement than a physical space, with pop-up Death Cafe’s in 31 countries.

Here’s how Death Cafe defines itself:

At a Death Cafe people, often strangers, gather to eat cake, drink tea and discuss death.

Our objective is ‘to increase awareness of death with a view to helping people make the most of their (finite) lives’

How nice! Because, who doesn’t like death? You can never have enough death, evidently. But here’s what Death Cafe isn’t:

It is a discussion group rather than a grief support or counselling session.

It’s not a spelling class either, but that’s okay. What isn’t okay for me is the concept of death as something cool because, you know, it’s so dark and transgressive. It’s like one big memento mori festival, full of arty skull motifs and and Victorian post-mortem photos.

Death Cafe is a ‘social franchise’. This means that people who sign up to our guide and principles can use the name Death Cafe, post events to this website and talk to the press as an affiliate of Death Cafe.

Yay, we can all host a Death Cafe if we follow the guidelines. I like this one: The main qualities of a host are enthusiasm for talking about death and dying and high ethical standards. That rules me out, since I have ethics but no enthusiasm.

I’m aware that a fetishistic interest in morbid things has long been a feature of hipsterism.  Taxidermy, Day of the Dead artifacts, the Morbid Anatomy Museum, zombies, all those tumblr pictures of dead girls in bathtubs. I get that it seems cool to embrace the taboo.

But this Death Cafe thing, no. A big No.

What a bunch of fatuous fuckers.

Cat Cafes, fine. *Baby Cafes, even better (*as soon as I get the idea off the ground. Contact me if you want to fund my business plan!)

Death is a drag and there’s already so much of it. It isn’t really cute. Let’s not trivialize it.

Calibrating Distress

Monday, August 10th, 2015


For those of you who use ‘social media,’ did you notice how quickly concern for the dead lion evoked angry complaints that ‘black lives matter?’

People weren’t done mourning for whoever they were mourning for and they resented the outrage about the lion. Then some geniuses wrote think-pieces suggesting that it’s not an either/or situation: We could be upset about black lives AND lions.

Me, I don’t know what to feel upset about, or rather, what to put at the top of my list. There is just too much going on.

Mass shootings, police shootings, dead lions, Donald Trump, dead Palestinian baby, starving children in Yemen, transgender teen bullying, more riots in Ferguson, and a little hippo being mauled to death (Daily Mail online, don’t look!)

I couldn’t even feel a thing for the latest movie theater episode, except to feel sorry for Amy Schumer. Am I broken?

I don’t understand why the poor Palestinian baby is worth more discussion that the dying refugees in Yemen, complete with malnourished babies who look like tiny skeletons.

And while we’re on the subject, I was unable to be horrified at Planned Parenthood for marketing fetus organs. If someone wants to abort a fetus, why can’t it be used to promote life elsewhere? Because ‘life begins at conception?’ Why do Americans care so much more about the unborn than the born?

Tonight, there is a woman out on the cliffs near my house, deciding whether to jump. There are helicopters and firetrucks and lots of commotion. I would personally go out to talk to her if I were allowed to. Meanwhile, people on our local community Facebook page are sending their prayers or complaining about the noise. A couple of people want her to jump and get it over with.

I’ll bet you anything that those people are beside themselves about the fucking lion.

The Awfulness Inside The Awfulness

Sunday, June 21st, 2015

littlle shit

Let’s say your dad is a tattooed bully with pierced nipples who had a nasty divorce from your mom before you were even born, and later leaves you with his new wife four days a week.

Let’s say you changed schools six times before you dropped out after repeating ninth grade. Your dad still fights with your mom about visitation, his second wife can’t stand the abuse and finally leaves after dad beats her up.

You’re frail and weird looking and ‘painfully shy’, and you don’t have friends so you spend a lot of time in your room at your computer. No one pays much attention to you until you get kicked out of the local mall for acting strange and the cops find your Suboxone, a drug for opiate users trying to get clean.

Your sister plans her wedding but you’re not invited. She’s registered at Kohl’s.

You’re just an angry little shit with a bad haircut and probably some kind of brain damage from drugs or trauma, and you form some idiotic sub-KKK philosophy just to have someone to despise more than you despise yourself. You take a bunch of stupid pictures of yourself in your room with your Confederate flag, glaring like Robert Di Niro in Taxi Driver only worse.

Why the fuck would someone let you have a gun??

That made all the difference: You were just a little shit but now you’re a monster.


Happy As A Werewolf

Saturday, April 25th, 2015

Niraj Budhathoki, 12, sits under the shade of a tree a normal routine for the villager to spend time under a tree and speak with each others as there are very few televisions or any other means of entertainment at the homes of the villagers at Kharay

Earlier this month, I came across a  story about a family in Nepal who suffer from a genetic disorder known as Congenital Hypertrichosis Lanuginosa (CHL).  It causes excessive body hair growth and is sometimes referred to as “werewolf syndrome.”

The photos by Navesh Chitrakar are staggeringly beautiful. They show a very poor family living in a remote village in Nepal, making regular trips to a hospital in Katmandu for free laser hair-removing treatments.

Despite their unsettling looks, I thought I could perceive a kind of happiness that I’m incapable of achieving.

They are a family,  joined in a team effort to survive poverty and disfigurement. They are surrounded by natural beauty. The children look cared for and happy. They know what matters and what doesn’t.

I’m probably projecting a fantasy on them but it helps me to see how depression not only distorts everything, but how traumatic childhood experiences deprive you of something essential. I don’t feel okay being me. I feel disfigured and unlovable. I find it hard to be at one with nature. I want my mommy.

Devi Budhathoki



Anyway, today I woke up to learn there has been a massive earthquake in Nepal. What about my werewolf family?!? It is unbearable. Are they okay? What about everybody else??

Let’s all give money to relief efforts in Nepal, because we are so blessed, no matter how miserable we are, to have somewhere to sleep tonight and to know where our loved one are.

Doctors Without Borders, Mercy Corps, and CARE.

Eat Already, For Fucksake!

Saturday, November 15th, 2014

please eat

The Ass Age

Wednesday, November 12th, 2014


We have entered The Ass Age, and The Apocalypse is sure to follow. I would like it to hurry up.

I’m not certain about the beginning of The Ass Age. Jennifer Lopez was the precursor many years ago but no one could’ve imagined what was coming.

Astute bible students may have predicted it, though.

And when the ass saw the angel of the LORD, she fell down under Balaam: and Balaam’s anger was kindled, and he smote the ass with a staff.

That’s just one of 143 times the word ‘ass’ appears in the bible. And as we know, Things Happen For A Reason. The Lord was warning us about the worship of asses. And in the fullness of time, it has come to pass.

Kim Kardashian is the Anti-Christ, obviously. We are suffering for her sins. I am, anyway.

That huge ass is following us everywhere, threatening to block out the sun. Maybe it’s causing Climate Change for all we know. It keeps getting bigger. It will need a wheelbarrow or crane or something if it keeps growing at its present rate.

What does that huge ass want from us?

It has already spawned disturbing imitators, especially in the art of hip-hop, who might be the Apostles. How many Apostles were there? I once has an awful wall-hanging depiction of The Last Supper that I used as a rug, but I failed to count the attendees. Were there eight? Ten?

Whatever. Nicki Minaj and Iggy Azalea are two, and Khloe Kardashian makes three. When we get the full cohort, the doomsday clock will strike midnight. The End Times. It will be a bummer for most of us but for others it will come as a blessed relief. No more huge asses taunting us, frightening us, swelling uncontrollably the The Blob.

We will be free.

Dog Dementia

Monday, September 8th, 2014

pico on high alert2

My dog is senile. He is sixteen years old, even though we refused to admit he was getting on.

Living in denial was easy until he lost his mind.

Poor Pico! He is completely nuts. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or where he’s going or what to do when he needs to move backwards or turn around.

He howls for hours. He pants and whines. He often needs help to stand up because his rear legs are so wobbly. He has arthritis and I don’t know what else. The vet advised us that any kind of surgery was out of the question. I like her for not trying to squeeze money out of us.

She’s a wonderful vet even though she’s unsure about penises. My BFF remarked that Pico’s penis is probably the first one she’s seen in years. I think that’s to her credit. She didn’t mind at all when Pico shat on her floor.

I don’t know whether ‘shat’ is a word but I’m using it anyway. My dog has been shitting in the house for more than a week. This ties into my recurring dream that everything is Shit.

This morning, Pico backed himself under a couch and started howling. The more I tried to pull him free, the more he reversed, moving more of his body under the couch and getting stuck. I tried to lift up the couch like mothers can do when their child is underneath a car, but this supermom thing doesn’t seem to work with dogs.

I ran outside and got the drug dealer from the house next to the house next door. He lifted the couch and took a phone call from someone named ‘Josh.’ “I’ll call you in a few minutes, babe” he told Josh.

I am really at a loss here.

Pico still likes his food, even though he forgets where the bowl is. Otherwise, his life seems pretty awful, with all the confusion and anxiety. I personally will not be the one to pull the plug because I’m already permanently traumatized.

Advice, dog owners?

Remembering Jane Aldridge

Sunday, July 13th, 2014

Those were the days, right? I haven’t thought about her until recently, when someone wrote to me, urging me to catch up on her antics. I was too lazy to bother.

But on July 11, I tweeted this:

the terrible tweet

Less than 24 hours later, bam, I received this comment on, waiting to be moderated:


What?  My dead son?  The comment was sent from Denton County, Texas. Guess who lives in Denton County?


What is wrong with people? Is it just Trophy Club or Denton County? Do people understand the concept of losing a child? Hello? Earth to Denton County?

I don’t know what’s worse, the cowardice or the deranged free-floating hatred?

Anyway, get a grip, Jane, Mom or Aunt Karen. This is some fucked up shit.

Stalked By A Gigantic Ass

Saturday, June 28th, 2014

kims-gigantic-asskims-gigantic-ass 22kims-butt-crying2kims-gigantic-ass 333

I can’t stand it. There is no escape. It’s everywhere and it keeps coming after me. I hate it.

I need it to go away. The blank face, too.

Why has it come to this?