Thursday, March 22, 2018

Eating the Booty Like Groceries is Apparently Fully Mainstream and I Am Shook

A long-standing feature of O.H.M. has been to shine a light where darkness would otherwise cast its pall.

To that end, I’m now going to shine my brightness in the darkest of holes—the classic cavern where the sun don’t shine: the human anus. More specifically, the increased level of mainstream and regular attention that the human anus appears to be receiving in the bedroom.

For background context, I’m 40 and grew up in an age and culture where every sexual encounter was described in terms of baseball: first base (kissing); second base (touching boobs); “sloppy second,” (kissing boobs); third base (touching front-facing junk); and home base (self-explanatory).

The booty-hole was always there, of course, as it has been since humans evolved. But it didn’t have its own publicly-designated role in the process, as far as I was aware.

In other words, “eating booty” was not then (to my knowledge) a standardized element of the heterosexual bedroom repertoire. Sure, maybe there’d be the occasional messing around in that “area.” But if my twitter feed is any indication (and perhaps it’s not?), “eating the booty like groceries” is now a plain vanilla, standard-issue hookup element.

I find this jarring.

Not because the particular bacterial implications of this activity kind of gross me out, although they do. But more because the older I get, the more moments I have where I find myself asking myself “when did this (any “this”) become a thing?”

Like what was I doing when booty-eating fully took off as a trend? 

My guess would be it happened sometime between 2006 and now, but cultural demographers might beg to differ. I could have been breastfeeding babies or picking wet Cheerios off the wall by then, in which case “booty-eating” would’ve been just about the furthest thing from my mind.

If my marriage ever ends due to death or divorce, will I be equipped to re-enter the “workforce?” Regardless, will I overhear my young adult children complaining to their friends that the person they are dating lacks skills in this department?

I must say, it’s all very destabilizing to my sense of order, which I guess is pretty much 2018 in a nutshell. Or a butthole, as the case may be.

6 Songs I Never Want My 10 Year-Old Daughter to Hear

He said he met this little girl by the name of Onika
Way my body shape, all the boys wanna freak her
Brag and I boast, they be doin the most
If I look at his friend, he'll be grippin the toaster
So I took him to the crib to kill him with it
Put my legs behind my head, I hit the ceiling with it
When I put it in his mouth I couldn't believe it
He looked me in my eyes and said he wanna breed it
Passa Passa, you ain't got no wins in mi casa
Big fat pussy; Mufasa

--Nicki Minaj, French Montana

My milk shake brings all the boys to the yard,
And they're like,
Its better than yours,
Damn right its better than yours,
I can teach you,
But I have to charge

--Milkshake, Kelis

Wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy (Hey, what up girl?)
Grab my glasses, I'm out the door; I'm gonna hit this city (Let's go)
Before I leave, brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack
'Cause when I leave for the night, I ain't coming back
I'm talking pedicure on our toes, toes
Trying on all our clothes, clothes
Boys blowing up our phones, phones
Drop-topping, playing our favorite CD's
Rollin' up to the parties
Trying to get a little bit tipsy

--Tik Tok, Kesha

I eat my dinner in my bathtub

Then I go to sex clubs
Watching freaky people getting it on
It doesn't make me nervous if anything
I'm restless yeah, I've been around and I've seen it all
I get home, I got the munchies, binge on all my Twinkies, throw up in the tub and I go to sleep
And I drank up all my money, dazed and kinda lonely

--Habits, Tove Lo

There's a stranger in my bed
There's a pounding my head
Glitter all over the room
Pink flamingos in the pool
I smell like a minibar
DJ's passed out in the yard
Barbie's on the barbecue
This a hickey or a bruise?
Pictures of last night
Ended up online
I'm screwed
Oh well
It's a blacked out blur
But I'm pretty sure it ruled, damn

--Last Friday Night, Katy Perry

Just gonna stand there
And watch me burn
But that's alright
Because I like
The way it hurts
Just gonna stand there
And hear me cry
But that's alright
Because I love
The way you lie
I love the way you lie

--Love the Way You Lie, Eminim ft. Rihanna

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Ugh I Want to Control the Weather So Fucking Badly!

I've heard a lot of anti-Semitic conspiracy theories in my life, especially since leaving NYC. But this week was the first time I heard that Jews control the weather, and my first thought was:


More than the media, more than the global banking industry, more than Hollywood, more than anything—I wish I could control the weather, AND, in one fell swoop, every old Jewish person who complains about it.

Now let me just take a brief detour here to point out that there is almost nothing—NOTHING—I can control. Here’s a brief and non-exhaustive list of things I can’t control but wish I could:

1. My kids.
2. My feels.
3. My weight/thiccness.
4. The sagginess of my twice-destroyed-by-babies titties and imminent career switch to a job at Jewish Hooters (Jewters)
5. Asshole lawyers.
6. Lost socks.
7. A 747 landing smoothly.
8. My anxiety, low-level depression, and persistent sense of nihilism and “meh.”
9. Trolls.
10. The lack of fresh basil readily available for purchase in Juneau.

But I’d trade the ability to control all of these things if it meant I could control the weather. 

Washington DC councilman Trayon White said that a freak spring snowstorm was “climate manipulation . . . based off the Rothschilds controlling the climate to create natural disasters they can pay for to own the cities, man.”

Like honestly, how amazing would this be?!

I don't know if it's just the Rothschilds or if lowbrow plebe Jews like me get to do this too, but the first thing I’d do with my Super Human Jew Powers is actually end climate change, because it sucks very hard, I’ll have you know.

Far from trying to perpetuate global warming in order to create a problem in search of a solution, I’d use my Jewy Weather Magic to reverse what the Gentiles at Exxon Mobil and B.P. have done to the planet. (WHERE ARE THEY IN THIS CONSPIRACY, BTW?!)

Then, I’d restore four normal seasons to America, just like there used to be in the good old 1960s. (Weather MAGA!) 

There’d be snow and polar ice caps in winter, a normal as opposed to debilitating level of heat and wildfire conflagrations in summer, crocuses in March not January, and fewer devastating tornadoes and hurricanes. Also, glaciers. All of which would help the airplane turbulence factor that goes back to #7 on the non-exhaustive list of things I can’t control but wish I could.

I’d also wake up every morning and Jew-Abracadabra up the perfect temperature, barometric pressure, and precipitation for whatever I was doing: Skiing? 25 degrees and fresh pow! Beach day? 75 and sunny with low humidity! 

Boom, bam, done.

No one would need meteorologists on TV anymore. There’d just be a daily check-in of What Weather Did the Jews Order Today. 

Speaking for myself, the day that Jews control the weather is a very happy day for me indeed.

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

If Trump Has a Dick Pic, Dick Pics are Done.

That’s really all there is to it. 

Every trend, at a certain point, reaches its inevitable end. Sometimes things just fade out, like glam rock and airbrushed yearbook photos. One day they seem like they’ll be cool forever, and ten years later they look ridiculous.

But occasionally, there’s a sentinel event that basically kills a trend dead where it stands, and that’s what would happen to the medium of the dick pic were Trump to have a dick pic. 

Because at the point that Donald Trump’s dick exists on film or on a computer or smartphone for posterity, dick pics are over. Done. Finito. Stick a fork in it. No one can ever, EVER send a dick pic to anyone ever again.

Now women in 2018 are generally of two schools of thought on the dick pic. They’re either somewhere on the spectrum of revolted or indifferent, or they feel this is critical information they need to have in advance for some reason. 

But whichever category they fall into, nine out of ten will agree that the existence of a Trump dick pic will be the end of dick pics.

Trump, you understand, is categorically repulsive to women. Even the women who voted for him find him repulsive, I assume. And the only thing that could be more nauseating than Trump himself is Trump’s dick. Especially in a pic, which is statistically (and fortunately) the closest most of us would ever even theoretically get to Trump’s dick.

A friend suggested that perhaps the medium of the dick pic could be salvaged if the Trump dick pic was on oldschool film, which, given the timing of the Stormy Daniels situation, seems likely.

Regardless, I think it’s safe to say the dick pic will be done if Trump has one in any format; but even if it’s not, I still hope he does. 

Not because it matters. It doesn’t. 

There’s not a scandal in the world that can touch Teflon Don, least of all a scandal involving his dick. It’ll just be a super entertaining plot development for a week, and an opportunity to watch Sarah Huckabee Sanders squirm. 

And sadly, I think that’s really the most any of us can hope for right now.

Sunday, March 18, 2018

Trump Knock-Knock Jokes

Knock, knock!
Who's There?
Collusion who?

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Interrupting Mueller.
Interrupting Muell—

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
The Biggest.
The Biggest who?

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Orange who?
Orange ya glad I’m orange and you can focus on that instead of on the fact that I could murder you in your sleep at the touch of a button?

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Take a knee.
Take a knee who?

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Nazi who?
Naziing the problem
 with these Very Fine People.™

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Appreciate the congrats.
Appreciate the congrats who?
“Appreciate the congrats” is 
just something I like to tweet to my 40M followers to congratulate myself on being congratulated, which is totally normal.

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Thoughts and prayers.
Thoughts and prayers who?
Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of semi-automatic gunfire.

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Grabem who?
Grabem by the pussy, where else?

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Annie who?
Annie one left in this White House with a shred of intact dignity?

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Russian who?
Russian to cover up a bunch of shady financial transactions.

Knock, knock
Who's there?

Robin who?
Robin the country blind while screaming JOBS JOBS JOBS and MAGA every five seconds.

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Nita who?

Nita pretty good lawyer to keep you outta jail.

Friday, March 16, 2018

Someone Gotta Bring This One Home to Mama!

Ladies, all mah ladies, louder now, help me out. This is your lucky day, because I'm off the market and therefore Lester Allen Holt is ALL YOURS. 

If you can find him, that is. 

Not to be confused with TV personality Lester Holt of NBC Nightly News and Dateline NBC, THIS Lester Holt (or is it Hunt? The caption says Holt and the headline says Hunt) was charged with burglary in 2010 and is now wanted for skipping probation where else but here in end-of-the-road Juneau.

And we better find him quick, because this is a dude someone needs to bring home to mama STAT.

Now, I can't interpret ALL of the tattoos on his face, but the Swastika on his bald head makes me think a lot of them are a little bit Aryan-Nation-y, maybe? 

My own Jewish mom would perhaps be slightly put off by that, but I think the other ink makes up for it, like the random letters and numbers and stuff which I am confident roughly translate to Heil Hitler?

Anyhoo, some Lucky Young Woman better find Lester fast so she can bring him home to meet the parents. The convo would go something like this:

LYM: Hi Mom, I want you to meet the Man of My Dreams™
Mom: Oh that's nice dear! Why don't we have him to dinner tomorrow?
LYM: Sounds good, he likes steak. One tiny thing though . . . he's not really free tomorrow.
Mom: Oh no? Why's that?
LYM: Um, he jumped probation on a burglary charge and is a fugitive at the moment.
Mom: That's lovely dear!
LYM: But he should be easy to track down. He's very distinctive looking.
Mom: How so?
LYM: Well he has a giant Swastika on his head.
Mom: Is that right?
LYM: Yes, also a lot of other tattoos on his face.
Mom: Interesting! How inventive!
LYM: Also giant blue earplugs which are slightly unconventional perhaps but by no means disqualifying.
Mom: Not at all.
LYM: Can't wait for you to meet him.
Mom: Me too dear! I'll start calling the relatives and planning the wedding now.

If this isn't impetus for Lester to turn himself in, welp, I don't know what is.

Update: A friend of mine in the legal field with knowledge of Lester said that the chances of him murdering/Holocausting me for trying to set him up on a date was only a 3 on a 1-10 scale. This is a risk I’ll take for Yenta-facilitated love. Yenta is Yiddish for match-maker!

Update #2: I just learned Lester is taken! Noooooooooo sorry ladeez!

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Fucking Paw Patrol vs. the NRA? Girl, BYE.

Snowflake. It’s probably one of the top three words of 2018, rolling in somewhere between woke and bananas. 

According to Urban Dictionary (the Merriam Webster of Real Life) a snowflake is a “very sensitive person” who is “easily hurt or offended by the statements or actions of others.”

Now I want you to close your eyes for a minute—wait no, scratch that; keep them open so you can read—and imagine the biggest, fluffiest snowflake you can conjure up. 

This snowflake fluttered down somewhere above Santa’s workshop in the North Pole. It’s bigger than the paper snowflakes your kids make at Christmas, but it’s real, crystalline, icy white snow that melts into a tiny little invisible puddle the second it hits Santa’s bushy white mustache or the tongue of Cindy Lou Who in the Grinch Who Stole Christmas.

That’s the level of snowflake I present to you in the form of Twitter user “Raven Patriot,” whose handle “cheechablunt” at first made me think this is a troll account, because it suggests its owner is a snowflake who gets baked and so maybe is actually just trying to get libtards like me all riled up.

But then I dove into Raven Patriot Stoner's TL, and regardless of whether she rips tubes while listening to the Bob Marley box set, she appears to be your standard-issue, deep-state-conspiracy theory-peddling tinfoil hat-wearing stay at home mom. 

And today, she is RIPSHIT over Nickelodeon’s apparent endorsement of gun control via a 17 minute break in Paw Patrol and its impact on her three baby snowflakes, who were apparently WEEPING over this.

Fucking PAW PATROL, y’alllllllllllllll!

As a clever reader from Canada named Sarah Frey commented on the O.H.M. Facebook page, “then they came for paw patrol, and there was no one left.” I promised Sarah I would work with this, and so I shall:

First they came for Doc McStuffins, and I did
Not speak out—
Because I’m scared of amibtious Black girls.

Then they came for Sponge Bob, and I did
Not speak out—
Because the jokes went over my head.

Then they came for Clarissa Explains it All, and I did
Not speak out
Because Clarissa is a white blonde girl who Gets Me.

Then they came for Paw Patrol, and I tweeted 

My outrage
And the internet dragged me harder than Dora drags Swiper for swiping.

Because why don't I have OnDemand
And then they said to me BYE, FELICIA.

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Do Not Let Them Tell You ...

Do not let them tell you your voice doesn’t count.
It does.

Do not let them tell you to be quiet.
Be loud.

Do not let them tell you you’re stupid.
You’re smart. 

Do not let them tell you you’re wrong.
You’re right.

Do not let them tell you you’re too young.
They’re wrong.

Do not let them tell you you’re wasting your time.
You’re not.

Do not let them tell you you can’t make a difference.
You can.

Do not let them tell you you won’t change the world.
You will.

Additional photo credits: Aaron Brakel & Karla Hart

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

I Have All the Questions for this Woman Who Wants to Trade Four Young Chickens for Erotic but NOT NUDE Photos

Once again, I'm digging deep into the "Juneau Gonna Juneau" files—files that I'm starting to think need their own separate label over here at O.H.M.

I seriously don’t even know where to begin with this Juneau Craigslist ad from three years ago, which I had the good fortune to stumble upon thanks to an alert reader and reliable supplier of grist for the O.H.M. blog-making mill.

When you don’t know where to begin, it’s best to start at the beginning or sometimes the end. In this case, the end is where a 28 year-old woman who wants to trade chickens for erotic photos (“NOT NUDES”) makes the dubious claim that she is “not an idiot.”

I’m not so sure she she’s right about that, as I will explain.

Because when you think about it, posting an ad seeking to trade chickens for erotic pics is extremely weird and niche, if not downright idiotic. 

(Side bar: every time I make fun of one of these ads, some self-righteous fucker slides into my DMs to call me out and lecture me about being mean and kink-shaming. Then I lose my shit and go off the grid for 48 hours, because if you can’t make fun of a "chicken-for-NOT NUDES” anonymous Craigslist ad from three years ago in Juneau, then Sean Hannity is right, and we really ARE living in some kinda libtarded snowflake PC dystopia. And I refuse to accept that, so I am doing this).

Because I don’t understand.

Even the title, “chickens for erotic photos” is pretty niche. I recognize she doesn’t have money so she is trying to trade goods for services. It’s just that the combination of these two things is bizarre. I mean, "chickens for erotic photos” is kind of like “a coffee table book about hippos for a blow job.” It’s a very odd form of currency to traffic in, though obviously preferable (in my opinion) to “the oldest profession.”

But to me, the best part of this ad is her disclosure that the chickens recently hatched, do not have names, and do not fly yet, as if these are somehow key pieces of information to tell the huge pool of expert fashion photographers in Juneau searching Cragislist who are poised to make a deal to help a woman “look like the model that she knows she is,” in exchange for chickens, BUT who, once they learn that the chickens are already named and can fly, have reached a deal-breaking impasse.

(Side bar #2: I’m not a chicken biologist or a farmer, but I’ve never seen a chicken “fly” more than two feet off the ground. Typing that sentence just now led me to Google “do chickens fly,” and the answer is actually a little more nuanced than you might expect, so she gets a pass for this).

Yet she keeps going on about the chickens: “I will provide the outfits, props, and chickens.” “Please email me any questions you may have about the chickens.” Also “your choice of 4 young chickens with a small amount of feed.”

And finally, no creepers. So let’s review:

An as yet-undiscovered, non-idiot model ISO a non-creeper “expert” fashion photographer on Juneau Craigslist who is willing to take erotic but NOT NUDE photos of her in exchange for four young, unnamed, flightless chickens and a small amount of feed.


Monday, March 12, 2018

Incompetent or Asshole: Pick a Lane

So here's something. If you're going to adult in this world, you can't be incompetent AND an asshole. You can't be both. You have to pick a lane. 

This is my general philosophy at work, in volunteerism, at parent-teacher functions, and in all adult settings. If you're going to be incompetent, you can't be a raging bitch. If you're going to be a raging bitch, then guess what? You'd better have the chops to back it up. Like you can't be a complete asshole AND ALSO totally incompetent.

These things are mutually exclusive, or they should be. Let's do a practice exercise:


Me: Can you do this thing?
Asshole: Ugh fine.
Me: Thanks.
Asshole: Here it is, I hate you.
Me: Wow this looks great.
Asshole: Fuck you.
Me: Thanks!


Me: Can you do this thing?
Incompetent Person: I don’t know how!
Me: Can you try?
Incompetent Person: I can try but it might suck.
Me: Wow you’re right this does suck.
Incompetent Person: So sorry!
Me: No worries.


Me: Can you do this thing?
Incompetent Asshole: No.
Me: Please?
Incompetent Asshole: Fine here it is.
Me: Wow this is really bad actually.
Incompetent Asshole: Fuck you!
Me: Let’s not do this again.

The pick-a-lane theory of adulting is the most important doctrine after the 1/3 theory of mattresses, which holds that you need a great mattress because you spend a third of your life asleep or trying to be.

Saturday, March 10, 2018

Parenting Fail Follies Episode #437: WTF Are You Watching?

Ah screen time. FUCKING screen time. Screen time and sugar are a form of contraband drugs that my kids jones for all day, every day. Hence the "no screens during the week" rule. 

I don't have that rule to be a self-righteous mommy blogger about it. I have it so that there are set expectations and a bright-line, and so that we don't spend every minute of every weeknight negotiating over screens.

Unfortunately, that means that the minute Friday afternoon rolls around, my kids come home from school like CANWEPLAYWITHTHEIPADCANWEHAVEASIMPSONSCANIPLAYONYOURPHONE, etc. And we say yes. And you know why? Because we're tired, too.

We've spent all week wrestling Gladiator-style in a kids versus grownups war for domination of the domestic sphere, and we're all exhausted. (This is the part where a random Baby Boomer writes a comment and tells me I'm under-disciplining my children. I'll save her the time: SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS, BARBARA!)

Anyway, I don't really pay that much attention to what my kids watch on YouTube. Like, I do a preliminary audit for curse words and porn, basically, and tell Paige (the responsible one) to immediately come get me if they click on anything "inappropriate."

I know what you're thinking. You should do this thing to your computer or put it in this setting or blah blah. Fuck that shit. Them bitches in MY world now. I'm not making accommodations. I expect them to work within my censorship rules and they basically comply.

But that doesn't mean I don't ask "what the eff are you watching?" under my breath as I wander over and see Isaac transfixed on two teenage boys making slime and cackling uproariously.

This is his genre of YouTube, apparently. I feel like an old lady saying that. But my kids are consuming media I'm not remotely clued into, but that they and all their friends all know about somehow.

It's like Oh Yeah, The Kalinksy Brothers! Oh yeah, the Eebee Family! And I'm just thinking to myself who ARE these people? I'm in the wrong fucking line of work because these kids are probably making bank. Apparently there's a market--a BIG one--for "Boys Watching Other Boys Do Stupid Shit."

That's Isaac's favorite genre of YouTubery. It's an amateur, G-rated version of Jack Ass, is what it is. 

They're young, pretty and have great hair with a lot of product in it, and they do stuff like put pancakes and Sriracha in a blender and eat it. Or--and this was my personal favorite--make a giant mound of slime, pour it into an inflatable backyard kiddie pool, put a mini-trampoline on TOP of the pool, and jump around on the mini-trampoline to see if it sinks.

These pranks are innocent enough. But they're planting a seed for a level of mischief that sort of puts me off my food. So when it's over, I usually sit Isaac down and deliver my standard "Alaska Boy" lecture, which typically goes like this:

Me: What are the two most dangerous things in Alaska besides the open water? More dangerous than bears, even?
Isaac: Guns and cars.
Me: That's right, guns and cars. And do you play with guns or cars?
Isaac: No.
Me: Do you EVER touch a gun or a car without an adult around?
Isaac: No.
Me: And what do you do if you see another kid touching a gun or a car without an adult?
Isaac: Come get an adult right away.
Me: And what about helmets? When do you wear a helmet?
Isaac: For snowboarding, skating, and anything with wheels.
Me: Okay and what about slime?
Isaac: I don't make it.
Me: You don't make what? 
Isaac: I don't make slime without an adult.
Me: What's that I couldn't hear you?
Me: You're goddamned right, you don't. You're excused.

Friday, March 9, 2018

This is Where We Are

Everyone keeps saying shit like, “we’ve reached Peak 2018,” or “this has to be rock bottom.” And yet, it seems like each day offers a new low/high of incredulous 2018 fuckery.

We each have our personal moments of 2018 fuckery spelunking, and my most recent such moment came at 5:09 a.m. this morning when, with my mind racing about all sorts of things, I somehow ended up following Stormy Daniels on Twitter.

I knew in that moment that I could no longer pretend everything was normal, not that I’d been trying. To that point, I’m a fan of reality as opposed to fiction. I love a good novel, of course. But I like to stare reality straight in the face and accept it for what it is.

I also think it’s important to keep a historical record of These Crazy Times™ for posterity, so I wrote a diary entry for future generations to study.

Dear Diary,

Today is the ninth day of March in the Year of Our Sentient Cheeto Overlord 2018. 

It appears that the President of the United States had an affair with a porn star named Stormy Daniels in 2006, when his wife—also kinda sorta a porn star or at least a porny-model?—was home with their infant son.

The President’s personal lawyer then paid Stormy $130,000 out of his own pocket for some reason, and made her sign a nondisclosure agreement about the affair. Fast forward to today, and the President’s villainous mercenary professional liar and propaganda sculptor on the order of Leonardo da Vinci accidentally admitted all of this to a room of assembled media, and Stormy’s lawyer is now suing to invalidate the nondisclosure agreement.

Both the President and Stormy spend a lot of time on Twitter, so I decided to get with the times and do the same. 

Although I remain confused about the spray of water emanating from Stormy’s backside in her banner picture, I’m intrigued. Is this supposed to be sexy? Or a wet fart? Or like a whale blowhole thing? Or is it just an unfortunate photo bomb? 

Whatever the answer, it’s horrifying and irrelevant to the point at hand, which is this:

Please be aware that this isn’t even really a story. In 2018, it’s like one small crest in the tidal wave of scandals such that it hardly even merits discussion. The fact that the President likes to get spanked by a porn actress with a Forbes magazine bearing his own likeness pales in comparison to the fact that his campaign colluded with an enemy of the state to install him in office and that the man could now blow us all up at the touch of a button. 

Really, I mention the Stormy affair only to condemn myself for wasting valuable brain space thinking about it.

I'd be remiss not to add that a quick perusal of Stormy’s tweets belies the “dumb blonde porn star” stereotype, because she appears quite smart and funny, and to have a firm grasp of the ridiculousness of the situation she is in. So my utmost respect to Stormy.

If you think none of this makes sense, you’re right, and with any luck you’re not even reading this because we are all extinct.

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

The Reason a Woman Texted JPD to Sell Them Meth is Perhaps a Bit Too Clear to Be Honest

Of all the possible misfired texts in the world—and there are a lot—texting a police tip line to unload a gram of meth tops the list.

This is somewhere on the order of mistakenly sexting your mom, sending a dick pic to your boss, or trash-talking that one bitch from yoga in a group message about Lulu Lemon leggings that you didn’t realize bitch was on. 

Except it’s worse, because none of the above scenarios typically come with jail time.

This “Juneau Gonna Juneau!”’moment is brought to us courtesy of the Juneau Empire, which subtitles its article by positing “reason unclear why text went to police hotline.” Now while that might technically be true, I’m gonna step out on a proverbial Sitka Spruce limb here and offer a working theory.

I’m GUESSING that the reason this woman texted the cops to sell them meth is that she is some deadly combo of not very bright, not very lucky, and not very sober. 

Like here's how I imagine this went:

SMC: Yo WYD I wanna report a crime
JPD: Please go ahead
SMC: Hold up it hasn't happened yet--it's a crime Imabout to do.
JPD: New phone who dis?
SMC: Wanna buy a gram of meth for $100?
JPD: DEFINITELY. See you in ten minutes with handcuffs.

Then again I feel like this woman is entitled to the benefit of the doubt. 

Like maybe she was set up by a fellow meth user who gave her the JPD tip line on purpose and entered it into her phone as "Meth Head Dave." 

Or maybe she was just sort of out of it--it was 3:00 a.m. after all and she was trying to sell meth, after all--and JPD Crime Line was right next to "Jackass Jones with the Blue Ice” in contacts, and her shaky finger just kinda slipped?

There are a lot of possibilities, but the basic "reason" a person tried to text a meth deal to the cops is perhaps a bit more obvious than this article implies.

Tuesday, March 6, 2018

What the Dick is Happening Here?

Like I am legit so confused by this.

An alert reader who frequently travels to Maui sent me this screenshot from a Maui buy/sell/trade Facebook page and it is a serious what the fuck. Which just auto-corrected to “dick,” which is apt, because what the actual dick is happening here, is my question.

I mean, I like how he’s calling for gender parity. Like LADIES, we stuff the bra(h) (I actually don’t, and in fact want to reverse stuff my “brah” by securing a fully insurance-subsidized breast reduction), but that’s beside the point.

But he’s selling underwear, right? I mean that’s what this is? Underwear with a compartment for a sock? Or a strap-on? And hopefully it’s new? Totes unclear.

Also unclear is whether this is for fake dick sock-stuffing or for “guys that are hung?” It’s a “cock sock fo days” ... m’kay. But is the call for “no bluff ‘em just stuff ‘em” implying that you need the goods or that an actual sock will do?

This is SUCH a mystery.

True story: Once when I was in law school I went to see a friend’s band, and the woman I was with was so convinced the bassist was stuffing his pants, that we spent all night studying his crotch and he forever thereafter was known as “[Name Redacted] Sock-in-the-Pants.

That’s where this will get you, my dudes. These are a fool's errand. Trust.

Monday, March 5, 2018

Everything I Know About the Iditarod Could Fill a Book

As you might expect, because I live in Alaska, everything I know about the Iditarod sled dog race could fill a book.

IF (and these are BIG ifs): (1) that book was exactly one page long; (2) I didn’t look up anything on the internet; and (3) I wrote the whole book straight from my head in fifteen minutes and with zero research of any kind.

Then that book would look like this:

Once upon a time, specifically the winter of 1920 or sometime around then (?) some kids got really sick in Nome. Actually like half the town was dying at this point from diphtheria, I think it was, or maybe pertussis? Regardless, it was definitely one of those diseases you get vaccinated for today if you’re smart, and that you’re kind of a selfish asshole who shouldn’t be sending your kids to daycare anyway if you don’t.

Whenever it was, it was before planes, trains and automobiles. The movie—SO FUNNY—starring John Candy and Steve Martin, obviously, but also the conveyances. Well, before planes, anyway. I think? 

There were trains and automobiles, but the train got snowed in, and regardless it didn’t go to Nome and there were no roads to Nome (still aren’t) so they had to race the serum from Anchorage using a relay of dog teams. Siberian Huskies and some mutts, mostly.

The serum, by the way, wasn’t like face serum for wrinkles that you order from your sorority sister’s multi-level marketing scheme for $74 a bottle. It was pertussis/diphtheria serum and it was literally a race against death trying to get that shit to Nome.

The weather was REALLY bad along the Iditarod trail (not yet called the Iditarod trail, I don’t think). Like blizzards and wind and blowing hail across lakes and rivers of ice and huge expanses of horrible Shackleton-expedition-esque Arctic bullshit and it was BRUTAL.

Amid all the exposure and hardship, two dog teams in particular stood out as really doing a good job on their legs of the relay. One of them was led by Balto who is now a statue in Central Park in NYC for some reason. 

Another one was led by Togo who got ROBBED because he never gets enough fucking credit. But bottom line, the serum made it to Nome and the town was saved! HOORAY! Now there is a terrible Disney movie and a few kids’ books about it.

Fast forward a few years, and someone decided to make a dog sled race on the same trail to commemorate the historic journey. Now mushers from all over the world compete in “The Last Great Race” every March. There are a handful of local mushers who do it every year and always a few randos from Scandinavia and a feel-good story about some rookie who overcame a rare disease and this is his redemption. 

Spoiler alert: that guy doesn’t win.

There’s a ceremonial start in Anchorage and the real start in Willow, but the bummer is each year the race officials have to evaluate trail conditions because climate change, and now every year it’s like “will there be enough snow? will the rivers be frozen?" 

And it’s super sad!

There’s also a ton of controversy, like peeps from Outside with a capital O and PETA saying dog mushing is mean and abusive and everyone who races dogs should shit twice and die. Then there’s everyone from Alaska saying this is what dogs were born to do, and what do these Outsiders know and THEY should shit twice and die, and both sides absolutely rip each other’s jugulars out every year like rabid dogs in The Comments, since Murder in The Comments is the #1 hobby of modern life.

There are some big mushing families like the Mackeys and the Seaveys, and the Kings (maybe just Jeff King, maybe more Kings). Dallas Seavey is hot and was accused of doping his dogs last year with opioids, but everyone in Alaska knows that it was a huge setup and again everyone in the Lower 48 is smearing his good hot name and accusing Dallas of some bullshit.

There are also a couple of badass women too, like Deedee Jonrowe and Libby Riddles. (LIBBYS REPRESENT).

The race is highly organized and you need to pay an entrance fee and follow a very long list of rules for exactly what equipment you need to bring for yourself and your dogs. Like you don’t even want to know how much shit is required to enter this race.

Everything is regulated from the size of the water jugs to the length of the dog chains to the number and sizes of pickaxes and type of kibble and times you need to rest and have the dogs rest and the vets and the paperwork and blah blah blah. But if you win you can get a lot of money and your picture in the paper and maybe a photo-op with Lisa Murkowski, who was in my dream last night, but that’s another story.

If you have a friend with a cabin on the Yentna or Skwentna rivers though, it’s a good excuse to get drunk and watch the dog sleds run up river because that’s pretty close to Willow still and there are a zillion cabins up there and it’s a huge party. Think Mardi Gras but with your boobs buried under a hundred layers of Goretex and fur instead of having them out, and instead of a parade there's a lot of dog sleds racing one behind the other.

If you don’t have a friend with a cabin upriver, you can just go to Anchorage for the ceremonial start or fly your ass to Nome at the end to watch the mushers come in and the whole town turns into a giant party for a week, and then we do it all again the next year.

The End.

Saturday, March 3, 2018

A Cease and Desist Letter to My Children

Our House

Paige and Isaac
Our House

March 3, 3018

RE: Cease and desist fighting with each other

Dear Paige and Isaac,

This CEASE AND DESIST ORDER is to inform you that your persistent actions including but not limited to: kicking each other in the butt for no reason; knocking over your brother's Jenga tower when that's obviously not part of the game; using your sister's Barbies to whack Fidget Spinners off a shelf; pointing a Nerf gun at your sister's face, putting Queso cheese sauce in your brother's hair; yanking the mini-trampoline out from under your brother mid-jump; launching a remote control helicopter off your sister's head; putting liquid soap on your brother's toothbrush; and telling your brother that you know for a fact that he was an "accident"
 have become unbearable. 

You are ORDERED TO STOP such activities immediately as they are being done in violation of my sanity. 

I have the right to remain free from these activities as they constitute harassment and I will pursue any legal remedies available to me against you if these activities continue. 

These remedies include but are not limited to: cracking down on loosely-enforced dish washing and laundry folding expectations; separating you into time outs in your respective rooms; forcing you to clean toilets if you cannot manage to get along for five fucking minutes; making empty threats; and to that end banning all sugar and screen time for the rest of your fucking LIVES.

Again, you must IMMEDIATELY STOP fighting with each other and send me written confirmation--using the email addresses that we gave you to help you practice reading and writing but that you only use for emojis--that you will stop such activities. 

You risk incurring some very severe legal consequences if you fail to comply with this demand.

This letter acts as your final warning to discontinue this unwanted conduct before I pursue legal actions against you. At this time, I am not contacting the Office of Children's Services or sending you to military school, as I hope we can resolve this matter without authoritative involvement. I am not under any circumstances, however, waiving any legal rights I have presently, or future legal remedies against you by sending you this letter.

This letter acts as ONE FINAL CHANCE for you to cease your unauthorized activities before I exercise my rights.



Friday, March 2, 2018

By Request: An Oompa Loompa Song for Hope Hicks' Departure from Trumplandia

Oompa loompa doompety doo
I've got a perfect puzzle for you
Oompa loompa doompety dee
If you are wise you'll listen to me

What do you get when you lie for your boss?
Even when you are hot like Kate Moss?
What do you know, at a mere 29?
Mueller will force you to sing or do time!

Oompa loompa doompety da
If you're not greedy, you will go far
You will live in happiness too
Like the Oompa Loompa Doompety do

Oompa loompa doompety doo
I've got another puzzle for you
Oompa loompa doompeda dee
If you are wise you'll listen to me

Lying is fine when it's once in a while
It means you have cunning, ambition, and guile
But it is repulsive, revolting and wrong
Lying and lying all day long
The way that Sarah Sanders does!

Oompa loompa doompety da
Given good judgment you will go far
You will live in happiness too
Like the Oompa Loompa Doompety do

Oompa loompa doompety doo
I've got another puzzle for you
Oompa loompa doompety dee
If you are wise you'll listen to me

Who do you blame when your boyfriend's a thug?
Arrested for beating his wife with a jug
Blaming the press is a lie and a shame
You know exactly who's to blame
Rob Porter and Rob Porter!

Oompa loompa doompety da
If you take a plea bargain you will go far
You will live in happiness too
Like the Oompa Loompa Doompety do

Oompa loompa doompety doo
I've got another puzzle for you
Oompa loompa doompeda dee
If you are wise you'll listen to me

What do you get when you steam Donald’s suit?
A sleazy old man telling you that you’re cute
It's smart that you've quit while you still are ahead
I hope that he never got you in bed!

Thursday, March 1, 2018

Mission Critical

I feel extremely lucky that, at least for now, both my parents are of sound mind and body and physically and financially able to visit us in Alaska several times per year. When a blizzard threatened to delay their return to New York City earlier this week, I joked with my mom that it was time for her to retire.

We were drinking vodka gimlets on the couch (I don’t often drink after work, but my folks are a big fan of cocktail hour and I love joining them for it). My mom’s failure to retire wasn’t for lack of trying.

She’s spent her whole career as a physician working in public health and recently took her state pension to supposedly cut back on work. But she keeps taking trips abroad, working on new grants, and accepting new responsibilities.

“I realized something,” she said to me, about the slow creep of hours upon hours of work back into her life.  “I don’t have a career. I have a mission. And you can’t retire from a mission.” 

I had a general idea of what her mission was, but when I asked her to describe it, she said this: “to improve the health care that disadvantaged people receive and make health care good for people without any choices.”

I wanted to go to medical school like my mother. I idolized her career and her drive. But I didn’t have the tenacity or patience to fight through the math and science classes required to get there, so I went to law school instead. And in doing that I fell into my own sort of “mission,” which has only crystalized for me in the past couple of years.

I guess if I were to describe my “mission” in a one sentence, it would be to promote America’s constitutional democracy by devoting my career to the public sector and by spending my free time advocating for genuine social justice and equality.

Writing a personal mission statement feels hokey and self-help-y, but it’s actually kind of useful because it forms a framework for hard decisions, personal conduct, and how we spend the very limited and ever-diminishing time we have in our days on earth. 

Unregulated emotion, defensiveness, assumptions, and distractions all interfere with our sense of purpose and our ability to execute on that purpose. For me, at least, putting that purpose into a single sentence creates a good template to re-center and govern my own conduct and reactions when I am feeling defeated and demoralized.


Wednesday, February 28, 2018

Without Question, This is the Best Ad Ever Posted on Juneau Buy Sell Trade

Let's start with the price, which surely must be a typo. 

*Extremely Austin Powers Voice* 124 MILLLLLION dollars? For a set of silicone workout balls for your vajazzle? Like I'm pretty sure you could buy Jennifer Lopez's Malibu estate for that. (And it comes with free Kegel balls!)

Then there's the qualifier that they're "brand new" which we must further clarify means she "didn't try them out [her]self.”

This is a relief, since prior use would obvs be kind of a deal-breaker. Like there are some things you can buy used no problem. For example: a dresser, a car, a rug, or a kitchen table. 

Then there are other things. Things that go in intimate places. Things that are really a one-time and/or one-person only use-type situation. Underpants, mattresses (arguably), butt plugs, syringes, Q-Tips, and anything else that has encountered bio-hazardous substances or “areas” of any kind. IMHO, Kegel weights fall into this category.

Next, there's the Kegel weight--or ball(?)--itself. 

I'm trying to remember when I first realized the Kegel "workout" existed. It was definitely before "pelvic floor" became a trendy target-area of yoga, but sometime after male gynecologist Henry Arnold Kegel “invented” it. It might have been on my first visit to the gynecologist at fifteen, or it might have been something my mother told me about. 

Regardless, I recall being surprised at discovering this superpower which had so many surprising uses. The pelvic floor muscles could be flexed in secret right there in Mr. Rapapport's earth sciences class! Just for fun! They could be deployed on command in . . . erm . . . "intimate settings." They could be used to stop pee from leaking into my Haines Her Way cotton bikini briefs every time I coughed, jumped, or sneezed post-babies! 

Basically these exercises were a miracle.

Finally, there's the idea that there is a “beginner" and "advanced" course of study and practice for Kegel exercises WITH the Kegel weights themselves. Until I read this ad I'm not sure I knew there was a weight system for doing these exercises at all, much less different levels of proficiency. I also read it as "Kegel bells" and not "balls," kind of like barbells or dumbbells which I think is actually a way better name.

All of which leads me to a Christmas song about Kegel bells, based on Silver Bells. You're welcome!

Kegel bells, Kegel bells
It's toning time for your Kitty
Make ‘em squeeze 
It’s a breeze 
Soon you’ll have a strong vajay!

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Don Young Thinks a Good Jew With an AR-15 Would Have Stopped the Holocaust, Apparently?

Ah, good old Don Young.

To some, Alaska’s lone Congressman and Dean of the House is a colorful state treasure who tells it like it is and represents the last vestige of the Good Old Days When America Was Great.

Those raucous, heady days of Big Oil pipeline construction when men (REAL men, by the way—not these libtard Beta PC snowflake cucks who think they’re a man one day and a woman the next) hopped in their Chevy pickup and hauled ass up the AlCan from parts unknown with nothing but the plaid shirt on their backs, their Daddy’s .22, and a fifth of cheap whisky to build a cabin in the woods outside Fairbanks and find themselves a Good Woman.

To others, though, Don Young is a misbegotten artifact of a not-quite-bygone-enough time when men who “spoke their mind” often spoke it to the detriment of everyone but other men who shared their narrow vision of manhood, which of course has at its bilious core murder of one sort or another.

So it’s no surprise that Don Young, a board member of America’s wealthiest, bloodiest gunrunning lobby and the second most NRA-funded member of Congress—will genuflect before his corporate overlords at every turn.

What IS surprising—even for a swashbuckling, bloviating old coot who’s done everything from blame suicide on food stamps to brag about almost cutting a colleague’s throat at work—is that Fossil Don is now invoking the Holocaust to save the NRA money.

Per APRN reporter Liz Ruskin, at a speech delivered right here in my very own hometown of Juneau, Don Young “argued against gun control by suggesting Jews might not have died in the Holocaust if they had been armed.” 

“How many Jews were put in the ovens because they were unarmed?” he asked rhetorically (I guess).

The answer is zero, thanks for asking!

I’m probably the last generation of American Jews who grew up with the specter of the Holocaust--knowing family members who either were interned or died in the Holocaust; raised to instinctively fear the sound of the German language and the bark of German Shepherds; shunned the consumption of German products or German music. 

I don’t think my kids will live under that same shadow, but still, my first reaction to reading Don Young’s comments was to whisper in his hairy old ear that he needs to get the name of my people’s genocide out of his mouth and find another way to do his employer’s greedy, disingenuous, constitutional-defender-pretender bidding.

The assertion that reasonable restrictions on semi-automatic rifles led to WWII and will lead to a Nazi-esque takeover of America is a favorite canard of 2A wingnuts, but it’s particularly rich coming from the figurehead king of a political party that courts, consorts, and flirts with neo-Nazis on the reg. 

It is also a convenient (albeit preposterous) retort by the corporate gun lobby’s number one bottom bitch to teenagers who are out here in these streets trying to make school shootings a tiny bit less fatal and are getting death threats from NRA “members” for their efforts.

But okay. 

Thomas Jefferson said it’s our God-given right to keep an atom bomb in our basement because tyranny, it took the allied forces and military arsenals of quite literally the entire world to end the Nazis, and yet my relatives had to hide in barns and died in the gas chambers all because they weren’t packing an AR-15 in the Russian shtetl.

To paraphrase some gallows humor from a friend of mine, if only the Nazis didn’t come from broken homes, watch violent video games, and struggle with homosexuality and mental illness, we could have prevented the Holocaust.

Seriously Don. Go fuck yourself.

Monday, February 26, 2018

Can't Complain!

I was standing in a long lift line at Eaglecrest Ski Area on Sunday with a fellow east coast transplant to Alaska—one of my treasured Juneau sister wives. She was making small talk with an acquaintance, and when she asked the guy how he was doing, he replied cheerfully, “can’t complain!”

We got on the chair and immediately turned to each other.

“I love it when people say that,” I told her. We observed that this represented a big cultural difference from where we grew up, where almost everyone managed to find a reason to complain about almost anything every day of the week.

So when people say happily that they “can’t complain!” the response I give (in my head) is TRY HARDER.

Which is not to suggest that complaining is good. Quite the opposite, complaining—especially petty complaining—is REALLY bad. It’s a terrible, annoying trait, and I hardly ever indulge in it. If it’s one thing my brief forays into food service have taught me, it’s that my friends who work in the hospitality industry are fucking HEROES.

Anyway, on this particular day, the entire ski hill—myself included—was armchair quarterbacking the operation of this and that chairlift and this and that terrain, but I chose to keep my complaints to myself (or within a small circle of fellow whiners) and enjoy the moment I was in.*

I’m just interested in language, is all. 

So when someone says they CAN’T complain, I want to cheer them on and say that no, really, they CAN! There is SOOO much to complain about, as you learn growing up in New York City.

Like here’s a non-exhaustive list of ACTUAL things I’ve heard people complain about in the course of my upbringing: 

The sushi is not at room temperature; the train is five seconds late; the wineglass has a tiny spot on it; the rental car is not the exact car ordered ahead of time; the parking lot refurbishment is taking too long; the air conditioning is broken; the elevator is out of order for half a day; the Christmas tree is tacky; the rug is a trip hazard; the water is too hot/cold; the air is too humid/dry; and so on, ad infinitum.

The art of complaining no longer has geographic boundaries thanks to Yelp and the rest of the internet, but since I hail from the OG 'Hood of Complaining, I feel I am in a unique position to encourage people who claim they “can’t” complain and let them know that they are selling themselves short. And if they just try super hard, they will find something--ANYTHING!--to complain about.

So whenever you’re tempted to answer with “can’t complain,” what you're really saying is that you're an unimaginative slacker who can't come up with a gripe, and therefore you should just change that “can’t” to “won’t.”

I believe in you!

(*But seriously WTF is up with the Black Bear chair lol jk??)

Sunday, February 25, 2018

Trump Basically Wants a GoFundMe for His Military Parade So I Wrote the Pitch

According to FAKE NEWS CNN as reported by Talking Points Memo on 2/19/18 (so take this with a grain of salt):
The Pentagon is considering soliciting donations to fund the President’s requested military parade, which could cost between $3 million and $50 million, according to preliminary estimates from a defense official who spoke with CNN.

Because there is currently no money set aside for a parade in the military budget, the Pentagon would likely use those private donations to offset the cost of the non-military components of the event, according to CNN. Budget director Mick Mulvaney said Wednesday that he estimates the parade could cost between $10 million to $30 million.
(Side Bar: Yesthis is the same Mick Mulvaney who wants to send SNAP recipients a "Blue-Apron-Style Harvest Box" of "shelf-stable milk" and Skippy peanut butter, thanks for asking).

In the pre-Trump world, we'd be roasting this for weeks, but because Trump operates at a 67:1 scandal-to-day ratio, it's hard to keep up. 

Still, we don't want to forget that Trump at some point wanted--and at some point probably will want again--a Banana Republic, Fidel-Castro-style military parade on the Washington Mall. 

Since Congress failed to budget for this boondoggle, we're going to need to raise $30 million to make Donald happy. So I took the liberty (PUN INTENDED) of writing the GoFund Me pitch:

Greetings My Fellow Humans,

On the morning of November 9, 2016, Donald J. Trump was elected 45th President of the United States. This came as a BIGLY surprise to everyone (except Vladimir Putin and a coder named Gucifer 2.0), but no one was more surprised than Donald himself.

Donald was NOT expecting to get such a big important job all of a sudden. His plan was just to be more famous and make more money so he could quickly divorce his third wife with a giant payout and non-disclosure agreement. 

But now--tragically--he has found himself in WAY over his corn silk weave-covered head.

Aside from being really mean and knowing nothing, the main problem with Donald is that he is very sensitive and his feelings are easily hurt. 

He watches a lot of TV and if anyone says anything bad about him on TV he immediately goes on Twitter, presses the caps-lock key on his unsecured Android, and starts screaming about CROOKED HILLARY and the RUSSIAN HOAX and NO COLLUSION and FAILING FAKE NEWS CNN and TERRIBLE RATINGS. And it's all very scary for all of us because—as he has reminded us—he has a BIG BUTTON and his button WORKS! 

Not to put too fine a point on it, Donald can explode us all tomorrow if he wanted to. 

So you see, it's very VERY important that we make Donald feel good about himself and remind him that he is a Very Stable Genius (TM).

We must never ever say his hands are tiny, and we must always say his crowds and ratings are yooge. We must continue to reinforce the idea that he is the richest, handsomest, smartest, and most beloved and admired man in the whole entire world. 

And the absolute pinnacle of that is an expensive, garish, tacky despotic parade that will ensure our Dotard in Chief knows just how loved and respected he is by each one of his loyal subjects and by the Mighty Army that He Alone Commands.

Please consider donating today! The life you save may be your own.



Saturday, February 24, 2018

The Two Biggest Obstacles to Learning

This week, I had several different opportunities to ask myself,"what have I learned from this moment?" 

I don't need to get into the specifics of any one of these to share their common conclusion. Which is that there are two big obstacles to learning new things, and those two obstacles--at least for me--are assumptions and defensiveness.

Assumptions are defined as "a thing that is accepted as true or as certain to happen, without proof." 

When our assumptions are challenged, it can feel frightening and destabilizing. We all need certainty and a set of common operating principles to function. We need a narrative arc for our lives and a vision of ourselves that is grounding, and in turn the world around us has to fit within that structure.

The problem is that the case for ourselves and our world is often quite binary and inherently subjective. And when the binary nature of that case or its objectivity is challenged--when our assumptions are challenged--it feels emotionally overwhelming, and we become defensive.

And when we're defensive, we can't learn. 

We're too busy reacting to our upended assumptions by raising a defense for our life's case, whatever that case may be. We have visions of ourselves and of other people and their motivations that chart our course through life, and it's not easy to examine those paths too closely, lest we discover they are more subjective and less stable than maybe we thought.

But when we do, we can learn a lot. The truth is that allowing my assumptions to be challenged while letting go of needing to defend them is the only way I've ever actually learned anything. 

I often fail at overcoming these two obstacles, but when I do, it's always worth it.