Monday, October 31, 2016

We Have Reached Peak Justification for Human Extinction with the Amazon Dash Button

Sometimes people will send me tips for blog posts, and I don't actually believe they're real until I research the issue myself. So it went yesterday, when a friend and reader in Utah told me about the "Amazon Dash Button."

The Amazon Dash Button is a "Wi-Fi connected device that reorders your favorite product with the press of a button." Basically, it eliminates the middle man of either (a) having to go to the store for Pop Tarts and/or Red Bull; or (2) going through the ordeal of more than three clicks on your computer to order these items and similar pre-landfill household garbage and processed food.

Now you can buy and set up a key-fob-shaped device thingie, stick it to your wall, and press the button when you're getting low on toilet paper mid-dump, condoms mid-hump, or Cheez-Its mid-bong hit. I mean, who among us has NOT needed to order more Trojans in the midst of a weekend-long bone-sesh? Wouldn't the Trojans dash button have been totes perfect right over your headboard?

I was going to write more, but truly Amazon Dash is one of those things where pictures are worth thousands of words. So rather than tell you all the products that are available by Amazon Dash, I will just show you 15 photos that prove beyond any shadow of a doubt what we already know: 

The human race has reached peak justification for mass extinction.

11 Ways 2016 is Just Like a Horror Movie

Even with the country as divided as it is right now, I think most of us can agree on one thing: 2016 has been a shit year. A horror show, if you will. (Will you?) So in honor of Halloween, I think it's apt to draw some obvious analogies between this year and your typical horror movie tropes:

1. Mass murder: There have been 399 mass shootings so far, so, um, lots of people got murdered.

2. Found footage: Terrifying "found footage" has played a key role. Specifically, the Access Hollywood "bus tape" is highly reminiscent of The Blair Witch Project. And we may never know what's on those secret Apprentice outtakes. 

3. Women and minorities dropping like flies: Somehow, all the female and minority characters are getting fucked with the most and/or knocked out of the cast first.

4. Back from the dead?: "Email gate" proves we are definitely now at that point in the film where you think the villain is dead and he gets up and tries to kill you one more time.

5. Creepy clowns: Creepy clown sightings. 'Nuff said.

6. Pumpkinhead: Like the eponymous 1989 slasher flick, a ghastly orange ghoul with a hollowed-out pumpkin for a head keeps popping up everywhere, screaming, yelling, and threatening to physically assault people.

7. Sewn mouths: I'm noticing a lot of Dia de los Muertos cosplay this year. Some might argue this is culturally insensitive or just the opposite, but regardless, one thing is for sure: Mexican-Americans would probably like to see even more people with their mouths sewn shut than on Dia de los Muertos in prior years.

8. The mirror take: Urban legend has it that if you say "Make America Great Again" ten times in the mirror this year, David Duke will appear in your living room.

9. Something died in this houseThe White House is coming perilously close to becoming one of those creepy "someone or something died here" haunted houses, with that something being American democracy as we know it.

10. Crazy scientists ignored at humanity's peril: Crazy scientists keep showing everyone charts saying we're all gonna burn to death and no one is listening.

11. The phone calls: Robo-calls are coming from INSIDE YOUR HOUSE!

Image result for pumpkinhead image

Sunday, October 30, 2016

Happy Hallo-I-Put-My-Kid-in-a-Gender-Nonconforming-Costume-and-an-Asshole-Made-a-Big-Deal-Out-of-It-and-I-Turned-Those-Conformist-Lemons-Into-Viral-Content-Lemonade-Ween!

Happy Hallo-I-Put-My-Kid-in-a-Gender-Nonconforming Costume-and-an-Asshole-Made-a-Big-Deal-Out-of-It-and-I-Turned-Those-Conformist-Lemons-Into-Viral-Content-Lemonade-Ween!

I LOVE this time of year. Pumpkins, trick-or-treaters, colorful fall leaves, World Series baseball, warm roasted root vegetables. 

But my favorite part of October by far is all the heartwarming stories of boys wearing Elsa from Frozen costumes and girls wearing Superman costumes, getting criticized or made fun of for it by some narrow-minded ass-backwards dipshit, and their parents turning this experience into a cautionary tale/viral manifesto on social media.

Now, I haven't personally experienced the phenomenon of Halloween costume-based persecution in real life, but I'm obviously against it. And rest assured if I did witness it, I'd say something about it. 

I'd also do something. Like that whole anti-terroristm campaign, "if you see something, say something." 

Specifically, if I see anyone giving my daughter shit for her Superman costume or my son shit for his Elsa costume, I am going to BLAST THAT SHIT TO HIGH HEAVEN ON THE INTERNET, MOTHERFUCKAHHHHZZZZ! It will be all over Facebook and everyone from Slate to the Huffington Post will have at least three long-form stories about this happening and what everyone involved did and said. 

And then I will feel like I'm in Black Mirror or the Matrix, because I will be doing the exact same thing by unloading on the internet, and waiting for the world to spread it around.

In the meantime, I'll say it again for good measure: Happy Hallo-I-Put-My-Kid-in-a-Gender-Nonconforming Costume-and-an-Asshole-Made-a-Big-Deal-Out-of-It-and-I-Turned-Those-Conformist-Lemons-Into-Viral-Content-Lemonade-Ween!

What is It?

I was out with a group of women for a friend's 40th birthday last night, when the subject turned to getting carded at liquor stores and bars.

At a certain point--it's hard to pinpoint exactly when--bartenders, waitstaff, and liquor store cashiers stopped asking for my ID. For women especially, this can feel like a depressing milestone.

A woman's dread of her own advancing age is perhaps the last bastion of fully indulged and embraced misogyny in our culture, and it's one in which all of us willingly participate to some degree.

Multibillion dollar industries are devoted to the (thus far) futile task of stopping time--smoothing wrinkles, whitening teeth, zapping fat, recoloring gray hair, and being advised with a finger-wagging certainty what clothes you are too old to "get away with" anymore.

Women fear aging, knowing it will never bring them the same "distinction" it brings men, whose primary threat to their masculine pride can be resolved with a little blue pill. Women rightly fear something much worse: Invisibility.

Because society (and, one could argue, evolutionary biology) assigns women a temporary value based on their looks and their sex appeal, they spend a lot of time wringing their hands over getting old and looking old, what it will mean for them, and what they can do to stop it.

Which brings me back to our dinner table conversation.

"Sometimes I stand there at the counter," said a friend whom I happen to know was born the same year as me, "and I just want to ask, 'WHAT IS IT?!' My clothes? This forehead wrinkle right here?," she poked a finger hard between her eyebrows. "What is it that makes you so sure I'm not 21?!"

We all laughed uproariously. We all knew the feeling. Somewhere along the way, we had all lost the one thing we had been conditioned since puberty to be so afraid of losing, the thing we are supposed to cling to with all our might, the thing we will be lauded for and praised if we are able to keep--and we will never get it back.

We had failed.

I joke and whine about getting old and looking old all the time, and I'm as much of a participant in the subtle misogyny of ageism as anyone: My bathroom is littered with expensive serums and creams that promise to get me carded again, but it never happens, and it's not going to.

I too want to scream "WHAT IS IT?!" at the cashier or bartender who knows I'm well past 21, but this conversation at dinner tonight made me think that maybe I need to be asking myself a different question entirely:

Why should I care?

Saturday, October 29, 2016

This is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, America

Picture it: It's Sunday morning on the Champs Elysees in Paris. 

You're on an old-fashioned bike with no helmet and a basket on the front, in which a warm baguette, a bouquet of fresh flowers, and that day's copy of Le Monde--each procured from a different speciality shop--rattle gently. 

You pedal past old women on park benches and painters trying to capture the early light of the rising sun hitting the Seine just so, as hand-rolled cigarettes dangle listlessly from their mouths. Also nestled beside the items in your bike basket is a 6 ounce--I mean 177ml-- glass jar of Nutella. 

You hop off your bike on a tiny cobblestone street in the fifth arrondissement, lean it against a sixteenth century balustrade of a neighboring building, and walk six flights up to your small apartment. You prepare a cup of strong espresso and tear a piece of bread off the baguette, spreading just the thinnest layer of Nutella into its nooks and crannies, and settle in for your delicate breakfast.

Now imagine you're at Costco somewhere in the U.S.A. 

Your kid's sixth birthday party is tomorrow, and his dad promised to make him a "pizza" cake, with real pizza crust as the crust, Nutella as the "sauce," and marshmallows and chocolate chips for the toppings. Fortunately, Nutella has come to America in the form of two twin-packaged, gallon-sized plastic jugs at Costco. You buy four of them, because who knows how much dessert pizza you'll really need, and you don't want to run out.

You get back into your car which is parked two feet from the double-wide electric doors of the warehouse wholesaler and drive 15 minutes back to your driveway, where you pull into your garage and park six inches from the entrance to your house. The party comes and goes in a whirlwind of chaos you can barely remember, because screwdrivers. 

But the very next day, you discover that an entire jar of Nutella went unopened. Uh oh/YAY.

You put on a pot of coffee in that bastard, broken-down slacker asshole of a coffee pot Mr. Coffee, and try to "sneak a cup" as grounds and hot water spill all over your countertop. You grasp frantically for a rag and open the silverware drawer. 

You spend a few minutes staring at the teaspoons and the tablespoons, deciding quickly to use the latter. Standing at the kitchen sink in a giant hoodie sweatshirt and pajama pants, you stick the spoon all the way into the bottom of the jar and drag up as much Nutella as will possibly adhere to the spoon--"heaping" is an understatement. 

You open your giant, Steven Tyler-mouth as wide as it will go and shove the spoon into it, waiting for that familiar dopamine sugar rush to hit your bloodstream as you stare vacantly into space contemplating the meaning of life. Specifically, all the shit at work you have to do, how little money you have because you live beyond your means, what your ex-boyfriends are doing right now and if they're happier than you, and how eating a giant tablespoon of Nutella for breakfast is not in line with your plans to reduce the size of your ass by several inches before you hit 40 in ten months.

And that, friends, is why America--or at least this American--can't have nice things.

Friday, October 28, 2016

Please Show Me One Email That Would Justify Donald Trump Being President of the United States, Oh Wait, I Found It!

Seriously. I want to see that. I want to see one email, written by anyone, anywhere on earth, ever, that could possibly justify Donald Trump--an intemperate, neo-fascist, morally and financially bankrupt, pussy-grabbing, intellectually-challenged, bloated cantaloupe of a sociopath--being the leader of the free world.

Just one.

Again, I'm not asking to see an email that would disqualify Hillary Clinton from being President. I'm asking to see one that would make it even remotely okay to have Donald Trump as an alternative. 

Never mind, I found it. Here it is:

To: Vladimir Putin
From: Hillary Clinton
Date: June 1, 2015
cc: Satan's Smegma

Dear Vlad,

My sources tell me Donald Trump is planning to run for President and I'm scared he's going to do an amazing job and make America the greatest it's ever been. Let's collude to make zillions of dollars for ourselves by taking him down and making him look stupid. 

We can poison him with secret, military-grade experimental drugs that will reduce his vocabulary to the words "SAD, DISASTER, and BIGLY," cause him to Tweet bullshit at a mind-bending rate, unveil a long and--pardon the pun--trumped-up history of sexual assault and tax evasion, and basically convert him from the next Nelson Mandela into a dog-whistling white supremacist xenophobe who can't be trusted in a locker room much less the Oval Office. 

The American public will never find out and you and I can take over the whole entire world! Bill can help us. I haven't been this excited about a conspiracy since I orchestrated the Kennedy assassination with those little green men at Area 51! 

Let's hope no one ever makes this public. I'm using a top-secret personal server just to be safe.

Do Svidaniya!


P.S. Anthony Weiner told me he sent you 25 dick pics for your wank tank. Did you get them? Speaking of, I'll send you some Extenze for Men. I got a free sample from a Nigerian prince. 

Revenge of the Vom

In some ways, Juneau is an epidemiologist's dream. Hemmed in by trees, ocean, and mountains and cut off from the rest of the world by a total lack of road access, our little Alaskan city of 35,000 can be a veritable Petri dish. 

Contagion like head lice, stomach bugs, and the dreaded cruise ship-borne Norovirus tear through the state's capital with unmatched ferocity. And children, with their lack of personal boundaries and propensity to be, shall we say, "lax" about personal hygiene are the ultimate vector of disease. 

Everyone touches the same surfaces in the same handful of supermarkets, schools, and childcare facilities, and that is usually enough to put large swaths of the population down for a 24-72 hour count. 

I knew Juneau was in for a ride worthy of a team visit from the CDC when I picked Isaac up from school yesterday and encountered one of his classmates barfing into his Crocs in the hallway. Several of Isaac's friends had gone home early, and he was already acting listless and complaining of stomach pains. 

Less than six hours later--just in time for a mom/kid dinner-playdate that was already underway--there was vomit on the walls, carpet, and all over social media. One by one, Juneau parents reported in from the quarantined silos of their homes: 

"I was cleaning puke off the walls at 4:00 a.m.," wrote one. "It's official: we've been hit by the plague," said another. "Our turn! Can you wash pillows?" asked someone else. A text message at 5:30 suggested that Isaac's entire school might need to close for lack of staff, and because his whole class had been "wiped out" by this bug.

Fortunately, it does not seem to be a particularly virulent strain. Certainly nothing worthy of Gwyneth Paltrow's hemorrhagic fever, seizure, and death scene in Contagion or Patrick Dempsey's in Outbreak, both of which could easily be set in Juneau (hopefully when the Legislature is in session). No one is bleeding from the eyeballs. In fact, I'm in that sick-kid purgatory where your kid can't go to school because he's been puking within the last 24 hours, but he is completely better and therefore begging to watch television and bouncing off the walls.

So far, the rest of our family has avoided contracting the latest "viral content," but escape is by no means guaranteed. Not knowing the incubation period of this virus, the rest of us are mere sitting ducks waiting to be struck with violent albeit relatively brief bouts of vom.

God speed, Juneau. God speed.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

Once Again, the ADN Comments Board is Really Making Me See the Light on Sexual Assault

When I saw today's headline in the Alaska Dispatch News, "Alaska lawyer says Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas groped her in 1999," I knew I didn't actually need to read the article about how Moira Smith, now 41, just came forward to report being groped at age 23 by a notorious sexual harasser, because the comments would do all the work for me and make me see the light that Smith is clearly lying. 

In yet another case of he said/she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said she said, I'm going to follow the comments' lead and just go ahead and believe the "he" in the equation.

Makes sense, dontcha think?

Per the ADN comments, Ms. Smith's account is "ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER BUNCHA LIES," (Caps in original) and it's "[a]mazing that after all these years, the trauma & outrage from such a horrible thing just now materializes??? Hmmmm Right before the election. Let's keep beating the evil-groping man drum for Hillary." 

Also, Smith's account is indicative of a "[t]ypical authoritarian 'liberal' mentality. Guilty until proven innocent. Unless it's a leftist politician, then it's innocent even when clearly guilty." 

And don't forget "I bet she's a liberal liar," "pull up your big girl panties and move on from whatever real or imagined incidents are in your past," "if she were so offended by it, why did she let him do it again and again and wait 25 years to complain about it?," and "always comes out at election time, lol."

For as we all know, rapists and sexual assailants always check the political party affiliation of their victims before grabbing their private parts, knowing that they will most likely get away with it regardless.

In a state with one of the highest rates of sexual assault and domestic violence in the country, it's heartwarming to see many readers of its largest newspaper coming out in force to troll one of their own.

It's incredible how the readership of the ADN stands ready to discredit the person who has nothing to gain and everything to lose by bravely coming forward with her story, and would rather believe the person with everything to gain by lying and everything to lose by revelations of his conduct.

Reactions like this also really promote the public interest by emboldening victims to come forward, rather than doing what 97% of victims of rape and sexual assault usually do, i.e., take their stories to their graves, precisely because of reactions like this.

Way to go, Alaska!

The ADN should ask itself what the purpose of the comments feature is. It rarely promotes any real dialogue about anything. Maybe it drives web traffic, but it's a platform for abuse. Full stop.

Earth to ADN: time to Delete Your Comments Board.

U.S. Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas walks to his vehicle after attending the 64th Annual Red Mass at the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle in Washington, D.C., on Oct. 2. REUTERS/Joshua Roberts/File

'Member When #TBT Was Just the Second "T" in #TBT?


'Member when "#" was the pound sign on the beige plastic phone on your kitchen wall, "hash" was a type of corned beef, and "tag" was just a game you played outside with no helmets until your mom told you to come in for dinner?

'Member when the second "T" in "Throwback Thursday" really stood for something? Specifically plain, simple, regular Thursday? And there was no "throwback?" 'Member how Thursday was just a day of the week, namely the day after Wednesday and the day before Friday, instead of a viral hashtag on social media that prompted everyone to take pictures of pictures and upload them to Facebook and Instagram? 'Member when pictures were printed Polaroids of relatives in photo albums with penned-on captions instead of filtered cats and sushi on a smart phone?


'Member when everyone at school had Trapper Keepers and pencil cases and the biggest thing in the news was the Challenger explosion and the giant red birthmark on Mikhail Gorbachev's bald head? 

'Member learning card catalogs and the Dewey Decimal system? 'Member when you had to look up words in a dictionary and an encyclopedia and it took an hour instead of five seconds on the Internet? 'Member when you got a busy signal? 'Member when you had to pass actual notes in class instead of texting back and forth?

'Member when bologna on white bread with yellow mustard and red Kool Aid in a thermos was a normal lunch? 'Member how the animatronic Kool Aid Pitcher ran through a brick wall in that one commercial? 'Member Alex P. Keaton? 'Member when everyone made lots of money on Wall Street and snorted coke at parties? 'Member the Moonwalk, the Macarena, and O.J. Simpson?

'Member Menudo, Poison, and Nirvana? 'Member Jake from Sixteen Candles? 'Member VCR's, mix tapes, and dubbing? 'Member Punky Brewster and how the old guy who adopted her oddly didn't seem like a pedophile? 'Member Cabbage Patch Kids and Polly-O String Cheese? 'Member Atari? 'Member when McDonalds and Monsanto were poisoning us and we were in blissful ignorance of it? 

'Member smoking in hospitals? 'Member wood-paneled station wagons with no seat belts? 'Member Ralph Nader before he went into politics? 'Member leg warmers, side pony-tails, and Fame? 'Member Melanie Griffith in Working Girl? 'Member those "Coed Naked [BLANK]" T-shirts?

'Member Italian ices (not ISIS) from the ice cream truck with the little wooden paddle spoon and the syrupy goop on the bottom? 'Member Jolt Cola and Clear Pepsi? 'Member "Hands Across America?" 'Member Live Aid? 'Member Further Fest? 'Member Phish tour? 'Member meeting people right at the gate in the airport? 'Member when everyone thought you could get AIDS from a toothbrush? 

'Member how every single generation tries to 'member stuff that happened 30 years ago? 'Member how in the '80s and '90's everyone was 'membering sock hops and doo-wop music from the '50s and Jim Morrison and the Doors from the '60s? '

'Member when I was in diapers, my mom had 89% more collagen in her face, and this was considered an acceptable pattern for a couch? God, life was so much simpler then. Maybe instead of #TBT we need #MBM, 'Member Berry Monday?

Make Monday #MBM and Make #TBT Plain Old Thursday Again!

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Newly Divorced Mom-Friend Making Married Life Look Increasingly Bleak With Reports of a Dick Monsoon Raining Down on Her Nightly

Newly divorced mom-friend Steph Wilson is successfully making her friend Tina Smith's marriage look increasingly bleak with reports of a raging monsoon of dick raining down on her nightly.

"OMG, Tina, you won't believe what he just texted me," Steph whispered, leaning over to display her phone and a text message from a person identified in her contacts only as "Jake 3."

 "Only 1 hour til I have u all 2 myself. Will cook u 5 course meal then have you for dessert lol [smile/heart emoji]"

Tina asked her which Jake this was again, the smoke jumper with the scruffy beard and shaggy brown hair or the fighter pilot with a six pack, but Steph informed her it was yet a third Jake who picked her up at a bar last week, thus upgrading the dick hurricane to a Category 5.

Tina then immediately demanded to see Jake #3 on Facebook, and was not at all surprised to learn he was a brain surgeon with two huskies whose profile pic showed him at the finish line of a triathlon. 

"Let's go out dancing Saturday!" Steph suggested, since her ex had the kids that night. Sadly, Tina was forced to decline, as she and her husband had a date to work on their joint tax returns while watching "72 Cutest Animals" on Netflix.

Image result for woman scowling on phone

At the Risk of Sounding Vulgar, "Bros Are Making Themselves Sick Eating Pussy" is Not a Headline I Ever Thought I Would Read Anywhere, Much Less in the Washington Post

And yet, that is a 100% accurate paraphrasing of this article, which reports on a health study finding a "startling" rise in oral cancer among American men, and illustrating both "the cascading effect of human papillomavirus (HPV) in the United States and our changing sexual practices." 

By "our changing sexual practices," the reporter means that Baby Boomers are more likely to develop tongue and throat cancer from chewing tobacco and smoking Camels, but millennials are more likely to end up on chemo from smoking camel toe and chowing box like it was their job. (Which, arguably, it is).

Specifically, the study found that "although fewer teenagers and young adults are having sex than in previous years, more are engaging in oral sex than vaginal intercourse under the assumption that it's safer."

I've got some mixed feels on this. 

First of all, I take this study as a positive sign that contrary to popular belief and their bad rap (made worse in recent months by the Orange Menace), American men are the WOKEST BAES ON PLANET EARTH, since obviously only dudes who are woke AF go spelunking for their dinner every night.

Second, I think it was always the assumption that oral sex was safer. It's just that old-school, curved-brim baseball hat bros are all about gently-but-firmly pushing a woman's head down with one hand while holding a red Solo cup of Natty Ice in the other as Dave Matthews plays on a CD in the background. 

By contrast, modern-day, Snap-Chatting feminist poon-hounds listen to Vampire Weekend and Arcade Fire on their iPhones and like to return the favor--or simply forget to ask for the favor in the first place--because IT'S ALL ABOUT YOU, QUEEN! 


Anyhoo, the collateral conclusion of this study is clear: Bros who are not down for a trip to Taco Town in 2016 will find themselves burnt and alone every Saturday night with a web cam and a half-empty bottle of Jergens.  

Or, in three simple words: DELETE YOUR MOUTH.

However, I'm concerned, because fear of one's tongue turning green, shriveling up, and falling off threatens to wind back the clock of major social progress in this, um, area, and that's the last thing women need. FORTCH, science has women's backs crotches, because there's a vaccine! So if bros are smart and get it, they can subsist on a steady diet of chanch to their heart's content! 


Once vaccinated, I think the approach should be similar to any other menu that has warnings like "consuming raw or under-cooked eggs and shellfish can increase the risk of foodborne illnesses," etc. 

You read that sentence every time you go to the latest hipster pop-up bistro in Brooklyn or the Mission District to Instagram your brunch, and yet you still order up a sushi roll with a raw quail egg on top. So bros, don't hesitate to wax your beard with some lady beef carpaccio as an appetizer either.

Bon Appetit!

Image result for vaccine hpv image

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

This Grandmother Suing KFC for $20 Million Over a Half-Empty Bucket of Fried Chicken is EVERYTHING About the American Justice System

Loving v. Virginia. Brown v. Board of Education. Roe v. Wade. Marbury v. Madison. All of this landmark legal precedent is destined to recede into the dusty, irrelevant archives of the Supreme Court's moldy basement once the bench takes up Wurtzburger v. Kentucky (Fried Chicken).

This tender, moist, crispy, piping-hot nugget of legal news has winged its way over from Hopewell Junction, NY, where 64 year-old grandma Anna Wurtzburger is sticking it to The Man Colonel Sanders on a wishbone and a prayer after she allegedly fell prey to false advertising perpetrated by the jolly, iconic mustachioed purveyor of fast fried fowl.

As reported by the illustrious New York Post, Wurtzburger's litigious game of chicken with the popular poultry giant began when she bought a $20 bucket of greasy dead bird parts from KFC that was only half-full. According to Wurtzburger:
I came home and said, ‘Where’s the chicken?’ I thought I was going to have a couple of meals. They say it feeds the whole family . . . They’re showing a bucket that’s overflowing with chicken. You get half a bucket! That’s false advertising, and it doesn’t feed the whole family. They’re small pieces!
Wurtzburger promptly phoned KFC headquarters in Georgia to complain about this "B.S.," but she was not buying KFC's chicken-shit defense that the "food" in its ads is "portrayed prominently so that the public can see the chicken." 

No sir.

Instead, she did what any reasonable, red-blooded American would do:  Hire a lawyer and sue for $19,999,980.00 more than she spent on the product she's complaining about.

It's the principle, not the money, because Wurtzburger rejected two gift certificates KFC sent to buy her off. NICE TRY, KFC. Not this woman! Anna Wurtzburger is not about that life and her squawks for justice will NOT be silenced with Colonel Sanders' finger lickin' good hush money!

Forget about religious freedom, eminent domain, and search and seizure. When the Founding Fathers created the judicial branch and drafted the Seventh Amendment to the Constitution guaranteeing the right to a jury trial in certain civil cases, they had exactly this sort of juicy, flaky legal remedy in mind. It is cruel and unusual punishment to pay for a full bucket of chicken and only get half a bucket.  


KFC called Wurtzburger's pursuit of her God-given right to carcinogenic, hormone-fortified, artery-clogging animal fat and the extra set of boobs it will inevitably generate in every prepubescent human who consumes it "meritless." 

Well. We'll see about THAT, won't we COLONEL SANDERS?!

I think there's something in my eye. Then again, it could just be a whiff of the Colonel's deliciously pungent "Sweet N' Tangy" dippin' sauce. In any case, some days, I couldn't be prouder to be a practicing lawyer. 

Today is one of those days.

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Health Advisory: You Might Have Democratitis


Democratitis is a serious, contagious, airborne illness endemic to the United States and most prevalent in the summer and fall months of even-numbered years. It can also be transmitted by contact with donkeys, elephants, and eagles, and if left untreated, may result in profound disillusionment and/or death.

Democratitis is most common among 18-65 year-old Americans, particularly those who maintain a steady diet of hourly information from an algorithm-curated internet echo chamber delivered by social media.

Contact your health care provider immediately if you experience any of the following:
  • Intermittent Wiki-leaking from your Assange.
  • Hard, messy data dumps.
  • Hacking cough.
  • Depression, anxiety, and shortness of breath.
  • Mysterious pangs in your legislated lady parts.
  • Migraine headaches.
  • Nausea and vomiting.
  • Acute pain in the feels.
  • Carotenemia (increased orange pigment in the skin).
  • Blood coming out of your whatever.
  • Suddenly going from a "10" to a "5." 
  • Losing.
  • Sadness.
  • Lightweight choking.
  • Dopiness.
  • Declining ratings.
  • Crooked urine stream.
  • Dark feelings of disbelief and imminent DISASTER and catastrophe.
Democratitis is sometimes confused with and therefore misdiagnosed as Toxic Masculinity Syndrome or Internalized Misogyny, so don't wait or take chances. 

Contact a medical professional today.

Image result for eagle image

You Scare Me

You don't know fear, they said, until you have kids. Boy were they ever right!

At 32 weeks, you gave me a scare when I bled, and then found out you were a boy. (They had said you were a girl). I was scared I would lose you, and then when I didn't, I was scared I wouldn't know what to do with a boy.

I still am!

It's a scary kind of love. When you fell off a big wheel at school and got three stitches in your chin, that was scary. You were brave, though. The maniac way you bike and ski--I wish I could put an invisible helmet and chain mail on your entire body forever.

I want to protect you from the world--cars, guns, motorcycles, war, falls, and all the rest; and also yourself. Not from frustration, necessarily, because frustration is good; and the way you cry about losing at Candy Land and not getting to play "donuts on a string" at Halloween Family Fun Night is ridiculous, and makes me laugh in your face as you're crying, which of course just makes you cry harder.


But also from grief, like when one of your tadpoles died, and much worse grief to come. And when you feel left out and miss your friends and grandparents. And all of your sensitive feelings and questions about why things are the way they are in the world, which is itself scary, as you're finding out each day.

Your very existence scares me, much more than any spooky spiders or haunted houses that pop up around your birthday every year.

Yet I know it's my job to put that fear aside long enough, at least, to help you become a good and decent man. One who eats something besides processed meat and ketchup. And I know that everything else--all of it--is just dumb luck.


From the moment I saw you, and your impossibly perfect face (Those dimples! My body made this?!), six years ago this morning, I knew they were right. Your heart is just a passenger, they said, on a train with no conductor. Even if I swallowed a bottle of Prozac every day and believed in God, even if I had 100 kids, I know I would never feel enough safety and control to mitigate my fear of you.

You scare me. A lot, and every day. But you're worth it.

Monday, October 24, 2016

This Pussy Just Grabbed Back, Ya Sociopathic Dickhead!

Dear Donald Trump,

Tweet this: 






One Hot Mess

Not Cool: October Monday Mornings in Alaska Kinda Suck Donkey Balls

I am not a morning person. 

If I had my druthers, I'd sleep until at least 9:30 a.m. every single morning. I realize morning people are ALLEGEDLY virtuous and productive, but I don't give a fuck about that. I'd rather be in bed than almost anywhere else. Ever. Especially before 9:00 a.m. So waking up at 6:45 under the darkening shroud of Alaskan winter is a form of medieval torture for me. 

When the alarm goes off (even though it's the "crystals" ringtone) I feel like I've been shaken violently awake from general anesthesia following brain surgery, and asked to make myself and two children presentable to the world in under an hour. And I usually scramble around like a blind newborn kitten for at least the first thirty minutes of that hour. 

Not cool. (See Fig. 1).

Adding to the difficulty of this morning's already difficult wake-up was the fact that yesterday, a swarm of little boys descended on my house to literally play with knives for Isaac's pumpkin carving birthday brunch, and at one point the mayhem migrated outside for a pick-up soccer game. 

Naturally, the ball went over a cliff, and I bravely placed myself in harm's way to avoid having to explain to anyone's parents that I let their first grader chase a ball to his death. Clad in green off-brand Crocs (not even legit Crocs!) and fortified by liquid courage in the form of two large double screwdrivers in a clear plastic Solo cup, I scaled the cliff behind the cul-de-sac across the street from our house to retrieve a stupid rubber ball with butterflies on it, and scrambled back up like I was auditioning to be a body double in Vertical Limit. (See Fig 2). 

"Is this really the hill I want to die on?," I asked myself as scree gave way under my fingernails. Of course not, but by then it was too late to change my mind.

By the end of it all, Isaac too seemed undone. Already a sensitive soul prone to emotional outbursts, he must have been feeling extra vulnerable, because while watching Netflix later that night, he wept--WEPT--when the judges on season 2 of "Kids' Ultimate Baking Championship" sent a kid named Cody home for "savory puffs" whose strong blue cheese "flavor profile" "overpowered" the more subtle taste of prosciutto and figs. 

All they could taste was the blue cheese, poor kid.

Then when I got to work, I bent down to retrieve a Tampax from my desk drawer (because of course it's Day 1 of my reproductively pointless period), when RRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPP, the pants I was wearing literally split open RIGHT DOWN THE MIDDLE OF MY ASS. (See Fig. 3).

Fortunately, I always keep an extra pair of black pants in my office for just this type of sartorial emergency. But I had to run to the bathroom to change, because my shirt wasn't long enough to cover my ass-crack. 

Seriously. One question no one will ever ask about me:  "How does she do it all?"

I followed up my epic pants-fail by briefly reading about Donald Trump, the Great Patriot who honored the Party of Lincoln this weekend by delivering an address at Gettysburg outlining his plans for his first 100 days in office. To summarize, it's a personal vendetta that goes something like this: 
"Four score and seven years ago, a bunch of women accused me of sexually assaulting them and the press was mean to me. SAD! Thus I plan to sue them all and strengthen the country's DISASTROUS libel laws as soon as I become president, because the only thing in the whole wide world that matters is me, and I plan to use the office of the presidency exclusively to exact revenge on all of my critics, since that's how democracy works." (See Fig. 4).
It could be much worse of course. With the exception of Fig. 4, all of these are petty annoyances. Tuesday (both tomorrow and November 8) can't come soon enough.

(Fig. 1): My reluctant wake-up.

(Fig. 2): The hill I almost died on.

(Fig. 3): The pants that could no longer contain my ass. Pen for scale.

(Fig. 4): The ass that America could no longer contain.

Image result for trump image

Sunday, October 23, 2016

Donald Trump's Cease and Desist Letter to Non-Trump Voters

To Whom It May Concern:

You have been identified as a natural person who might not vote for Donald J. Trump in the United States general presidential election presently scheduled for November 8, 2016.

We represent Mr. Trump, and write to inform you that our firm will be filing a certified class action complaint and an expedited motion for a preliminary and permanent injunction in federal district court in Washington, D.C. unless you immediately cease and desist any and all representations or actions, up to and including the actual act of voting, indicating explicitly or implicitly that you intend to vote for anyone other than our client, Mr. Trump, for President of the United States of America.

As you may be aware, a class action lawsuit is normally brought by a class of plaintiffs against an institutional or governmental defendant to remedy legitimate wrongdoing. However, our firm is well-known for innovative and zealous litigation theories and tactics. Therefore, we are pleased to announce that this will be the first-ever class action brought by an individual candidate for President of the United States against the entire class of millions upon millions of U.S. voters who do not intend to vote for him.

We have our investigators monitoring this election and will immediately identify class-members. Failure to comply with this demand may result in a judgment of millions of dollars in punitive damages and a lien on your property.

We are confident that the court will grant us the relief requested.

Very Truly Yours,

James T. Dipshit, Parnter
Dipshit, Dickhead, and Douchebag, LLC

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Shocking: The N.F.L. Gives Zero Fucks About Domestic/Any Violence

This probably comes as a YOOGE shock to everyone who has ever watched a pro football game. I know it did to me: The N.F.L. gives approximately zero fucks about domestic violence, you guys. 

After trying in vain to improve its "we heart the ladies" image with a bullshit pink-washed breast cancer awareness campaign that gives not one actual penny to breast cancer research, the N.F.L. has shown its true (non-pink?) colors yet again. 


By refusing to meaningfully penalize Josh Brown, the Giants kicker who was arrested for assaulting his wife for the 25th time. I mean, he was arrested on the 25th time. He actually assaulted her 24 times before that, including once while she was pregnant.

You might think that the Giants would like, kick him off the team or something for that, but you'd be wrong, because they suspended him for one game. UNO. And while the team is re-opening the investigation, and has a new policy that supposedly calls for stiffer penalties for players who commit domestic violence, the fact of the matter is that this dude is still on the Giants gazillion dollar payroll and the N.F.L. gives zero fucks.

In my opinion that's a bad thing, but is it surprising? No.

Professional football players make millions of dollars a year to beat the living shit out of each other. They suffer repeated concussions that damage their brains and make them depressed, suicidal, and demented; a problem, b-t-dubs, that Congress found the N.F.L. was trying to hide and minimize by interfering with research and manipulating data. 

Male violence and its collateral damage is the stock-in-trade of professional football, and it's as American as apple pie. Is it fun to watch? Sure. It's incredibly fun to watch, or it wouldn't be so lucrative. But let's not pretend that testosterone-fueled physical violence isn't exactly what makes pro football both fun and lucrative.

So we shouldn't be surprised that the N.F.L. doesn't care that its players beat up their girlfriends and wives. The organization pays those same men to beat each other up for a living. It's easier to give Colin Kaepernick a load of shit and expose him to death threats for quietly protesting state-sanctioned murder by kneeling during a song than it is to do the critical self-assessment that would be required to really give a flying fuck about women. 

The fact that the N.F.L. doesn't take domestic violence seriously is completely unsurprising for an organization that is ready to crucify a black man for kneeling, and reward a white abuser with a million dollars, all in a country where a serious contender for the White House is a repeated sexual assailant threatening to sue and shame his accusers back into a silence they were afraid to break in the first place for exactly that reason.

STAND UP MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!!! God Bless America!