Monday, February 29, 2016

Other Cool Quotes from Fascist Dictators Donald Drumpf Could Retweet if He Wants

After being tricked by Gawker into re-tweeting a quote from noted dicktater Benito Mussolini, "it is better to live one day as a lion than 100 days as sheep," Drumpf was forced to go on the defensive, which as usual ended in the proverbial gobbling of his own cock in the form of bragging about his extensive network of followers on social media:
It’s okay to know it’s Mussolini,” Trump explained. “Mussolini was Mussolini. It’s a very good quote. It’s a very interesting quote. And I saw it. I know who said it. But what difference does it make, whether it’s Mussolini or somebody else. It’s certainly a very interesting quote. That’s probably why I have on Facebook and Twitter more than 14 million people and other people don’t.
Welp. There are so many awesome dictators that Drumpf could retweet! There are many choice suggestions, compiled here, but I've selected the best and most Drumpfy:

“Politics is when you say you are going to do one thing while intending to do another. Then you do neither what you said nor what you intended.” – Saddam Hussein

"Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it, and eventually they will believe it" – Adolf Hitler

“Death is the solution to all problems. No man – no problem.” – Joseph Stalin

“You cannot run faster than a bullet.” – Idi Amin

"I will leap into my grave laughing because the feeling that I have five million human beings on my conscience is for me a source of extraordinary satisfaction." – Adolf Eichmann

"A lie told often enough becomes the truth." – Vladimir Lenin

"I am the object of criticism around the world. But I think that since I am being discussed, then I am on the right track." – Kim Jong-Il

"I don't care if they respect me so long as they fear me." – Caligula

@Caligula! Long may you tweet!!

5 Signs My 5 Year-Old Son is a Walking Testosterone Bomb

1. Preoccupied with his "little marbles": Not long ago in the bath, he asked me: "What are these little marbles in my penis?" I pointed out that they are not technically in his penis; they're in his scrotum, and he needs to take good care of them because those two little shallots are what's keeping him in the game of life.

2. Reprimanded for dropping trou at school and exhibiting his junk to the world: I admit this one upset me for a couple of weeks, until several people who know more about child development than I do insisted it was completely normal. We had the serious private parts talk, of course, which I'm not 100% sure was effective. But I haven't had any more complaints recently, so I'm hoping and assuming he's no longer opening the hot dog stand for business during non-business hours. I still can't get him to stop peeing off the deck, but one step at at a time, right?

3. Claims he “is built for crazy stuff” on skis and likes to do "dangerous things": On the chairlift earlier this year, he let me know in no uncertain terms that I, his mother, am not "built for crazy stuff," but he is, since he likes to "catch air" and I don't. And he often calls to me from another room to come observe him "doing something dangerous." God help me, and God help him make it to adulthood without paralysis or a TBI.

4. Obsessed with projectiles: Though I've discouraged this interest and delivered numerous lectures about guns, he sleeps with his Nerf gun. You know, just in case "the bad guys" show up in the middle of the night. Stomp rockets, light-up darts, and any other projectile will occupy his attention for hours. Basically, he's your average Trump supporter, but in size 3T Minion briefs instead of 2XL bald eagle boxers.

5. Proudly declares he is a “carnivore”: I've tried to encourage a love of fruits and vegetables, but hot dogs, sausage, beef jerky, and bacon (all dipped in ketchup) are the only four food groups he will formally acknowledge. He likes to stand up on his chair at dinner, rip his shirt off, and quite literally roar that he is a "carnivore like T-Rex."

If this is what's happening at 5, I'm definitely very scared for 15.

Sunday, February 28, 2016

In Case You've Never Been on an Aircraft That's Struck by Lightning, Please Allow Me to Enlighten You (So to Speak)

It's very loud, and highly--but HIGHLY--alarming. I have said many times that my last nerve has been frayed to the breaking point by a decade of parenthood coupled with flying in Alaska. And I am regularly convinced that the first/last 20 minutes of every flight in Alaska are also my last 20 minutes on earth. Well, tonight was no different as Alaskan aviation's usual near death experience was taken to the next level.

About 12 minutes into the flight from Seattle to Juneau, an extremely loud explosion-esque bang followed by a flash of green light outside my exit row window instantly hurtled me into post-9/11 PTSD mode, and I knew Geoff and I would never see our kids again. See?! This is why we can't take nice trips!

We were seated in the same row as two close friends from Juneau, who also happened to be taking a kid-free weekend in Denver on the same flight itinerary. The other mom laughed nervously when she saw the ghost-white rictus of horror my face had become, and I mouthed to her: "Are we gonna die?" I asked Geoff the same question, but he looked a little uncertain of the answer, which is rare for him. (The last time I squeezed his hand this hard, I'm pretty sure I was trying and failing to push a human out of my vagina).

I glanced up at the cabin ceiling. Where are those fucking oxygen masks when you need them? I am NOT cut out for this shit. When the flight attendant asked us if we were comfortable performing the duties required of an exit row passenger, I should have answered with an honest, "NO! FUCK NO! No amount of extra leg room is worth this level of responsibility!"

For a few minutes after the lightning strike, I was positive the next three words I was going to hear would be "BRACE FOR IMPACT!" But when the pilot finally spoke, he did so in a calm, measured tone, informing us that the plane was hit by lightning, which "happens." So we are turning around to Seattle and getting on a new plane, since this one has two giant holes burned into the "nose" now. (Technically, that detail was not disclosed until later).


So there I was, head between my knees, rocking back and forth like Demi Moore in St. Elmo's Fire, praying we were going to land in one piece. But it was all good, because the woman sitting next to me knew just what to say: "I've been flying in Alaska since 1977 and this has NEVER happened to me!" She leaned over my shoulder to peek out the window. "I think we're fishtailing a little. They never tell you the truth if something's really wrong anyway, though." She further recommended that my husband and I not travel together in the same conveyance, for the sake of our children.

Seriously?! Thanks a lot, lady!

When we finally rolled to a stop on the Tarmac at SEA/TAC, the plane erupted into applause. As we deplaned, I searched the pilot's slate gray eyes for signs of trauma, but he was poker-faced. I had the fleeting thought that I would happily administer unto him an immediate and enthusiastic blow job if doing so 100% guaranteed I would live to see my kids again. See what I mean? Someone whose mind operates like this simply does not belong in an exit row, but they never tell you that either, I guess.

Our friends guest-passed us into the Alaska Airlines Boardroom while we waited for word from the airline, which first came in the form of a text message. We were all being gifted a $75 discount for the "incident" and "experience" we'd had.


I ate three chunks of Monterey Jack cheese and pounded a box of Junior Mints, while silently contemplating the distinct possibility that this could very well be my last supper on earth. As I write this I'm still in transit, so the jury is out on that. And I say this all the time, but if I do live to fly another day, I'm not doing it without Ativan.

This time, I mean it.

Culture and Style Observations at Denver International Airport

I know it's kind of wrong to photograph strangers, but at least this couple had their backs turned to the camera and cannot easily be identified beyond the point of this post, which is simply to make some brief style and cultural commentary regarding the Denver International Airport's style game.

When you live in Alaska or haven't left the state for awhile, a Lower 48 airport is fertile ground for fashion updates and pointers. 

It's where I first learned that Toms shoes and jean shorts up to the vagina were on trend last summer, and it is now where I've discovered the epicenter of the flat brim vs. curved brim style wars for men. I've now also come to understand that peroxide bottle blonde hairstyles for women are not, apparently, the exclusive domain of strippers and Hooters waitresses.

This dude though really captures what "it" is seemingly all about in the Mountain West these days. As Grandpa Simpson once said, "I used to be with it, but then they changed what 'it' was, and suddenly 'it' became scary and strange to me." 

Well I'm here to tell you that I'm a little scared. As far as Colorado is concerned, "it" for women is Vegas stripper-chic in cowgirl boots, and "it" for dudes is a trucker hat with brim SLIGHTLY curved, tight polypropylene shirt to show off ripped pecs and lats, designer "distressed" jeans, and a fancy watch even though no one needs a watch to tell time anymore.

And I for one refuse to go gently into that good night. I don't have a prayer of looking like Jenna Jameson, but I CAN rock an on-trend baseball hat--$29.95 and one margarita (with salt) later.

Saturday, February 27, 2016

Could This Guy Be Any Cooler?

I'm just asking, but I'm pretty sure I know the answer already, and I'm pretty sure it's no. The guy is a model for Burton snowboards, so 'nuff said. 

Also the hair and beard. It's like he just woke up in a modeling studio and someone spent a lot of time making it look like he woke up in a tent. Like, a lot of time.

He has great teeth, which he needs to have lest he be mistaken for a homeless man. Because in conjunction with those pearly whites, the stain on that Burton T shirt says "I'm tent homeless on purpose for a weekend, not real homeless by accident forever."

The way he's screaming near a bonfire says "I listen to bands you've never heard of and I can also build a fire. In a puffy vest with white guy quasi-dreads."

The only thing that could make this guy any cooler would be if you went on a date with him and he sent you a handjob emoji trifecta afterwards. I just invented this (I think) but I know it's gonna be YOOGE:

Friday, February 26, 2016

If You're a Dude & Not Wearing the Brim of Your Baseball Cap Flat You Are Old AF

In these sad, confusing times, there is one thing upon which all the world can agree: If you are a dude who wears your baseball cap with the brim curved instead of flat, you are old as fuck.

I'm not talking about numerical years, necessarily, because plenty of dudes born before 1980 appear to have picked up on this trend. The rest are still holding onto the good old days of the early '90s in which bros would fold the brim of their hat, tie it with a rubber band, and shove it into a glass for 48 hours. You grew up in a time when only your grandpa wore a trucker hat with a flat brim. No more, compadre.

Today, you can tell the holdouts from the people who have moved on. Basically if you're a bro wearing your hat with the brim curved, you might as well be telling the world that you went to the first ever Lollapooza festival, watched every season of Seinfeld, and used Clearly Canadian as a mixer at house parties.

If you're wearing the brim flat, however, you're sending the message that you know what's up. You follow Kanye on Twitter, you went to a "Free Julian Assange" protest, and you smoke weed out of a super high tech electronic device. And whether you are 20 and doing this for real, or 40 and doing it because you wish you were 20, one thing is clear:

You're telling the world a whole helluva lot with your hat brim game.

Thursday, February 25, 2016

"Learning to Love My Body"

I feel like "Learning to Love My Body" has been an intro level college lecture I've been taking, failing, and retaking for 25 years.

And I need those fucking three credits to graduate.

I've given the professor (a.k.a. me) every "dog ate my homework" excuse ever invented: But my thighs are too big today. But I weigh too much today, so now my day is ruined and I can't have ice cream. But I hate this gross fat roll right here today. And Professor Me is like: "FAIL!"

Repeat every day for a quarter of a century.

But I'm committed to taking this class until I pass it. If not for me, then for my daughter, in whom I'm trying to instill a healthy body image. I know she's watching me and internalizing what I say and do. I know she's hearing me say one thing and--no matter how much I try to hide it--seeing me do another. Like telling her she's perfect the way she is, and then slipping up by weighing myself maniacally and whining about my own "hideous" body. 

Today I was looking in the mirror and  doing my usual annoyed-with-my-body-for-everything-thing. And suddenly I sort of said to myself, Wait. What if I just stop caring so much about this?  What if I just sort of let it ride off into the sunset, along with all the other fucks I've watched ride away every year since I turned 30.

Suddenly I heard "pomp and circumstance" playing in the back of my head and I pictured myself in a cap and gown. And I imagined my daughter never remembering that I ever felt anything about myself besides just fucking good. 

Yeah, I'm gonna pass this course pretty soon. I can feel it. 

Municipal Skiing in Juneau vs. Resort Skiing in Colorado

A short, frank, and digestible review of my first ever real big resort ski experience since learning how to ski in Juneau 10 years ago:


Juneau: No.
Colorado: Yes.


Juneau: Rain and snain.
Colorado: Snow and none.


Juneau: School bus to parking lot.
Colorado: Shuttle bus to Disney Land.


Juneau: $0.
Colorado: $10-35.


Juneau: Cross your heart and hope (not) to die.
Colorado: Open throttle: Groomers for days!!

Juneau: AHHH! TREE!!
Colorado: Ahhhh, treeee.


Juneau: 4/Zero min.
Colorado: 4,000/45 min.


Juneau: Approx 15.
Colorado: Approx 15,000.


Juneau: Below average.
Colorado: Above average.


Juneau: Costco mixed grill.
Colorado: Shopping mall food court.


Juneau: Season pass = one day in Colorado.
Colorado: Bend over and grab 'em: Peace out, college tuition!


Juneau: WTF am I?
Colorado: Oh, here we are!


Juneau: Want to spend my life with them, and do.
Colorado: Happy to die without ever seeing them again.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Woman on Cell Phone at Airport: Please Tell Me More!

Hello strange woman on your cell phone at the airport! Thanks for taking a moment to sit down next to me and tell me what's on your mind. Well, not me, exactly. I think maybe it's your husband on the other end of the line, but either way, your convo is totes FASCINATING.

That story about the work seminar you just gave? And that guy Matt who was so pleasantly surprised by the staff award (which was James Bond themed because he loves James Bond movies so much)? 

Riveting. Please speak up. I can't hear you.

Tell me again whether Emma got her medicine tonight and whether Johnny is behaving well or just being Johnny again. Also: what time will you be home tonight? Should your husband wait up for you or not? Wait, what's that? Someone sent you a calendar invite but you're busy that day?

Wait wait. Please speak up and whatever you do, do NOT end this call. It's just starting to get good...

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

Guys, the American Dream Needs an AED

If you thought Dr. Ben Carson was the only medical doctor on the campaign trail this year, you're wrong, because Donald Trump has diagnosed the nearly-dead American Dream as one that might be resuscitated. 

Dr. Donald Trump delivered some sad news late last year when America asked him, "Is the American Dream dead?" Here's what he said:

Welp, Dr. Trump's answer was basically the same as that given by Miracle Max (as played by Billy Crystal) in The Princess Bride: It just so happens that the American Dream is only mostly dead. There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive. With all dead, well, with all dead there's usually only one thing you can do: Go through America's pockets and look for loose silver dollar coins--you know, the ones that never quite took off.

And since Miracle Max isn't here, all we need to bring the American Dream back to life is an Automated External Defibrillator, or AED. An AED is a portable electronic device that automatically diagnoses the life-threatening cardiac arrhythmias of ventricular fibrilation and ventricular tachycardia in a patient.

These devices are easy for lay-persons to use, and there're no better lay-persons to use them than the millions of American voters who want to bring their Dream back to life.

Because as Dr. Trump says, that shit is not dead yet. It's only in trouble. It just needs some assistance from the voters and Dr. Trump. They just need to follow the simple step-by-step directions, place the paddles down on the Heart of the American Dream, and yell CLEAR!!! Like George Clooney in an old episode of E.R. 

At that point the American Dream will suddenly flutter its eyelashes, cough loudly, squeeze Dr. Trump's hand, and ask in a soft, crackly voice, "What happened? Where am I?"

Then that man in the beautiful red hat will stand up next to the man in the yellow hat from Curious George, and, with Dr. Trump by his side, declare that the American Dream has been brought back from the dead so we can finally do some real jobs.


Monday, February 22, 2016

Lawyer Bro Wants to "Weekend at Bernie's" Antonin Scalia

I'd never heard of 35 year-old Yale Law School graduate and Arizona lawyer-bro Kory Langhofer until today, but I def recognize him.

The self-proclaimed "not-a-fan-of-government"-slash-expert-in-government is clearly a mad scientist's test tube DNA-hybrid of George Washington, Ted Cruz, Martin Shkreli, and the half dozen frat bros fresh out of SUNY Binghamton who brown-nosed our Civil Procedure professor back in law school and hit up women for their notes.

Today this fine representative of the legal profession has publicly asserted--without irony but with his eyebrow game on fleek--that Antonin Scalia should be permitted to vote from the grave on cases pending at the time of his death. Because "we know exactly what he thought" and "it's not unprincipled to say we should give effect to that." Because also, it's "incredibly speculative" to suggest Scalia could have changed his mind as that "almost never happens."

Know what else almost never happens? Dead peeps voting on American Idol, much less on American Supreme Court cases.

But this is some truly revolutionary thinking, and it makes me wish I'd gone to Yale instead of crappy, scrappy Brooklyn Law School, the former more vaunted institution having turned out a creative interpreter of the U.S. Constitution's effective lifetime appointment clause under Article III.

Because for reals: Do we really know what the founding fathers meant by one's lifetime, since the actual words of the constitution give justices their tenure "during good behavior?" In addition to effectuating a dying man's wishes (the least we as a nation owe Justice Scalia), certainly a fellow strict constructionist and constitutional originalist could argue that dying is not "bad behavior" sufficient to strip a justice of his seat and vote?

Wut. No?

I anticipate a new law review article: "Spending the Weekend at Bernie's: Good Behavior, Antonin Scalia, and a Vote from the Great Beyond," by Kory Langhofer, Esq.

I cannot WAIT to read it.

Kory Langhofer speaks to KPNX (screen grab)

These Roller Sneakers are Hands Down the Worst Purchase I Ever Made

What the fuck was I thinking? I wish I had a dollar for every time I asked myself this question.

For example: hurtling down a dark, rural New Hampshire highway in a tiny Honda Accord packed with seven 20 year-olds and driven by a college sophomore with an open 16 oz. can of beer between his legs; buying shrooms in 11th grade from a stranger's apartment in Spanish Harlem and subsequently eating them during dinner at my friend's grandma's house; and going to see Sponge Bob: The Movie in the theater sober and before I had kids.

This weekend, I had occasion to ask myself this question yet again, when two pairs of roller sneakers arrived on my doorstep in a big cardboard box from Amazon.

Someone--I can't remember who--had given Paige and Isaac each an Amazon gift card over Christmas, and this being February, I had grown tired of hearing: CANWEBUYSOMETHINGFROMAMAZONWITHOURGIFTCARDSTONIGHT?!

So about a week ago, I broke out the lap top and logged onto Amazon Prime. "WE WANT ROLLER SNEAKERS!" Paige declared as the computer booted up. "YEAH!!" echoed Isaac. And then: "Wait . . . what are roller sneakers?"

Paige explained these were sneakers with wheels in them that all children simply must have. Sounded innocent enough, and the purchase appeared to meet some basic requirements:  within the gift cards' price range; non-electronic; not made entirely of tiny plastic pieces; not messy; and encouraging of physical activity. 

Yes. This was a great purchase! How wrong I was.

About a week later, two pairs of roller sneakers arrived: one size 1 "little kid" blue and green for Isaac, and one size 4.5 "big kid" pink and white for Paige. Unfortunately, Paige's pair was missing a wheel, thus rendering them useless and in need of return to the third party vendor who had sold them. 

Paige did not take this development well. Many tears were shed over the life lesson that depreciable shit from China will often burn you in this way. Further tears were shed over Isaac's insistence on gleefully flaunting his intact roller sneakers "in [Paige's] face" while hers would have to wait another week. Exasperated parental lectures about the relatively more significant plight of Syrian refugee children fell on deaf ears.

What did not fall on deaf ears, however, was the sound of Isaac's roller sneakers clomping all over our fake-wood laminate floor. 

Not since the authentic wooden clogs my mom brought back from one of her many layovers at Amsterdam's Schiphol airport (and that both kids have now mercifully outgrown) had such obnoxious footwear infiltrated our home.

Isaac tied those fuckers on his feet and refused to take them off for a good 24 hours. During this time, he spun around the room like a drunk Brian Boitano, twirling and collapsing comically and with great fanfare. He grabbed onto the banister and slid down the stairs in the roller sneakers, scratching up the walls and nearly braining himself on several hard surfaces. He wore them outside, instantly falling into a puddle and soaking all of his clothes. There was a subsequent fight over the discomfort of rain pants, which were meant to counteract the discomfort of being soaking wet. But Isaac lacks foresight, so more hysterics ensued, and all the while Paige was weeping over how profoundly unfair it was that she was unable to join in the fun.

Though Paige's replacement roller sneakers have not yet arrived, the jury is in: These roller sneakers are hands down the worst purchase I ever made.

Sunday, February 21, 2016

How You Can Tell New Relationships from Married Couples at a Restaurant

Body Language 

NR: Couple leans in to talk, deeply engaged in conversation. They laugh and make little flirtatious gestures like hair twirling and hand touching. They gaze into each other's eyes or maybe briefly down at their food before quickly resuming eye contact and smiling at each other like dopes.

MC: Couple is sitting in their own respective personal space bubbles at the table, staring vacantly through each other. One person asks the other to repeat what they just said. He or she responds: "I think they changed the lighting in here since last time. Or maybe it's the paint?" Then they both look around the restaurant at other people, silently wondering whether knowing everyone else is having a lot more fun.


NR: Couple orders delicate and digestively sensitive items like ceviche or cheese plate, a bottle of wine, and a creme brûlée to share. 

MC: Couple orders whatever food they want with impunity, with no regard to the amount of farting it will cause later (e.g. nachos, brussels sprouts). In fact, the more disgusting the food, the more satisfied the couple feels that one of them will revenge-fart the other out of the bedroom that night.

Reservation Time

NR: 8:00 p.m.

MC: 5:30 p.m.


NR: Couple lingers over the check, making a polite show of who will pay the bill. They leave the restaurant with their arms around each other, knowing they're going home to someone's house to get laid.

MC: Couple looks down at their phones for the time, briefly checking Facebook to see whether their high school ex is having a more exciting evening than them. They dart their eyes around the room desperately for the waiter, gesturing urgently before they have to pay the babysitter for another hour. After glancing at the bill, one comments to the other that they're running out of money. They know they're going home to kids who say stuff like "One thing I've learned over these years is that I don't like underwear" or who write fake blog posts like the one pictured below:

Saturday, February 20, 2016

Now It's Cool to Rape Someone Because Contracts

In the ongoing battle of corporations-people vs. actual human-people (especially human-people with vaginas), score one for the corporations-people, who won a brave battle this week with pop-star Kesha's human vagina and trauma in a New York trial court.

I've been following this story with some interest, in my personal human-person capacity as a shameless consumer of Top 40 music and as a lawyer with a vagina. 

28 year-old pop star Kesha--under contract with Sony records and a producer whom she claims drugged and raped her at age 18 and continued to abuse her for a decade--is contractually bound to her alleged rapist. Sony offered to let Kesha work with another producer, but for a bunch of reasons not really relevant here, that was a sham deal that would effectively doom her career.

Judge Shirley Kornreich--whom I can only assume from her name is not of the latest generation of humans with vaginas to audaciously insist that the legal system free them from contracts with rapists (I'm sorry ALLEGED rapists)--ruled against a sobbing Kesha.

The judge's "instinct" was to do "the commercially reasonable thing," and not "decimate a contract that was heavily negotiated and typical for the industry." 

So sure, Kesha is legally bound by the contract, even though, as the above-linked article in Jezebel correctly notes, the music producer was also legally bound not to rape her. 


And here's where the lawyer-with-a-vagina-human-person in me kinda suspects the judge's ruling is probably totally consistent with the law. And by that I mean, I'm pretty sure her hands were tied (metaphorically speaking of course). I suspect there was no legal pathway the judge could find--even if she looked really hard-- to give meaningful credence to Kesha's alleged rape and abuse and rely on it to void a contract. Not with a human man-person who raped and abused her for a decade and the corporate person who enabled it.

Corporate persons have made damn sure of that. And that, my friends, is a huge fucking problem for the rest of us.

Friday, February 19, 2016

Bad at Math

I'm not proud to admit this (what else is new), but I'm bad at math. Like, really bad. Not just "I got a C in calculus" bad at math. More like I can barely calculate 20% on a tip bad at math. Sort of like Talking Barbie "math is haaaaaaard" bad at math. Kind of like a poster child for STEM programs for girls and not in a good way. Like in a "before" picture sort of a way.

I did alright in math and science at school by memorizing tricks and having no concept of what I was doing, while my mom--who was great at math-- sighed in exasperation at my failure to grasp the most basic concepts she was trying to help me understand. The second the test was over, out the information flew, like a migrating Canadian goose.

If I had to chart how I became a 38 year-old functional human who can barely do basic arithmetic, I'd posit a small problem became a big one through minor math trauma of some kind. I wasn't naturally good with numbers, but with every mistake I made, I felt dumber and dumber to the point that I developed a bit of a numeric phobia and a complete mental block against math.

So helping Paige with her math homework isn't very much fun for me. I'm pretty sure you need the problem before this one (#7, I know how to count backwards that far) to solve #8. 

Or I hope so, because this second grade math problem is literally everything I've always hated about math and logic problems summed up in a two-sentence second grade world problem. Fuck you, Peter. Fuck you and your basket of apples and oranges! 

P.S.: I know everyone reading this can figure the answer out in ten seconds without using a pencil and paper.  Don't rub it in.

I Will Not Rest Until the Whole Entire Internet Agrees With Me!, by Bro Who Needs the Whole Entire Internet to Agree With Him

Ever since I could read and write at the age of three--up to and including my recent graduation from Stanford B-school--I have worked tirelessly toward a single, laudable goal: 

To make the Whole Entire Internet agree with me.

From trivial debates like whether it’s okay to pee in the shower, does cilantro really taste bad or is it all in your head, or should you even bother with flat sheets; all the way on up to the important issues of our day like whitesplaining #BlackLivesMatter and immigration reform to mansplaining Hillary Clinton, climate change, and why Antonin Scalia was actually a cool bro, I will not rest until the Whole Entire Internet agrees with me.

I will spend all day every day if I have to—and I do—scrolling through Twitter and Facebook and perusing the comments sections of CNN, Vice News, Talking Points Memo, Gawker, Slate, Salon, Huffington Post, NYT, Deadspin, and any other online publication with a comments section, so that I may use said comments section as a turnkey bully pulpit for my half-baked arguments, thus furthering my noble goal of making the Whole Entire Internet agree with me about something.

And not just something. Everything.

Moms: is it safe to vaccinate your child? (I have a firm opinion on this topic, despite not being a mom myself). Why are there so many homeless people in San Francisco? (I do not enjoy seeing homeless people on my way to work at my tech startup, and feel the city should address the eyesore). It that chocolate bar you're eating really bean-to-bar, or is it a fraud? (Ferreting out fraud in both the artisanal chocolate bar-making and craft beer communities is one of my core concerns).

I will banter back and forth until the Whole Entire Internet grows tired of me, capitulates and concedes my point, or otherwise gives firm indication of my rectitude. I will outlast any troll and bombard with specious "facts" anyone who fails to concur with whatever point I am trying to make, be it big or small.

Because when it comes to sheets, cilantro, climate change, moms, vaccines, black people, homelessness, and artisanal chocolate bars, there can be only one right answer, and only I have it. Yes, it's a 
difficult, thankless job, but someone has to do it. Bear witness! For today I say to you truly: 

I will not rest until the Whole Entire Internet agrees with me.

Thursday, February 18, 2016

Donald Trump Tweets on Christianity

@realDonaldTrump: If Jesus rises again NOW, thereby doing a great service to humanity, I will give Him free 2nd lifetime golf at any one of my courses!

@realDonaldTrump: Islam, Buddhism, and Judaism are, without question, the WORST EVER religions! I predict an Imam, Monk, or Rabbi will do something really bad and totally stupid now to prove otherwise!

@realDonaldTrump: Everyone else running in this election is a total sham and a travesty! Why are we not a theocracy?

@realDonaldTrump: I have never seen a thin Christian drinking Franzia in a wine glass and pretending it was the blood of Christ.

@realDonaldTrump: Mary should not have taken Joseph back. She cheated on him like a dog and will do it again--just watch. Joseph can do much better!

@realDonaldTrump: Very sad how Jesus wore a crown of thorns. When I'm president He will wear a crown of gold and jewels! God knows Romans were a bunch of losers. God also knows my bank account is one of biggest ever! 

@realDonaldTrump: Just last week Jesus called my office and asked if He could stay in one of my hotels. Presidential suite. Gorgeous house. I'm very rich, which is the beauty of me.

@realDonaldTrump: Mary Magdalene was not attractive and a total follower. She flirted with me shamelessly and I see why she was trailing Jesus around like a lost puppy. During Middle Ages she was known as "loose." Couldn't agree more!

@realDonaldTrump: T-Mobile wi-fi service at the Crucifixion was terrible! Why can't they do something to improve it for their customers? Fine for Vatican, but I don't want it in my buildings.

@realDonaldTrump: Only losers and haters think Holy Trinity is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Everyone else knows it's Trump, Trump, and Trump!

@realDonaldTrump: An extremely credible source has called my office and told me that @PopeFrancis is a fraud.

@realDonaldTrump: Jesus: call me. What the hell is God doing allowing all these Mexicans to continue entering the U.S.? Pope Francis obviously has Jesus's ear--SAD!

How My Mom Convinced Me Never to Drop Acid or Ride a Motorcycle

My mother's parenting style was a piquant combination of benign neglect and terrifying realism. She never made rules or suggestions based solely on propriety, principle, custom, or ceremony. Quite the opposite: all her parenting directives were rooted in a stark and sometimes terrifying reality. 

Often I reaped the benefit of this approach, such as having no curfew ("What difference does it make whether you come home at midnight or 2:00 a.m.? What's going to happen to you at 2:00 that won't happen to you at midnight?") and letting my high school boyfriend essentially live in my bedroom for a year ("You're sleeping with him anyway, right? Why do we need to pretend it's not happening? Here's a gross of condoms.").

So when my mother told me not to do something, I usually listened. And the things she told me not to do were generally related to physical safety. She wouldn't just say something boring and ABC-after-school-specialish like "don't do drugs," or "don't drink and drive." She would illustrate these points with stories. Stories from her medical school days in the 1970s. Specifically the emergency room of Bellevue, the oldest public hospital in the United States and one of New York City's busiest trauma centers. 

These stories would typically begin with "I once saw a guy come into the emergency room . . . " It was like a darkly comic version of the typical "Once upon a time" fairy tales more normal mothers (presumably) told their kids.

"Never use LSD," she warned me ominously. "I once saw a guy come into the emergency room on twelve hits of acid. He was eating his own shit mixed with M&Ms!" So vivid was this image of an unhinged bedraggled West Village hippie--munching on a handful of his own excrement speckled with colorful green, red, and yellow M&Ms like a grotesque Blizzard from Dairy Queen--that I was never once tempted to try acid.

"Never ride a motorcycle," she cautioned almost every time we saw one. "Not even with a helmet. I once saw a guy come into the emergency room and his head was melted into the helmet." 

While visiting Vietnam a couple years ago, I had no choice but to get onto the back of a motorcycle. I almost literally kissed the ground when my friend, who lives in Ho Chi Minh City, dropped me off at the airport in one piece.

I was unable to heed my mom's advice on that occasion, but her warnings were effective: I knew I was extremely lucky to still have my head and the motorcycle helmet as two separate objects.

Thanks mom.

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Melania Trump Has Never Taken a Shit in Her Life and I Wrote a New Song About It

Every bro worth his X-Box and Maxim subscription knows for a fact chicks don't shit. Well, maybe fat chicks do, but definitely NOT hot chicks. So it will not surprise you to learn that Donald Trump claims he's never known his wife to drop a deuce. Ever! Yes, that is the level of presidential discourse to which we have now sunk in this Great Nation. 

And that is is why I've written a new version of Journey's famous rock anthem/ballad "Don't Stop Believing" dedicated to Melania Dump's Trump's superhuman ability to contain her bowels. 

It's called Don't Start Relieving (Yourself, Melania Trump), and it goes a little something like this. Ahem.

Don’t Start Relieving (Yourself, Melania Trump)

Just a Slavic girl
Givin’ Donald Trump a whirl
She takes a private jet almost everywhere
Just an orange boy
Whose hairdo looks like raw bok choy
He takes a private jet almost everywhere

A toilet in a stinky room
The smell of shit and Glade perfume
Something tells me this ain’t right
Reeks like a sewer bomb, a bomb, a bomb, a booooomb

Bowels, moving
Up and down the gastric tract
Intestines searching for relief
Feces, doody
Tryin’ just to find an exit
Hidin’ somewhere out of siiiiiiiight

Eating nothing (save for pills)
This body rocks and pays the bills
Plastic surgery to keep looking nice
For a longer time
Some will win, some will lose
Some were born to make no pooos
Oh, this campaign never ends
It goes on and on, and on, and on

Don’t start, relieving
Hold on to that feelin’
Come on, Melania
Hot chicks don’t poooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!

Here Is Everything We Know About Melania Trump's Bowel Movements

South Dakota Wants to Save Your Children from Transgender Peeps in the Bathroom

Do you remember what happened the last time you or your teenager innocently went to use a public bathroom at school? No? Let me remind you, then. 

Cast your mind back: it was a sunny October morning between first period social studies and second period trigonometry. Having just wolfed down a microwaved breakfast burrito Hot Pocket, you understandably had to take an emergency dump. Being a normal (i.e. "untwisted") boy or girl, you innocently entered the bathroom bearing the designation of your gender assigned at birth, and were just settling down with your Samsung Galaxy S6 to start shit-texting (shtexting) your friend a link to the latest Justin Bieber video when something horrible and traumatizing occurred.

An abominable fuhhhreeeak of nature known as a transvestite--I'm sorry, transgender--person entered the bathroom, went into one of the other stalls, and did . . . um . . . something. You selected a smiley-face emoji, sent your shtext message, flushed, washed your hands with soap and water (hopefully), and left to resume your day.

Wait. Are you saying this didn't happen to you? Or if it did, are you saying your innocence was not forcibly taken?

Welp, the fine statesmen of South Dakota would beg to differ, for they have now done what so many state legislatures and our Congress do so well and with such reliable proficiency: Promote legislation targeting people they don't like, intended to fix problems that don't exist, because they are stupid and/or disingenuous beyond measure.

South Dakota is poised to become the first state in the country with the noble distinction of requiring transgender students to use bathrooms and locker rooms that correspond to their sex at birth, rather than the gender with which they identify. State Senator David Omdahl claims this essential bill is meant "to preserve the innocence of our young people." 

"I'm sorry if you're twisted and don't know who you are," CBS news reports him saying at a recent event. "I'm telling you right now, it's about protecting the kids, and I don't even understand where our society is these days."

On this last point, Senator Omdhal and I can agree. 

I too "don't even understand where our society is these days" when an entire generation of kids gets brain damaged from drinking toxic municipal water; kids are shot on the street and in kindergarten classrooms; no one wants to spare a dime for their education; and their parents can't afford their health insurance or day care.

But for fuck's sake, people. THINK OF THE CHILDREN!

It's a good thing South Dakota is tackling this mounting threat to childhood innocence, because it's a slippery slope: One day it's transgender bathrooms in school. Next thing you know, we'll have RuPaul's head carved in stone, in that little space between Roosevelt and Lincoln on Mount Rushmore. To say nothing of the fate destined to befall the many public restrooms at South Dakota's most famous national memorial.

Bravo, South Dakota, BUHHRAAAHVOOOOHHH!!!

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Your Stupid Fucking Face Should Come with a Trigger Warning

“Do we, as citizens of this uncomfortable and unpredictable world, have the luxury and privilege of receiving ‘trigger warnings’ before being exposed to disturbing material about subjects like the Holocaust, lynching, murder, and rape?” 

That’s what Lori Horvitz asked in this 2015 op-ed published in The Guardian. One thing Lori Horvitz didn’t ask about, however, was your stupid fucking face. 

Nowhere in this article or anywhere else online can I find anything explaining why your stupid fucking face doesn’t come with a trigger warning.  

Who is "you?," you ask. Good question.

"You" is anyone. You is your spouse. You is your child. It's your co-worker. Your ex-boyfriend/girlfriend. Your mechanic. Your accountant. Your college professor (especially your college professor). Even Bernie Sanders! Donald Trump? Definitely. You is me, even! 

"You" is anyone and everyone really, because everyone's stupid fucking face triggers something, and everyone deserves to be warned about it.

Critics of trigger warnings say "life doesn't come with trigger warnings," so why should books and stuff. But stupid fucking faces don't come with trigger warnings either, and they should.

Why just this morning my 8 year-old daughter stuck her tongue out at me and said "Yes ma'aaaaaam" in a very sarcastic and what my parents used to call "fresh tone of voice." This triggered a memory from 25 years prior when I slammed the door on my own mother's stupid fucking face as hard as I could and screamed, I HATE YOU, BITCH!!! at the very tippy-top of my lungs.

I was really caught off guard by this memory, and feel I should have been duly warned.

Not three hours later, I found myself on a video-conference with 18 people and couldn't stop staring at myself in the picture in the lower-right hand corner of the screen. The sight of my own stupid fucking face and that of an older administrative assistant on the conference whom I was confident was in menopause made me realize I forgot I was wearing a tampon all night, and might get toxic shock syndrome.

That was super scary for me, and again, I should have been warned.

And that's not even getting into Facebook, and people's Facebook profiles, which definitely and without a doubt 100% need trigger warnings! If your stupid fucking face can't come with a trigger warning, at least your stupid fucking FaceBOOK face should come with one, amirite?!

Like I need to know if I am going to see you making out on the beach with someone in a disgusting, nauseating display of PDA on Valentine's Day. Maybe no one wants to see that shit. Namely me. Did you ever think about that? Well maybe I should unfriend you on Facebook, then?! No! Why should I be the one to accommodate or alter my behavior? I'm just living my life, out there in the world, doing what I can to protect myself from triggers when all of a sudden . . . 


There it is. Your stupid fucking face, with its tongue playing tonsil hockey with another person's stupid fucking face and their tongue on Valentine's Day. Both your stupid fucking faces should come with a trigger warning, because they trigger in me a desperate urge to punch both of you in your stupid fucking throats.

Really, it's only fair.

If I Had Kanye West’s Twitter Game in 12 Tweets (Feat. O.H.M.'s 1000th Blog Post)

One Hot Mess AK @libbybakalar: Mark Zuckerberg I know it’s your bday but can you please call me by 2mrw. You love women, you keep advertising granny panties and KY jelly in my news feed. I am your favorite woman but yet you watch me barely able to fly coach and still expect me to buy lube. 

One Hot Mess AK @libbybakalarMark, I am publicly asking you for help. One of the coolest things you could ever do is help me buy all my airline tickets for the rest of the year and pay off the rest of my student loans.

One Hot Mess AK @libbybakalar: I specifically ordered speckled brown carpet that already looks like dirt with dirt imagery on it so that all this dirt would blend in!!! What do I have to do to get a simple carpet that looks like shit uuuuuuuuugh.

One Hot Mess AK @libbybakalar: You may be hot and you may be a mess, but you’re not ONE HOT MESS.


One Hot Mess AK @libbybakalar: I hate when I’m on a flight and I wake up with a kid next to me like oh great now I gotta be responsible for this kid.

One Hot Mess AK @libbybakalar: I open the debate . . . the first three blog posts of One Hot Mess Alaska are the best blog posts of all time . . . meaning . . . OF ALL TIME IN THE HISTORY OF BLOGGING PERIOD!

One Hot Mess AK @libbybakalar: Room service uuuuuuuugh! I hate when I order chicken Caesar salad at the Captain Cook with dressing on the side and no croutons and they forget the no croutons. Crouton crumbs on my Romaine.

One Hot Mess AK @libbybakalar: I'ma let you finish kids except you never let ME THE GREATEST MOM IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD finish anything so no actually I'M NOT GONNA LET YOU FINISH SHIT!

One Hot Mess AK @libbybakalar: Exes can be mad but just know I never let them play with my ass . . . I don't do that . . . I stay away from that area all together. I do however play in the area of their Facebook profiles so I can make sure I'm happier and more attractive than them.

One Hot Mess AK @libbybakalar: Spanx ain't no joke for me . . . Spanx is a way of life .  . creative expression and industry to keep my muffin top on lock.

One Hot Mess AK @libbybakalar: So happy to be finished with my 1000th blog post a.k.a. the best blog post of all time!! Media Takeout: always remember that you dissed THE BLOG THAT CHANGED THE WORLD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Monday, February 15, 2016

This Octopus Probably Had a Worse Valentine's Day Than You

Imagine you're a 70-pound captive octopus named Kong living in the Seattle aquarium. Your favorite day of the year is February 14, because that's when your handlers let you wrap your eight tentacles around some hot female octopussy and get your cephalopod rocks off, thus spreading your genes through the North Pacific in perpetuity.

Granted, a bunch of humans are watching and taking pics with their cell phones (the perverts), but it's all good because you live for this. Literally.

Well, not this year. Seems Kong ate a few too many crabs and fish, because he outweighs his potential mates by 30-40 pounds, and aquarium staff is afraid Kong will eat them too! News outlets are reporting that, sadly, the aquarium has "canceled the sex act" due to "cannibalism concerns." (By the way, that sounds like a great excuse to get out of an unwanted booty call. The text thread would be phenomenal: "Sorry, can't make it. Scared you're going to turn my ass cheeks into Chicken McNuggets." Contacts: Delete!)

But despite having four times as many arms as we do, octopi don't text, so cannibalism seems a rather maladaptive reproductive technique. Then again, since octopi die shortly after mating, I guess it makes some sense. Might as well go out with a bang and make a last meal out of your girlfriend right after you spray her clutch of 10,000 eggs with a gallon of octo-spooge.

Now instead of humping on a lady octo who's just been offered up to him like a live mixed grill, Kong will be released into Puget Sound to fend for himself. Good luck to him finding a girlfriend he won't eat first.

Yup, it's pretty clear. Unless you were all set to bonk behind glass but someone cock-blocked you due to fears of cannibalism, Kong the octopus definitely had a WAY worse Valentine's Day than you.