Saturday, September 22, 2018

The False Alarm Friend

Can we talk about this person for a second, please? The false alarm friend? Or relative. It can definitely be a relative. Usually an in-law. I can’t say for sure that they haven’t covered this on Seinfeld, but a quick Google search suggests not. Which is odd, because the False Alarm Friend (hereinafter, “FAF”) is definitely a type. 

A close cousin of the “The False Gasper” and “The Scary Sneezer,” (both of which I have covered in prior
posts), the False Alarm Friend scares the shit out of you with cryptic texts and voice mails, only to unwittingly deliver a punchline that results in a massive and jarring feedback loop of neurochemicals in and out of your adrenal system.

Here’s how a text convo goes with a FAF:

FAF: I have something urgent to tell you
You: OMG what?
*10 minutes elapse*
You: Hello? I’m calling you.
*straight to voicemail*
You: what’s going on are you okay?
FAF: Are you sitting down
You: WHAT?! You’re scaring me
FAF: They have organic anchovy paste on sale at Costco

Here’s a voice mail from the FAF:

FAF VMX: “Hi .... um. Can you call me back? We need to talk as soon as possible.”
You: SHIT!! *calls FAF* Hi I got your voice mail what’s up?!
FAF: What size socks does Isaac wear?
You: Wut 
FAF: What size socks does Isaac wear? I’m standing in Gap Kids and they’re having a half off sale on boys’ socks 
You: Are you fucking serious right now?

There’re only so many times your heart will restart. If you want to conserve them, I suggest readjusting your expectations of the False Alarm Friend.

Friday, September 21, 2018

I Wanna Do X With an Octopus!

By dosing the tentacled creatures with MDMA, researchers found they share parts of an ancient messaging system involved in social behavior with humans.

--On Ecstasy, Octopuses Reached Out for a Hug, JoAnna Klein, NY Times, Sept. 20, 2018

I assume doing ecstasy with an octopus is more fun than doing it with mean, insecure frat bros at Phish shows and music festivals.

Like I would be BEYOND stoked to drop molly with an octopus. First of all, an octopus has 8 arms, which if I’m doing the math right, is four times as many arms as humans have, plus hundreds of suckers on each one. And so deductive reasoning suggests that octopus hugs are at least four times better than people hugs.

Still, I bet there’s nothing worse than being a young female octopus who drops X, opens your big fat beak, and confesses all your mollusk feels to a male octopus, only to have him look at you semi-sympathetically with his beady little eyes and tell you with brutal honesty that you’re fat and embarrassing, and he wouldn’t mate with you if you were the last octopus in the ocean, until you slither away and smush yourself onto a trout’s sandy blanket for awhile, crap in a porta-potty under a coral reef somewhere, and spend the whole next day curled up in a squishy ball in your cave crying salty little octopus tears because no one will ever love you and you’re gonna be Hideous and Alone Forever.™

I have no personal knowledge of any of this, by the way. I’m simply relating this scenario from a friend-of-an-octopus-friend.

But how fun and trippy would it be to take an MDMA bath with an octopus?! This is fully #LifeGoals for me. I’m very scared of the ocean, TBH—the currents, the sharks, the stinging and biting things, the sharp rocks—no thank you. But the ocean on ecstasy with an octopus? 

Totes different story. 

I’m sure I’d lose all my inhibitions and we’d take a big tour of the seabed together and go check out an octopus DJ in an algae-covered booth under a shipwreck that only a few “in-the-know” cephalopods could find. All 8 arms would be scratching away on the turntables and we’d be gnashing our beaks and waving our tentacles in the air like we just don’t care. Also a lot of bioluminescence in the house.

(Little Known Fact™: Ringo Starr was dropping X with an octopus when he wrote Octopus’s Garden!)

I wish I’d thought of doing X with an octopus back when I wasn’t scared of parenting through brain damage and driving kids from soccer to skating and back again with a serotonin-depletion hangover.

I thought my MDMA days were done, but this octopus study is a fuckin' game-changer.

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

The Kavanaugh Circus All Boils Down to One Word: Entitlement

So here's a little thought experiment. 

Pretend you were born rich, white, and Christian in post-war America. You attended the best private schools and Ivy League institutions in the country, worked at a series of progressively prestigious jobs, and now you have the chance to reach the absolute pinnacle of your trajectory. 

You've planned for this your whole life. Everything you've done has led to this moment. You're about to interview for a lifetime appointment to one of the nine most important jobs in American civic life. 

The reason this job is so important is because it has the power to affect a lot of people's lives, and whether you want to admit it to yourself or not, if it's one thing you have and don't want to let go of, it's power. ESPECIALLY power to affect other people's lives. The job also commands respect among the people whose opinions you care about, and you also deserve respect. You know the interview is gonna be grueling, but you're a shoo-in for the gig. 

But then something happens. 

Some bitch you don't even remember surfaces from the great beyond to tell on you for the usual stuff you did with girls that you don't even remember. (You were also entitled to her body). And yeah you know they dig for skeletons, but you've basically been a Boy Scout and fuck if you're gonna let some drunken antics from 35 years ago ruin everything you've worked so hard for.

You deserve this job. You're ENTITLED to this job. And so you're relieved when your prospective employer--which in theory is the American people but in practice is a bunch of spineless hacks--says they're gonna put your accuser on trial. 

Because of course! That's normal for a job interview, right? When an allegation of sexual assault surfaces, doesn't EVERY employer put the accuser under oath instead of saying "Thanks for your time, we're going in a different direction?"

In your world, they do. In your world, you're ENTITLED to a seat on the Supreme Court. That's the only possible explanation for assuming that you still deserve this job, and that the women of America should have to beg two lone female Senators to protect their medical safety and--for the SECOND time--demand that a Supreme Court Justice be held accountable for the actions of his own dick.

That's the world you live in. Must be nice.

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Nothing Will Ever Come of This, Because No One With Any Power Gives a Shit

Reality check: the best predictor of the future is history, and if it's one thing history teaches us, it's that women's bodies don't matter.

Maybe it's a bit cynical to say this out loud, but I also think it's realistic: the sexual assault allegation against a 17 year-old Brett Kavanaugh won't matter one iota to his Supreme Court prospects. Of course, there are 6,878 reasons not to confirm this guy to a lifetime appointment on the United States Supreme Court. But people who think this is one of them are deluding themselves.

Per the Washington Post:
Kavanaugh pinned [Christine Blasey Ford] to a bed on her back and groped her over her clothes, grinding his body against hers and clumsily attempting to pull off her one-piece bathing suit and the clothing she wore over it. When she tried to scream, she said, he put his hand over her mouth. “I thought he might inadvertently kill me,” said Ford, now a 51-year-old research psychologist in northern California. “He was trying to attack me and remove my clothing.”
YAWN! HUGE IF TRUE?! Not so much. First of all, it's probably NOT true. Okay, wai wai wait . . . it probably IS true, because this isn't even deviant. THIS. IS. NORMALIZED. BEHAVIOR. IN. OUR. SOCIETY.

Wake up.

Every single woman has experienced something along this spectrum. We have come to accept it as normal. We've taught boys to do it and girls to take it. Forget about rape and sexual assault and more obvious forms of wrongdoing to women's bodies. I don't think there is a woman alive who has not felt pressured and coerced or BEEN pressured and coerced into sex, and guess what?

NO ONE CARES. Certainly not anyone who can do anything about this.

Men by and large don't care, and most women don't either. In fact, most women shun other women for suggesting that maybe this shit is not okay, because accepting it’s not forces them to take a hard look at their own experiences. 

You'll see it all over the internet: are we really going to smear a man's whole career (aka not give him a lifetime appointment to a nine person court that decides everyone’s lives) and dare to stand in the way of his blind ambition for ALLEGEDLY groping a girl and making her fear for her life when he was a drunk teen?


That's right, folks. Only we as a collective society can decide what a "big deal" is, and we have decided that women's bodies are No Big Deal.™ To the extent they matter at all, they matter only to be legislated and controlled. It's no small irony, then, that Kavanaugh is the justice most likely to at long last inflict the thousandth cut on Roe v. Wade that will herald the return of wire-hanger abortions in America.

Don't forget: the same power structure that confirmed Clarence Thomas over Anita Hill's testimony and that gives confessed sexual assailants their careers back after a little time-out in the dunce corner is the very same power structure that elevated Kavanaugh and assembled every Supreme Court before and since.

So if you're waiting on this to matter, I'm sorry to say you'll likely be waiting forever.

Saturday, September 15, 2018


Every once in awhile I just need to process this fact. Like from the first fucking SECOND it’s 24/7 anxiety and questions and insomnia. This has seriously been me EVERY SINGLE DAY since 2007:

What if I have a miscarriage?
What if the genetic testing is positive for something scary?
What if I go into pre-term labor?
What if they die of SIDS?
What if they contract meningitis?
What if they get an incurable disease?
What if they suffocate from anaphylactic shock?
What if they don’t make friends?
What if they get kidnapped?
What if they develop a mental illness?
What if we have a car accident?
What if she develops an eating disorder?
What if they can’t learn?
What if they play with guns?
What if the whole planet is uninhabitable?
What if Donald Trump blows us all up?
What if they drink and drive?
What if they get addicted to drugs?
What if they get bullied?
What if they ARE the bully?
What if they get molested?
What if he sexually assaults someone?
What if they shoplift?
What if they fail out of school?
What if they never graduate?
What if they go to prison?
What if they can’t get jobs?
What if they live with me forever?
What if we get into a feud and they never speak to me again?
What if I get fired and lose my health insurance?
What if they have a horrible breakup?
What if they hit their heads?
What if they get run over by a bus?
What if their bodies are already inevitably and irreversibly riddled with carcinogens?
What if they fall off their bikes and break a bunch of bones?
What if they bleed to death?
What if someone breaks their heart?
What if I disappoint them?
What if they disappoint me?
What if I’m missing out and not present enough?
What if I fail to make adequate memories?
What if I set a bad example?
What if they drown?
What if I outlive them?
What if I die while they’re still young?
What if they go to therapy just to talk about what a bad mom I was?

Like at least some of this will happen. I seriously CANNOT with the stress and vulnerability of parenthood. There is not enough Prozac in the WORLD for this. 

Why did I do this to myself?!

Thursday, September 13, 2018

Widespread Manic Panic Room: A Step by Step Guide to Dyeing Your Kids Hair

Step One: Don’t give two shits about your kids’ hair. Not caring if your kids cut all their hair off and dye their scalp hot pink or whatever is like a threshold prerequisite to this project. Personally, I couldn’t GAF what my kids do to their hair. I’m saving my battle-selection capital for drunk driving, helmet-wearing, firearm safety, and homework.

Step Two: Try to explain to your kids what Ricky’s in the Village was, and how it was the only store you could buy Manic Panic. And how in high school you’d tromp over to the Waverly in your thigh high purple Doc Martens with your dirt weed from Tompkins Square Park and bust out your wallet on a chain to shell out a few bucks for the midnight screening of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Realize they have zero idea what you’re talking about and they couldn’t GAF. Feel old AF again.

Step Three: Read the directions on the jar. Ignore them all. Go with what you feel.

Step Four: What you feel turns out to be using your bare hands, because a paint brush takes too long. Technically, you’re supposed to use a “tint brush,” whatever that is. Anyway what does this look like? A fucking salon? Sorry, the closest thing you have is a stray Crayola watercolors paintbrush and fuck if you’re gonna be here all night. Use your damn bare hands, come what may.

Step Five: Set them up on a stepstool and tell them that if they don’t sit very still and read quietly for thirty minutes the dye won’t work. Wrap the dyed parts of the hair in a bread bag.

Step Six: Help them rinse it out; flood your bathroom. Do a big reveal in the mirror. Enjoy hero status.

Wednesday, September 12, 2018

Inspiring! This Woman Brought a Tuna Salad Sandwich from Subway to a Brown Bag Lunch

In a controversial move that her co-workers are heralding as “brave” and “ballsy,” local accounting assistant Annie James, 32, has taken the bold step of bringing a six-inch tuna salad sandwich from Subway to a working brown bag lunch on Quick Books best practices.

Although arguably delicious, the smell emanating from this particular sandwich is indistinguishable from the crotch area of a pair of polyester bike shorts that have been sitting on the floor of your closet for a week.

“I just thought it was like, really fearless of her to bring wet tuna fish into an enclosed space with six other people like, sitting RIGHT there,” said Annie’s co-worker, Leslie Maldonado. “But you have to hand it to Annie. She’s on her own journey and living her truth. You gotta respect that.”

Not everyone agrees.

“I mean, who does that?” Erin Foust, one of the presenters at the brown-bag, asked rhetorically. “Like, everyone knows you ONLY bring turkey sandwiches or grilled chicken salads or coffee to brown bag lunches. No one wants to smell tuna while they’re trying to focus on a spreadsheet.”

Annie, however, remained undeterred and steadfast about the super gross sandwich.

“It’s not like I microwaved it,” she said, defending her unorthodox choice. “But even if I had, I need 8 grams of lean protein before noon or I flat-line, and nothing worth having comes easy.”

At press time, there was a poster hanging in Annie’s cubicle that read, “The devil whispered in my ear, ‘you’re not strong enough to withstand the storm. Today I whispered in the devil's ear, “Wanna bet? Smell my breath, bitch.'”

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Are You Fucking Kidding Me With This?

Nope. The answer is no. Of course you’re not. No one is. 

This is actually the literal President of the United States doing a DOUBLE FIST PUMP at a 9/11 memorial today. Now having experienced 9/11 in real time a mere two blocks away from Ground Zero, I feel somewhat justified in saying once again—with renewed enthusiasm—that Donald Trump HAS to be an honest to God, bonafide sociopath.

Just think for a minute about what could possibly be going through the vacuous, orange Play-Doh skull of the same dude who, as the towers were falling, ACTUALLY BRAGGED ABOUT THE SUPERIOR HEIGHT OF HIS OWN SKYSCRAPERS. He also lied about donating to a 9/11 charity and took money from a 9/11 recovery program

He really did that. Go ahead, look it up. So it really shouldn’t surprise anyone that Trump is exhibiting a Hannibal Lecter-esque level of empathy here.

Let’s consider for a minute how anyone over the age of ten could make this gesture during a solemn moment like this, much less do it as the fucking PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES with the whole world watching. Short of whipping his tiny dick out and busting a nut in public, there is hardly anything less appropriate than the single (much less double) fist pump at an event commemorating the loss of some 3,000 lives on American soil.

There are only a few possible explanations for this, not all of them mutually exclusive, of course:

1. Trump is a bigger sociopath than Charles Manson.
2. Trump is demented.
3. Trump is a narcissist.
4. Trump is a sadistic ghoul.
5. Trump was raised by a colony of vultures.
6. Trump has the self-awareness of a paramecium.
7. Trump is a psychotic monster.
8. Trump has less empathy than a can of paint.

All of the above, I think. All of the above.

Sunday, September 9, 2018

Interview With the Stranded Steller Sea Lion in Sitka

O.H.M.: So, thanks so much for taking the time to meet with me. I know you've been busy getting re-acclimated to your marine habitat. It sure is cold out in this skiff. Can you scooch up a little closer? That's great. Thanks.

Stranded Steller Sea Lion (SSSL): *Puts nose on bow of skiff*: No problem, I'm just grabbing a few crustaceans off the seabed here before I get back to the rookery. I'll try not to get lost on my way there! *coyly covers face with flipper.*

O.H.M.: OMG have you tried their raspberry kombucha? Travis, the owner, swears by it. I just had some last week and was all like I'm not sure about this stuff, it tastes like it's alive and it's kinda funky but may--

SSSL: No, no no. Not the Rookery coffee shop in Juneau. I mean, my LITERAL rookery near Sitka where I breed and bark loudly at other males to defend my territory! 

O.H.M.: Ohhhhhh! DUUUUH. I'm so dumb. Haha, that was awkward. Alright, let's get to the real reason for this interview: What the hell happened out there last week? How did you end up on a four-day impromptu land tour of Sitka?

SSSL: It's pretty embarrassing, actually. I'd just downloaded Swayze™ onto my flipper, and it must've had a glitch, or maybe I plugged in the wrong coordinates because I thought I was headed to a buoy to molt, and all of a sudden, BAM! I'm in front of a goddamned hospital on Japonski Island! (excuse my French).

O.H.M.: No problem. I'm used to it. What made you decide to stick around shore for four whole days?

SSSL: It wasn't exactly my choice. I mean, I didn't know where the hell I was. One minute I'm dodging kelp with my offspring like it's any given foraging excursion, and next thing I know I'm getting sprayed down by a fire hose wielded by the Sitka Fire Department. So I was like, fuck it. I can't see the ocean, might as well lumber into the woods and see if I can't find myself a snack.

O.H.M.: Were you scared?

SSSL: Well, look. I'm an 8 year-old male, and although I'm just reaching polygynous sexual maturity, I already weigh between 1,500 and 1,700 pounds. This isn't my first rodeo. But by all rights I should've died out there, cuz evolution. On the other hand, I probably wouldn't have gotten lost at all if it hadn't have been for your old Barbie Doll heads and plastic Coors Light six-pack rings shitting up my habitat. You're damn right I was scared!

O.H.M.: I realize it was kind of an ordeal, but what was a highlight of your unplanned detour to terra firma?

SSSL: Probably all the scientists and locals who kept oohing and ahhing and snapping pics. I forgot to get their contact info--I was too busy trying to figure out WTF was even happening. But I'm hoping some of them tag me on Insta. Maximum views on social is really gonna up my cred for mating season. I'm ready to own like, 5 bitches right now.

O.H.M.: Totes. Do you remember being tranquilized?

SSSL: To be honest with you, I don't remember much after the woods. I think I heard someone say something about "Airport Road" and "front-loader" and Eumetopias jubatus. Next thing I knew, I felt a sharp pain in my ass and passed out. When I woke up I could smell salt water and was like YAASSS KWEEEN and just dove right back in and started fishing again.

O.H.M.: Which brings us to today. What are your plans post-fame?

SSSL: I'm trying not to let it get to my head. I mean, it's not exactly something to be proud of, losing the ocean. Like who does that?! Still, I'm trying to practice self-care and forgiveness, and at this point I'm just grateful to everyone who helped get me home. The kindness my fellow mammals showed to me this past week has really got me in my seals. I mean feels.

Thursday, September 6, 2018

Embezzlement is Kind of a Friendship Dealbreaker

So I was at a party recently, chatting with someone whose business was embezzled by a friend and employee a few years ago. After she got out of jail, this person explained, the embezzler wanted to be friends again.

Friends ... Huh.

Now, maybe it’s because I’m not sufficiently bountiful in spirit, but personally I think embezzlement is kiiiiiind of a dealbreaker friendship-wise. Like if you’re going to embezzle from a friend, you should prolly assume that if you get caught, the friendship is over. 

I mean, embezzlement is pretty high-level friendship misconduct, my dudes. No?  It’s right up there with marital affairs, except it’s actually illegal.

I don’t typically have feuds or “break-up” with friends. Sure I’ve drifted apart from friends over the years, but always due to outside circumstances, and I always feel fondly toward them, even if they aren’t in my daily life anymore. I’m also not a particularly high-maintenance friend. I don’t get super worked up over the “always late friend” or the “constant drama friend” or the “risk-taker friend” or even the “crisis friend.” I’m pretty good with all of this.

But I draw the line at embezzlement. 

I’m not saying you shouldn’t forgive someone for their mistakes, but I don’t think that means your friendship should be presumptively on offer to the person who skimmed thousands of dollars off the top to go on a shopping spree at Target. In fact, I think the presumption should be that you ceded your friendship to a set of sequined pillows and a floor lamp.

My verdict is in: Embezzlement is a pretty generous friendship boundary.

Wednesday, September 5, 2018

Why Anonymous Content is Bullshit

Two years ago, someone tried to get me fired for my blog. It was one of the scariest and darkest moments of my career.

Although she didn't ultimately succeed, at the time I really thought she might. She wrote and persistently called the newspaper, her legislators, and my employer. I got a lawyer. It lasted months. 

Throughout the entire difficult and humiliating ordeal, there was one thing I could be proud of: I stood behind every word I’d ever written, with my name attached to it. I own my writing, whether I'm dashing off a blog post or signing a pleading in court.

This complainant's screeds to Anyone Who Would Listen™ included a smug “revelation” of my identity, as if I'd ever tried to hide who I was for even one second, and she was a gumshoe detective who was unmasking me, Scooby Doo-style, to the world.

My professional life and my life as a blogger are two separate and distinct parts of my existence, with the former, fortunately, protected by the First Amendment. It wouldn't take anyone with a WiFi connection more than two clicks to "figure out" who I am. My blog was never a secret to anyone. My identity has never been a secret.

And that's because anonymous writing (in my opinion) is a coward's endeavor. And if it's one thing I'm not, it's a coward. As a general rule, I do not believe in anonymous writing. Not on the internet, not in comment threads, and not in newspapers. If you have something that's important enough to say, and demand another person’s time and attention to read, you should have the courage to own it.

I thought about this again when reading today's anonymous op-ed in the New York Times from a "senior Trump administration official" assuring the country that there are "adults" embedded in the administration, working to save America from Trump's worst impulses. 

The Times defended the "rare” and (not coincidentally) click-baiting “step" of publishing anonymous content:
[A]t the request of the author, a senior official in the Trump administration whose identity is known to us and whose job would be jeopardized by its disclosure. We believe publishing this essay anonymously is the only way to deliver an important perspective to our readers.
Uh huh.

Predictably, ten zillion hot takes followed. Anonymity was good, because otherwise we’d be focusing on the author and not the content, and this person would be fired and no longer able to nobly “protect us" from Trump. Also: EVER HEAR 

Put aside the fact that it's un-democratic and alarming that the nation's top elected official is apparently being controlled by unelected appointees. That's called a coup. And simply "waiting out" Trump's presidency while the "grownups in the room" save us all is a failing that everyone now serving in Congress must live with--forever--as an abdication of their office and its own act of profound cowardice.

The more cynical (and to my mind, accurate) view of the Times op-ed is that its author is protecting themselves. Their career, their reputation, their party, and their future. They want their cake and they want to eat it too. They want plausible deniability when this national nightmare ends and the inevitable reckoning comes. They want to pull a self-satisfied “I told you so" someday, without having to accept or acknowledge their complicity in what’s happened and continues to happen on their watch. 

It’s an insurance policy, taken out on the public and administered by a major newspaper. Nothing more. That's called cowardice and lack of character. 

And I'm sorry, but it's bullshit.

Please, Anything But a Quote Unquote Idea Person

Seriously. I’ve worked in kitchens and offices, served on boards, and volunteered in all sorts of employment settings since I was 17 years old, and no one—NO ONE—sends up red flags like the Idea Person™ .

At the risk of over-generalizing, the Idea Person™ is more often the Idea Man
™ , the Idea Guy™, or worse, the Big Picture Guy.™ He (and far less often, she) sometimes goes by Forty Foot View Guy™ or Not a Details Man.™ You very rarely see Big Picture Woman™ or Idea Woman™, although she is not unheard of. You certainly don’t see Idea Gender Non-Binary Person™ because THAT person has generally had to work pretty hard just to get the people around them to call them by the correct pronoun.

But I digress. Whatever you want to call them, Idea Person™ is someone you can ALWAYS count on for one thing: not working.

Idea Person™ likes to think of themselves as a visionary—someone with brilliant strategies and, well, “ideas.” Ideas that sound original but aren’t, and that they want other people to execute because they can’t be bothered with stuff like reading, shelf-stocking, inventory-taking, researching, studying, communicating, or generally rolling up their sleeves and actually working.

Idea Person™ likes to breeze into a room with their so-called “ideas.” Their speech is often peppered with clichéd claptrap jargon or sports and military idioms like “carry the ball into the end zone” or “message this from the stakeholders’ perspective” or “see the forest for the trees.” 

Especially that one, because Idea Man™ is usually a dude who thinks of himself in the mold of Steve Jobs. A grand thinker who isn’t bogged down in the “woods” or the "trees," but is just soaring over the “forest” like a vampire from the Twilight series: often quite pale, ageless in wisdom, supernatural in power, and consumed with unnamed Important Things™ which, when subjected to even the most superficial scrutiny, turn out to be bullshit that prevents him from being “bogged down in the weeds," aka "working."

The weeds, though, is where the work is, and it’s the one place you will never find Big Picture Guy™. Big Picture Guy™ is never “in the weeds.” He’s not even really in the “forest.” He’s in the clouds, thinking about whatever he wants to think about, day-dreaming up Big Picture Idea™ hay for other people to spin into reality gold like Rumple fucking Stiltskin.

You know you’re dealing with Idea Man™ when he starts a conversation with “someone should really think about doing [BLANK]." And my first question, naturally, is “interesting, great idea, but who is that someone?” Hint: it is never, ever, EVER Idea Man.™

Good old Idea Person.™ More aptly known as Allergic to Work Man.™


Monday, September 3, 2018

De-Platforming Hate Speech is Not a Slippery Slope

In an article published in the Atlantic last year entitled "What Europe Can Teach America About Free Speech,” University of Virginia law professor Mila Versteeg, a descendent of both Nazis and Nazi resisters, makes an interesting case about free speech. 

She posits that Europe's post-World War II human rights framework is, in some ways, a more reliable inoculation against fascism and ethno-nationalism than the American model, because its prohibitions on hate speech don't rely on the "free marketplace of ideas" to root out those scourges. 

The rise of Nazism in Europe gave the lie to the idea that an unregulated marketplace of ideas--which is largely what America has today, with certain benefits--was a sufficient insurance policy against ethnic cleansing and genocide.

"In an unregulated marketplace of ideas," Versteeg writes, "private citizens need to take up the burden of holding the line against racist extremism."

That's where de-platforming comes in.

The thing about the First Amendment, which not everyone fully understands or appreciates, is that only government actors need to comply with it, because the Founding Fathers knew that it is our own government that has the ultimate power to oppress us. So for better or worse, here in America, it's up to private citizens to step in where the government won't or can’t; to decide that certain ideas are so toxic, so dangerous, and so detrimental to society that they simply should not be given a massive platform.

It's not a "slippery slope" problem. There is zero evidence that snuffing out white supremacy through de-platforming is going to herald the end of Free Speech as We Know It.™ There is, however, evidence that de-platforming is an effective tool against hate speech and ethno-nationalism.

And we’re fortunate enough in this country not to have learned this lesson the hard way. 


When powerful private media actors like the New Yorker, Twitter, and Facebook hand Alex Jones, Steve Bannon, and Milo Yiannopoulos a megaphone, they endorse the "both sides" canard that every crackpot bigot deserves an enormous private platform to espouse hate, and that people's lives and safety are a reasonable price to pay for engagement and clicks.

It's up to us as private citizens to push back and say they're not.

Friday, August 31, 2018

Sucks to Be You, Marine Iguana

Dear Marine Iguana,

Sucks to be you. No, I mean that honestly. Like it genuinely sucks to exist as a member of your species. I'm pretty sure that your VERY best average day is waaaaay worse than my worst average day. Here's what I mean:

BEST AVERAGE DAY FOR MARINE IGUANA: Hatch out of an egg buried in searing hot sand; make a mad dash for a cliff as hordes of carnivorous constrictor snakes slither toward you at top speed; escape--by a hair's breadth--the clutches of the aforementioned snakes; keep running toward cliff.

WORST AVERAGE DAY FOR ME: Hit "off" instead of "snooze" on Crystals by mistake; realize three-day old laundry is now collecting mildew in the washing machine; too many annoying emails before 9:00 a.m.

BEST AVERAGE DAY FOR MARINE IGUANA: Dive 98 feet head-first off a rocky cliff into the broiling Pacific ocean's sub-tidal zone; forage for red algae, feces, and sea lion afterbirth.

WORST AVERAGE DAY FOR ME: Twist left ankle crossing the street in Danskos; find nothing I feel like eating at the Rainbow Foods deli counter AND no gluten-free brownies; get take-out Cobb salad instead.

BEST AVERAGE DAY FOR MARINE IGUANA: Desalinate your own water by blowing it through exocrine glands in your nose; feel elevated stress due to tourism.

WORST AVERAGE DAY FOR ME: Drop coffee grounds on floor; get Prozac stuck in throat; tear Spanx; feel elevated stress due to tourism.

BEST AVERAGE DAY FOR MARINE IGUANA: Stare a category five hurricane and 40-foot seas in the face on the reg.

WORST AVERAGE DAY FOR ME: Get into an argument about #Pizzagate with my second cousin's roofer on Facebook.

BEST AVERAGE DAY FOR MARINE IGUANA: Lock literal horns and butt literal heads with another dominant male in order to successfully defend your territory.

WORST AVERAGE DAY FOR ME: Lock metaphorical horns and butt metaphorical heads with my offspring about slime-making materials all over the house like do they think this house I pay for is a fucking science lab sponsored by Tide and Barbasol.

I'm so sorry, marine iguana. It's not even close.

Thursday, August 30, 2018

I Am Beyond Confused By This Pic of Callista Gingrich Pretending to Eat Spaghetti for Some Reason

We live in disorienting times. And perhaps no picture better embodies my total confusion and sense of displacement in the universe than this tweet from Callista Gingrich, wife of congressional nincompoop Newt Gingrich, where she's sort of pretending to eat spaghetti in Rome. I legit have like, AAAAALLLLLLL the questions about this.

1. Why is the waiter photo-shopped in?

2. Why is Callista photo-shopped in?

3. Why is Callista named Callista?

4. Why is the waiter only wearing one glove?

5. If one glove is needed for a given task, why not two?

6. Why is the bowl the bottom half of a flattened coconut?

7. Why is the waiter pretending to feed Callista like she’s a toddler and they’re playing that “here comes the choo-choo train going into the tunnel" game?

8. Where are her arms?

9. Why is her hair Lego character hair that you clip on to a plastic Lego girl head?

10. Did Newt take this picture?

11. Why is Newt named after a primordial-ooze-originating amphibian? (Never mind, that one's self-explanatory).

12. What number wife is Callista, again?

13. Does he plan to divorce her as she’s dying of cancer like the last one?

14. Why does the waiter look so excited?

15. Who eats spaghetti like this?

16. Why is a single forkful of spaghetti literally the size of Callsita’s head?

17. Did she actually eat that after this pic was taken?

18. Where are the waiter’s sideburns?

19. Why is he laughing?

20. Is there even one thing that is remotely normal about this pic?

Sunday, August 26, 2018

5 Ways to Get Your Kids to Engage With Your Brand

I want my kids to engage with my brand, and here's how I do it:

1. Spread the News: It's important to stay on top of industry news. In this case, the "industry" is prepubescent/Peter Pan pranksters on YouTube and idiotic gaming apps that make animated unicorn-poop sushi. If you missed the Dude Perfect where they hit ten zillion softballs at once, and you aren't surrendering your phone to a download of "Slime Maker," then you're missing a key opportunity. You need to leverage industry news to ensure your kids know the meaning of the word "GRAPHIC," and what to do when they it on the internet above a video of a soft-shelled sea turtle getting butchered for soup.

2. Be a Pain Reliever: Ask your kids what's bothering them. Sit them down. Let them know that they can say anything to you, and that you'll listen for future action items. Except "no." Don't listen to that, because fuck that. You're in charge, not them. Also maybe keep a few spare Band Aids on your person at all times.

3. Promote Your Events: Are you hosting or attending an event? Like maybe a shit that lasts more than 32 seconds or a hot shower that lasts more than 70? Make sure to promote the event by yelling loudly. Attend the events yourself, of course, and then post them on social media with viral hashtags: #ImTakingaShitGiveMeFiveFuckingSeconds or #WouldItKillYouToBatheItsBeenFiveDays. Take it up a notch with a tried and true marketing tactic: shameless bribery.

4. Do DIY Projects: Nothing boosts a kid's confidence like DIY projects, which are all the rage these days, especially when book-ended by threats. It could be anything from "clean your room or no sleep-over" to "I hope those aren't wet towels I see on the bathroom floor." This will definitely boost engagement.

5. Share Inspirational Quotes: One thing that really promotes brand loyalty is sharing inspirational quotes. You can say proudly, "when I was your age, I rode my Huffy to school with no helmet and got a busy signal on a rotary phone attached to the kitchen wallpaper." Or simply hiss into their ears, "See that guy pacing and muttering angrily over there? He looks like he just escaped from prison. In fact, I'm certain of it. NEVER approach anyone who has that type of body language, understand?" 

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Working Cover Story Ideas for My Personal Lifestyle Magazine

How to Make Your Skin Look So Dewy a Brown Recluse Spider Will Think It’s Freshly-Mowed Grass at Dawn and Build a Cobweb across the Bridge of Your Nose

11 Direct Marketing Anti-Aging Snake Oils to Order through That Girl from Your Freshman Dorm at College Who Found You on Facebook Somehow

Things to Scream at Your Children When They are Cold-Cocking Each Other in the Face Instead of “DON’T MAKE ME READ SIBLINGS WITHOUT RIVALRY”

How to Gracefully Exit a Group Text Without Anyone Being the Wiser

15 Vitamin Supplements You Didn’t Cut in Half Before They Got Stuck in Your Throat for the Whole Morning

Life Hack: Save Time and Money by Eating Popcorn that Fell Between the Couch Cushions Last Weekend, and Also a Few Skittles if It's Your Lucky Day

The Best Lash Serums to Make Your Eyelashes So Long You will Trip over them on the Way to Yoga and Shatter Both Kneecaps.

Getting a Restorative Night’s Sleep While Also Eating Chocolate-Covered Almonds in Bed and Glancing at Trump's Twitter Feed Every Time You Get Up to Pee Which is Seven Times a Night

Great Summer Beach Reads to Burn in a Bonfire 131 Pages in Because How Bad is This Fucking Book and How Was it Even Published

14 Thirty Second Exercises To Turn Each of Your Butt Cheeks Into a Fully Inflated Soccer Ball in Under Six Weeks

How to Talk So Kids Will Shut the Fuck Up and Never Question Your Authority Again

Ways to Calm Your Children’s Anxiety Besides Whispering the Latest Car Accident Fatalities, Social Injustices, and Climate Change Statistics into Their Ears Late at Night When Their Brains are the Most Abosrbent

Fitting in Extra “Me Time” by Masturbating Furiously While Your Family is Out Grocery Shopping, Just Because You Can

Fresh, Fun, Kid-Friendly Ways to Prepare Vegetables for the Compost Bucket

How to Spice Up Your Sex Life by Suggesting He Coat His Peen in a Smoked Chipotle Dry Rub

Weekday Go-To Dinners: Annie’s Shells in White Cheddar or the Orange Ones?: You Decide!

How to Give Your Girls Some Extra Lift with Nothing But This Pushup-Bra from Victoria's Secret, Clothespins, Binder Clips, Elective Surgery, Silicone, Opioid Painkillers, and $10,000

17 Flirty Lip Glosses That Will Make Your Lips so Shiny Your Bae Will Burn His Retinas Just Looking at Them

Fierce Fall Looks that Will Have People Mistaking You for a Rabid Mountain Lion

These Pee-Proof Mom Jeans with Will Have People Wondering if You're Being Ironic 

Monday, August 20, 2018

All Aboard the Kiddie Clusterfuck Express! Next Stop: Adulthood

“Welcome to the start of living in your car. This is my first day of school photo,” a friend texted me this morning.

Our kids went back to school in Juneau today, and I wished her luck on the next nine months of Kuber (Kiddie-Uber) driving. Or--if you prefer because they supposedly have better labor practices—Klyft. 

Either way, here we go again. That’s what I thought as I dropped both kids off at school this morning for their first days of fifth and second grades.

Typically, the Juneau School District’s late August start date means a 50-degree sideways monsoon on the first day of school. But July was beautiful; today was the mildest, sunniest August day I can remember since yesterday; and everyone seemed a little bit happier (and tanner) because of it. Parents milled about, taking pictures with their smart phones, chatting about their summers, and marveling at the extra inches the kids had grown. Some children hugged their friends while others clung to their parents, and teachers greeted their pupils.

All the while, I just kept thinking, here we all are, on the Kiddie Clusterfuck Express once again.

There’s an open parenting secret no one tells you—at least not in time to do anything about it: If you choose to have kids (not necessarily something I recommend, by the way) and raise them in conventional American society, you’ll likely end up on a metaphorical express train conducted by your kids and their jam-packed schedules. Your kids’ friends and classmates’ parents will be your fellow travelers and/or Klfyt passengers, and just like a real train, you don’t pick these passengers. You just have to hope you like them, because more often than not, you’ll need them. The practical reality is that I rarely see any adults whose kids’ lives don’t intersect with mine unless I really carve out the time, which between work and home-life is always at a premium for everyone.

It’s an interesting bond—that raising-kids-together-in-a-community bond. The whole “it takes a village thing.” It’s not really ingrained into American society, which fosters nuclear family units marooned in their own isolated silos. But there’s value in pushing back against that default because of the established benefit of many positive adult influences in a child’s life.

There’s a reason most parents feel happier when we’re co-parenting outside our nuclear families--when we know that we are taking care of each others’ kids. My kids were born in Juneau. I’ve known some of my friends since before we had kids, and our kids are now involved in the same activities or go to the same schools. Others I’ve met through my kids, whose sweet young friendships have made us frequent text-buddies and sometimes independent friends.

Regardless, and long after our kids are grown, we’ll always share that unique bond of having taken this journey together.

Here’s to my fellow travelers.

Friday, August 17, 2018

A Stripper Drops Science: My Interview With a Premier Local Exotic Dancer and Burlesque Performer

Last year, I wrote a blog post poking fun at a stripper pole for sale on Juneau buy-sell-trade. Afterwards, the stripper and exotic dancing community schooled me on a few things, for which I expressed my gratitude here

Ever since, I've wanted to do a profile on exotic dancers. It's a profession that's misunderstood, and one that people have a lot of preconceived notions about. So I sat down (electronically) with my pal Gertrude Edith D'Pall Mall (nee Rachael Byrd, stage name Lucy Bang Bang) a stripper and burlesque dancer here in Juneau, to get down to some stripper science. 

Here's her interview and insights, in her own words, lightly edited for style.

O.H.M.: Okay, so let's start at the beginning. How, when, where, and why did you decide to become an exotic dancer--a stripper?

Gertrude: I started in 2013, in Anchorage, Alaska at the Great Alaskan Bush Company. At nearly age 30, I decided to become an exotic dancer basically for the sake of adventure. Female sexuality has always been enticing to me. I was always a D student in theater class, but for some reason, I don't have stage fright while completely nude.

O.H.M.: Tell me more about the club where you got your start--the Great Alaskan Bush Company (GABC). 

Gertrude: The GABC opened in 1979 [during Alaska's pipeline construction/oil boom]. The club was popular with North Slope oil field workers, and had a flair for theater production beyond the more popular striptease performance style of the late 70's, 80's, and 90's. Over time, the club became nearly as famous for its high production value performances as it was for being one of the oldest, biggest (and sometimes only) dance clubs in the Anchorage area. The GABC remained a more theatrical type strip venue; not many exist like it around the country. It’s kind of a diamond in the rough.

O.H.M.: So let me back up. What is "burlesque" and how does it differ from stripping or exotic dancing?

GertrudeHistorically, American burlesque is a more seductive (in the striptease sense) version of the original Victorian style of burlesque, which focused on parody, humor, song, and comedy. The 1900-1940 American burlesque scene consisted of over 150 clubs nationwide by the '30s. It was extremely popular until New York City mayor Fiorello La Guardia shut it down during prohibition for being too risqué and alcoholic. Social and political caricature has always been a staple of burlesque, which I view as a positive for social evolution.

O.H.M.: What drew you from traditional stripping or striptease to burlesque?

Gertrude: Burlesque immediately appealed to me. I noticed that some of the most talented exotic dancers I knew also had the best stage presence, character development, and behavioral comedy. Everything was starting to make sense and come together: burlesque was deeply rooted in the American striptopia, and this was somehow very comforting. I felt like the stripping industry was turning on its own history a bit by denying itself burlesque's classic theater background, which it was linked to anyway through weekly themed acts and performances. It seemed to be relying more heavily on trying to entice the public with the more common American strip club performances that flourished in the 80's and 90's. I think the GABC had sort of an identity crisis as striptease theater changed over time.

O.H.M.: How did you transition from stripping at the GABC to burlesque?

Gertrude: After four years of doing backstage productions and performance at the GABC, I began to visit local burlesque shows. The GABC wasn't really a "burlesque" venue. Instead, it relied on the striptease culture of the 1980s to define itself as a more "Showgirl" style venue, which now seems redundant to me, and not as inclusive in terms of embracing the burlesque culture. 
Seeing a connection, I reached out to the burlesque scene in Anchorage, which seemed to be thriving. I visited every show that VivaVoom Brrlesque or Sweet Cheeks Cabaret had to offer. Learning more through performance exposure and friendship, I played a vital role in introducing GABC to the increasingly popular Anchorage burlesque scene. After all, I'd already begun to produce my own shows at GABC, and ran their social media accounts. At this time, in 2016 and with connections I’d made in the community, the GABC became the notorious party spot and off-record social media sponsor of The Freezing Tassle Burlesque Festival - Alaska’s ONLY burlesque festival. It was here that I was introduced to the many different styles that encompassed what I'd first known as "burlesque." This festival was created and sponsored by VivaVoom Brrlesque, the oldest burlesque troupe in Alaska. It features classical, modern, neo, and the ever-seductive, highly-charged "boylesque" [male burlesque]

O.H.M.: In your experience, what does management at typical strip clubs think about burlesque?

Gertrude: I don't love the fact that strip club owners are so out of touch with the reality of this art; most likely because of money and antiquated social standards. It’s kind of fantastic and oddly captivating that burlesque artists, producers, and communities--who make very little money practicing their craft--have more respect for those in the exotic strip community than their own bosses, coworkers, and peers. I was greatly disappointed to find that a theatrical strip club that opened in 1979 was actually fairly regularly feeding into the negative feedback loop of the ‘emotionally downtrodden’ exotic dancer. I have yet to meet a strip club owner, manager, or anyone in a supervisor position who believes in exotic dancing as an artistic interest. Investing in erotic art could potentially make these businesses more valuable, because sexuality pretty much sells itself. So it seems redundant for the industry to act like sexuality is really the only important part.

O.H.M.: What sort of judgments do you get from others as a result of your stripping and burlesque career?

Gertrude: Starting a strip career in your thirties has its pros and cons, though I never really paid much attention to any negativity from employers, customers, club visitors, the media, or coworkers who perpetuated negative stereotypes of seductive theater. I found that burlesque striptease performers were often more supportive of the strip industry (certainly intellectually so) than my own bosses and peers. I felt at home there. I suddenly felt a strong, happy group of peers welcoming me from the strip club scene. 

O.H.M.: How do the burlesque and traditional striptease scenes interplay?

Gertrude: Well, not all burlesque performers are open to strippers and stripteasers. However, in my experience, most of them are. Not all burlesque performers are into the art of the striptease. Some are singers and comedians and have other equally amazing talents that are not striptease. Many burlesque performers have respect and support for exotic dancers and often don't bother to differentiate between the two. That being said, I don't try to qualify the range of talent I’m watching based on whether there is striptease involved or not. It’s a fantastically beautiful and amazing range of theater and performance that includes too much talent to hem into a specific genre. It’s about being all the "you" that's possible to be within your capacity for imagination. 

O.H.M.: What are some of the "unwritten rules" of burlesque performance?

Gertrude: As with all things, there are important parameters: You don’t copy someone else’s act and say it’s your own.You should include a wide variety of performers because we all live in the same whirling shit box, and life is too short to judge or exclude the LGBTQ/POC talents that exist out there in the world. Burlesque, for many, is a network of support, and it's important to showcase that. Burlesque is an art of self-expression and passion. It shouldn't be used to reenforce or caricature negative judgments or stereotypes, racial or otherwise.

O.H.M.: How do you identify on the LGBTQ spectrum, and how do your partners handle your career?

Gertrude: I’m more in the bisexual/pansexual rainbow. Women partners are often more understanding by miles and yards (for me, at least), maybe because I tend to date lady dancers and industry babes. I avoid jealousy like the plague. I truly find it a toxic human sickness. 

O.H.M.: How do you deal with partners that aren't okay with your burlesque or exotic dancing?

Gertrude: I leave them! It’s like people who refuse to fly. Not gonna invite them on the airplane. If they’re feeling adventurous, good. If they need to get off, see ya around.

O.H.M.: Any last words of wisdom you want to share on all of this?

Gertrude: Go find a creative outlet in this life. Appreciate the outlet others have chosen. Be a nice person, question the world around you, and treat others with respect. Glitter on!

You can catch Gertrude and the Capital City Kitty Burlesque Troupe tomorrow night, August 18, from 7:00-9:00 p.m. at the Alaskan Bar in downtown Juneau in their show "Summer of Love: The Deflowering," produced by the Byrdcage Performance Arts. $15 cover.

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Why Voting Matters

I want to say a few words here about why voting—simply the act of voting—matters so much.

There are certain choices we make as a society because they benefit the collective good. For example: in the developed world, trash recycling and vaccination programs are common because we’ve made calculated decisions that recycling and vaccines, on balance, benefit society. We’ve decided that if we don’t recycle, our planet will perish even faster than it already is, and that if we don’t vaccinate our children, preventable infectious disease will decimate the population.

Democracy is similar to recycling and vaccines, in that it requires societal buy-in to work. One soda can in the landfill and one skipped vaccine don’t matter, of course. But if every person decides their one soda can or their one vaccine is irrelevant, then these efforts fail completely.

The same is true of democracy. 

The foundation of democracy is voting. Individual acts of voting, without which democracy simply disappears. It’s easy to become cynical and overwhelmed by the state of our democracy, which in part is why turnout in state, federal, and local elections is abysmally low. Yet every time we stay home on Election Day, we sanction by our silence undemocratic forms of governance. And unless we want undemocratic forms of governance, we can't afford not to vote.

According to new data from the Pew Research Center as reported in the Washington Post last week, on the pie chart of “Who Do We Blame for Trump,” it is nonvoters—not Russians, Bernie Bros, Jill Stein, white women, Facebook, or anyone else—who handed Trump the presidency. Specifically, the 30% of Americans who were eligible to vote but didn’t is a higher percentage than those who voted for either Presidential candidate. Almost half of these nonvoters were nonwhite and two-thirds were under age 50.

It’s easy to be cynical, to think that your vote doesn’t matter, that our government is a joke and a corporatocracy. This cynicism is well-earned by our inept, gutless, and compromised leadership from the top down. But it’s a vicious cycle and an ironic feedback loop: the more cynical we become, the less motivated we are to vote, and each time we fail to vote, we enable and endorse the very system we’ve grown to distrust.

And it’s not just national and statewide elections. It’s local elections, too. 

In fact, turnout in local elections tends to be even lower—not just because these elections are often held on different dates from more high profile elections--but because local elections don’t always garner much publicity. Yet their outcomes arguably impact our daily lives the most, and are often the most closely contested. Especially in Alaska, where our population is small and elections are often decided by a handful of votes, it’s not just a bumper sticker platitude to say that every vote counts.

So please.

Vote in every election, every time. Do your homework about the candidates and issues on the ballot. It doesn't take long. If available, review sample ballots ahead of time so you know what you’ll be looking at when you get into the voting booth. Look up the dates, times, and locations for voting, and make sure you are registered well in advance. 

Voting is the single most effective, direct, and patriotic action you can take in support of American constitutional democracy. Vote like your life and the lives of your friends and neighbors depend on it, because they do.

The 2018 Juneau Municipal Election is October 2. The Statewide Primary Election is August 21. The Statewide General Election is November 6.

Sunday, August 12, 2018

Snail Jizz is Gonna Make Me Look Like Kylie Jenner

So here’s the truth of the matter, you guys: I don’t like getting older. Not one bit. Not from a physical standpoint, anyway. I don’t like insomnia, I don’t like creaky bones, I don’t like the carnage of erratic, vengeful menstrual cycles, and I ESPECIALLY don’t like wrinkles. 

I wish I felt otherwise; really I do. I wish I’d been raised in a less misogynistic and patriarchal society that didn’t brainwash me into believing that the only route to female happiness was to look as young and thin as possible for as long as possible, and believe me when I say I’ve worked hard to overcome this. 

But clearly I’ve failed, because I am now seriously considering jacking off a snail and getting him to “safely give up the goo” if it means I might look a tiny bit less old for even one more day of my ever-diminishing youth. You see, the collagen on my face is fleeing the jurisdiction faster than Paul Manafort with a hacked ankle monitor, and it seems the only solution is snail jizz.

Now before any of you snail biologist PhD types explain to me that snail slime is not in fact jizz, and that snails lay eggs and their slime is something else and their jizz is yet another thing entirely, let me make clear that IDGAF. It’s easier to call it jizz, and that’s what I’m calling it. 

Snail Jizz, aka, “the elixir of youth.”

This snail-jizz-as-everlasting-youth thing is actually a great side hustle when you think about it. I can’t even begin to tell you how many snails we have here in soggy-ass Juneau. They’re everywhere! And to think I’ve been spending a small fortune on a rotating stable of creams, serums, lotions, and potions when the secret to my crow’s feet was under an actual crow’s foot in my kale beds all along!

The only wild card is how to make these little guys “safely give up the goo.” That’s the $64,000 question. Do I show them like, snail porn? Like a girl snail in pasties and a thong? Do I take them to an erotic snail dancing club? I bet that dance takes a long time and the snail stripper pole is like, what ... an alder branch? 

Also how can I make these little bros jizz “safely,” right on my face? Snail jizz (or any jizz) on my face is not generally a preferred skincare product but again, if jizz means one less wrinkle give me a goddamned five gallon bucket of the stuff—snail, iguana, koala bear, gorilla—IDGAF.

Anyhoo back to safety. Safe for who? The snail? Me? The snail can die in ecstasy for all I care. And I can’t imagine that these tiny snails pose any danger to me? I didn’t bother watching the video to find out and once again I don’t care.

I’m ready to do what it takes to fluff the shit out of every snail in my garden and look like Kylie Jenner tomorrow k thx bye.

Thursday, August 9, 2018

Recent Juneau Municipal Dramz, Summarized


Issue: Should Juneau fluoridate its municipal water supply?

Pro: Yes, if we don’t fluoridate our water, everyone’s teeth will rot out of their heads tomorrow. If you disagree, you’re an elitist asshole with dental insurance. THINK OF THE CHILDREN.

Con: No, if we fluoridate our water, our dicks will fall off immediately, our skin will glow in the dark, and we might as well call Juneau the next Chernobyl. THINK OF THE CHILDREN.


Issue: Should we install a giant humpback whale sculpture near the cruise ship docks?

Pro: Yes, an enormous breaching bronze whale in an infinity pool will make Juneau a world class city. Take a seat, Eiffel Tower! Juneau is now the Paris of the North. If you disagree, you are a lowbrow philistine who will NOT LET JUNEAU BE GREAT AGAIN.

Con: No, every cent that went into this whale should have instead gone to math textbooks and a needle exchange. Not to mention the cruise ship industry now wants to bankrupt us and bury us in litigation. THANKS, TAKHU!


Issue: Should we build a road out of Juneau?

Pro: Yes, we are marooned in the forest and dying of cardiac arrest every minute. If we can’t drive our Ford F-150s hundreds of miles up an avalanche chute, we might as well renounce Statehood. Also our watermelons will continue to be prohibitively expensive. THINK OF THE CHILDREN.

Con: No, we should not spend the GDP of a small developing nation on this death trap of a boondoggle. Moreover, if we do, it will be littered with the corpses of extinguished stellar sea lion colonies and discarded “Why Extend the Dead End: Ferries Go All the Way” bumper stickers.


Issue: Should a mystery Banksy-esque street artist be allowed to keep painting downtown crosswalks in rainbow colors?

Pro: Yes, the rainbow crosswalks give us LIFE, ya fuckin’ homophobes!

Con: No, the rainbow crosswalks violate the rule that says government must have zero chill and everything it touches should resemble a drab, Communist dystopia.


Should there be a private driveway running through a weird old dilapidated playground nestled into precariously steep streets?

Pro: Yes, everything should stay just as it’s always been forever.

Con: No, our children will be pancakes. THINK OF THE CHILDREN.


Issue: Should we build a second crossing from mainland Juneau to Douglas Island?

Pro: Yes, it’s OUTRAGEOUS that we have to drive an extra ten minutes out of our way to buy a bathmat, and also we are dying of cardiac arrest every second.

Con: No, the crossing cuts through the middle of the Mendenhall Wetlands; all the ducks will perish on our exhaust. THINK OF THE DUCKS.


Issue: Should we continue to scream at each other re: all of the above on Juneau’s toxic community FB pages?

Pro: Yes, recreational outrage, quasi-anonymous saber-rattling, and misdirected rancor is a fun hobby that leads to productive dialogue.

Con: No, shit-posting your recreational outrage is more useless than tits on a slab of bacon, and not worth the elevation in blood pressure because it's not even bacon.