Category Archives: blunt

Listen, if the children are our future, we really need to live for today, because the future is BLEAK.

Today, let’s talk about bad decisions. Heh. That always always makes me think of that Bad Idea Jeans Saturday Night Live commercial. I bet I can’t find it on You Tube. Stupid fascist Saturday Night Live. Yep, I’m right. It’s only on Hulu. Anyway, here, watch, it’ll make you laugh. Unless you’re a soulless waste. Then it probably won’t. Also, check out all of that acid wash. Remember acid wash? Talk about bad decisions. We sure thought that was pretty, didn’t we? If you’re too young to remember acid wash, consider yourself lucky.

So I’ve come across some things online lately, and also in life, and I think we need to discuss them. And how bad decisions should be not made. How about not made? Great, good, stop that, thanks.

I don’t have kids. So, listen. I know. I’m not overly qualified to be giving them advice. HOWEVER! I was ONCE a kid. Who made SPECTACULARLY bad decisions. No, no. Not all bad decisions. But some? Yes. Yes, most definitely.

Today, we’re going to discuss five important things you need to stop doing, please. Things that might SEEM like really fun, cool ideas, but I assure you, you’re going to regret them. I am HAPPY to share my experience with you! Well, where I have experience. There are some of these I have no experience in but I KNOW THEY ARE BAD NEWS YO. So! Kiddos! And people that love kiddos! And people who read my blog no matter what I write about! Here, for you! A list of FIVE THINGS YOU SHOULD NOT DO WHEN YOU ARE YOUNG AND THINK YOU ARE INVINCIBLE. (Or even when you are old. Or, ever.)

Sexting/Posting Porn Online

This is SRS BSNS, you guys. There is a NATIONAL CAMPAIGN. (Which cracked me up a little.)

Let’s make up a little scenario, shall we? OK. You’re sixteen. You’re in a relationship with another sixteen year old. You’re all smushy-smushy in love. Aw, you guys. With the PDA and the smooching and the putting your hands in each other’s back pockets when you walk down the hall. (Wait, does that still happen? If that doesn’t happen, replace it with what you kiddos do nowadays, I don’t know.) You’re most likely having sex. That’s what the kids today seem to do. I’d like to tell you to wait to do that, too, but listen, that’s a losing battle. Kids in my day were having all the sex in high school, kids in my PARENTS’ day were doing it, and from what my totally scandalous-tale-telling grandmother tells me, when SHE was in school kids were doing it (and she calls them “SHAMELESS HUSSIES!” and their children “BASTARD CHILDREN!”) so there’s no way I’m going to stop the children from having sex in high school. Your hormones are running high, you’re surrounded by pretty people whose hormones are ALSO running high, and although I don’t think it’s a good IDEA, I can’t STOP you. (Use protection, tater tots. USE PROTECTION. You really don’t want an STD at age 35 that you contacted at age 16. You’re going to be SO MAD at 16-year-old-you.)

Whoo, anyway. So. You’re sixteen, you’re getting it on with your main squeeze. He’s all, “send me a picture of your boobs, Sally!” or “Talk dirty to me, Betty Sue!” and you have a moment of, “Hmm. Should I do that?”


There are many reasons. At the moment it’s happening? You trust that person implicitly. You think they’re forever and ever. How many old people do you know that are married to their high-school sweethearts? Very few. Because THAT SHIT DON’T LAST YO. So, once you’ve broken up, someone’s going to have hurt feelings. And if it’s him with the hurt feelings? You can bet he’s still got that nekkid picture of you. And now EVERYONE YOU KNOW HAS IT. Hope you like everyone seeing your tatas! Including maybe your parents, your siblings, your grandparents, and potential employers!

Your mom’s reaction to getting forwarded your sexts. Don’t you feel proud?

Also, I was pointed in the direction to a site with quite a bit of amateur porn on it recently. I’m kind of the most naive about things, so I alternated shocked-facing and laughing like a moron. YES, I know about PORN. Porn wasn’t what was shocking. That everyday normal people were recording themselves and then posting it online like it was a good idea was the surprising part. These people seemed to be of-age, so that was going for them. But WHAT ARE YOU PEOPLE DOING. Listen, the whole internet doesn’t need to see you plowing your girlfriend on a lawnchair with your socks on while your dog licks the camera.

Rule of thumb: the internet lasts forever. Phones count as the internet. Before you send/write anything online? Assume it’s going to come back to bite you in the ass someday. Are you ok with that? Or would you be mortified? If it’s the latter, DON’T DO IT. (Spoiler alert: it’s always the latter.)

Having Babies in High School on Purpose

I assume this isn’t just a movie-of-the-week thing and it’s really real. And research backs me up. Apparently, high-school girls think that it is cool and it is a status symbol to have a baby in high school, so they PURPOSELY get pregnant in high school, to the point of MAKING A PACT TO DO SO. This seems to be a way to create a little person who will unconditionally love them, and also they think it will make all the people look up to them like they are the coolest.

There was a Lifetime Movie and everything. It isn’t even a joke.

OK. Want another scenario? Cool. So, you get pregnant on purpose at age 16. Everyone pays attention to you! You and your glowy pregnant self and your cute pregnant belly! And you get showers, and presents, and you get to put together a crib, and WHOO! What an ADVENTURE! Then you have a BABY! And aw, little FINGERS and little TOES!

That baby cries a lot. And you’re expected to get up with it. Like, at 3am. No one else does it. This puts a little crimp in your lifestyle, but listen, people come over and see you, and the baby, and lavish all the attention on you, and you are SO POPULAR ZOMG.

Then it’s time for college. All your friends, they are going to college. Are you going to college? Nope. You are not. You have a baby, you see. They are full of plans and schemes and such. They don’t have a lot of time to come over and hang with you and your baby, who’s actually not as cute and baby-like anymore, and more little-human-like. Huh. You’re not getting a lot of attention. And the baby’s not giving you any attention, other than crying all the time. As babies do.

So you’re kind of trapped. Everyone’s moving on, and the little person you created to give you unconditional love isn’t even able to vocalize yet. Well, other than the screaming. The constant screaming.

“Oh, you’re all going off to a concert? Great, I’ll just…um…stay here, with the baby. That’s fine! Have fun! Ha! Ha ha! I WISH I WAS DEAD.”

Maybe, just maybe? It wasn’t a good idea to have a baby yet. Just a thought.

Listen, I don’t have anything against babies. I think I’d be very, very bad at being a mom. I’m an excellent aunt, but I think part of that is because I can give The Nephew back at the end of the day. I’m not patient and I’m don’t have enough free time and a kajillion other reasons, blah blah blah. I can’t even imagine that having one in high school ON PURPOSE is a good idea. I couldn’t even handle one now and I’m well on my way to middle age. I knew a girl in high school who was pregnant and hid it until she just about gave birth; I knew a bunch of us who sang the entire damn Hallelujah chorus in the high school bathrooms when we got our periods and didn’t get pregnant from making stupid choices like not using enough or correct birth control.

Don’t create a little person whose sole purpose in life is to love you and to make people love you. That’s a lot of pressure on that little baby’s shoulders. That little baby shouldn’t have that kind of pressure. Cut that right out.

If You Do Have That Ill-Advised Baby, Don’t Name it Something Ridiculous

You’re going to name me Chystyph’yr? WHY DO YOU HATE ME MOM?

I found this article yesterday and I almost spit-took.

This person let her toddler name her child. Her toddler named her child after its favorite thing, and therefore she ended up with a second child named Spongebob.


Well, at least one person’s happy. Or, thing. One thing’s happy.

I also work at that answering service, and we answer for a lot of pediatric offices. So I talk to a lot of moms who need medical advice for their children. And people name their children VERY STUPID THINGS.

I feel terrible telling you what those things are, because what if those kids do a search someday, and they find their name? Because it’s not their fault their parents were asshats.

Yes, sure, these kids could change their names when they become old enough. That doesn’t change the fact that they have to go through 18 years of teachers pronouncing their names wrong in front of classrooms, kids picking on them for it, explaining their parents’ choices, etcetera ad infinitum.

Do not name your child something that is a brand name. Do not name your child something with a lot of apostrophes in it. Do not name  your child something that rhymes with something gynecological or scatological. THINK OF YOUR CHILD’S WELL-BEING. Here’s a quick rule: would you want that name? Yes? Great, legally change your name to that. Don’t do it to your kid.

Also, putting a shit-ton of “y”s into a name to make it different so that it stands out from all the other same names – for example, there are a million Camerons, but there’s only one Cymyryn! STOP IT. It looks like a stripper name. Do you want your daughter (hell, or son) to strip? Do you really? Because if you do, keep naming them things like Mydysyn and Cymyryn and Shynnyn. THESE HAVE NO VOWELS.


Listen, were there drugs when I was a kid? Of course there were. Did I do them? Well, not when I was in high school. I was not cool enough, come on.

When I was a kid, the drugs of choice were really bad pot and alcohol. That’s it. I don’t know if we even knew anything else existed. When I got to college, sometimes people would find things like hash. Oh, and the pot was of better quality. I don’t know that I knew anyone who did much of anything else. We couldn’t afford it, basically. We were pretty practical.

As I got older, I became acquainted with people who thought it was a good idea to try other things. Cocaine. Acid. (Oh, the hour-long conversation with the guy who wanted to describe his recent acid trip to me. NO ONE CARES THAT THE POSTERS ON THE WALL WERE TALKING TO YOU, GOOBER.)

I’m not telling you I never, ever did any drugs. I AM telling you I no LONGER do any drugs, because I don’t like chemically inducing myself to be stupid. And I am ALSO telling you that I was always way too much of a chickenshit to do much of anything, because I watched too many afterschool specials and very special episodes of primetime television as a child. I’M SO EXCITED I’M SO SCARED.


So apparently kids are drinking hand sanitizer? Soaking tampons with vodka and inserting them? And doing…what…something?…to Robitussin so it becomes a drug? And calling it “robotripping” because AREN’T YOU CLEVER?

Really? Cough medicine and hand sanitizer? REALLY?

And now there’s this “bath salts” nonsense that makes you “experience a mix of physical and psychological symptoms…can cause excited delirium and severe hallucinations…can become violent and suicidal…super-human strength, and long-lasting euphoria or paranoia.”

I get it. Kids are creative. That’s good! That means they’re thinking. With their thinkers. Nice. HOWEVER. I don’t know that you need to be using your thinkers for coming up with new and creative ways to get high, especially when those highs are making you INSANE.

I get it. It’s like sex. Kids want to try this, and there’s no way we’re going to stop them. I GET IT. But seriously, kiddos. Much like the 35-year-old-you is going to be pissed at the 16-year-old-you for getting that disgusting STD, the 35-year-old-you is going to be pretty pissed at good-times-you for thinking killing the part of your brain that remembers math problems because you just had to drink the Purell, you know? STOP BEING IDIOTIC. I know your impulse control is in the negative numbers right now, but come on. No one can think that putting a tampon soaked in vodka up your hooha is a good idea. THAT IS NOT WHAT YOUR COOCH IS FOR. Come right on. Be nicer to your cooch. You’re going to want that someday for fun-times.

Texting While Driving

OK. Again, I’m not going to stop any of you from doing this. EVERYONE does this. Top-secret news? I’ve totally done this myself. Thing is, I only do it at stoplights. I’m too scared to do otherwise. I am easily distractable and just know I’ll die if I do it and attempt to operate a moving vehicle.

Kids aren’t very good drivers to begin with. Add them not even having their eyes on the road because they’re WRITING A LITTLE MESSAGE on a TEENY TINY KEYBOARD, and, well, listen, you’re going to kill someone I care about.


I promise whatever it is can wait. I promise. Listen, like I said. I don’t like being separated from my phone that long, either. I’m obsessed with it. But if I can do it, you can, too. Also, there’s this voice-to-text option now. Maybe that? Maybe you can use that. Because if you kill someone I care about because you’re texting while driving, I’m going to get totally stabby.

OK, kiddos, and others, what have we learned today?

Well, to boil it all down into one sentence:


Easy, right? I know. I totally give the best advice. If you have questions about whether or not you should do something? Ask. I’ll let you know. I’m happy to help. I actually kind of like teens, even though most people think they’re annoying. They mean well, even though they wear inappropriately-low tops and their jeans are too big.

Oh! AND, to continue our week of Bloggiversary celebrations!

Your sixth-most-popular blog post of the WHOLE ENTIRE YEAR!

Nothing Good Has Ever Come from Use of a Ouija Board, Dummy

I am perplexed about this one. It’s not overly…well, funny. Or even good. I have no idea why this is the sixth-most-popular post of the entire year. None. (Again, sorry about the formatting. Stupid Blogger import. I’m not allowed to fix them, apparently.) It’s about horror movies. And what’s scary/funny/stupid. It’s fine, it’s not garbage. It’s just a perplexing choice for one of the top posts of the YEAR, you know? Huh. I don’t know, who am I to fight with the VOICE OF THE PEOPLE?I can’t even tell you what we’ve learned from this one because I’m perplexed. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Remember! Comment on yesterday’s post in order to be entered to win a totally awesome gift box of…um…stuff! That will be awesome!

Happy Monday, people! Tomorrow at this time, I’ll be with Susie. WITH SUSIE. In my favorite city in all the land! I’m so excited I could just about die. Oh, and PEE ESS, thank you powers that be for keeping planes up when appropriate and landing them when appropriate so both Susie and Ken got to their places in one piece. I freak out a little when my people are traveling. I like when I get the “all clear I AM OK AMY” messages. I know. I’m a little nuts. YOU STILL LOVE ME THOUGH.

Shut your mouth; try not to panic. Just shut your mouth, if you can do it.

Here we are and it’s the weekend. Listen, has it been the longest week for everyone else, too? No? Just me? GRAND. 

I’ve been having multiple run-ins with hard-to-deal-with people lately. You know the type. They start talking and you IMMEDIATELY want to stab a letter opener in either their mouth hole or your ear hole just to make it stop. Or they send you email and you see their name pop up on your screen and you just want to weep because you know it’s going to make you have to deal with nonsense on a scale not yet even imagined. Or you see them coming and you start scoping out the exits, the hiding places, and running though your list of excuses for escape in your mind. Have you used gallbladder inflammation recently? How about the gout. WILL THEY BUY IT IF YOU SAY YOU HAVE THE GOUT? 

Then I thought, you know, I can’t be alone in this. I see a lot of examples on Facebook and on Twitter and hear from people the complaints of “ZOMGGGGGG I hate this person or that person” or whatever. Most people don’t say they want to stab them in the mouth hole with a letter opener, though. I’m just a little more open about my emotions. Or maybe insane. OR BOTH. 

So today, FOR YOU, and also a little for me, (FINE MOSTLY FOR ME) I did some research on how best to deal with people that make you want to get stab-stab-stabalicious with office supplies. I think this will all benefit us in the long run, don’t you? YES IT WILL. 

Here is an article with ten tips for dealing with annoying people. Now first, I looked up “how to deal with DIFFICULT people” and was NOT pleased with the results. Because apparently, “difficult” people is not the SAME as “annoying” people. “Difficult” people is people who, I don’t know, make you work too hard or something. “Annoying” people are the letter-opener-mouth-hole-stabbees. Good to know. I like to be precise. 

I liked this article because it started with a Jean-Paul Sartre quote about hell being other people. I am TOTALLY DOWN WITH THAT. Other people are totally hellacious. Also the website is Bloomlife Design. BLOOMLIFE. Doesn’t that sound calming and restful like green tea and calm breezes? Totally does. 

So this woman (whose name is ALSO Amy, nice) tells us that we should: 

Remember we are not mind-readers. What? I’m NOT? No, I KID, this is actually kind of awesome. She says that we tend to make up stories in our minds as to WHY the annoying person is acting the way they do. And then we react, based on the imaginary story we’ve concocted. ZOMG, Also Amy! I totally do this ALL THE TIME! For example: a very annoying person I know who never shuts his big yapper so you are caught in these 17 million year long conversations that could be finished in only five minutes if he would SHUT HIS YAPPER? I’ve decided he is lonely, pathetic and sad, and no one loves him or will talk to him, therefore he gloms onto ANY SOCIAL INTERACTION HE CAN FIND and then SPINS IT OUT AS LONG AS HE IS ABLE. Now, do I KNOW he is unlovable, sad, and pathetic? Nope. Made that story up in my head. No idea, really. Just gleaned that from MULTIPLE INTERMINABLE CONVERSATIONS with him. So maybe the next time I talk to him (or am “sucked into a black hole of conversation,” as I like to call it) I should go into it thinking, “This is a person with a LIVELY SOCIAL LIFE! And he has DEIGNED to STOOP to TALK to LITTLE OLD ME!!!!” I think this will make these conversations, which, up until now, are on an enjoyment level akin to being drawn and quartered, SO MUCH BETTER. What. It will. It will, right? 

Stop and breathe. OK, let’s continue on with Mr. Shut Your Yapper. The next time he starts talking, I’m going to just start breathing. Heavily. Panting, almost. Like I’m doing Lamaze. If nothing else, it might scare him off. THESE ARE EXCELLENT TIPS SO FAR. Let’s keep this up, Other Amy! 

Ask yourself, “how is this person reflecting my shadow?” I know, this sounds like annoying dirty hippie crap, right? According to Other Amy, this means we should realize that what annoys us most about the other person is that they’re just doing something WE OURSELVES OFTEN DO. I kind of take exception to this. I NEVER trap people in conversations they don’t want to be in. Because I hate people and don’t want to talk to them. Usually, my conversations are thus: “Here. A thing. You know what to do with it? Good. Problems? Find me. Thanks.” Then I wander off. I mean, if I LOVE you, then I probably talk your ear off. But you’d want me to, if we were friends. Wouldn’t you? Because I’m the most fun and totally scintillating. So I’m pretty sure Mr. Shut Your Yapper doesn’t have my shadow. Unless this is a Peter Pan situation and he STOLE my shadow. If that’s the case, he’d better give that shit back. I don’t like petty thievery. 

Take your own advice! This one is confusing, because it’s telling us not to give people advice. I NEVER give Mr. Shut Your Yapper advice. Why would I do that? It would make our conversation LONGER. Mostly I just nod. And eye the exits seductively. Oh, wait, I just re-read this. It says to think about what advice you’d give the person, then give that advice to YOURSELF. OK, the advice I’d give to Yappy McYapYap is to SHUT  HIS BIG YAPPER and also CONSOLIDATE HIS INFO INTO SMALLER CHUNKS and STOP BOTHERING PEOPLE. Also maybe notice the trapped look in his audience’s eyes when he has buttonholed them into conversations. Buttonholed? Is that right? That doesn’t seem right. Maybe it’s cornholed. Yep, I’m pretty sure he cornholes people into conversations. Now I feel better. Again, as noted above, my conversations in real life are usually terse, as I hate people. Wait, am I supposed to use this information HERE? On my BLOG? I refuse to accept that. That would just make me the saddest. Here is where I blather. I LOVE TO BLATHER HERE. I won’t take that advice, Other Amy. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME. 

Stop writing a script for other people. This is smart: it says if people don’t react the way you expect them to, you shouldn’t get upset by it, because it’s not their fault; they don’t know that you expect them to act a certain way, and it’s not fair of you to expect people to act a certain way, anyway. So I SUPPOSE I don’t get to expect Mr. Shut Your Yapper to STOP WASTING MY DAMN TIME and LET ME GO HOME NOW. I guess it’s too much to ask to expect people to have a clue. That’s sad, but I suppose it’s true. I’d be the best at writing a script, though. Let’s just be clear about that. It would have INTRIGUE and SUSPENSE and MANY PLOT TWISTS. 

Realize when you’re annoyed, you’re annoying. I AM? I don’t think that’s the case. I think I’m PISSED when I’m annoyed. I think I’m RANTY when I’m annoyed. I think I’m sometimes even FURIOUS when I’m annoyed. ANNOYING is a whole different ballgame, now isn’t it? Annoying is when I’m giggly and everything cracks me up when you’re trying to tell me a serious thing like “Aunt Judy fell in a well” or something. Annoying is when I’m exhausted and I keep yawning when you’re trying to get me to pay attention. Annoying is when I can’t stay on topic in a story or say “totally” or “OMG!!!!” way too much in one conversation. When I’m ANNOYED, I’m not ANNOYING. I think the two can be mutually exclusive. 

Ask yourself, “How do I benefit by continuing to be so annoyed?” Ugh, this kind of hippie-dippie granola shit makes me INSANE. I do NOT benefit. I do NOT want to be annoyed. However. HOWEVER. Mr. Shut Your Yapper WILL NOT SHUT HIS YAPPER. How can I NOT be annoyed by this? Frankly, I was hoping this list would be a little more helpful. I’m beginning to wonder if I don’t have anger management issues that would be best treated by a professional. Or if I don’t need a hired assassin to take care of this situation. OH IF ONLY I KNEW A HIRED ASSASSIN. 

Find your tribe. This is nice. Apparently, there are people who spend all day and all night trying to win over the entire world, when they should just find their tribe because those people will NOT need winning over and will just love them. AW YOU GUYS. I TOTALLY have my tribe. Even BETTER, I have MULTIPLE EFFING TRIBES. I have FAMILY tribe and I have THEATER tribe and I have TWITTER tribe and I have BLOG tribe and I have IRL FRIENDS tribe. That’s five tribes. There’s even SPILLOVER from some tribes into other tribes. I’m totally a tribe ho. I guess Rush Limbaugh was right about my sluttishness. I’m not attempting to win anyone over because I am pretty honey badger about that shit at this point in my life. I mean, sure. Is it nice to be liked? Yep. But after an attempt or two that gets rebuffed, I’m like the wind. JUST LIKE THAT PATRICK SWAYZE SONG. I don’t have time for haters right now. I dealt with that for years. I’m not doing it anymore. If you don’t like me, that’s really totally on you. But I don’t need to be around your negative energy, and I don’t have to kill myself trying to win your negative ass over. So I’m outta here, Sally. Go be a complete bitchface on someone else’s watch. I GOTS ME FIVE TRIBES YO. 

Say no when you mean no. OH HELL YES. I really have to get better at this. I have one thing I’m really into right now. It’s all I want to do. But I keep saying yes to ALL THE OTHER THINGS. And they take time away from the one thing I WANT to be doing. Because listen, I like the other things, I do, very much, but they are TIME CONSUMING and also they bring unnecessary people, like Mr. Shut Your Yapper, into my talking space. You know who I want in my talking space? Dumbcat. The Nephew, if he’s visiting. Because other people in my talking space MAKE IT VERY HARD FOR ME TO DO THE THINGS I WANT TO BE DOING. I need to start saying no, and I need to start saying it LOUDER and MEANING IT THIS TIME. 

Remember, others cannot read your mind. What? They can’t? Oh, shit, and here I thought I was all magically projecting my thoughts like a boss. Eff. Here’s the thing. I’m not ASKING that Mr. Shut Your Yapper read my mind. Because I have ASKED him to stop it. Well, I haven’t flat-out said, “Mr. Shut Your Yapper, why don’t you shut that flapping yapper before I stab you with this here letter opener,” but I’ve asked, nicely, in a NUMBER of ways, for him to go to others with his multitudinous issues/problems/complaints/venting sessions/mouthhole flappery. I mean, I don’t want to hurt his feelings. No, that’s not true, I don’t give two good shits about his feelings. But without saying too much, it would be against my better interest to piss this guy off to the point he leaves, because his positives outweigh his negatives. Only by the TINIEST BITTIEST BIT, but they do. No, I’m not asking Mr. Shut Your Yapper to read my damn mind. But how about he picks up some cues, both body-languagey and facial-expressiony? Or actually pays attention when I give him options of other people that might be more helpful than I would? 

I don’t know how overly helpful this website was. It wasn’t the worst thing. But it didn’t magically make Mr. Shut Your Yapper disappear, either. DAMMIT. I was so hoping it would.

So it’s letter openers, hired assassins, or anger management, I guess? Listen, I don’t really have time for all of these things, I’m a busy lady.


Or, man, do I EVER feel a flareup of that GOUT coming on. WHOO THE GOUT. 


Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.

I know. I KNOW. I am so super-behind. It’s been a day. A TOTAL DAY.  I am so sorry if I caused you WORRY OR STRIFE.

So first I got to work and there was SO SO SO MUCH WORK. And we got new carpet but it’s totally swirly and makes you feel like you’re walking in an optical illusion and you’re going to pass out or maybe fall in a black hole if you step wrong, I don’t know. It’s weird. Wait. I will find you an illustration.

No, this totally isn’t it but I found it on Google Images and it make me laugh. Apparently somewhere someone illustrated a book with a photo of a carpet that was “reported” to cause symptoms of motion sickness and self-motion. If I felt like doing more research I probably could do so but I’m totally the most sleepy, no joke. I wish our office carpet would self-motion me right out the damn door. Why doesn’t that shit happen ever?

So then I worked and worked and worked and WORKED and then I had a doctor’s appointment at Doctor Ernie’s office because my uterus is trying to kill me. No, I’m totally serious. I thought of this this weekend? And I decided. MY ENTIRE BODY IS IN REVOLT. Yes. My body is revolting. HA HA HA.

No, seriously, think about this. Like, your body is like a little TEAM, right, and it’s all supposed to work together, for the most part? I mean, sometimes you break a bone or get an infection or something, but overall, it’s supposed to be this little army, all marching in time, following orders and such. MINE IS IN REVOLT. I have the health problems of a 85-year-old woman.

My brain doesn’t work correctly and tends to run toward the depressive end of the spectrum. Oh, also all the migraines. Don’t forget all the migraines.

My thyroid pitched a friggin’ coup and we had to assassinate that little dictator and remove him from rule altogether.

My entire digestive tract seems to constantly hate me for some reason.

My tastebuds hate all but like, four things.

My balance is completely off, which I think is an inner-ear thing.

My eyes haven’t worked right since kindergarten.

I have flat feet. With weird crooked toes because I’ve broken most of them at one point or another.

I have allergies year-round, not just seasonally like normal people.

I can’t sleep without chemical enhancement and haven’t been able to since I was thirteen.

My blood is poison and I can’t even donate it because I have MAD COW DISEASE which I totally don’t have but the Red Cross thinks I do.

My pancreas kind of shit the bed a few years back, which has been a ton of fun.

My cholesterol levels are psychotic.

Also, whoever told you that your acne would clear up when you got out of puberty was a TOTAL LIAR. Ok, no, maybe it cleared up for SOME of you. Some of you lucky, happy, shiny people who have all the shiny happy clear skin the minute you graduated high school or something, I don’t know. SOME OF US ARE STILL WAITING FOR THAT DAY.

At one point I had kidney stones. Have you ever had kidney stones? I’d say I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy, but I totally would, so that would be a lie. THEY ARE A NIGHTMARE WRAPPED IN A CLOWN COSTUME OVERRUN WITH SPIDERS RIDING ON COCKROACHES.

BUT LISTEN. I totally still have my…um, I guess, liver? And…um…gallbladder? Those are handy things to have, surely.

And yeah. So anyway, my uterus has been trying to kill me since I was, I don’t know, thirteen? Fourteen? Something like that. So the last doctor (who you’ll remember was THE DEVIL) put me on the pills of insanity. The pills of insanity made me have the emotional intensity of a teenager for a week and a half every month. THIS IS NOT GOOD TIMES. Seriously. There was CRYING over NOT HAVING ICE CREAM SANDWICHES at one point. No one wants to go back to when they were fourteen with the mood swings. No one wants that.

So Doctor Ernie thinks he can fix it  – and, best of all, I CAN GET RID OF THE PILLS ZOMG – so today I went in to have a wee little procedure done. Oh, also it’s the “I can now have all the sex” procedure. So that’s nice. LINE UP GENTLEMEN. However, when reading up on this wee little procedure, I immediately became PETRIFIED because some of the warnings were “take at least four Ibuprofen NO MORE THAN THIRTY MINUTES beforehand and may God have mercy on your soul” and “you’re going to want to take at least a day off, maybe more” and “OH HELP ME OH NO NO OH NO” and such.

I have a pretty high pain threshhold. But one time I thought “meh” when someone told me I was going to be in pain and I would want someone to drive me home and I ended up almost going off the road because I almost passed out.

So I went into this SO SO SO SCARED. You know, of death. And also of passing out. And pain. Things like that. Just little things.

So I showed up and first they sat me down in a room and took vitals and were all, “why’s your blood pressure so high” OH I DON’T KNOW SCARED OF THE PAIN I GUESS and then they wanted me to pee in a cup. I HATE PEEING INTO A CUP SO MUCH. Also, I had totally just peed. No one told me I had to come in prepared for peeing. So I said, “I am not prepared to pee. Why do I need to pee?” and the nurse said, “we need to verify that you’re not pregnant.” So after I laughed so hard I almost knocked over the blood pressure machine, I assured them that nothing, even an Angel of the Lord, had been a knockin’ at heaven’s door lately, thank you very much, so we were good. They looked skeptical. I was touched that they thought I was already getting all the sex. I tried to explain that NO, I was THERE to be PREPARED to have all the sex, and I think they just told me they would do without the urine sample to stop me from talking. I WON THE URINE SAMPLE BATTLE YO.

Then I was ushered into a waiting room and assured that the Nurse Practitioner would be RIGHT WITH ME so just take off my pants. I wanted to make a fun joke like “Yeah, that’s what they all say” but mostly I just wanted this over with because ALL THE PAIN TIME WAS COMING. So I’m all pantless and shit and waiting and waiting and WAITING and no one showed up FOR OVER TWENTY MINUTES, what am I, made of PATIENCE? so I totally nefariously got my phone out of my bag and Twitter kept me entertained. There were only so many times I could read the “you need to be tested for HPV” sign on the wall. It didn’t even have any photos. Listen, LISTEN, if you don’t have the best Twitter friends ever I feel sorry for you. Ken sent me photos of both his dogs AND his socks that looked like cows, for example. These things kept me from freaking right the hell out.

OH WAIT! Holy hell! I have new Twitter! I HAVE NEW TWITTER! Can I show you the sock tweet now? MAYBE I CAN!

(SIDE NOTE: I, of course, did not TELL anyone I was going in to possibly experience all the pain because I don’t like telling people my business before it happens, only after. Because it seems like fishing for sympathy. Jim says probably I can just say, “I’m weird, very weird” and people will understand. I don’t know. I don’t think that’s the MOST weird. I just don’t tell people my personal shit beforehand because then they’re all, “hope you’re ok” and stuff and then you feel like a sad sack. I don’t want to feel like a sad sack. I want it to be over so I can make fun of it so then I’m in CONTROL of it. Or, as Jim so succinctly put it, “Just tell people you’re weird. Very weird.”)

Ooh, I’m totally EMBEDDING JIM’S TWEET NOW. I’m high on this new-Twitter power, you guys, I can’t even.

OK. Anyway, the Nurse Practitioner came in and was all, “oh! Sorry for the delay. TECHNICAL PROBLEMS.” You know. Because nothing makes you feel more comfortable about getting your bits prodded than knowing something’s going terribly wrong, am I right?

I’m going to leave out the icky gory bits. You know. Because sometimes LESS IS MORE. Ha! Ha ha. Like I’ve ever ever ever gone by THAT philosophy. WHOO. No, but seriously, I’m leaving out the ick.

I’ll sum it up with:

  1. It hurt. A LOT. But probably not as much as other things I’ve had happen to me or have had done to me so I guess it’s all relative.

When it was done, the NP came up and said, “So, on a scale of 1-10, how high is your pain?” and I totally snort-laughed because it made me feel like I was on Grey’s Anatomy. No one ever asked me anything like that before. So I was all, “Um…more than the time I dropped the hammer on my foot but less than the time I fell and bruised my tailbone? I’m really bad with numbers,” and she was all, “DON’T SIT UP I’LL BE BACK IN FIVE MINUTES.” Well! That was troubling. Of course me and my huge gigantic mouth wanted to know why I couldn’t sit up. Like, were parts of me going to fall off?

NO. Listen to THIS.

“Touching your cervix can cause a vasal reaction that can cause some patients to pass out in a delayed way, so you need to stay prone for at least five minutes.”

WHAT? That is NOT A MEDICAL THING I HAVE EVER EVEN HEARD OF. A DELAYED passing-out reaction? From poking around in my bits? This should probably be documented and people should be notified because it is FASCINATING. Also, it seems like it could have some sort of practical application, like you could use this and then leave and people would PASS OUT and no one could blame you or something. I’m sure the military is already working on this.

So I waited around all ouch ouch OUCH and then she came back and wanted ANOTHER number and I was all, “I don’t know, 3?” and she said I had to stay there for ANOTHER five minutes but Twitter kept me entertained so whatever. Then A DIFFERENT nurse came in and asked about my pain number and this time I was all, “ONE!” because I wanted to go home, I had blogging to do. But! This nurse said I could sit up, but then I had to stay SITTING for FIVE MORE MINUTES. ZOMG. I think I am more familiar with the landscape of this exam room than I am with my own bedroom at this point. So I was SO BORED and tweeting and then after about three minutes I totally got dressed and left and only KIND OF got dizzy one time but that was totally my fault.

SO. Now I have to go back in three weeks and get checked out again and then I am GOOD TO GO and also to have all the sex, probably with my newfound PUA skills from yesterday.

ALSO! So, in “the world is full of assholes” news, there are a lot of people who don’t want women to have access to birth control. Because it’s totally like killing babies, I guess? Or because it encourages sex outside of marriage for whore women (which begs the question, are these women having sex ALONE? Aren’t the men they’re having sex WITH just as to blame?) And one of my FAVORITE HUMAN BEING EVER Rick Santorum’s biggest financial backers said something the other day about how he didn’t understand why birth control was a big deal because back in his day (he’s like 102 years old) “gals” (ugh, I hate the word “gal”, it sounds phlegmy and it’s so demeaning) used to use “an aspirin between their knees” for birth control. I can only assume this means it kept their whore, whore knees together so they weren’t getting pregnant. ASIDE FROM THE FACT THAT IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO YOU MISOGYNISTIC PIECE OF SHIT, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I can think of three positions just off the top of my head where I could SAFELY keep that aspirin ensconced and still make me a baby. Use your imagination, Mr. Burns.

ANYWAY. Here’s the issue I have. BIRTH CONTROL IS NOT JUST ABOUT BIRTH CONTROL. There are people – I AM ONE – who use it because WE HAVE BROKEN UTERUSES. Without getting too graphic? Birth control makes us work on a regular cycle again. If we don’t, we run a very high risk of uterine cancer. So, Santorum and Co., are you telling me that I shouldn’t have access to something that would prevent me from getting cancer? Just on the off chance I might ALSO use it to have all the sex?

Keep your religious nose out of my cooch. No pun intended. Ew.

OH! OK, SIDE NOTE if you got this far. Also, yay for getting this far. Remember, back in January, I warned you all that it’s tax season and I might not post in a timely fashion, and some days not at all? IT’S HAPPENING. THERE’S SOMETHING IN THE FOG. (Sorry, that slips in there sometimes.) I’m swamped, I’m trying to run a show at my theater, and I can’t always come home and have a post ready for you the next day. PLEASE DO NOT FREAK OUT. I love you to pieces but sometimes life has to happen for me, too. And these take about two hours to write. Like, last night, when I got home from the theater, I COULD have written one? But I wanted to sit on my couch with Dumbcat and watch zombies eating people’s faces. SOMETIMES I WANT TO VEG.

I thank you so much for reading and I love your faces and I promise promise promise, like I said back in January, you are always on my miiiiiind, but it’s tax season. I’m sometimes shower-weeping with exhaustion. So no freaking out, tiger-lilies. Sometimes I won’t be here between now and the end of April. Sometimes I have to look after my own mental health. Find me a way to make this thing pay as much as my full-time job and you’ve got me posting every day on a schedule, but until then, I’m at the mercy of THE MAN. Also of MY OWN EXHAUSTION.

Also! Follow me on Twitter, if you’re on there. Link’s to your right, over there. If I’m not posting that day or I’m going to be late late late or whatever, I’ll try to let you know.


Normal people don’t sit at home and look at porn on the internet.

I'll be the one rocking and crying in the corner over here, okay, thanks. Ugh.

OK, this post is totally NSFW. Well, it’s Saturday, so probably you’re not AT work. Unless you’re me. Or my coworkers. Then you’re totally at work. And you’re miserable, because your job sucks and the callers are mean and also the thingamobobbers in the chairs that lift them up to a reasonable height aren’t working so you’re sitting like two inches above the floor and you have to reach UP to get to the keyboard, so you feel like maybe you’re in hell.

But anyway. Yeah, I’m not kidding about the NSFW-y-ness of this post. It’s porny, you guys. TOTALLY PORNY. Yet I’m fairly sure I finished it with the minimum of cusses. Do you know why? Because I’m as talented as I am lovely. SHUT UP I AM. So anyway! Yes. If you are of a delicate constitution, or if you don’t like perviness, or for whatever reason you’re all “no no not today my good sir” then you can come back tomorrow. What am I blogging about tomorrow? I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. What do I look like, a Magic 8-Ball of blog topics?

One of my most amazing and lovely friends brought a situation to my attention that I think needs to be addressed. She would have liked to address it herself, but she is currently job-hunting, and does not think it would be the best course of action to post about this in such a way that maybe a potential employer could read this and be all, “Hmm. Maybe we will NOT hire her, because of the dirty.”

I have promised to keep her anonymous, and SO I SHALL. Let’s just leave it at, I adore her, she is awesome, and she kicks SO MUCH ASS, you guys, seriously, and my life is infinitely a richer place for having her in it.

ANYWAY, enough of the love for my anonymous friend. I need to give her a top-secret anonymous name. Let’s call her Rose. Because she’s gorgeous, but you don’t want to push her too far. BECAUSE THORNS. (Metaphorical thorns, obviously. She’s not all thorny. She’s not like that guy that grew bark on his arms. DO YOU REMEMBER THAT GUY. Ugh. That grossed me out SO BADLY. What? You have no idea what I’m talking about? THIS GUY. You’re welcome. And ew.) Thorns of WORDS. Barbed, awesome, perfect-for-any-situation words.

Anyway, Rose emailed me and said, hey, Amy, so I was thinking, this needs to be addressed, because it’s obviously a very serious problem. And today I looked into it, and ZOMG you guys. SUCH A PROBLEM.

What’s the problem, Amy? I can hear you asking. Yes, I can totally hear you, I have ears like a damn BAT, I’m telling you.

The problem is: taking nude photos of yourself to send to people online. Or to post online. Or otherwise for online consumption.

Now, before you get all up-in-arms and all “But AMY, it’s a DIGITAL AGE, we’re all DATING ONLINE, how ELSE are we supposed to BE INTIMATE” – just wait a second, slappy, I’m not finished.

For the most part – FOR THE MOST PART – sending nudie pictures of yourself to someone is NOT A GOOD IDEA. Let me reiterate, using smaller words. Do. Not. Send. Nude. Pix. On. Line.

Here is why, in list form for easy consumption:

  1. Most than likely, that relationship isn’t going to last. And you’re going to spend the rest of your life waiting for the other shoe to drop. The other naked, naked shoe. And for your mom to email you all, “Hey, your Aunt Matilda just emailed me this, she saw it on Facebook, is this your cooch? Why does someone have a photo of your cooch?”
  2. Naked photos aren’t that sexy. Sorry. They just aren’t. Being naked WITH someone? Totally sexy. Don’t get me wrong! I love some good alone time. But naked photos? Not really all that sexy. Like, you of course have to SAY they’re sexy. You have to be all, “Wow! That sure is…a large…photographic rendering…of your…swimsuit area! BAD TOUCH!” but mostly you’re thinking, “this would be a lot sexier in person. This is kind of a letdown, all-told.”
  3. What if you become a big famous famous person. You know that person you THOUGHT was worth sending tit-shots to is selling your photos to Extra for like $17.50 because they need that money to buy Ho-Hos. And then, MORE CALLS FROM YOUR MOM. “Honey? I just saw your boobies on Extra! Why does Extra have your boobies on my television set?”
  4. What if you’re emailing that photo and you accidentally send it to the wrong person? There is NO WAY you’re getting out of that one, Perv McPerverson.
  5. If you are in elected office, NEVER SEND NAKED PICTURES. There’s never a good time to do this. Not ever. Not even, like, if someone’s holding your mom hostage and tells you they won’t shoot her in her head if you send them a photo of your wang. DON’T DO IT; IT IS A TRAP.

But let’s say, hey, you’re in a committed relationship. Or, maybe you decide, hey, everyone’s doing it, this guy that I’ve known for like two weeks seems totally trustworthy, WHAT’S THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN. (This is not a good idea; please see notes 1-5 above.) Or, barring that, you just totally like to send naked photos of yourself to people. What? You want advice? I WILL GIVE IT TO YOU.

Rose pointed me in the direction of this website. IT IS NOT SAFE FOR WORK. Or children. Or people who like to NOT bleach their eyeballs after looking at the interwebs. Listen, if you click on that link, it’s not going to give you a virus, as it’s just a Tumblr. But if it DID give you a virus, it would be syphilis.

At first, I was just very confused, because she said there was a lot of porn on the site and it was just people wearing Guy Fawkes masks. (SIDE NOTE. Guy Fawkes masks give me the shivers. No, seriously. I think they are the worst. I think they are nightmare material. I think they are horrific. So this website is NOT AT ALL SEXY TO ME. It is FALSE ADVERTISING to call this SexyFawkes.) I couldn’t understand what was sexy about this, as it was just random people standing around in Guy Fawkes masks, and then I went into the archives, because Rose is one of the smartest people I know so I knew she wasn’t a liar, and HOLY HELL, PEOPLE.

I’m totally a prude and WHOA NELLY. ALL THE PORN. In those creeptastic masks. THIS IS AWFUL.

Apparently, from what I can tell, people send in photos of themselves in these masks that I think my death will wear when it comes for me and they can be doing whatever they want, as long as they’re wearing the mask. No, I’m not 100% sure what the point is, either, if there indeed is one. I guess to be famous? On the internets? Things that they have chosen to be doing: standing around aimlessly; showing me their bits; doggie-styling their girlfriend (YOU STOPPED AND TOOK A PHOTO??? I mean, kudos on the multitaskery, but she wasn’t angry you were all “Hey babe, just have to set up the tripod, wait a sec, ‘kay?), and, in what was my most favorite, apparently showing the entire interwebs what your cervix looks like while playing with anal beads. (Per Rose: “Save a little mystery–only your gynecologist should be able to look THAT far inside you.”)

Yes, I’m a little perplexed as to who is sending nude photos of themselves wearing a scary-ass mask to a Tumblr site. But I’m old, maybe it’s what kids today do for kicks, like the 2012 version of Whip-Its or something, what do I know. It seems that the youth of today have much less shame about their bodies. That’s nice! That must be a nice feeling to have, right? I mean, my mom taught me that you keep that shit covered up unless you’re married and making a baby? And yeah, I laughed that one right out of the courtroom early on. (No, there’s no courtroom. It is ALSO a metaphor.) But these kids did that ONE BETTER. They are not only showing it to their potential partners, they’re showing it to EVERYONE. Well, at least they’re wearing a mask, so they’re anonymous, so someday they can get a job at McDonalds or something. Yes, a mask. A MASK THAT WILL HAUNT MY DREAMS. My filthy, dirty dreams.

OK, so if you are Pervy Pete or Ding Dong Joe, you have already abandoned my site and are merrily looking at tits and dicks and that’s nice. But here’s the problem Rose had with the site.

A lot of these purportedly “sexy” photos are NOT SEXY AT ALL. MISTAKES WERE MADE.

Some of the problems:

Location. Rose pointed out some major problems: “Choose a location that doesn’t look like you live with your parents, such as a kitchen that hasn’t been updated since the 70s or a rumpled futon in their basement.”

Another problem – listen, I KNOW the best place for cellphone photos is the bathroom. I know that. Not only does it have the best light, you can see what the photo will look like in the mirror before you click it. I get it. I DO. But you can also frame it so that your shower curtain isn’t visible. OR YOUR TOILET. Come on, seriously? I mean, I’m probably not in a sexy mood anyway with a photo of your shower curtain and that effing MASK but I don’t want to see your porcelain throne, thanks.

Also, if you take a photo of yourself in your bed? I’m not saying you need to spring for the satin sheets, but probably CLEAN sheets. Sheets without unidentifiable GUNK on them. Also, balled-up dirty socks is not really making me want sexy-time.

Oh. OH. If it wasn’t so gross and I didn’t think I would contract crabs I’d show you the photo but if you go back like ten pages or something in the archives (NOT THAT I DID THAT WHO WOULD DO THAT) there is a nudie picture of some guy who I swear is standing in the open doorway of a cheap motel in the broad daylight. WHAT THE HELL. You weren’t afraid people would be walking by? I don’t…what? Who thinks this is a good place to have a photo session?

Posing. Per Rose: “Choose a pose that is flattering to your physique. If you’re a guy, scrunching your body up to maximize your tummy flab isn’t winning the ladies over.”

There were also a lot of ladies attempting the sexy “cat-pose” like crawling toward the camera or whatever and listen, that’s nice, in a music video from 1987, but in real life, you’re just looking silly right now. I don’t want to pour any sugar on you. Just stop it.

Technology. Again, per Rose: “If you’re going to Photoshop your photos, but you don’t know how, enlist an expert. Or we’ll just be laughing at you when your artistic efforts turn out stupid.”

I assume this is referring to the photo I must have stared at for about ten minutes, trying to figure out WHY IS SHE SO SHINY. I couldn’t tell – did she coat herself with baby oil? She looks like she’s made of plastic. Is this girl made of plastic? WHAT IS HAPPENING. And then I thought of Rose’s comment and I was all, “OH CRAP IT’S ON PURPOSE WITH SOFTWARE” and then I laughed and laughed because why is this a thing you would do? I guess you wanted to look like a life-sized Barbie, only grosser and much more skanktastic?

Weird props. Things that confused me: the guy who was naked and erect but draped in Christmas lights. (MERRY CHRISTMAS. Here is my penis. I am wearing a stalker mask. BEST GIFT EVER.) The aforementioned cervical-exam girl (listen, she had more props than just the beads. Also, there was what I think was a vibrator, but it also might have been a rectal thermometer. It did not look sexy; it looked clinical and sterile. Well, once-sterile. Not after what she was doing to it.) The woman who was naked and had Christmas bows over her nipples but not anywhere else (um…maybe you could have spring for some additional wrapping material for your hoo-hoo?)

Random confusing thing. What woman is going to not only give a blow job to someone wearing that horrible mask of grinning fear-related death, but let him PHOTOGRAPH IT FOR A WEBSITE. Unsexy.

So, tips. You want tips. I will give you tips. It is clear you need them.

  1. Don’t send naked photos online.
  2. If you absolutely, positively, MUST send naked photos online, please re-read number one.
  3. FINE. I see you are bound and determined to ignore me.
  4. Take the photo somewhere un-gross. If you must take it in the bathroom, please don’t let it look like you’re taking it in the bathroom. If you’re taking it in your bed, wash your sheets and stow the dirty laundry. If you’re taking it on the carpet and it looks like industrial carpet from a weirdo’s trailer where someone might keep women in cages, well, I can’t help you. Please see #1.
  5. Don’t pose like a dumbass.
  6. Don’t make yourself look like a life-sized blowup doll because it will give me nightmares and also hysterics.
  7. If you must use props, maybe use ones that are appropriate. Tip: Christmas lights aren’t sexy.
  8. If you’re paying so little attention to all the sex you’re having that you can take time out to put on a mask and take photos to send to some Tumblr site, I hope your girlfriend dumps your ass. Before she does this, I hope she takes all of your records and stomps on them with her stompiest shoes. PAY ATTENTION TO THE SEX YOU MORON.
  9. I don’t want to see that far inside anyone except that see-through plastic model of a person that my biology teacher used to have where you could see all the organs and shit. I loved that.
  10. If all else fails, please see #1.

I hope this has been helpful. If not, I hope you have plenty of bleach for your eyeballs. No, not you, Ding Dong Joe. I know this was just your cup of tea. YOU ARE WELCOME. No, you can’t “come over” for a “photo session.” Stop calling me. Who gave you this number?

(Title is OBVIOUSLY from the brilliant song “The Internet is for Porn” from Avenue Q. HERE IS THE VIDEO. You’re WELCOME.)

(Psst, thank you, Rose. You’re the best. And then again just a little bit better than that.)

“…what was really a lemon situation into lemonade.”

Caution and danger, Will Robinson. I cuss all over this post like a drunken sailor on leave. I also talk about lady-bits, homosexuality, rape, politics, and Christianity. If you hate that, come back tomorrow, I’ll try not to use the eff-word so much, promise. Kisses! Love!

I know I don’t usually talk about SERIOUS THINGS here. For good reason. There are a lot of places where you can get your serious news. Like, oh, I don’t know, the newspaper. Or various blogs that talk about serious issues in serious tones with serious graphics and such. Sometimes they have charts. And graphs. With real statistics! That they didn’t make up out of nowhere! Mostly, I talk about fluff and things that make me laugh and things that make me stabby and make up words and put in photos of sad pandas and call it a day.

So if you want all that, please come back tomorrow, when we will go back to our regularly-scheduled tomfoolery and jackassery, and I will try to put in a couple of wacky photos I ganked from Google Images and make you laugh. I promise. I have some good shit coming up; it’s almost time to play with search engine terms again, and I have a very, very helpful advice column coming up this weekend full of NAUGHTINESS. So, yeah, those are coming. Today, though, this isn’t going to be funny, and if you’re only here for the funny, I do so apologize in advance.

This is Rick Santorum.

Rick Santorum is one of the four remaining Republican presidential candidates. The race for the Republican nomination has really been all over the board, but if I had to guess, I think it’ll probably end up between Gingrich and Romney. It could, possibly, go to Santorum, but I think the odds of that are slim. I think Ron Paul is out, though. He isn’t winning any of the primaries.

Rick Santorum hates a lot of things.

First and foremost, he hates those tricky sparkly rainbow-y gays. DUDE. Santorum could NOT HATE THE GAYS ANY HARDER IF HE TRIED. Some Santorum quotes about how he feels about homosexuality:

“Is anyone saying same-sex couples can’t love each other? I love my children. I love my friends, my brother. Heck, I even love my mother-in-law. Should we call these relationships marriage, too? Marriage is and always has been more than the acknowledgment of the love between two people.”

I have a problem with homosexual acts…We have laws in states, like the one at the Supreme Court right now, that has sodomy laws and they were there for a purpose. Because, again, I would argue, they undermine the basic tenets of our society and the family. And if the Supreme Court says that you have the right to consensual sex within your home, then you have the right to bigamy, you have the right to polygamy, you have the right to incest, you have the right to adultery. You have the right to anything. Does that undermine the fabric of our society? I would argue yes, it does…Every society in the history of man has upheld the institution of marriage as a bond between a man and a woman…In every society, the definition of marriage has not ever to my knowledge included homosexuality. That’s not to pick on homosexuality. It’s not, you know, man on child, man on dog, or whatever the case may be.”

OK, so in these two quotes (and there are more, THERE ARE SO MANY MORE, I just picked these two from so, so many, please feel free to search and find your own example of Santorum hate speech if you’d like) he’s comparing homosexuality to marrying his brother and mother-in-law, pedophilia, and bestiality.

Now, unless you totally have been living under a rock, you know about Dan Savage and the fact that he took offense at these statements and took matters into his own hands – if Santorum was going to redefine homosexuality, Savage was going to redefine Santorum. And he did. And it is awesome. Santorum totally stompy-stomped and “make it STOP” and wanted Google to take that shit DOWN and “this is DAMAGING my presidential DWEAMS” and whatever. Listen, if you start something, you can’t just decide, in this day and age, you want it to stop. You made derogatory comments about at LEAST 10% of the population and then didn’t like how they reacted? Hmm. That’s funny. They didn’t like how you compared them to dog-fuckers, either, but I don’t see you apologizing for that, or retracting your statements, or asking Google to remove that search result.

So I already hated Santorum, because anyone who thinks things like this, and says them, OUT LOUD, is immediately probably a brain-dead moron who deserves to be set on fire in a pit full of poisonous vipers (also, you know the saying “Methinks the lady doth protest too much?” Well. Methinks. METHINKS.)

Then, Friday, this shit happened.

OK, Santorum – already on my shit list – is a crazy Christian. As mentioned, to the point of I should probably get a damn teeshirt, I HAVE NO PROBLEM WITH CHRISTIANITY. Just don’t shove it in my face. Or any religion, really. Or any belief system. You tend to your own test paper, I’ll tend to mine, and we’ll all be happy, in the end, minding our own business.

Santorum isn’t just a Christian. Santorum is a CRAZY Christian. Like, the kind who’s all “I’m RIGHT! You’re WRONG! Hellfire! BRIMSTONE! Gays bad! Sex bad! WOMEN BAD BAD BAD!”

He wants women to stay home with the children. He wants no sex outside of marriage. NONE. At ALL. Even boring, plain, vanilla-with-no-chocolate-sauce-or-nuts-sex.

And, of course, OF COURSE, he wants to tell women what they can and can’t do with their bodies.

Did you click the link above? I know you all pretty well. Probably you didn’t.

In brief:

On Piers Morgan (when did Piers Morgan become a reputable news source? I find that humorous) Santorum explained that he was anti-abortion (we knew that, as I said, CRAZY CHRISTIAN) even in cases of rape. Because, and I totally quote, women that face such circumstances should “make the best out of a bad situation.”


“Well, you can make the argument that if she doesn’t have this baby, if she kills her child, that that, too, could ruin her life. And this is not an easy choice, I understand that. As horrible as the way that that son or daughter was created, it still is her child. And whether she has that child or she doesn’t, it will always be her child, and she will always know that. And so to embrace her and to love her and to support her and get her through this very difficult time, I’ve always, you know, I believe and I think the right approach is to accept this horribly created — in the sense of rape — but nevertheless a gift in a very broken way, the gift of human life, and accept what God has given to you. As you know, we have to, in lots of different aspects of our life we have horrible things happen. I can’t think of anything more horrible, but nevertheless, we have to make the best out of a bad situation and I would make the argument that that is making the best.”

He also said that the decision to have a child born of rape was, for the mother – are you ready for this? –  “They found that they had made what was really a lemon situation into lemonade.”


I’m going to say this in the most succinct, yet probably most vulgar, way, you’ve seen from me, possibly ever. Please prepare yourself. Also, earmuff your children. Or, eyemuff, I guess, it’s not like this is an audiobook.

Until you have a MOTHERFUCKING VAGINA and you have been FORCIBLY FUCKING RAPED and find yourself PREGNANT WITH THAT FUCKER’S CHILD you have NO FUCKING RIGHT to tell anyone what they can and cannot do with that baby.

I’m far from the only person who took offense at this. Twitter blew up; here are a few blogs that mentioned it, if you’d like to read some other, probably more-intelligent, comments on the situation. (I especially like “God is the shittiest gift-giver ever.”)

Listen. There are certain things that should not be in the purview of politics. Women’s bodies and what we choose to do with them are one of them.  I sincerely don’t understand how this is a political issue. Because it isn’t. It’s two separate issues: it’s religious, one, and that’s not supposed to be allowed in politics (SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE, WHY DOES THIS CONFUSE ANYONE) and two, it’s MEN attempting to keep WOMEN in their PLACE by putting fucking LAWS and RULES and REGULATIONS on what we can and can’t do with our own fucking bodies.

Let me reiterate what I said above, a little more descriptive-like.


You don’t have a vagina.

You don’t know what it’s like, probably (I mean, sure, there are some men who have been raped? In those cases, then, yes, I suppose you know what it’s like, and can sympathize – I certainly don’t mean to exclude men who have been raped, as it’s a horrible thing to happen to anyone, male or female, so yes, some men can relate, to some extent, but not to the extent of the pregnancy) to be forced into a sex act you do not want to participate in.

You don’t know what it’s like to carry that around, if you’re lucky enough to survive it. You don’t know what the weight of that’s like, in your chest and in your body and in your mind. You don’t know that you, for a very long time, sometimes, don’t feel like you’re lucky to have survived it, at all. You don’t know that you jump at shadows; you don’t know that you shy away from the touch of people who don’t want to harm you; you don’t know about the self-medicating and the self-harming and the self-recriminating. You don’t know what it’s like to be powerless, both during the act, and then after, for what feels like forever.


Then, well, look at this! What a lucky gift! A GIFT FROM GOD, right, Rick Santorum? You’re pregnant! With the rapist’s child!

You didn’t have a choice whether or not you wanted to participate in the act that created that child. Rick Santorum wants to make sure you CONTINUE to not have a choice; that you CONTINUE to be helpless; that your power CONTINUES to be out of your hands. Because men like Rick Santorum (and, hell, the rapist, too!) know what’s best. Just sit back, little lady. We got this. WE GOT THIS. This is a GIFT. From GOD. You just sit back and gestate. It’s your job. As a WOMAN. You had no choice THEN, you have no choice NOW. You had no voice then, and you sure as fuck have no voice now.

Make those lemons into lemonade, sweetie. It’s what you get for being born without a dick.

Now, listen. I’m not saying the opposite, either. I’m not advocating abortion. I am advocating choice. I am advocating that we should have the choice what we want to do with our bodies, as women. Because they are our bodies. OURS. We OWN them. We sure as hell don’t own a lot in this world, but our bodies are ours. And pieces of self-righteous shit like Rick Santorum shouldn’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do with mine. Since when does he get a say over my body? I don’t see him even tangentially involved with my life. Is he paying my bills? Is he genetically related to me (oh, my, please no)?

Is he God? Does he presume to know the will of God?

Here’s the thing. God created us all with free will. It’s mentioned in the Bible; it’s mentioned throughout popular literature. It’s one of the things that, hypothetically, God is supposed to love us all for the most; our ability to make our own choices. God did NOT create man to “free will” each OTHER when it comes to morality. I’m pretty sure THAT shit’s not in the Bible. OR IS IT, Santorum? Point it out to me, buddy. No, seriously. I’m waiting.

Rick Santorum: until you have been forcibly raped, you don’t get to tell a victim of a fucking CRIME how they can and can’t deal with the aftermath of that crime. YOU DON’T GET TO DO THAT. If I saw you on the street right now, I’m pretty sure I’d be one of those loonies who’d get all red in the face and spitty and screamy. I’m so furious about this I can’t even deal.

So listen. I personally don’t know many Republicans? But if anyone who actually IS a Republican has gotten this far in this post? Please, as a personal favor to me, when it comes time to vote in your primary, vote for one of the other guys. I know the odds are slim that Santorum stands a chance, but I want him to LOSE. MISERABLY. I want him to WEEP. I want him to cry out “WHY GOD WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO YOUR MOST FAITHFUL SERVANT.” And I want God to reply: “Hey, Santorum: I created women in My image, too, you piece of judgmental shit. And I was getting really sick of you putting words in My mouth.”

Alright. Rant over. I promise to be twice as funny tomorrow. No, shit, wait, I don’t promise that, I can’t make promises I can’t possibly keep. I WILL TRY TO BE FUNNIER TOMORROW.

Be nice to each other, ok? Well, except Santorum. You all have my total and complete permission to be as mean to Santorum as you’d like.

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