Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Finding Amie

Amie is one of my oldest and dearest friends. I've written about her on this blog in passing before. She was with me at my first rock concert (Guns N’ Roses at MSG when we were 14 and 15) and she was the first person I ever emailed. (Yes, we are that old).

Over the years, we’ve fallen out of regular touch. 
She’s lived her whole adult life in San Diego, and I’ve lived mine in Alaska. The geographic and logistical challenges of getting together have caused the years to pile up, until a decade managed to pass without us seeing each other. We've kept abreast of major life developments and chat online from time to time, but we are simply not in each other’s everyday lives like we used to be.

To paraphrase Stephen King though, you never have friends later on like the ones you have when you’re a teenager. 

When I think of my adolescence, I think of Amie, because she was such an integral part of everything that was fun and memorable about that critical time in our lives. We had, and still have, a deep and lasting friendship, which in early 90's NYC was characterized by the absolute most fun imaginable.

We would stay out all night and blast our eardrums watching struggling hair bands play shitty nightclubs on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. We’d swoon over leather-clad, Slash-from-GNR-wannabes. At dawn, we’d head uptown for gross chicken soup and a marble frosted donut at Dunkin' Donuts before we slept until noon and I took the bus home.

Amie had terrific parents who adopted her at birth.

Amie always knew she was adopted, but like many adoptions in the 1970s, there wasn’t much information available. She knew that her biological parents were Portuguese teenagers who were not prepared to raise a baby, and that was about it. We would sometimes speculate that perhaps they were a prince and princess living in Portugal.

Fast forward to yesterday, when I saw on Instagram that Amie’s lifelong best friend, Jen, helped orchestrate the first-ever in-person meeting between Amie and her birth mom, Della. I immediately froze with my phone in my hand and texted Amie for the details, and we caught up early this morning.

Amie put me on speaker phone with Jen and Della, and although it had been a few years since I’d heard Amie’s voice, it felt like no time had passed. I had a million questions and got the gist of the story.

Della was 16 and living with her father, brother, and grandparents when she had a brief romance with Amie’s 19 year-old biological father (Amie has located him, but has not reached out to him yet). Della became pregnant with Amie and it was a scandal of sorts in her traditional family. 

As with many teen pregnancies at that time, Della didn’t have much control over what happened next. She finished out her pregnancy at an apartment in New York City, a private adoption was arranged through an attorney, and Della tried not to look as Amie was whisked away a few days after her birth in the hospital. 

That was the last time Della saw Amie until yesterday at the airport in Austin, Texas.

Both women had been on Ancestry.com looking for the other. Through a bunch of detective work by their friends and families and with help from Ancestry, they discovered they were a DNA parent/child match. 

Della wrote first, and Amie wrote back right away. I'm sharing their email exchange (and writing this blog post) with their permission and a few personal details omitted:

Della to Amie:
Hi Amie. My name is Della Pagano. Several weeks ago with the advice of a dear friend, I submitted my DNA. Today I hope a miracle has finally happened. I believe I am your biological Mother. If so, my search is over and my dream has come true. I am Portuguese and have 2 other daughters, Alexandra, 27, and Jaclyn, 24, both of whom are very excited right now. If it is you and you want to meet me or speak on the phone first, it would be my greatest wish. I pray I hear from you. You have been in my heart for always!
Amie to Della:
Oh my gosh! I can't even find the words . . . I can hardly breathe at the moment. I'm so overwhelmed with emotion! I have been searching for you forever!! I am incredibly overjoyed that you have found me, and even more so that you wish to meet me. I can't believe I have sisters!! I have always wanted sisters! You, by the way, have a 2.5 year old grandson. His name is Julian. My sisters are aunties. :) He is beautiful! You would be very proud. I most definitely want to speak to you and meet you as soon as possible. I currently live in San Diego and I know we have a 3-hour time difference. What time of day is best for me to call you?
The happiest girl in the world, your daughter.
So mother and daughter quickly dispensed with their mutual fears that neither would want to meet or know the other. 

Della said she had never stopped thinking and wondering about Amie. For her part, Amie had wonderful parents, but was naturally curious about her birth parents. 

Jen arranged for them to reunite in Austin, with Amie traveling from San Diego and Della from Fairfield, Connecticut where she lives. Jen—forever loyal, tenacious, and fiercely loving—flew them both to Austin where they are presently enjoying a reunion together with Jen and her family.

In the course of just two weeks, Amie learned the identity of her birth mom and her two sisters, Della learned she is a grandmother, and Amie and Della met in person. They will all be having Thanksgiving together this year in North Carolina.

Intense much?!

Through tears, I told Della that Amie had a great childhood, which I knew because I was there for a bunch of it. I told her how amazing Amie’s parents are and were. (Her dad was a private pilot who died in a plane crash when we were young adults). 
I told Della what Amie and Jen surely had already told her many times: that Amie’s mom and dad, grandparents, and step-dad loved her and gave her everything she could have wanted or needed: love, support, an amazing home and education. 

You can see not just the physical resemblance, but the love that Della and Amie share despite only meeting in person yesterday. It’s an amazingly moving thing to witness. 

Even if you don’t know Amie, I defy you not to cry when you look at these pictures, watch this video and read the poem below (author uknown) that Della sent to Amie. 

A true once-in-a-lifetime moment. Absolutely incredible. Seriously, watch the vid.

Once there were two women,
Who never knew each other 
One you don't remember, 
One you call your mother. 
Two different lives,
Shaped to make your one, 
One became your guiding star, 
The other became your sun. 

The first one gave you life,
The second one taught you to live it. 
The first gave you a need for love, 
The second was there to give it. 
One gave you a nationality, 
The other gave you a name. 
One gave you a seed for talent, 
The other gave you an aim. 

One gave you emotions, 
The other calmed your fears. 
One longed to see your first smile, 
The other dried your tears. 

The age-old question 
Through the years:
Heredity or environment
Which are you a product of? 

Neither, my darling, neither.
Just two different kinds of love. 

10 Sexy Alaskan Halloween Costume Ideas

Monday, October 30, 2017

Must Literally EVERY Hole of Her Body Be Available for Use?

Listen guys, I’m not trying to pass judgment or kink shame anyone here. Truly I’m not. As someone chided me last time I delved into this area, the first rule of kink is you don’t drag anyone else’s kink. To that point, I fully get that S&M/BDSM is a yoogely common kink that many peeps are into, and as far as I’m concerned what goes on between consenting adults is fine and dandy.

God bless ‘em, I say!

I do, however, have one or two teensie technical questions about this particular Southeast Alaska Craigslist ad titled “Are U My Sub?”

Just so I’m clear: I knew right away this wasn’t the school district looking for more substitute teachers. I’m not so old and clueless as to not realize what a “sub” is in the context of Craigslist. And while I’m not personally tempted to “live out [my] sexuality as a submissive slave” or be “completely” (or really even partially) “owned” by anyone—handsome and highly educated or not—I respect that this prospect might butter someone else’s biscuit, so to speak.

My question here relates to this dom’s requirement that “every hole of your body will be available to be used by me,” and also that “we’ll be inside each other’s minds all the time.”

To the first point, EVERY hole seems exhaustive and over-inclusive.

As a lawyer, I parse words for a living, and in the interest of due diligence I like to make sure I understand the precise terms of an offer. So I feel like the words “every hole” and “available to be used” need to be, um, fleshed out a bit more?

For example: are we talking nostrils in addition to the standard sex trifecta of mouth/vajay/anus? What about the ear canal? Or the holes inside the body that can’t be readily seen, like the chest cavity and esophagus? Like does the sub have to undergo surgery on command so the dom can access truly EVERY hole? At any time? Like if he wants to do it to her in her ear hole, (to paraphrase Parliament Funkadelic), does she have to let that happen on, say, the public bus?

Alaskan winters can be long and boring and we might need to get creative here. So clearing up exactly what holes we’re dealing with—and in what circumstances— would be helpful.

Secondly, there’s the “we’ll be inside each other’s minds all the time” requirement. A couple issues here.

How does the sub prove she has the dom “inside her mind all the time?” Again, ALL the time seems like a lot to ask, even of the most loyal and submissive sub.

For instance, surely the dom will demand self care like haircuts, waxing, and mani-pedis and such. Although the sub will likely be generally thinking of pleasing the dom while undergoing these treatments, it’s probably unrealistic to expect her to have him inside her mind all the time, not to mention this is an unenforceable term because you can never prove what’s in someone else’s mind.

Like what if she’s getting a full Brazilian because the dom orders it and her mind meanders to other thoughts, such as the caloric content of Gogurt, why Gogurt exists, and if Gogurt is made with GMOs. Or perhaps contemplates whatever happened to Ricky Schroeder after Silver Spoons and makes a mental note to Google this later? Is she thereby being disloyal to the dom?

These are critical issues to resolve right away so that expectations are met and no one feels like they’re getting a raw deal.

Sunday, October 29, 2017

POTUS Screaming DO SOMETHING! Into the Void Would be Funny if It Weren’t So Crazy Scary

If you don't want to see the leader of the free world have an alarming meltdown in real time, I suggest you unfollow President Trump on Twitter. Then again, the President's Twitter account is valuable because it's a reliable, unfiltered window into his thinking.

For almost a year, we've been subjected to the absolute gobsmacking insanity of this administration. The ineptitude. The clinical narcissism. The greed. The mendacity. The bigotry. The divisiveness. 

In that time, it's become increasingly difficult--and therefore increasingly important--to remain alert, awake, and aware of exactly what is happening around us. This, of course, is much easier said than done. 

The constant bombardment of noise and disinformation is difficult to take in. Separating fact from fiction feels impossible when everyone is calling everyone else a liar. The propaganda and the gaslighting is epic, and you're forced to ask yourself every day: Is this normal? Is this true? Is this a lie? What's real? What's fake? Where do I go for real information? What do I believe? WHO do I believe? Am I crazy? What is even happening right now? 

It's enough to make any engaged citizen feel totally unmoored and disoriented in a vain search for "truth" and "facts."

That's why I continue to go right to the source for information about this administration. And although the world on balance would be better off without Twitter, much less Donald Trump on Twitter, his Twitter account is sort of a gift. 

Look at this. The man is having a full-on public meltdown, clearly linked to the fact that the circle is tightening around him with forthcoming indictments. And like any cornered animal, he’s lashing out.

I have no idea who will be indicted on Monday, and in some ways it doesn't matter, because the thing we all need to prepare for is this:  Trump is unburdened by any sense of civic responsibility, character, or empathy. He doesn't care about you, me, the country, the tripartite system of government, or anyone or anything else. 

He is 100% ego driven. He will stop at nothing to salvage whatever he can of his “legacy” and enrich himself as he goes down swinging. It won't matter who he takes with him, who gets hurt, or what impact his words and actions have. He will burn the world down if he has to, either through relentless propaganda or, God forbid, something worse. 

His plea to no one in particular to DO SOMETHING is more bone-chilling than anything you're likely to see out trick or treating this Halloween.

It is not hyperbole to say this: we are in a very precarious moment for American constitutional democracy. An abusive, possibly senile lunatic and his yes-men have their boot on the country's neck. 

We cannot afford to be divided amongst ourselves. We cannot afford to look at our neighbor and malign them for having voted for this. I hold nothing against people who voted for Trump, because we are all his victims now, and if he divides us amongst ourselves, he alone wins and constitutional democracy loses.

So yes, Trump is right. 

It's time for Congress to DO SOMETHING. Call your representatives and light up their phones. Take to the streets in peaceful, constitutionally-protected protest of an administration whose disregard for the basic precepts of governance threatens to blow up 240 years of the American experiment.

Insist on accountability and answers in the confirmed foreign influence and propaganda campaign that installed Trump in office and brought us to the precipice of a cliff whose edge seems to move ever further out into the void.

Yes, please. "DO SOMETHING." This is not a drill.

If You Cant Handle Jell-O, You’re Officially Off My Zombie Apocalypse Team

No one's ever going to accuse me of being one of those "women who does it all." I hardly know how to do ANYTHING. Certainly nothing useful that would help me survive the zombie apocalypse, which is why I make it my business to list "zombie apocalypse survival aptitude" at the top of my list for critical friendship criteria. 

Like when the shit goes down, you're gonna need your squad. 

That one "so-and-so-who-was-fun-to-party-with-in-college-for-ten-seconds" is a distant fucking MEMORY disappearing in a haze of bong hits and shitty hip hop the minute Kim Jong Un unleashes the Rage Virus via a nuclear warhead because Trump mocked his peen on Twitter. 

And there it goes, over the Pacific Ocean, and before you know it, your'e warming your hands over a tire fire and looting Cheetos while an advancing front of zombies draws ever closer to your hideout in a storage unit at the edge of town. 

In this scenario, ideally, your squad will all go into synchronized survival mode. And if you can't do shit, then you'd better be fun to hang out with, at least. 

It's a good thing a close friend of mine--who shall remain nameless-- falls into the latter category, because she is also an adult woman in 2017 with all of her faculties who can't handle Jell-O. 

And by handle Jell-O, I mean literally handle Jell-O.

Someone gave my friend a Jell-O shot while we were out tonight, and when you hand two people her our age a Jell-O shot, you might assume that both of them would know how to extract 2 oz. of Jell-O from a tiny little Solo cup and swallow it. 

But you'd be wrong, because one of them couldn't puzzle through the execution of this seemingly simple task for over 45 seconds, and required my assistance to complete it. 

That's when I instantly added a new minimum responsiveness requirement for membership on my zombie apocalypse team: You need to be able to handle Jell-O. 

I get that it's been a long time since you've had a Jell-O shot, but really doing a Jell-O shot is one of those things that should be like riding a bicycle, as the saying goes. It's not like playing viola or speaking French. It doesn't just swipe-delete out of your brain due to its sheer complexity and disuse. 

It's more like something that your basic chimpanzee could pull off on demand. Even making Jell-O shots is something I think a well-trained primate could do on demand. Like literally: Jell-O powder + vodka + refrigerator = THE END.

But as my mother-in-law once famously scolded after Jell-O went missing from her kitchen following an unauthorized high school party, "YOU DON'T SERVE JELL-O AT A PARTY! YOU SERVE CHIPS!"

It's obvious my friend has reached the chips point of Jell-O shots awareness, and it's my job to bring her back from the edge. Both as a point of pride, and--in these troubled times--to save our very lives.

Saturday, October 28, 2017

If Alaska Were a Teenager Getting Lectured by Its Parents

Listen, Alaska. I'm sorry we have to have this conversation, but we need to make sure you stay on track here.

Let me ask you a question: if all your friends just went ahead and decided to jump off the fiscal cliff, would you do it too? I didn't think so! Money doesn't just grow on trees, you know. Not even old-growth cedars. 

Sure, some of it grows in your ground, but that's not gonna last forever as we all know, and pretty soon you're gonna have to be pulling your own weight around here and not just counting on handouts from Uncle Sam, you feel me?

First of all, let's talk about your grades. They're abysmal. Your low test scores, high truancy rates, and high teacher turnover has got to end. Do you think anyone's just going to hand you a natural gas pipeline with that kind of academic performance?

And the drugs. For fuck's sake kid, the drugs. It's literally a disaster. A little legal weed every now and then is one thing, but you need to stop with the opioids, okay? Yeah, yeah, I know. New Hampshire, Virginia, and South Carolina and a bunch of your friends are into that shit too. But they all live far away, so don't say those pills we found belonged to them, okay? 

We spoke to their parents and we're going to end this right here and now, got it?

Which brings me to your sex life. Look, it's none of my business, but you need to stay healthy. Your high rates of chlamydia and gonorrhea are unacceptable. How do you expect to ever have a stable relationship with those stats, huh? Not to mention your sky-high rates of sexual assault crimes. I mean, GET IT TOGETHER, ALASKA!

Look at you. You have so much potential. You're beautiful and appealing and everyone wants to come visit you. I know you can do this. But for now, unless and until you can show us you can be more responsible, you're grounded 'til solstice.

Friday, October 27, 2017

Southwest Airlines is Getting Roasted for Making Its Passengers a Captive Audience to Emo/Hipster Open Mic Night

Listen. I love live music as much as anyone. I've probably spent more time and money on live music over the course of my life than any other form of entertainment, and live music gets played in my house on the reg with varying degrees of skill, depending on who's playing it. 

That said, I feel like a person should be able to choose one's entertainment and not have it foisted upon them, because this is America for fuck's sake. 

So when I read that Southwest Airlines just finalized an agreement with Warner Music Nashville to "expand its series of pop-up in air concerts," my first reaction was there had better be a two drink minimum. By which I mean, Southwest better be giving every passenger on that plane two free drinks after making them a captive audience to some emo hipster trio playing Arcade Fire covers at 30,000 feet while a baby with ear pressure problems screams its head off in the background.

Noise cancelling headphones were invented for a reason, and that reason is airplanes. Arguably, an airplane is the number two place where you are most subjected to unwelcome sounds, with the airport itself being number one.

It'd be nice if you could just close your ears the same way you can your eyes, but you can't.

Instead, you have to listen to people disciplining their children (or not) in ways you disagree with and judge contemptuously with a vicious, involuntary side-eye. 

You have to hear a guy in pointy shoes, cuff links, and a $2,500 TAG Heuer wristwatch blabbing about an Excel spreadsheet on his bluetooth like he's splitting the fucking atom and wants to make sure the whole world knows it. 

You have to listen to two bros in cammo and baseball caps guffaw while they swap dumb small-talk fish stories. 

You have to listen to the same FAA-mandated safety lecture about how your seat cushion conveniently turns into an inner tube in case you end up floating in the Pacific Ocean. 

You have to listen to yet another promotion for a frequent flier credit card you've already maxed out. 

You have to hear the toilet flushing. 

You have to focus on the indecipherable updates from the cockpit about "bumpy air" and listen intently for mechanical failures and/or signs of alarm in the pilot's voice or--God forbid--the words "brace for impact."

In other words, even through a good pair of noise cancelling headphones, there's stuff you're forced to listen to, and now Southwest Airlines has added a FUCKING OPEN MIC NIGHT to the cacophony. 

This seems like a decidedly sadistic thing to do to already ragged and weary air-travelers. 

As if getting felt up by TSA isn't enough of an affront to one's dignity and sense of calm, you will now be trapped against your will in a confined space while some L.A.-based Lumineers-inspired, dime-a-dozen Adam Levine-wannabe with sleeve-ink and hair product plays the same three chords and croons earnestly with his eyes closed into a mic that carries his maudlin voice all the way to Seat 33C.

There are not enough peanuts in the world to throw at this idea. Just because you call something a "pop-up" something doesn't make it cool. In fact, if something is called a "pop-up" anything that's generally a pretty good indication that it's going to be insufferable AF. 

An "amenity" is defined as a "desirable or useful feature or facility of a building or place." If that's true, then why do I feel like Southwest should pay me to take these flights, instead of the other way around? What’s next? Mid-air TEDx talks?

Thursday, October 26, 2017

I Just Deadass Found Mr. Right for One Very Lucky Juneau Girl

I like to think of myself as a generous person. So when I stumbled across this ad on Juneau Craigslist, my first thought (after “is this a troll or for realsies”) was to share it with the world and the one Juneau woman—(I know you’re out there!)—who’s lucky enough to land Mr. Right.

Now, I suppose I could ditch the father of my children who does 99.9% of all childcare and domestic duties, chaperones every school field trip, heaps praise on my naked body 24/7, and brings me coffee while I’m getting ready for work to get “used like a toy” by a newly single, “almost fit” alcoholic smoker with his “own place” AND his “own shit.”


As tempting as that is, I think I’ll have to take a hard pass basically for logistical reasons, not the least of which is I would first need to lose 10 20 30 35 pounds to meet this man’s weight criteria.

The other problem (at least for me) would be his promise to “get aggressive” when he “want[s] to get off” and “leave bruises,” which frankly sounds a tiny bit scary and threatening? 

See, I grew up in the 80’s, so my standards for foreplay and follow-through land somewhere between the Patrick Swayze/Jennifer Grey cabin scene in Dirty Dancing and the parked car scene in Say Anything. (Lloyd Dobbler. Swooooon)! Your pretty standard soft-core meat and potatoes stuff, in other words.

On the other hand, “treat[ing] [his] lady like a queen on the norm” sort of offsets the fear factor, making me think that he reserves his most hostile interactions for the bedroom and “on the norm” he’s carrying you around on a rickshaw, feeding you grapes, fanning you with palm fronds, and calling you “her majesty” while "yore" draped in jewels and a tiara.

Which brings me to his use of “yore.”

A man who can distinguish your, you’re, and yore and also knows where to put an apostrophe is about as important to me as a woman who weighs 110 pounds and acts like a corpse in bed is to this bro. So for that reason alone, we wouldn’t be a great match, I’m afraid.

However, sex robots and realistic sex dolls are on trend right now, and part of me wonders if maybe an inanimate silicone woman ala Andrew McCarthy in Mannequin (I'm showing my age with the 80's movie references!) is what this guy really needs. He says he wants to move you around AS IF you were a doll, but if you were a REAL doll, you wouldn’t need to worry as much about bruising or grammar.

And while I take issue with his characterization of late 30’s as “older,” I have to agree that he “has gone on for long enough.” We know all we need to know here, amirite ladies?

Surely one of you out there is ready to get treated “like a queen on the norm and a toy in the sack.” If you’re made out of a plastic polymer and can’t read or respond to this post, please have your sentient owner do so on your behalf.

Note that Mr. Right is “feeling like he might want kids soon.” I’m gonna go ahead and guess that this could be problem if yore uterus (youteris?) is made out of polyethylene, but otherwise pretty good news for the human gene pool.

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Juneau, Not BOULDER, is the Happiest City in America!

Whoever said sunny, patchouli-drenched Boulder is the happiest city in America has never been to Juneau, Alaska (I’m looking at YOU, DENVER POST)! 

Because if you’ve never witnessed the following situations in Juneau, you have no idea what happiness even is:

1. A Nissan Leaf driver getting the last plug at Eaglecrest on a powder day.

2. A kid getting a mini-Twix bar thrown at his head from a moving fire truck on the Fourth of July.

3. A free, unused memory foam mattress going up on the Juneau buy-sell-trade Facebook page followed by a comment thread bidding war and fight re: same.

4. The first cruise ship of the season pulling into port.

5. The LAST cruise ship of the season pulling OUT of port.

6. Seeing that one asshole who sped past you on Egan Drive at Twin Lakes pulled over by JPD near Safeway.

7. Costco the day after the PFD direct deposit.

8. A free parking spot in the middle of the day by City Hall.

9. A parent who’s finally done selling all the wrapping paper, cookie dough, and homerun cards for their kid’s activity fundraisers.

10. A parent snickering while watching another parent have a complete and total babyish meltdown at a child’s hockey or soccer game.

11. The sun coming out after six straight weeks of rain followed by the Northern Lights the very same night.

12. The person who finally wins the seven-month long promoted Adele tickets and a trip to Costa Rica on Mix 106.

13. The end of solar eclipse mania.

14. A state worker with kids in school on a state holiday.

15. A free hot dog and a bag of chips anywhere at any event for any reason.

16. A self-inflicted legislative scandal.

17. Winning the king salmon derby.

18. Getting invited out on someone else’s boat.

19. When someone raises their hand first to volunteer for something (anything) so you don’t have to.

20. Two words: December 22.

Juneau, not Boulder, is the happiest city in America and I am calling straight BULLSHIT on anyone who says otherwise!

Tuesday, October 24, 2017

Iditarod Doping Scandal: Exclusive Interview With “Dog X”

Iditarod race officials announced Monday that four-time Iditarod champion Dallas Seavey was the musher whose dogs tested positive for a prohibited opioid painkiller in the 2017 race.

             -Alaska Dispatch News, October 23, 2017

Seavey responded with an impassioned statement on YouTube denying the allegations and withdrawing from the 2018 race in protest. Now, one of the dogs on Seavey’s team—who agreed to bark/howl on the condition of anonymity—has granted an exclusive interview to O.H.M. 

“Dog X,” through famed veterinarian and canine translator Dr. Doolittle, gives his unique perspective on the scandal:

O.H.M.: So let’s just cut to the chase, so to speak. Is there any truth to these allegations?

Dog X: Look, I’m gonna have to back my musher 100% on this, just as I do out on the trail every March, even when drunk slednecks on the Yentna River are screaming at us. I’ve been a lead dog, I’ve been in the back of the pack. Whatever. All I can tell you is I’ve never knowingly gobbled down any banned substance in my kibble or anywhere else. I’m not gonna name names but I’m pretty sure a cat did this.

What do you think about the way the Iditarod board has handled these allegations?

Dog X: To be honest, I don’t think much about anything except when my next meal is coming, playing in the snow, running fast, and winning races with all four paws intact. But as Dallas said, I think the board is trying to throw him under the bus—er, sled. Dallas is a fuckin’ legend and he’s not gonna fit under the sled!

O.H.M.: Have you ever tried tramadol [the banned substance for which Seavey’s dogs tested positive] for any reason?

Dog X: No. I like to tough it out. Everyone knows the opioid crisis in Alaska is more outta control than a pack of wild mutts in a slaughterhouse. The governor declared a state of emergency for Christ’s sake! Dogs are no exception and I know some dumb puppies who’ve tried it. I’m proud to say I’ve only ever chewed on a rawhide bone to get through the pain.

O.H.M.: What do you think about all the national attention this issue has received, specifically criticisms of the sport that emerge on an intermittent basis?

Dog X: To be perfectly honest, I don’t give two turds what the readership of the New York Times or PETA or anyone else thinks about me and my team and Dallas and Mitch and every other husky from Anchorage to Nome. When you’re out there on the trail, it’s just you, your team, the ghost of Balto, and a sled bag full of all the Rule 16 Mandatory Items including but not limited to a proper cold weather sleeping bag weighing a minimum of 5 pounds; an ax, to weigh a minimum of 1-3/4 pounds with a handle at least 22” long; one operational pair of snowshoes with bindings, each snowshoe to be at least 252 square inches; any promotional material provided by the Iditarod Trail Committee; eight booties for each dog in the sled on in use; one operational cooker and pot capable of boiling at least three gallons of water at one time; veterinarian notebook, to be presented to the veterinarian at each checkpoint; an adequate amount of fuel to bring three gallons of water to a boil; and cable gangline or cable tie out capable of securing a dog team.

O.H.M.: Wow, that’s a lot of information for a dog to remember.

Dog X: We’re very smart and focused. And we’re not even on Adderall.

O.H.M.: Is there anything else you’d like the human public to know?

Dog X: Just that lots of folks think they know about mushing and they really don’t. I don’t know anything about it either, since I’m just a dog. I do know I hate snow machines though. I think you people might call them snowmobiles? Whatever they’re called, they’re loud AF. Also, if it’s really true that Dallas isn’t going to race us next year, I’ll probably try to make as many pups as possible, assuming I haven’t been fixed. [*shudders visibly*]

Monday, October 23, 2017

Getdafuqouttaheah with Emoji Rosa Parks: for the LMAOOOOOOOO Files

Far be it for me to criticize anyone else’s activism. Fuck knows, I don’t do shit besides tweet indignant outrage at the Trump administration along with half the internet. Sure I’m on a board or two and I volunteer my time when I can, but I’m certainly in no danger of winning the Nobel Peace Prize anytime soon, I assure you.

That said, let me just take a moment to say a big, loud, GETDAFUQOUTTAHEAH to Floriane Hutchinson, a.k.a. the Rosa Parks of Emojis, who is featured in Mashable for her brave work combatting injustice in your emoji keyboard.

Hutchinson, an “independent arts publicist” based (where else) in Silicon Valley, is taking aim at Emjoi Inequity by “launch[ing] the #IWearFlats campaign to add a women’s flat shoe emoji to our keyboards.”

You see, currently there are only five shoe emojis: a brown man’s shoe, a gender-neutral sneaker, and three high-heeled women’s shoes. This is like, a YOOGE and DEEP problem according to Hutchinson, who is pushing HARD right now for inclusion of the ballet flat.

“The fact that women cannot opt in to have a female shoe without a heel is deeply problematic . . . the implicit expectation, albeit a virtual one, that women would and/or should wear high heeled shoes (be it a stiletto, a mule, or a boot) is simply absurd," Hutchinson said. Her hope is that #IWearFlats “will spark a conversation about the ‘entrenchment of gender stereotypes’” in the emoji lineup. 

Hutchinson clarifies, “I’m not sure if we need every type of shoe to be an emoji, but I can certainly see how women might feel that the current options of a high heeled shoe or tall boot aren’t ideal” ways to communicate in our current “digital language.”

Okay, so we DON'T need every type of shoe? Where do we draw the line, then? This is a slippery slope, m’kaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay?

Now anyone who reads O.H.M. knows I rail against gender stereotypes on the reg, but this “striking” emoji activism campaign needs a good long dragging for any number of reasons.

First of all, I have never used any shoe emoji for anything. The only emojis used less frequently than the shoes are basically the flan and the prawn. I’m not saying the lack of a ballet flat emoji isn’t a problem, buuuut, okay, fine. I’m saying it’s not a problem. And if it IS a problem, it’s certainly not a DEEP problem. Like it’s not “DEEPLY PROBLEMATIC.” 

Deeply problematic is the ACA repeal and non-access to birth control. Deeply problematic is unreported and unprosecuted rape. Deeply problematic is de facto and de jure race and gender-based segregation.


At BEST, shoe emoji inequity is MILDLY problematic, or MINIMALLY problematic, or maybe even SLIGHTLY problematic. Whatever the adjective, it’s not DEEPLY. What IS deeply problematic, however, is the overuse of hyperbole to describe something that in the grand scheme of things DOES NOT ACTUALLY MATTER EVEN A TINY BIT WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT FOR 16 SECONDS.

All of this prompted me to do an audit of the emoji keyboard and in its defense, note the following: there is a female firefighter, a female construction worker, a female detective, a female farmer, a female doctor, a female police officer, a female scientist, a female astronaut, a female carpenter, a female soldier, a female judge, and a female version of every athlete. 

Can’t we just safely assume that all of these emoji people are wearing the appropriate footwear—albeit not shown—without specifically needing a separate selection of gender-appropriate shoe emoji to indicate as much?

And while we’re at it, can we talk about why there is bacon but no sausage? Why there is a taco AND a burrito but no club sandwich? Why there is a vanilla ice cream cone but no other flavor? Not even swirl? Not to mention all that weird Japanese food no one can even name? Like those three pastel-colored balls on a stick? I mean, what is that?

You see where I’m going with this. And where I am going with this is that this entire beef is unmitigatedly stupid and a symptom of what happens when you’re rich and bored and have nothing better to think or care about than the DEEPLY PROBLEMATIC PROBLEM OF SHOE EMOJI INEQUITY.

#EmojiRosaParksOverHere #ThisIsRealIGuess #GetdafuqouttaheahWitDis #OhItsStrikingAlright

Sunday, October 22, 2017

Sexual Assault Should Just Be a Tax Write-Off Now

I think it's time we all unite as a society and codify what is essentially already a reality: rape, sexual harassment, and sexual assault should just be a tax write-off now.

An article published yesterday in THE FAILING NEW YORK TIMES reported the following, which I will just paste here verbatim:
Last January, six months after Fox News ousted its chairman amid a sexual harassment scandal, the network’s top-rated host at the time, Bill O’Reilly, struck a $32 million agreement with a longtime network analyst to settle new sexual harassment allegations, according to two people briefed on the matter — an extraordinarily large amount for such cases. 
Although the deal has not been previously made public, the network’s parent company, 21st Century Fox, acknowledges that it was aware of the woman’s complaints about Mr. O’Reilly. They included allegations of repeated harassment, a nonconsensual sexual relationship and the sending of gay pornography and other sexually explicit material to her, according to the people briefed on the matter. 
It was at least the sixth agreement — and by far the largest — made by either Mr. O’Reilly or the company to settle harassment allegations against him. Despite that record, 21st Century Fox began contract negotiations with Mr. O’Reilly, and in February granted him a four-year extension that paid $25 million a year.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the country, Harvey Weinstein has checked out of "sex addiction" "rich-white-man-rapist-crisis-P.R.-stunt" therapy, but is chillin' in Arizona for awhile to continue "dealing with his anger, his attitude toward others, boundary work and the beginnings of work on empathy."

The "beginnings of work on empathy." THE BEGINNINGS. So let's review. 

Harvey Weinstein is throwing money at his civil and criminal liability to work on a concept that should pretty much be hard-wired from birth into any non-sociopath. 

So I guess what that means is that sexual assault is just a cost of doing business and the IRS should make it a tax write-off, because here's what's happening:

Bill O'Reilly and Harvey Weinstein are just two prominent and powerful examples, but the fact is that a lot--A LOT--of powerful (and maybe not so powerful) men have been committing sexual felonies against women in the male-dominated workforce for decades upon decades. 

Not only have these crimes gone largely unreported (much less prosecuted or punished), but as long as the perpetrators can somehow continue to generate money in their respective fields or industries, they are welcomed back with open arms after paying the equivalent of a speeding ticket for permanently and serially violating the psychological and physical sanctity of fellow professionals and human beings.

Let's get one thing out of the way: to be wrongfully accused of sexual harassment or assault is a terrible thing. It can ruin the reputation and life of the accused forever. But like in-person voter fraud, the "false rape allegation"--much less the consequences that flow from it--is not exactly common. In fact, it is exceedingly rare. Statistics support this reality. From a May 2017 article in Quartz:
Let’s start with the idea that false rape accusations ruin lives, and are therefore a universal risk to men. Generally, feminists dismiss this idea by arguing that false accusations are rare—only between 2% and 10% of all reports are estimated to be false. What’s equally important to know, however, is that false rape accusations almost never have serious consequences.

It’s exceedingly rare for a false rape allegation to end in prison time. This may be hard to believe, especially considering that rape is a felony, punishable with years of prison. However—to start with this worst-case scenario—it’s exceedingly rare for a false rape allegation to end in prison time. 
According to the National Registry of Exonerations, since records began in 1989, in the US there are only 52 cases where men convicted of sexual assault were exonerated because it turned out they were falsely accused. By way of comparison, in the same period, there are 790 cases in which people were exonerated for murder. 
Furthermore, in the most detailed study ever conducted of sexual assault reports to police, undertaken for the British Home Office in the early 2000s, out of 216 complaints that were classified as false, only 126 had even gotten to the stage where the accuser lodged a formal complaint. Only 39 complainants named a suspect. Only six cases led to an arrest, and only two led to charges being brought before they were ultimately deemed false. (Here, as elsewhere, it has to be assumed that some unknown percentage of the cases classified as false actually involved real rapes; what they don’t involve is countless innocent men’s lives being ruined.) 
So the evidence suggests that even in the rare case where a man is the subject of a false rape complaint, chances are that the charges will be dropped without him ever learning about the allegations.
In other words, the incentive to report sexual assault is incredibly low given the scrutiny to which victims are subjected and the lack of accountability their perpetrators face. 

DO THE MATH: It's simply not worth it for most women.

Do evil, nefarious, lying women occasionally use rape and sexual assault as a way to get rich and/or blackmail and destroy a man's life or reputation? Yes. 

But the statistical reality paints a more troubling picture, or what should be a more troubling picture: thousands of rapes and assaults--FELONIES--much less routine sexual harassment, go unreported and unprosecuted at all stratas of society, but especially in order to protect the most valuable asset in our culture: a rich man's reputation and his ability to continue to enrich himself and those in his field or industry.

Collectively, we've decided that on balance, it's worth it. One man's ability to keep making money is more important than thousands of women's lives and bodily dignity. 

So let's just go ahead and make sexual assault, rape, and harassment a cost of doing business. Let's be pragmatic and make it a routine part of insurance policies and a tax write-off. Congress can just include it in the whole tax code/tax reform overhaul. 

Done and done!

Saturday, October 21, 2017

War Crimes Against Denim

I had to do a LOT (okay fine, ten seconds) of research to make sure this wasn’t FAKE NEWS and it seems—erm, seams—it is not.

A Japanese designer named Thibaut has just pulled the ultimate Emperor’s New Clothes at Tokyo Fashion Week with these “thong jeans.” 

You have to be super high concept to get these, but since I’m not high concept, I’m just gonna go ahead and call these a war crime against denim that merits prosecution at The Hague.

Before I get to the jeans though, let me just say that I know clear glasses frames are on trend. What I didn’t realize, however, is that the star of my mother-in-law’s calisthenics VHS home workout tapes from 1989 has embarked on a second career as a high fashion runway model.

We can’t all afford high fashion though, so here’s a step-by-step guide to making these jeans yourself at home:

1. Buy a pair of light wash jeans from Old Navy for $39.

2. Scroll through some Trump tweets while sitting on hold with the IRS until you’re good and mad.

3. Channel your rage into a set of poultry shears and go to town on the jeans while blasting P!nk’s greatest hits.

4. Discard 85% of the denim material to use for scrapbooking and your daughter’s Barbies later.

5. Take the remaining 15% and somehow step into it.

6. Walk out in public.

7. Wait for the police to ask if you’ve been in some sort of accident or perhaps mauled by an animal.

8. Convince the police you’re not a vulnerable adult who’s escaped from a psychiatric inpatient facility.

9. Turn around and run home as fast as your ironic Reeboks will carry you.

10. Try not to snag yourself on a fire hydrant or park bench as you go.

The End.

Hurricane Maria Response: St. Croix Update from My Friend in the Coast Guard

Last week, I posted an update on Hurricane Maria according to our friend, Andy, who is deployed there from Juneau and coordinating the Coast Guard's federal response to the hurricane. 

My mom's plans to travel there and do mental health relief work have not yet come together because folks like Andy are still doing emergency work and there's nowhere to stay. She expects to get there sometime this winter after immediate life, health, and safety needs are under control. 

Here's the latest from Andy:
St Croix report: I went to the east end of St Croix last week to visit the Coast Guard inspection office, which is not near a population center. The office has very limited communication and it was difficult to understand the situation on the ground from our command post in San Juan. Not surprisingly, some things were worse and some better than expected.
The utility grid is destroyed, and the roads have not yet been cleared. Utility poles are in the streets, wires across the roads. There was widespread damage to homes across the island, and I met several people who had been displaced by the storm. The Coast Guard permanent party’s homes were all rendered uninhabitable due to wind damage, water intrusion and mold growth. A temporary crew was housed in a hotel which was about 2/3 destroyed, but had remaining habitable rooms and a functioning restaurant. Many homes on the east end have rain catchment cisterns on their roofs as their primary source of water, but most of these have been contaminated by vegetation and windblown debris.

Despite the damage and the heat, the people I encountered were inspiring. Local residents have taken up roles helping each other. I met Maurya, a 70 year old retired U.S. Navy commander who took a leadership role to organize neighbors, and cleared some of the roads leading into her area with a hand saw. She was a career naval engineer, and did a tour as Main Propulsion Assistant on a minesweeper. I met Kevin, the “ice man,” who drove into Christiansted each day to bring ice to the east end to help those with no refrigeration.
The logistical challenges are not as daunting as in Puerto Rico; the island is smaller, the mountains are lower and there was less road destruction. The port is open, grocery stores and some bars and restaurants are open and fully stocked. Despite this, the disruption of lives has meant many people out of work. People are running out of money, hot and exhausted. People don't have functioning refrigeration, so they can't buy much fresh food. Hurricane Hugo has been in the Cruzan consciousness for several decades, but Maria will be the new reference point for destructive storms.

Friday, October 20, 2017

Challenging the Propaganda Machine: Sarah Huckabee Sanders Needs a Civics Lesson, Because of Course She Does

My paternal grandfather was a pilot in the Air Force during World War II. His service to our country fighting Nazis is probably the biggest point of pride in our family. I have his collection of wartime papers, photographs, and a few articles of his clothing and pins, some of which I have shared previously here. I remember looking at model airplanes in his home-office and hearing stories of his flight school training.

He was crushed when he was medically discharged from the Air Force for ulcers, and couldn’t serve abroad with his fellow fighter pilots. Had it not been for his condition, though, I likely wouldn’t be here, because nearly everyone else in his squadron was killed in action overseas.

I am proud of my family’s military background, which is at least part of why it was so disturbing to hear White House Spokesperson Sarah Huckabee Sanders tell a member of the American free press (referring to White House Chief of Staff John Kelly), “if you want to get into a debate with a four-star Marine general, I think that’s something highly inappropriate.”

Actually, it’s not. Putting aside the fact that John Kelly is now a civilian, “debating” a member of the military is absolutely appropriate.

What’s not appropriate, at least in our American constitutional democracy, is a slavish fetishization of the military—be it in the White House pressroom or at a football game.

What we’ve seen developing lately is a sinister brand of blind jingoism and obsequiousness. One that tries to suppress, shame, and intimidate civilian criticism of government actors based on the specious falsehood that such criticism is tantamount to “disrespecting our troops.” 

It’s a false equivalency and it’s a very dangerous one at that.

The American Revolution was fought—and won of course—by challenging the British forces that ruled the colonies. The Founding Fathers were deeply concerned about and highly skeptical of military incursions and overreach into civilian life. Their copious writings reflect the fundamental idea that the military is ultimately accountable and subservient to a civilian democratic government—not the other way around.

This is distinct from many despotic nation-states around the world. And certainly, it’s because of that distinction that American citizens remain free to criticize their government for failing to live up to its Constitutional guarantees.

The current administration appears not to understand this principle of basic American civics, and their ignorance is to our detriment. Make no mistake: for those in power to serve up this type of autocratic propaganda—unchallenged—endangers us all.

Thursday, October 19, 2017

Alaskan Horoscopes

Aries (March 21-April 19): Your passion will ignite this month as you read the comment threads in the ADN and wonder how anyone could possibly get so worked up over service dogs and the theft of canned Spam in Hawaii. Personally, you’re much more troubled by the fact that someone seems to get run over or shot in Anchorage every single day. Time to lock and load your rifle and go shoot yourself some moose sausages to let off a little steam. KABLAM!

Taurus (April 20-May 20): Your natural inclinations toward practicality and loyalty are at odds this month as you want to patronize your local independent book store, but deep down don’t feel like leaving your couch. You’re pretty sure they won’t have what you want anyway, and Amazon Prime shipping is free, so, you’ll just have to live with the guilt of contributing to the demise of Alaska’s mom and pop retail community, asshole.

Gemini (May 21-June 20): This month, a secret admirer will finally ask you out on a date! So what if your new love interest happens to be your kid’s second grade teacher’s ex-husband. And who cares if he suggested hiking Flattop followed by the Moose’s Tooth like that shit isn’t the most unoriginal date in all of Anchorage and you haven’t been on the exact same date 1,000 times. Just go with it. God knows there’s no better prospect on the horizon!

Cancer (June 21-July 22):
Your keen intuition will serve you well this month when an adventurous-bordering-on-stupidly-careless friend suggests you venture into the glaciated backcountry for three days unprepared for the elements. Take heed of those doomed souls whom Alaska has chewed up and spat out, and decide maybe not to let peer pressure turn you into a statistic this time.

Leo (July 23-August 22): You’ll capitalize on your physical strength this month as you take advantage of the PFD sale that finally prompted you to sign up for the gym again. You’ll need it after you slip and fall on early-morning October ice right outside the front door before you can even set foot on the treadmill. Good thing your insurance covers physical therapy—for now!

Virgo (August 23-September 22): You might find yourself getting emotional this month, but not from lack of sleep. The waning daylight has you patronizing retail weed stores more than usual (yay for democracy!) and sleeping from 7:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. and yet still waking up in pitch blackness feeling like you got into a fist fight with a grizzly bear. Take some time for self-care by crawling back into bed again.

Libra (September 23-October 22):
Your analytical side is dominant this month as you deal with that little nagging voice in the back of your mind that keeps asking, “what if oil never recovers and the state descends into an endless shit-spiral, my house winds up not being worth the dirt it sits on, and I have to start panhandling on the streets of Juneau just so I can afford to buy my child an outdated geography textbook in the hopes of cobbling together a decent public education for him/her?” Put a blue tarp over that fear, just like the one that’s been draped over the rusty snowblower in your driveway for three winters. Also watch the Monorail episode of The Simpsons and pretend the Monorail guy is Exxon. This won’t make you feel better, but it will make you laugh!

Scorpio (October 23-November 21):
It’s 10:00 p.m. in Alaska. Do you know where your children are? Unless you’re on meth right now, the answer is probably yes. Next case! 10:00 p.m. is also prime time to get on Twitter and stare into the Rectangle of Doom known as your iPhone while the rest of the country sleeps blissfully. Leverage your predilection for intimacy into creating some dank memes until you lose track of time.

Sagittarius (November 22-December 21):
You can be super temperamental, but this month your patience will be tested to the max as your Alaska Airlines jet overheads three different cities in Southeast on day five of a two day work trip. Use this unscheduled “vacation” to get familiar with a dodgy fleabag hotel and stay up all night wondering if anyone was murdered in your room as you watch re-runs of Forensic Files before you have to head back to the airport in three hours to attempt another failed departure.

Capricorn (December 22-January 19):
You can be cold, distant, and unforgiving, but this month you have to make a tray of brownies and at least five different meal train meals and potluck dishes for various neighbors with babies and numerous attempts to raise money at your kid’s school because the Legislature wants your kids to Rice Krispy-treat their way to jobs and college. Just try not to let your controlling side get the best of you when you realize the dog ate half your pan of lasagna and his hair is all over everything.

Aquarius (January 20-February 18): Don’t be shy about asking for what you need this month. For example, if the garage that changes out your snow tires says they can’t get you in for another two months, beg and plead and maybe even cry until they agree to accept your vehicle tomorrow. Nothing wrong with asserting yourself and turning your careless procrastination into someone else’s emergency every now and again. God knows someone does it to you every day of the week, and one good turn deserves another.

Pisces (February 19-March 20): Your love of water will shine this month as you stare at your enormous kayak and ask yourself why you ever bought that POS to begin with. All it is now is a decoration in your garage instead of someone else's garage. Don’t be discouraged by the fact that it takes longer to get down and loaded up than the time spent actually using it. Just look at it and smile and picture it actually on the water.

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

15 Little, Everyday Juneau GRIPES!

1. “In America, we drive on the RIGHT side of the road!”

2. “What? This place is CLOSED?! It says right here it’s supposed to be OPEN!”

3. “How is this construction project STILL going on?!”

4. “Aren’t these teenagers freezing their ASSES off?”

5. “Is there some off-gassing chemical in that Holland America poncho that makes you want to walk DIRECTLY in front of my car and almost commit suicide? Asking for a friend.”

6. “Is it raining AGAIN? Wait of course it is.”

7. “Ugh not a low ceiling! We’re NEVER gonna get outta here.”

8. “Ugh not high winds! We’re NEVER gonna see the ground again!”

9. “Wait today’s a teacher IN-SERVICE day?! Nooooo!”

10. “Why is the weed store already out of WEED?”

11. “This Costco peeled garlic is all moldy ALREADY?”

12. “OMG I can’t believe I just spent $10 on SOUP.”

13. “How do these leggies WALK in those HEELS?”

14. “Someone put THAT on Juneau buy/sell/trade?”

15. “How can one town produce SO MUCH DOG SHIT?”

BONUS GRIPES: "I DARE you to tow my car!" and "Is there ANY middle ground on the radio between Justin Bieber and Rod Stewart?"

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Newsweek Has Great Tips on Surviving Two Sociopaths Blowing Up the Planet to Prove Whose Dick is the Yoogest

It seems almost retro to say we’re in this place again, but welp, here we are, cowering under our literal and figurative desks once more. And not just to avoid an active shooter armed with 23 pieces of military-grade artillery festooned with bump-stocks and silencers dispensed as free samples at a gun show, either.


This time, we’re taking cover from two active sociopaths—one of whom happens to be the figure-head President of the United States—and both of whom seem bound and determined to return Planet Earth to its origins in the Milky Way just to prove whose dick is the yoogest and fairest in all the land.

The fact that no one will actually remain alive to rule definitively on this question has not deterred Fascist Senile Cantaloupe and Sentient Cabbage Patch Kid from holding humanity hostage in their global peen-measuring contest.

It's all good though, because the FAKE NEWS is here with this BOMBSHELL (pun intended) piece from Newsweek chock full o’ tips to survive a nuclear blast! Let’s break these down and see just how realistic this guidance actually is, m’kay?

“Experts recommend being on the lookout for emergency alerts that could come in the form of text messages.”

Okay, first of all, my iPhone sends me push notifications from trash-ass apps my kids download on the reg. This could easily devolve into a “boy who cried wolf” situation. Like when I hear one of those loud pings, pangs, bings, or dings, how do I know it’s not Barbie Dreamtopia Magical Hair telling me that new hair fashions are available for in-app purchase, as opposed to The Donald telling me that he finally pulled the trigger on the ultimate ragequit? Second of all, I’m sure Trump’s text will get lost among the zillions of group texts and FB messages on which I routinely find myself, despite making it clear in no uncertain terms that group texts and messages are Satan’s handiwork. This whole “nuclear-blast-text-lost-in-the-shuffle” is exactly why.
“It can take up to as little as ten minutes for a nuclear bomb to strike the U.S. giving no time to buy emergency supplies.”
The person who came up with this tip obvs doesn’t have the Amazon Dash Button. Thanks to Jeff Bezos, you can now order Charmin and Cheez-Its right from your bathroom and they will be on your doorstep immedes. I’m confident that ten minutes is MORE than enough time to procure the Nyquil, Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food frozen yogurt, Four Loko, and heirloom tomatoes (among other bare necessities) required to survive the nuclear apocalypse.
“Likely targets of a nuclear attack include strategic missile sites and bases, D.C. government centers, ports and petroleum refineries.”
D.C. is a fucking swamp in every sense of the word, and everyone who lives there should move anyway. That festering boil was officially canceled on 11/9/16. Otherwise, it sounds like you’re probably fine unless your house is in Prudhoe Bay or Cape Canaveral.
“Staying inside in the event of a nuclear blast is key. After 20 minutes of the blast, radioactive flurries and toxic matter will begin to fall. Fallout is especially dangerous during the first two weeks.”
Staying inside for two weeks is gonna be a fucking CAKE WALK, fam! My bed is already my favorite place on earth! The one teensy wrinkle is that I might be overcome by curiosity about “radioactive flurries” and be tempted to go outside with a black-light and see if we can maybe organize an end-times rave.
“If radioactive material gets on your clothing, government officials say taking off the outer layer can eliminate 90 percent of the radioactive material.”
But what happens to the other 10%? Will it give me glow-in-the-dark titties? Gawd that would be bananas, amirite? Here’s hoping!
"Get down, cover your head, don't stand there in the middle of Central Park and gawk. Get under something."
It’s too bad Harvey Weinstein had to fly to Europe for “sex addiction” treatment because his number one skill is getting on top of people. A nuclear blast would finally give that repellent, bloated sack of gelatinous hirsute donkey shit something useful to do with his “addiction” to jumping people’s bones. This is right in his wheelhouse. FREE HARVEY! The future of the planet depends on it!
“FEMA suggests camping out in underground spaces underneath large buildings before the blast. Experts also encourage hiding in a central location with no windows.”
Bruh! I love camping! Based on this description, the State of Alaska’s centralized mail room in the basement of the State Office Building in Juneau is the perfect place to pitch a tent and roast some s’mores over an open uranium fire.
“With a nuclear bomb eminent [sic.] experts warn [against] looking at the blast. Unlike the eclipse, special glasses won’t save you in the event of nuclear destruction, which causes a light so strong it's brighter than the sun and will blind you. Experts urge keeping your mouth open to keep your eardrums from bursting. If you live close enough to the blast, chances of survival are slim.”
So let’s dispense with the elephant in the room: post-nuclear winter, no one will care about the difference between “imminent” and “eminent” anymore, if they ever did. Much less will anyone know where to track down those special eclipse glasses that everyone threw out ten seconds after the eclipse was over. I’m sure when the Blinding Light of Impending Doom sears our retinas, we'll all remember to open our mouths so that our eardrums don’t burst, but also so that little specks of cosmic dust get into our lungs, presumably. But this only applies if you live far away from the blast. If you live close by, you might as well look right at that mushroom cloud with your mouth closed and your ears and eyes wide open so that all of your senses are fully engaged in your last moments on earth and you die looking like one of those little rubber stress dolls that you squeeze and the ears and tongue and eyeballs bulge out comically.
“A 2014 study published in The Royal Society found that most homes and buildings will not be able to withstand a nuclear blast.”
Actually forget everything you just read. We're all fucked and we're all gonna die! JESUS, TAKE THE WHEEL!