Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Embezzlement Isn't Funny, But Cremating Your Cat and Going to a Tim McGraw Concert With Embezzled Money Kind of Is

The news that a Juneau woman has been charged with embezzling $514,371.76 from Juneau Bone & Joint orthopedic care center was troubling to me because obviously, embezzlement is a super shady crime and inherently troubling. But also because I heart Juneau Bone & Joint, both the name of the facility (which is also a great name for a retail marijuana dispensary, just saying) and all the peeps who work there.

(To this latter point, Dr. Ted Schwarting, If you're reading this, you are seriously an effing genius of ACL surgery/bedside manner, and my cadaver graft ACL is holding up aces. Also, this would be a good time to apologize for throwing up near (on?) you when I woke up from my operation, and sorry I forgot to shave my legs. Also, I'm sorry I called you at home 48 hours later to make the obvious complaint that my knee hurt. You were super nice and understanding about all of these things. However, I'm still not sure the donor graft didn't come from a serial killer? Or at least a habitual drunk? I've been noticing some personality changes and I'm kinda worried about that. I'll call you).

Anyway, over the course of her seven years in the employ of Juneau Bone & Joint, the felonious office manager allegedly used her business credit card "by mistake and it got out of hand." And by a "mistake" that "got out of hand," she means she went to see Tim McGraw and P!nk in concert, visited Disneyland, cremated her cat, and took in a Seahawks Game.

Tim McGraw? Cat cremation? Disneyland? REALLY?! That's one out of hand mistake, alright. 

Sure all of God's creatures (even heinous cats) deserve a respectful sendoff to the afterlife and Russell Wilson is legit. But still. I could think of like, 100 better things to do with half a million embezzled dollars than any ONE of those things! I mean, the least she could have done was see Pearl Jam, visit the Galapagos, and attend the World Cup instead of all this white bread, boring ass middle-of-'Murica type shit.

If you're going to embezzle money, go hard or go home, I say. At least be able to hold your head high on the perp walk and show the world that you went down swinging with some really choice, once-in-a-lifetime type swag instead of a bunch of milk toast, mainstream, corporate, sanitized, mass-produced garbage.

I mean really, sis! Have some self respek. Sheesh.

The former office manager of Juneau Boint & Joint Center has been charged with stealing half a million dollars.  Michael Penn | Juneau Empire
Photo: Michael Penn/Juneau Empire

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Surely It Must Be SOME Woman's Fault that Carlos Danger Can't Keep His Dick Out of Cyberspace and Preferably That Woman is Running for President

Cast your minds back for a moment, if you will, to Anthony Weiner, the aptly-named Congressman and one-time mayoral hopeful from NYC whose "rising" political career was, er, rendered flaccid by his self-destructive compulsion to not once--but TWICE--distribute dick pics on his phone to female recipients. Now caught this week dick-picin' for the THIRD time, Weiner has reportedly deleted his Twitter account (finally), and should probably go one step further and just delete his entire phone.

(Side bar: if you have a dick and are thinking of sending a woman a pic of it, I have a word of advice for you: Don't. I'm not advising against dick pics because I think it's a bad idea to send naked pictures of yourself necessarily, because what's a couple of titties among consenting adult friends? Alls I'm sayin' is there ain't a woman alive who wants to see a pic of ANYONE'S dick pop up on her phone or computer).

Now most of us have engaged in some sort of texting or internet shenanigans at some point in our lives, but most of us are not trying to be elected to public office, and none of us is married to Hillary Clinton's top aide, Huma Abedin. I guess the third time's a charm, because the long-suffering Huma finally said "Bye, Felicia!" to Carlos Danger (Weiner's pathetically hilarious and hilariously pathetic online alias) in light of the fact that Weiner was once again caught with a phone in his pants, sexting dick pics to his bottomless well of internet baes, this time while lying next to his and Huma's preschool-aged son!

So now of course the question becomes: what woman can we blame for the fact that Anthony Weiner can't keep his dick out of cyberspace, and can that woman PLEASE ultimately be Hillary Clinton? The answer for many in the media is, it turns out, BY ALL MEANS, YES!

According to the New York Times, Weiner's humongo Weiner has "cast a shadow on the adviser and confidante who has been by Mrs. Clinton's side for the past two decades." Also, Weiner's dick "threatens to remind voters about the troubles in the Clinton's own marriage over the decades, including Mrs. Clinton's much-debated decision to remain with then-President Bill Clinton after revelations of his relationship with Monica Lewinsky." 

And, natch, Trump via Twitter is "worried for the country" because "Hillary Clinton was careless and negligent in allowing Weiner to have such close proximity to highly classified information." If by "highly classified information" Trump means Anthony Weiner's junk, and if by "close proximity" he means the inside of a pair of too-snug boxer-briefs, then yes, Hillary was totes careless and negligent in allowing proximity to that. Surely it was all her idea!

Someone at The Washington Post believes Weiner's "questionable decisions are ensnaring his wife, one of Hillary Clinton's top aides, by raising questions about her decision to leave their son alone with her husband while she's on the campaign trail." The LA Times jumped aboard, calling Huma a "liability" to Mrs. Clinton. Others however, like Judd Legum at ThinkProgress, have helpfully noted the obvious problem in blaming women for their husbands' infidelities and poor judgment: IT'S NOT THEIR FUCKING FAULT.

Because let's be honest: If Huma and Hillary were dudes, and were treated by their wives in this manner, it would be ALL THEIR FAULT, right? Wrong! Nope. Then, they would just be poor, sympathetic menfolk cuckolded by sluts. Move on, run along; nothing to see here.

But since Huma and Hillary are women, they are obvs personally responsible for what Anthony Weiner does with his dick and his smart phone at 2:00 a.m. And not only that, but thanks to these two dumb broads, Anthony Weiner's dick is now a direct threat to national security.

M'kay.


Photo: NYT

Monday, August 29, 2016

Put Some Respek on This Bro Reading a Nicholas Sparks Novel on a Plane

My spontaneous free first class upgrade this morning was made that much sweeter by the sight of my seatmate reading a Nicholas Sparks novel.

For those unfamiliar with the rich canon of Nicholas Sparks, he's a pharmaceutical sales rep-turned-best-selling author from North Carolina whose books are a speed bump en route to a mediocre PG-13 rom-dram adaptation with a 45% rating on Rotten Tomatoes starring Zac Efron, Channing Tatum, Ryan Gosling, Rachel McAdams, Amanda Seyfried, or some combination thereof.

The plots of all 20 or so of Nicholas Sparks' novels are basically the same: white, blonde girl meets white, brunette boy, and some set of circumstances beyond the couple's control conspire to foil their star-crossed love affair: a deployment to Iraq, an abusive ex, an old flame who's just resurfaced to reclaim what is rightly his, a disapproving family, a natural disaster, etc. There is (inevitably) crying, rolling in the sand, passionate kissing in the rain, a big dramatic fight, and then a resolution at the end which is usually told in flash-forward format when one of the main characters is in hospice care and reflecting on The Love of His/Her Life.

Having just returned from a wedding that I failed to survive without a 40 year-old lady hangover, I of all people was certainly in no position to judge this bro openly reading Nick Sparks' latest novel, See Me, which Amazon describes thusly:
Colin Hancock is giving his second chance his best shot. With a history of violence and bad decisions behind him and the threat of prison dogging his every step, he's determined to walk a straight line. To Colin, that means applying himself single-mindedly toward his teaching degree and avoiding everything that proved destructive in his earlier life. Reminding himself daily of his hard-earned lessons, the last thing he is looking for is a serious relationship. Maria Sanchez, the hardworking daughter of Mexican immigrants, is the picture of conventional success. With a degree from Duke Law School and a job at a prestigious firm in Wilmington, she is a dark-haired beauty with a seemingly flawless professional track record. And yet Maria has a traumatic history of her own, one that compelled her to return to her hometown and left her questioning so much of what she once believed. A chance encounter on a rain-swept road will alter the course of both Colin and Maria's lives, challenging deeply held assumptions about each other and ultimately, themselves. As love unexpectedly takes hold between them, they dare to envision what a future together could possibly look like . . . until menacing reminders of events in Maria's past begin to surface.
So it seems Sparks went off script and ventured into woke-ness by writing a Mexican-American heroine this time? (Note: she's still the one with the shady and mysterious past though). Sparks fans do not despair: his favorite natural element--rain--seems to be making its standard appearance. And I would totally be lying if I didn't admit that I secretly want to download this on a Kindle and devour it in a single night. 

On a Kindle. Therein likes the difference between me and my seatmate, who was high-key reading the equivalent of Sweet Valley High for grownups for all to see, and with zero shame. In other words, he was straight owning his Nick Sparks Standom, and for that, he earns my one hundo percent respek. 

P.S.: I kind of suspect he was maybe scrolling his iPhone for a Counting Crows playlist, but don't quote me on that.

Sunday, August 28, 2016

Whoever Invented Spanx Didn't Think About This

Spanx are like a corset for the woman who wants to think of herself as a woman who would never wear a corset. But really, that's what Spanx are. 

Sure they're marketed as a peppy, whimsical, hip, overpriced alternative to your grandma's control top pantyhose. But at the end of the day, they're really just your grandma's control top pantyhose. And guess what? Your grandma's control top pantyhose were the Spanx to HER grandma's corset.

Since well before electricity, women in this country have basically been trying to hide their muffin tops. Indeed, the custom of hiding the female muffin top is older than actual muffins. That's how long Spanx have really been around.

But no matter how many variations there are on the corset, no one can market away the reality of human anatomy. And the reality of a corset is that it pushes on your bladder very hard and makes you have to pee more than usual. 

This was probably all well and good BEFORE it was considered acceptable for women of a certain station in society to pee at all, much less drink a 7/11 Super Big Gulp's worth of alcoholic lemonade at a wedding. So clearly this crude practicality was not considered.

I suppose what I'm getting at here is that while the corset has caught up to modernity, the impact it has on your bladder hasn't, and I kind of feel like science owes it to womankind to figure this out. 

Like if society wants us to go to the trouble and expense of hiding our muffin tops, we deserve to not have the literal piss squeezed out of us in the process.

C'mon. They put a man on the moon.

No Trash Talking in Good Weather, People!

So this photo of an Ivanka Trump shoe really has nothing to do with the title of this post, other than to make the connection that I'm at a wedding in Girdwood this weekend, and stopped at the Anchorage Nordstrom store to look at shoes. 

I picked up this shoe, and upon seeing the brand name, was torn between dropping it like a hot fire poker and buying the pair simply so I'd get to put my gross foot scum all over Ivanka Trump's gold embossed name. But then I realized this plan would give Ivanka my money without the satisfaction of her ever knowing that I purposely smushed heel scuzz between her first and last names, so I chose a different pair surely assembled by exploIted Mongolian child labor instead. I have my principles, after all.

Hours later in Girdwood--and then again the next day--I learned the same lesson twice: don't trash talk strangers in good weather. 

A group of our friends was piled into a car in a convenience store parking lot, where we'd stopped for an errand. Not realizing the windows were open, one of us began loudly proclaiming that the 17 year-old boy behind the wheel of a red Triumph convertible parked beside us could not possibly be its owner. 

The rest of us shushed her at first, and she clapped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment; but then we saw that the object of her derision was in such rich desert of it, that we all just continued to mock him loudly through the open window of the car. 

"It's mine," the teen with a flat-brimmed baseball cap and zero sign of facial hair finally piped up in his own defense. "YEAH RIGHT! WHATEVER!," another woman in our group cackled loudly as he peeled away.

The next day, this same woman and I were returning from brunch with the initial perpetrator of the Triumph trash talk. During the meal, someone had parked incredibly close to us, so we had to squeeze our food babies into the back seat through the six inches of space that remained between our car and hers. "OH MY GOD! WHO PARKS THIS CLOSE TO SOMEONE?," asked the friend who had screamed "YEAH RIGHT!!" at the teenager the night before.

"Sorry!!" we heard from what turned out to be the open driver's side window of the car where the "who" in the "who parks this close to someone" made herself known. We all turned to each other in immediate recognition of the fact that this was the second time in 24 hours that we had talked smack to someone through the open window of a car.

And the moral of the story is: never talk smack about someone in nice weather.

Saturday, August 27, 2016

I Literally Only Recognize One Ingredient in This

What is this shit? No seriously. The only thing I recognize in this "Superfood Bowl" is "fresh seasonal fruit." 

"Organic Chia Pudding" sounds like something your Chia Pet from the 80's would make if he came to life and had diarrhea. "Organic Hemp Seeds" sounds like something I want to put under a grow light in my closet and smoke the shit out of in six months' time. And I wouldn't eat bee pollen, organic or not. What's the difference between bee pollen and honey? 

Who cares? I don't fucking eat pollen. Pollen goes into my nose and makes me erupt into a fit of sneezing and hives. Fuck pollen, bee or otherwise. "Cocoa Nibs" sounds like a pet name for someone's nipples or clit. And "Organic Goji Berries" is blatantly food you grow electronically on FarmVille or that you feed to your Pokemon character. 

"Superfood Bowl" my ass. Give me monosodium glutamate and yellow #6 any day. You'd have to pay ME $8.50 to eat this intestinal Roto-Rooter.

Friday, August 26, 2016

I Think I Might Already Know These "Secrets of the Male Mind"

I was recently thumbing through a spiral-bound paperback book called "Fundamentals of Avalanche Rescue" at the Juneau Friends of the Library store, but quickly realized I would totally be that person flipping to Figure 6.8 while my friends suffocated in a snow berm. 

So I put that down, and picked this up instead.

Who wouldn't pay at least $4 to "learn the secrets of the male mind" in order to find the Man She Wants and the Love She Deserves? Especially from this non-threatening, well-dressed, perfectly-coifed fit British television personality in a bow tie whose last name rhymes with "pussy?"

I personally don't need a book like this anymore, because I'm a haggard old MILF whose weak AF "F" game is slowly but surely turning me into just a run of the mill "MIL."

Be this as it may, I could have used this book a long time ago, when it would have been useful to know the "secrets of the male mind." Now that I know them, I don't even need them! Ain't that always the way? 

So I'm just gonna go ahead and guess a few of this book's "secrets":

Secret #1: The Man You Want wants you to pretend to love football and eat 8 slices of pepperoni pizza while still being fit and toned. He wants you to be secure enough to gobble down a box of Krispy Kremes and do all the boring shit he likes, and yet still manage to look bangin' in a cocktail dress. 'Nome sayin' ladies? 

Secret #2: The Man You Want wants you to take care of yourself, but not be high maintenance. Like, wear SOME makeup, but not a LOT of makeup. And spend like, 20 minutes getting ready, but not 45. 45 is too many minutes. Dress sexy, but not slutty. Sexy would be like, one of his tee shirts with no pants on. Slutty would be like something you got at Forever 21 and wore to your cousin's bachelorette. There's a difference ladies, c'mon. Don't make The Man You Want explain it to you.

Secret #3: The Man You Want wants you to be smart, but not TOO smart, otherwise it's threatening and bad for his self-esteem.

Secret #4: The Man You Want wants you to be communicative, but not needy. Don't text, call, or email unless he emails, texts, or calls you first. Don't be desperate. Also don't be cold. You need to walk that fine line between desperate and cold that makes you seem both accessible and indifferent. I know. It's hard to explain. But trust me: you'll be alone forever unless you figure it out.

Secret #5: Stop crying. Dear God, STOP FUCKING CRYING. Also: No "state of the union" talks. The Man You Want does not want to have "The Talk." EVER!!!!!!!

Secret #6: Do. Not. Say. "His." Name. Not your ex, not your brother, not your dad. As far as the Man You Want is concerned, he is the first person with a penis ever to appear in your life. Period.

Secret #7: And speaking of periods, don't speak of those. (GROSS). But speaking also of penises, forget eyeliner and push-up bras and perfume and all that consumerist shit that is keeping women enslaved by Sephora and Victoria's Secret. There's no big mystery here. It's: penis + mouth, penis + hand, or (preferably) penis + vagina. The end!

Secret #8: The Man You Want wants you to be nurturing, but not overbearing. Be gentle, but also tough. Be independent (financially and otherwise) but also let him do things for you to make him feel needed. I know, it's all very confusing. BUT TRUST ME YOU NEED TO KNOW THIS TO FIND THE MAN YOU WANT.

Secret #9: Don't be gross. Don't make the Man You Want have to tell you that. Don't burp, fart, or have your period (See #7). You are a woman and therefore were born disgusting. You must slowly and methodically conceal all your levels of disgusting humanity until you become the heroine of a John Hughes movie that the Man You Want has always wanted and deserved. Wait ... weren't we talking about what you always wanted and deserved? Wait. I'm confusing myself now.

I know, I know, I shouldn't judge a book by its cover. EXCEPT if the book has a title and cover like this. Then I feel I can act as judge, jury, and executioner. Time of Death: Now.

Thursday, August 25, 2016

It Happened to Me: I Raised a Total Punk

What if that's the title of my future memoir? If it is, tonight will go down as a particularly inspiring chapter in what is sure to be a future "how not to" cautionary tale of a parenting book.

I'm writing this while putting Isaac to bed, after having just read a depressing and terrifying official "AltRight manifesto" on Twitter. 

This thing basically read like an academic defense of white eugenics mixed with a neo "separate but equal" sort of ideal; all written by a social pariah with an associate's degree in polysci, who lives off Mountain Dew and Dominos in his mom's basement and moonlights as a skinhead internet troll.

And I thought to myself: Is this the world I want my son to grow up in? Wait...what If this IS my son? 

After all, I had spent all evening peeling Isaac off his sister, trying to make them stop fighting, and watched as he ripped off his shirt like he was an extra in Fight Club. I tried to explain how we need to respect each other's bodies and not hit and solve problems with our words.

It seemed to resonate, because he literally sat in my closet and cried in guilt and shame. "At least he's not a sociopath!" my psychiatrist mom has said cheerfully on similar occasions. "If he were, he wouldn't feel guilt or anxiety!"

Cold comfort.

Later, he asked me if it was "possible to get sperm when you're five." I think he was basically trying to figure out when he would get his boy-period, but having zero experience in this department, I just told him no.

As long as he never becomes someone who thinks it's a good idea to write a "manifesto"--ANY manifesto--I think we'll all be okay.

There's Something Deeply Satisfying About Swipe/Delete

Of all the modern marvels contained within the 6 x 3 x 1 inch confines of a smart phone (besides the eggplant and nectarine emojis, which--pro tip--make a pretty good dick n' balls substitute), by far the best is "swipe/delete." 

There is something deeply satisfying about swipe/delete. More satisfying, I mean, than just trashing emails the old school way with a mouse or touch-pad on a laptop or desktop computer. This meme I found really says it all. I fucking LOVE swipe/delete, and I wish I could swipe/delete the whole entire world sometimes, in real life.

But since I obviously can't do that without going to prison for a long time, I have to settle for relishing the feeling of swipe/deleting texts, emails, and Facebook Messenger messages. 

I pretend to be swipe/deleting these things to minimize electronic clutter and save room on my phone, both of which are true. But I mainly do it because I so enjoy the feeling of committing electronic murder/nuclear annihilation.

I get a sort of mini-rush of adrenaline when I swipe/delete something from a person whose name, face, writings, or memory I simply want to jettison into the deepest corner of the most remote Antarctic sea at that particular moment. There's nothing quite like that sensation of taking my finger, running it across the screen of my phone with a flourish, and watching this person's communication to me--and all of the seething rage and emotional baggage that go along with it--disappear into the red-labeled trash ether forever. 

It's like the virtual reality version of hanging up on someone, dropping the mic, slamming the door, throwing a plate against a wall, or punching someone in the junk. And it's even better than blocking someone on Twitter or unfriending them on Facebook, because they'll never even know you swipe/deleted them into oblivion. 

DELICIOSO!!!!!

Image result for i love swipe delete

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Please Let Rush Limbaugh Be Right About Lesbian Farmers "Attacking" America

Human ham sandwich and sweat-drenched, tin foil-hat wearing, Oxy-gobbling hobgoblin Rush Limbaugh this week accused President Obama of recruiting lesbian farmers to "attack" rural areas of the country, and all I can say is Rush had better be right! 

Referring to a federal program that gives rural housing loans to farmers and happened to also be discussed at a recent LGBT summit in Iowa, the jowly, glazed Oscar Meyer bologna foreskin rind had this to say between puffs of Cuban cigar:
Have you heard about the agriculture department's financial grants to lesbian farmers? You think I'm making this up? See, this is how they do it. Rural America happens to be largely conservative. Rural America is made up of self-reliant, rugged individualist types. They happen to be big believers in the Second Amendment. So here comes the Obama Regime with a bunch of federal money and they're waving it around, and all you gotta do to get it is be a lesbian and want to be a farmer and they'll set you up. I'm like you; I never before in my life knew that lesbians wanted to be farmers. I never knew that lesbians wanted to get behind the horse and the plow and start burrowing. I never knew it. But apparently enough money can make it happen, and the objective here is to attack rural states. They're already attacking suburbs . . . They never stop, folks. They are constantly on the march.
OMG. PLEASE LET THIS SLEEPER CELL OF CORN AND SOYBEAN-GROWING LESBIAN ISIS RECRUITS BE REAL! There are SO many reasons I want the country to be invaded by lesbian farmers, it's hard to count them all, but here are a few:

1. I love lesbians and I love farmers, so suffice it to say I love lesbian farmers even more.

2.  Lesbians can fix everything, espesh farm equipment, Apple TV, and probably Second Amendment equipment too, so they are like, totes handy around the farm and will be suuuupes useful in the Zombie Apocalypse when we will all have to grow our dumplings from seeds and shit like that. "Self-reliant?" "Rugged?" Check aaaaaaand check!

3.  Lesbians drive Subarus (usually stick shift--bad ass!) which I can tell you from personal experience are like, the best cars ever. Plus, they always have Ani DiFranco or the Indigo Girls playing on their car stereo and in the fields while plowing.

4. Lesbians are amazeballs at gardening, and will make you a sustainable rooftop garden in Park Slope or the Mission District in like, ten seconds flat! Imagine what they would do with hundreds of acres? Kale and kolrabi salad for days, bitchez!

Clearly, the only lesbians Rush Limbaugh knows personally are straight strippers pretending to be lesbians, because real lesbians TOTALLY want to "get behind the horse and the plow and start burrowing." Rush, what are you even talking about, bruh? 

I feel bad for Rush, since he probably needs Cialis to "get behind the horse and the plow and start burrowing" himself, but that's another reason lesbians (especially lesbian farmers) are sorely needed to mend the tattered fabric of America. They don't need Viagra, and they definitely don't need Rush (or anyone with his equipment) for a roll in the hay.

Three cheers for the impending American lesbian farmer invasion! March on, ladies. March on!

Image result for female farmer
Photo: Grist.org

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Do. Not. Read. This. Blog. Son!

If I tried to address every negative comment I get about O.H.M., I'd never have time to write it in the first place. Of course, I get plenty of positive feedback and tons of readers too, which is what keeps me going amidst the shit-storm of bullshit I regularly endure simply for calling it like I see it in the world.

Specifically, I take all sorts of criticism and abuse from every direction, including all the typical "you're a reprehensible cunt" stuff that all women who write online get. (By the way, most people who call me a cunt ironically ALSO love to tell me it's not "classy" or "lady-like" to curse). 

But guess what? I could seriously give minus 100 fucks what those people think. Today I got a comment (from a dude, natch) on my post about the Juneau non-discrimination ordinance that said:
Keep it classy Juneau. I love the ordinance, I hate the language. My kids read this. Hey, maybe don't be crude. If you can't express yourself without vulgarity, then please refrain from posting.
Bwahahahaaha! Wut?

In case there's any confusion here and just so we're clear, O.H.M. is a personal blog. It's my personal blog, and I am its sole author. I'm not a journalist or a public figure. I'm just a woman with some thoughts that I have every right to share and express in whatever language I want to use. No one has to read it, and no one has to like it, but I have the right to post it. This isn't communist Russia (or at least not yet). So please refrain from telling me to please refrain from posting on my blog, because your plea is futile and will go unanswered. 

Rather, please refrain from reading this blog, because here's the thing: I can express myself without vulgarity, as I do every day in my work life and in every social situation that calls for it. But I don't need to do that here, and I don't want to. Here, I can be honest and authentic, which is why, I can only assume, many O.H.M. posts are read and shared widely. In this particular post, I called most elected officials a bag of dicks, because that's what I think most of them are. And I was pointing out how awesome it is that the Juneau Assembly has chosen to buck that bag-of-dicks trend.

This blog isn't for the faint of heart, the prickly, or the easily offended. It's not for prudes, conformists, or religious zealots of any stripe who want to convert me to their belief system, and it's definitely not for kids. So if you have a problem with that, I don't know what to tell you other than please unsubscribe/unfollow, which, FYI, is internet for FUCK OFF!


Juneau Assembly Bucks National Trend of Elected Officials Acting Like a Bag of Dicks

Alaska's capital city of Juneau has bucked state, local, and national trends of elected officials consistently acting like a bag of dicks when it voted 8-1 on Monday night to enact the capital city's first anti-discrimination ordinance. 

The new law prohibits discrimination based on race, color, age, religion, sex, familial status, disability, gender expression, or national origin.

While a minority of residents believe such measures are politically-correct Nanny-stating and a burden on their individual religious liberties, those particular individuals are often--coincidentally--ones who don't need the protection of such laws for any reason, and actually have never been prevented from practicing their religion or "reverse-discriminated" against in even the slightest or remotely demonstrable way. 

Asked for an example of a single time he has been forced to unconstitutionally or unfairly kowtow to "minority interests" or any realistic scenario in which he might be in the future, one straight, white, cishet male pointed to a new giant humpback whale sculpture on the shore of Gastineau Channel, shouted "Look! What's that over there?" and ran away before answering.

The ordinance, championed by assembly member Jesse Kiehl, also had the broad support of the Juneau public, most of whom are not dicks and therefore don't want their elected officials acting like a giant bag of dicks, either. 

Monday, August 22, 2016

Men's Swimming Takes Gold for Douchiest Sport

Edging out golf, tennis, croquet, squash, lacrosse, and polo, the underdog sport of men's swimming has claimed the title for douchiest sport of 2016.

The historic victory is owed in part to Brock Turner, the collegiate swimmer convicted of raping an unconscious fellow Stanford student earlier this year, and U.S. Olympian Ryan Lochte, who lied about being held up at gunpoint in Rio when he actually just got wasted and destroyed a gas station bathroom as though he were 15 instead of 32.

"This is a huge honor, both to our country and to the sport of swimming, which has always been the dark horse candidate to out-douche other traditionally douchey white bro sports, especially golf," Turner and Lochte said in a joint statement aired at the end of a Massingil commercial during the closing ceremonies in Rio.

"I couldn't have done it without my teammates' help," Lochte elaborated, referring to James Feigen, Gunnar Bentz, and Jack Conger, who helped Lochte achieve his goal of looking and acting like the most entitled douchebag on the entire American continent.

"And for my part," Turner specified, "I'd like to thank my victim and the American judicial system that sought fit to prioritize my bright white future over that of the woman I raped by pretending I am not a convicted sexual felon simply because I also happen to be an adorable swimmer from Stanford."

Congratulations, guys! You're a credit to your sport and to the entire douche nation!


If Rihanna's "Work" Was Written for Office Work

Work work work work work work
I spilled coffee on my shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt shirt

Work work work work work work
There's turkey chili on my work work work work work work

Work work work work work work
This meeting's gonna hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt

Work work work work work work
I'm doin' other people's work work work work work work

Work work work work work work
Ain't you too busy to flirt flirt flirt flirt flirt flirt

Work work work work work work
I am not an extrovert vert vert vert vert vert

Work work work work work work
Could you think before you blurt blurt blurt blurt blurt blurt

Work work work work work work
I just wanna eat dessert sert sert sert sert sert

When y'all gon' learn learn learn learn learn learn
You are givin' me heart burn burn burn burn burn burn

Work work work work work work
Quit acting like a jerk jerk jerk jerk jerk jerk

Work work work work work work
Reply-all drivin' me berserk serk serk serk serk serk

Work work work work work work
I will go full postal clerk clerk clerk clerk clerk clerk

Work work work work work work
I ain't gonna hide my smirk smirk smirk smirk smirk smirk

Work work work work work work
I can't log onto the net work work work work work work



Ryan Lochte Learns His ABC's

A is for Asswipe which clearly he is
B is for Bros there are lots in his biz
C is for Can you believe he's this dumb?
D is for Definitely Dumb as a Drum
E is for Everyone fooled by his tale
F is for Failure on a staggering scale
G is for Gold sure he's nabbed a few medals
H is for Hella big balls and back-pedals
I is for Idiot when words pass his lips
J is for "JEAH!," (that's his signature quip)
K is for Kicks that he does in the pool
L is for Lochte is Lookin' the fool
M is for Mendacious (a pretty big word!)
N is for No one's believing this turd
O is for OH NO HE DIDN'T JUST LIE!?
P is for Please kiss your sponsors goodbye
Q is for Questions he can't quite reply
R is for Rio which told him NICE TRY!
S is for Stupid (and privileged and white)
T is for "Tantics"--he's slightly un-bright?
U is for Underwhelmed by his robbery yarn
V is for Very big horse out that barn
W is for When Will his P.R. Woes end?
X is for X is the date there, my friend!
Y is for YOLO, you only live once!
Z is the grade the world's giving this dunce.

Sunday, August 21, 2016

Everything I Know About Mushrooms Could Fill a Book!

Just kidding. It couldn't even fill a blog post. But as a friend who grew up here in Southeast AK said, "anything that looks like it belongs in Alice in Wonderland is a definite no-no." 

So I knew enough to know that this mushroom I found today while hiking joyfully in the sunshine (See what I did there, Juneau?) was fucking SHADY. 

Here's literally everything else I know about mushrooms:

1. They give you extra lives in Super Mario Bros.

2. They taste like dirt, feet, and chicken all mixed together.

3. They're fucking everywhere around here and peeps go crazy for them like they're made out of crack.

4. One orange kind grows off a tree and is called "chicken/foot/dirt of the woods."

5. Another kind is called "morels" and peeps really go nuts for those.

6. Some kinds will give you severe nausea and stomach cramps before making you giggle uncontrollably at a fire hydrant, stare at your face in the mirror as it turns into a Picasso painting, try really hard to act normal in front of your grandma, feel like the long-sleeved Lallapalooza tee-shirt you're wearing is 12 sizes too big, and/or zone out on the patterns in a carpet until some of the tiny flowers begin to sprout up out of it.

Or so I'm told.

Saturday, August 20, 2016

Ryan Lochte Was Up to "Tantics" in Brazil

Last week I posted a little limerick on the O.H.M. Facebook page about our pal Ryan Lochte:

There once was a swimmer named Ryan
Whose bullshit nobody was buyin'.
He thought he'd be aight
Just because he is white
But the whole world could see he was lyin'.

I am now watching Ryan Lochte give a SUPER AWKWARD AND PAINFUL interview with Matt Lauer, which feels like watching a dumb AF 15 year-old get disciplined and cross-examined by his dad for drinking and fucking up a gas station. Ryan was CRYING and bemoaning what he called his "immature tantics," which while "overexaggerated," were "expecially" bad given that the whole world was watching while he hemorrhaged sponsorship dollars.

Tantics. 

Um . . . M'kay? So I guess that's like a cross between antics and tantric sex or something? Somebody call Sting! Also, I need a new limerick for this:

There once was an athlete called Lochte
Who sounded as dumb as a rochte 
He did bad with the books
But real good with the looks
And with diving off quick from the blochte!

Friday, August 19, 2016

Between the Covers of This Book

When Toni Morrison says a book is required reading, you read it. Or at least I do. So I read Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates on a round-trip plane ride between Anchorage and Juneau.

I felt so odd reading this. Almost like an intruder violating someone's privacy, peering into a world I was not a part of, would never be a part of, and would never understand. Accessing an intimate 150 page letter--written by a Black Man to his teenage son--about the perils and pride of living in a Black Body in America felt wrong to me somehow, and at the same time, completely necessary. 

Certain parts of the letter, Ta-Nehisi Coates' words to his son, moved me profoundly though they were not for me. I took out a pen and underlined them:
In America, the injury is not in being born with darker skin, with fuller lips, with a broader nose, but in everything that happens after . . . . They made us into a race. We made ourselves into a people . . . . The Dreamers will have to learn to struggle themselves, to understand that the field for their Dream, the stage where they have painted themselves white, is the deathbed of us all.
And in reading those words back to myself--Ta-Nehisi Coates' words to his only child, who is the embodiment of all of his dreams of parenthood just as my son is the embodiment of mine--I began to think that maybe there's a message here in this book for me after all. 

I will never know what it is to navigate the world every day in a Black Body in a society that collectively treats Black Bodies as less-than, as disposable. I will never know that fierce, palpable fear for my white-skinned son, and that is the essence of white privilege. The closest I come to relating to that fear is five minutes a day, when I walk a darkened stairway to a secluded parking garage and I know my body is vulnerable. But that's it. It's not the same, not even close.

The only thing I can do is look directly into the blinding, harsh light of white privilege, acknowledge it is real, take responsibility for it, and confront my ownership of it and complicity in it. To cultivate empathy and a sense of obligation. To read, educate myself, and listen without judgment, without defensiveness or futile "guilt," without dismissiveness, with a sense of ongoing responsibility that does not end at page 152, and--above all--with the absolute benefit of credibility given to the person whose experience is being reflected back at me.

It isn't much. It's nothing really. But maybe it's a start.

This Guy Fucked a Van

Not, like, IN a van. Like, an ACTUAL van. 

I know, you'd never guess by looking at him that Michael Henson, 35, was the type of Dayton, Ohio resident who'd be caught by police with his pants down and his dick humping away in the front grill of a red van, much less have the story of his love affair with a Ford Windstar picked up by the international news media. 

Yet that's exactly what happened! Now everyone who types in the common Google search, "man arrested for having sex with van" will pull up Mike Henson's super bright-looking mug. You can tell just from the expression on his face that this bro is driving with the lights on (no pun intended).

Once he sobered up and realized what he'd done, Mr. Henson was pretty embarrassed. Through a statement released by his mother, Mr. Henson was repentant. 

"I don't know what I was thinking," he said. "I usually go for Cooper Minis and Fiats. Maybe the occasional Mazda Miata. What will all my boys think of me when they find out I slept with a Ford VAN?"

http://m.eveningtimes.co.uk/news/14693215.Man_arrested_for_trying_to_have_sex_with_a_van/




Thursday, August 18, 2016

If You Went to High School Before/Around 1995, Admit That You Fully Jizzed in Your Pants When a Teacher Rolled This Out at the Beginning of Class

You know what I mean, and don't pretend you don't. 

The feeling of your English or Science or History teacher rolling this out unexpectedly before class was the closest feeling to boning that your never-boned-anyone-before soul could possibly have imagined!

You couldn't have known then, as you do now, that your teacher just needed to phone it in on those days, because your collective antics were just too damn much and he or she needed a break from your bullshit. You didn't realize that this cart might as well have said the words "I can't deal with you assholes today" out loud.

And you didn't care what it was you would be watching either. It would probably be a punishing black and white version of the incomprehensible Shakespeare play you'd spent all semester reading, starring Lawrence Olivier or some shit. Maybe it was some health class infomercial about how not to get AIDS or drive drunk.

Who fucking cared? Answer: not you!

All you knew was it was a screen, in a time when screens were not nearly as ubiquitous and accessible as they are now; and that instead of taking notes, you'd be passing them in a dimly-lit classroom, relatively undetected by an adult whose usual job it was to make you pay attention.

Yup. That VCR/TV cart was your fucking EVERYTHING. If only life were still that simple. The adult equivalent of this is now a power outage at work where all the computers go down and no one can do anything for a few hours. And I have to say, it just ain't the same.

This is Totes What I Do When Traveling for Work

Whenever I travel on business, this is how I roll. I flop myself down backwards on a giant king size bed I have all to myself (after I ask housekeeping to defeather the whole room for allergy purposes), kick my legs up triumphantly on the headboard, get out my credit card, put my lap top on my uterus, and start shopping for all the shit that's in the bathroom of this semi-crappy hotel chain!

Marriott, the TGI Fridays of Hotels, lets you buy everything you see in the room because how can you go home and NOT order yourself sandalwood body lotion and a "projection alarm clock?" Nevermind that these mass-produced fragrant cosmetics will give you a side order of cancer and that no one uses an alarm clock anymore because Steve Jobs.

You need all this stuff. But more to the point, you need to buy this stuff while looking like the psychotic lunatic in this picture! She MIGHT be on shrooms, in which case all is forgiven.

I did my best to emulate her experience and document it in the selfie below, but I didn't happen to have any shrooms with me, so I'm not sure I did as good a job as I could have.



Wednesday, August 17, 2016

5 Super Sexy Summer Sandal Style Trends that Say: "Not in Alaska, Sister!"

Attention, ladies! Summer is almost over, but it's not too late to try these super cute and sexy, stylish summer sandal trends! UNLESS of course you live in Alaska, in which case it's really only ever sensible to rock rubber rain boots or hospital clogs year-round, whether or not you work in a hospital or on a fishing boat.

1. Calf-High Gladiator Sandals: Whether you're off to do battle with a lion in a Roman Colosseum or headed to a club with bottle service on the Vegas strip, these super hot metallic gladiator sandals are guaranteed to turn heads. Especially if you live in Alaska, where heads will turn and people will straight-up look at you like, "Are you fucking KIDDING me with those!?"



2. Peep-Toe Gladiator Bootie: These super swank booties would make Kim Kardashian jealous! If you're thinking of owning the night with these in the State of Alaska though, think again, because--pro tip--those six-inch stiletto heels do NOT mix with open-grate, snow and ice-resistant metal stairs!



3. Gold Thong Flats: Time to treat yourself to a sweet pedi and be the envy of the whole beach in these adorable metallic flats! Just don't wear them on any mud flats though, because mud flats are not actually a beach, and while pulling you from quick sand, Search and Rescue will rightly ask why the fuck you were out there in the first place, much less while sporting this totally impractical footwear!



4. Nude Block Heel Peep-Toe Sandal: Great for work meetings or just grabbing drinks with the girls, these simple yet elegant open-toed sandals announce to all of Alaska that you're a serious dipshit for trying to tromp down an unpaved road in these!



5. Suede Fringe Peep-Toe Wedge: It's ALL about fringe this season my boos, so get on board with these super on-trend cork and suede fringe wedges! Just don't try to get on board a boat in these, because you'll fall flat on your ass or into the water and be mocked mercilessly (at best) or drown in rushing 40 degree glacial runoff (at worst)!