Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Learn to Let Go of Fear by Doing Really Dumb Shit in Alaska

The back collar of our misbehaving child's jacket. Tangled iPhone earbuds. Rancid coleslaw farts. Fear. What do these things have in common? They are all things we need to learn to let go of in our lives. If we don't, we will forever be trapped by a false sense of our own limitations. 

When we open our hearts, souls, and minds and let go of fear, something magical happens: we find ourselves on the thrilling precipice of new horizons of personal growth and stupidity.

Fortunately, if you live in Alaska, it's easy to breathe deeply and finally let go of fear once and for all by doing really dumb shit here. When you're totally unprepared for the elements, in way over your head, and ultimately don't give a sewer rat's asshole whether you live or die, Alaska provides the perfect backdrop to let go of fear and own the Truth of your own idiotic recklessness.

Here are five great ways to let go of fear and find true peace and happiness by doing a bunch of really dumb shit right here on the Last Frontier.

1. Work as a deckhand on a crab boat in the Bering Sea despite never having been on a boat on any sea or handled a living crab: Have you seen Deadliest Catch? (It's scary, right)? Have you ever been on the Bering Sea? Or touched a live king crab? No? (FYI: They weigh more than a baby and are surprisingly sharp and squirmy). As you stand on the deck of a commercial fishing boat being blasted with freezing spray in 10-foot seas, with a half dozen metal crab pots each the size of a double-wide trailer rocking perilously close to your head, and retching over the rail with a violence matched only by the 75 knot winds tossing you from bow to stern like a rag doll, just remember: it's all in your head. You are your own worst enemy, because your fear is the only thing holding you back from being a complete and total fucking jackass who needs to be rescued by the Coast Guard.

2. Go skiing in April in the back-country with no avalanche gear or training: If you've never been pummeled by an avalanche, you've never truly known fear. And if you already know how to dig yourself out of an avalanche and own the shovel and beacon to do so successfully, you're not really challenging yourself. Which is why you should go back-country skiing in April when the snow pack is especially unstable, preferably with an obnoxious and skittish dog who will chase a porcupine, bark loudly, and trigger a massive slab of snow to come barreling down off a cliff 40 feet over your head at 120 mph. As each of your bodily orifices fills tightly with snow and pine needles, you can suffocate knowing you have finally known and let go of your deepest fears, you stupid fucking fuck.

3. Buy a house: Go ahead. Just do it! Assuming you still have a job "in this economy," take that leap of faith and sink your life savings into something that will probably be totally worthless in four years. As tumbleweeds blow past the barren oil fields and derelict refineries of the North Slope, you can take heart knowing that the only limit to your own idiocy is your imagination, which cleverly devises new ways to do irreversibly dumb shit here each and every day.

4. Buy a used skiff with an outboard motor having zero knowledge of skiffs or water; follow it up with ride in your friend's float plane: Taking an open skiff into the fjord-dotted waters of Alaska is to confront fear on a new level, especially if you didn't take a boating class, lack a working GPS, fail to respect the quickly-changing weather, are not wearing a float coat, and generally act like a suicidal moron who is tempting fate with your lack of fear. Only then will you finally uproot your fear and let the circumstances around you--namely a small craft advisory from NOAA--take charge. Assuming you survive this, the following week hitch a ride as a passenger with your friend who just got his license to fly a float plane, and wants to see how it performs in a storm.

5. Go for a hike and don't tell anyone where you're going: Rub your face in raw salmon juice, dab some peanut butter behind your ears, and tromp into bear country with nothing but the shirt on your back, leaving no indication to anyone of where you're headed or when you'll return. Only the Universe knows if you'll live or die, so why worry? Worrying is futile. Be vulnerable. Trust in Karma to guide you safely home, or not. Let your own lack of preparedness and utter fucking foolishness nourish your soul into finally letting go of fear forever. 

Meet Kellyanne: The Newest American Girl (TM) Doll to Celebrate Trump's Historic Win in 2016 America!

(Note: Apparently Shouts & Murmurs came up with this basic idea at the same time as me. BUT, did they have this awesome drawing? NO!)

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Things Could Be Worse: You Could be a Beaver in Formaldehyde

Being sad over nothing is both my #1 hobby and my #1 source of shame in life. 

Having nothing (yet!) to actually be sad about, I get sad that I'm sad over nothing; and then I blame bad genes, bad weather, and the comparatively happier lives of everyone around me for my incurable spiral of shame and pointless sadness, all the while living in fear that one day--inevitably--God will smite me for my lack of belief in Him and my empty sadness over nothing by REALLY GIVING ME SOMETHING TO BE SAD ABOUT!

But then I cheer up, because I realize I could be even sadder. I could be a beaver in a jar of formaldehyde. 

For once, Instagram made me feel better rather than worse about myself when a friend of mine who is a wildlife biology educator insta-beaved this picture of a pickled beaver, with the caption "Just a beaver kit in a jar, #nbd," and truly, I instantly felt better.

I won't lie, I've been in a dark place lately. My eczema is chronically unbearable and I'm counting the days until I can get my hands on an expensive and dangerous new drug that has a 33% chance of working. The weather is a miserable slurry of snain buffeted about by lashing winds. We have a Neo-Nazi sympathizer and unrepentant misogynist in charge of us all. People around me apparently think that's also #nbd, and I am apparently supposed to go on being their friends and saying hi to them like everything is normal and like the person they are meh about doesn't literally employ people who want to send me and my kids to a gas chamber. 

I spend the majority of my free time silently and secretly crying over spilled friendship and relationship milk, telling myself that I would be truly happy if I had just pulled a Tracy Chapman and said the right thing at the right time to particular people. Like if my entire life were just a Choose Your Own Adventure book instead of an ever-tightening circle of limiting decisions that restricts all possible available options until I'm left alone, slurping down a cup of canned Del Monte fruit salad with a pair of dentures and die smelling of Ben Gay while wearing a plastic adult diaper soiled in skid marks.

But then I see this beaver in a jar of formaldehyde, and suddenly I'm happy, or at least less sad. He (or she) looks young, too. So not only is this beaver in formaldehyde, its simple, productive life of chomping on trees with its giant buck teeth and paddling logs with its adorable big flat tail was cut tragically short in the name of science.

I'm going to make this beaver in a jar my computer and smartphone wallpaper forever. Thanks, Beav. Please know that you were not pickled in vain.

Get Off the Internet and Get to Work, Says Millennial on the Internet

A self-identified "millennial computer scientist who also writes books and runs a blog" has some career advice for everyone who reads the NY Times online: stop using the internet. 

More specifically, Cal Newport sanctimoniously and accurately has this to say about social media:
Most social media is best described as a collection of somewhat trivial entertainment services that are currently having a good run. These networks are fun, but you’re deluding yourself if you think that Twitter messages, posts and likes are a productive use of your time. If you’re serious about making an impact in the world, power down your smartphone, close your browser tabs, roll up your sleeves and get to work.
Truer words, my friend, truer words. I totally agree with Cal that social media is engineered to be addictive and designed to fragment your attention away from "creating things that matter."

I also agree that social media has both "corroded civic life" and contributed to its "cultural shallowness" by giving Cal one of the most read articles on the NY Times webpage. As of this moment, Cal's career advice has been re-tweeted, shared on Facebook, and re-blogged approximately 300,000 times!

But unlike the rest of us addicts and suckers, Cal is super serial about "making an impact in the world" you guys. 


By spending all his time on a computer with only one browser window open. Which is different than spending that same amount of time on a smart phone with multiple browser windows open. Cal is "rolling up his sleeves" as though he were a potato farmer in the field, if the farm were the Georgetown University Computer Science Department where he teaches, and the field was his keyboard.

God, I am so glad I read this, because I'm "rolling up my sleeves" right now. Just as soon as I re-tweet one more kitten-can-haz-cheeseburger meme.

Thanks, Cal!
David Saracino, NY Times 

Monday, November 28, 2016

There Will Be Blood

Honestly, I feel like this is something they don't emphasize enough in whatever class they never offer on how to be a parent. 

Sure you expect some blood at first, and you're not disappointed, because every human is ushered into this unforgiving world in a crimson torrent of gore so extensive and enduring, you wonder how anyone could possibly survive it.

I'm not a huge fan of blood, my own or anyone else's. Which is why I went to law school instead of medical school, and why I'll never become a midwife or a doula. No one is going to die because I said the wrong thing in an email, and hopefully I'll never contract HIV or Ebola from 500 pages of discovery. Also, I will never put my face into another woman's crotch and murmur encouraging things into it as I guide her viscera-drenched spawn up to her sweaty boobs. 

No, nope, nay, non, and nein. I am not about that life.

I am also not about watching a pint of blood pour from my kid's face just past airport security, 16 minutes before our flight leaves, and after he careens like a spinning top into the sharp metal edge of a staircase at the Missoula airport. 

But sometimes life hands you such minor inconveniences. 

I knew this wasn't the typical "owie-chondriac" moment when I saw Isaac, both hands over his face, with blood pouring through his fingers and spilling out onto his shirt. This is not a welcome sight to a mother's eyes, and Paige yammering in my ear with sudden concern and advice for the plight of the little brother she tortures daily was not helping my state of mind.

I dismissed Paige with a sharp tongue and firmly took hold of Isaac in order to ascertain the source of the bleeding, watching in vague horror as my bright orange jacket, jeans, and hands quickly became drenched in a sea of red. I caught the eye of a TSA agent and calmly asked if we could get some medical assistance, as this was clearly not a band-aid level, DIY-type injury fix.

A few minutes later, several friendly and official-looking individuals had materialized from nowhere and were tending to Isaac. I'm sure they were happy to be dealing with a small cut on the forehead of a rambunctious six year-old boy instead of some other shady airport-related drama like unidentified white powder or a belligerent passenger screaming about Hillary Bitches or bombs or something. 

Speaking of newborn babies, one of the EMT/airport police people (pictured second below) literally looked young enough to be nursing off my titties. But he claimed to have three boys of his own (ages 4, 6, and 8) and said I could fix the wound with Krazy Glue.

Several bandages and one bag of Famous Amos cookies later, we were on our way and not much the worse for wear. In reflecting on what we have to be thankful for, I can say (among many things) that I'm thankful this particular cut looked a lot worse than it was, and for the nice folks at the Missoula airport who fixed Isaac up. 

I'm also thankful that my sister-in-law took my kids to see Trolls and I didn't have to go, but that's a separate matter.

If Trump Were Santa

"I have a big, BIG naughty list, HUGE. And folks let me tell you: NO ONE on there is getting ANYTHING."

"Mrs. Claus gave a great speach tonight.  And yes, speech is now spelled speach."

"The failing NY Times lied when they said I have three chins under my beard. Will they apologize? Doubt it!"

"Every elf in my workshop is going to have a big, beautiful job making toys and is going to WIN WIN WIN!"

"Climate change is a hoax invented by illegal penguins in the South Pole who want our jobs. SAD!"

"I walked past the tooth fairy and was not impressed. She is not a ten, and would not be my first choice, I promise you."

"Prancer is dead!"

"Rudolph is OUT as leader of my sleigh team. Now it's Steve Bannon. Great guy."

"Losing disaster of a network CNN and their falling ratings prove that I do exist after all!"

"We're going to build a big, beautiful wall made of candy canes and Mexico will pay for it!"

"The best Christmas cookies are set out in the lobby of Trump Plaza by Chris Christie."

"I flew down the chimney of every house in America, and I made it into all the other houses too, if you count the ones with electric fireplaces."

"The transition to my new team of reindeer is going very smoothly. Important meetings today with Donner and Blitzen."

"Vixen is a liar. It never happened and was just locker room banter. Lying Washington Post should APOLOGIZE!"

"Every American will have a BIG lump of clean coal this year!"

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Caption This!

Choose the most accurate caption for this photo:

1. Juneau stoners rejoice!


3. Whoa? Who knew Juneau loved the trees for your mind this much?

4. A bread line in a communist country in Eastern Europe somewhere?

5. Brand new Juneau clusterfuck to rival the Ski Swap and Empty Bowls.

6. By the time he reached the front, the last guy in line forgot why he was there.

7. Getting irie in the liquid sunshine.

8. The bongs and dongs store across the street is gonna kill on overflow biz.

9. Alaska strikes green gold! State's economic woes now up in smoke.

10. Whatever legislator it was that said "you just can't smoke that much pot" has never actually been to Juneau.

Trump Presidency Invokes Little Known Emollients Clause

Much ink has been spilled in recent weeks about the potential constitutional breaches a Trump presidency might beget. 

Among them are threats to a free press, free speech, and the relatively obscure "emoluments clause," which ostensibly prevents an impulsive, rabid orange orangutan from turning the country into his own personal piggy bank and bottomless goodie bag of party favors. 

Until now, the emoluments clause had languished in relative obscurity, because never before in the 200 plus-year history of the Republic has a hollowed-out, animated decorative gourd been crouched and ready to take a giant steaming dump all over it.

Fortunately, the even less frequently analyzed "emollients clause" exists to offset Trump's naked attempts to transform the nation from a flawed democracy into a dystopian, gold-plated kleptocracy. 

Here's what it says:

Emollients Clause: "No person shall, without the provision of Vaseline, KY Jelly, lotions, or other greasy lubricating emollient fuck America really hard up the ass with bald-faced lies, incalculable greed, lack of experience, deficit of character, sociopathic tendencies, or vacuum of empathy. Nor shall such person tear the nation a gaping new asshole without sufficient emollients to mitigate the impact of such person's sixth grade vocabulary, impetuous and impulsive tweeting and mouth-running, pussy-grabbing, moral and financial bankruptcy, staggering megalomania, or generalized cruelty and incompetence.

Faced with the forthcoming and inevitable unlubricated misery of a Trump presidency, some states are "pushing" to amend the constitution to provide for life, liberty, and the pursuit of Jergens.

Saturday, November 26, 2016

Bro Field Guide: Sensitive Ponytail Man

Kingdom: Animalia
Genus: Caribiner
Species: Patagoniai
Phylum: Hempalius
Order: Man buniai

Range: Western United States and Canada.

Overview"Sensitive Ponytail Man" was first identified by name in the early 90s film "Singles" starring Matt Dillon (with a cameo by Eddie Vedder) but has been spotted in his native habitat as early as 1969. He tends to travel alone, but is sometimes observed in packs of two to three young males or with a single Caucasian female individual, usually with itty bitty titties, freckles, an athletic build, two blonde braids, and Teva sandals.

Diet: Sensitive Ponytail Man travels mainly by bike and is primarily an herbivore, known to forage for falafel pita pockets, vegetarian burritos, and craft beer purchased with spare change despite having substantial familial assets both liquid and illiquid.

Habits: Sensitive Ponytail Man may insufferably appropriate dreadlocks despite being uniformly white. He is most active in the early morning and at dusk, where he can often be found strumming an acoustic guitar, reading Jack Kerouac, climbing a rock wall, skinning up the side of a mountain to carve turns in some epic pow, or juggling a soccer ball from foot to foot on a university quad.

Reproduction: Sensitive Ponytail man is a serial monogamist who prides himself on the proficient delivery of orgasms to females. He eventually mates for life between 40 and 45 years of age. Until that time, he will consecutively cohabit with up to five female individuals for 6 to 18 months at a time, each of whom he will have met in a 100-level thesis seminar, while guiding a white water rafting trip, through friends at a a Widespread Panic concert, at the bike shop, or via an ex-bro friend who was dating her at the time but too bad, love is love and the heart has a mind of its own.

Lifecycle: Sensitive Ponytail Man goes through several cause-oriented "awakenings," in which he is alternately moved by the wrongfully convicted, environmentally decimated forests, and striking cafeteria workers until he reproduces, at which time he becomes exclusively consumed with transporting up to three of his offspring in a carrier attached to cross-country skis.

Friday, November 25, 2016

Heathers Meets the Fourth Reich

I fucking hope this is true, because I HEART IT SO HARD! 

This is like the movie Heathers mixed with the Hunger Games, set in a future primitive 1933 Berlin.

Trump is gonna make Mitt Romney (played by an aging Christian Slater) publicly grovel for a spot in his cabinet!

BWAHAHA! Please please please--if there is a just God, His Holiness will permit this to occur.

Trump is Heather #1, and I picture him saying "Lick it up baby, lick. It. Up," while Mitt lies in a puddle of his own sick.

A public apology seems so uncreative for a giant, CGI alpha man-toddler with the face of a desiccated mandarin orange and the soul of Chuckie from Child's Play. 

I think Trump should make everyone who wants a spot on his team and who ever said a bad word about him do an elaborate frat boy hazing ritual. That way they can be humiliated and prove their loyalty all at once.

Like Chris Christie would need to walk around with an olive in his ass cheeks, Lindsay Graham would have to teabag* Paul Ryan, and Guiliani (Heather #2) would be permitted to beat Ted Cruz with a wooden paddle on the Washington Mall in front of a high school tour group.

Yay for the White Frat House!

*Dangle your balls over the mouths of other pledges.

Thursday, November 24, 2016

Soundtrack of Shame

I've long felt that really bad top 40 music is a guilty pleasure that should accompany truly shameful activities. 

Like if you're going to listen to total schwag, you should own it, and do something really gross and shameful at the same time.

Here's my suggested Top 40 Soundtrack of Shame

All About That Bass (Meghan Trainor): Eating a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby straight from the carton while standing in front of an open freezer.

Cruise (Florida/Georgia Line): Sniffing dry erase markers or gasoline in the garage.

The Scientist (Cold Play): Smoking dirt weed out of a beer can bong while lurking exes and the "ones that got away" on social media.

Love Yourself (Justin Bieber) Serial masturbation/crying.

Blank Space (Taylor Swift): Sorting children's Legos by shape and color (paying extra special attention to the little people and animals) and calling it "cleaning."

Formation (Beyoncé): Strugglng and cursing through 15 crunches.

Chasing Stars (One Republic): Doing whippets off a can of supermarket whipped cream in front of an open refrigerator.

12 Days of Trump Christmas

On the 12th day of Christmas my POTUS gave to me . . .  A bankrupt Atlantic City.

On the 11th day of Christmas my POTUS gave to me . . . 11 chapter 11s and a bankrupt Atlantic City.

On the 10th day of Christmas my POTUS gave to me . . . 10 beauty pageants, 11 chapter 11s and a bankrupt Atlantic City.

On the 9th day of Christmas my POTUS gave to me . . . 9 neo-Nazis, 10 beauty pageants, 11 chapter 11s, and a bankrupt Atlantic City.

On the 8th day of Christmas my POTUS gave to me . . . 8 baseless lawsuits, 9 neo-Nazis, 10 beauty pageants, 11 chapter 11s, and a bankrupt Atlantic City.

On the 7th day of Christmas my POTUS gave to me, 7 orange spray tans, 8 baseless lawsuits, 9 neo-Nazis, 10 beauty pageants, 11 chapter 11s, and a bankrupt Atlantic City.

On the 6th day of Christmas my POTUS gave to me, 6 SAD DISASTERS, 7 orange spray tans, 8 baseless lawsuits, 9 neo-Nazis, 10 beauty pageants, 11 chapter 11s, and a bankrupt Atlantic City.

On the 5th day of Christmas my POTUS gave to me, 5 airplane gropings, 6 SAD DISASTERS, 7 orange spray tans, 8 baseless lawsuits, 9 neo-Nazis, 10 beauty pageants, 11 chapter 11s, and a bankrupt Atlantic City.

On the 4th day of Christmas my POTUS gave to me, 4 Hispanic taco bowls, 5 airplane gropings, 6 SAD DISASTERS, 7 orange spray tans, 8 baseless lawsuits, 9 neo-Nazis, 10 beauty pageants, 11 chapter 11s, and a bankrupt Atlantic City.

On the 3rd day of Christmas my POTUS gave to me, 3 trophy wives, 4 Hispanic taco bowls, 5 airplane gropings, 6 SAD DISASTERS, 7 orange spray tans, 8 baseless lawsuits, 9 neo-Nazis, 10 beauty pageants, 11 chapter 11s, and a bankrupt Atlantic City.

On the 2nd day of Christmas my POTUS gave to me, 2 lies on Twitter, 3 trophy wives, 4 Hispanic taco bowls, 5 airplane gropings, 6 SAD DISASTERS, 7 orange spray tans, 8 baseless lawsuits, 9 neo-Nazis, 10 beauty pageants, 11 chapter 11s, and a bankrupt Atlantic City.

On the first day of Christmas my POTUS gave to me, 1 tiny penis, 2 lies on Twitter, 3 trophy wives, 4 Hispanic taco bowls, 5 airplane gropings, 6 SAD DISASTERS, 7 orange spray tans, 8 baseless lawsuits, 9 neo-Nazis, 10 beauty pageants, 11 chapter 11s, and a bankrupt Atlantic City.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Individuals with Diarrhea Shall Not Use the Sprayground

This is maybe the most specific warning I've ever seen on a public sign, and it happens to be at the playground near the water features (or "sprayground") near my sister-in-law's house in Missoula.

You have to think that something very bad happened to prompt this highly descriptive warning. Like someone took the term "sprayground" too literally and unloaded on the daisy-shaped sprinklers and brightly-colored pipes, and it was so dramatic that it became seared in the collective memory of Missoula Parks & Rec.

Otherwise, why "diarrhea?" If you're an "individual" who is at the point where you're tempted to shit on a sprinkler, I feel like you shouldn't have to be told not to engage in water play.

I had a torts professor in law school who was fond of saying of warning signs and labels, "at a certain point, you can't learn everything you need to know about life from the back of a peanut butter jar."

The same holds true for this I think. At a certain point, you can't learn not to have explosive diarrhea all over a public water park from a sign telling you not to do that.

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

I Want a Very Specific Study to Justify Every Single One of My Bad Habits

You know the kind. 

The alleged "studies" that say shit like people who sleep until noon, yell "fucking cocksucker motherfucking asshole" at the top of their lungs 80 times a day, drink a bottle of wine every night, and leave peanut shells and used tissues all over their bedroom floor are "smarter" and "more creative."

I for one am a big fan of science (pseudo or otherwise) when it's deployed to validate all of my bad habits. But I'm personally waiting for the perfect study before doing my part to contribute to the propagation of self-affirming bullshit pseudoscience on the internet.

Specifically, I wants studies that say this: 

1. Rolling Your Eyes All the Way Into the Back of Your Head at Literally Almost Everything Associated with High IQ, Study Shows.

2. Science Finds Drinking Diet Soda With Every Meal Leads to Longer Life.

3. Exercise Fucking Useless After All, Studies Find.

4. People Who Delete Emails About Office Parties and Leave Slips Without Reading Them More Likely to Succeed at Work, Studies Show.

5. Obsessive and Aggressive Adult Coloring Amid Crippling, Baseless Depression Associated With Creative Genius.

6. Eating Off Used Plates, Spoons, and Cups Leads to Better Immunity, Research Demonstrates.

7. Drugs and Alcohol Found to be Faster, More Efficient, and Less Annoying than Meditation and Yoga for Improving Mood, According to New Pair of Studies.

8. People Who Belch Loudly, Bite Their Nails, and Spit Them on the Dashboard of Their Car While Driving More Likely to Have Empathy for Others, Researchers Discover.

9. Substituting Caffeine and Other Stimulants for Sleep Leads to Greater Output of Creative Work Product, It Turns Out.

10. People Who Scroll Through Social Media While Sitting on the Toilet More Likely to Have Better Marriages and Long Lasting Friendships, Study Shows.

11. Parents Who Resort to Empty Threats and Yelling as Primary Modes of Discipline More Likely to Raise Nobel Laureates.

12. Magical Thinking is Real!: Study Shows That People Who Indulge in Catastrophic Fantasies Can Successfully Stop Those Things from Actually Happening Through Magical Thinking, Mantras, and Rituals.

I Cannot

If I'm being honest, I was born this way.

I tell myself it's the election, and it is. Of course it is. This week, anyway. What with young, "dapper" Neo-Nazis in Washington, D.C. And the people right here in my very own zip code. 

The people who inarguably (yes, sorry/not sorry, inarguably) were just "meh" about white supremacy. Walking among me and my children daily with their blonde hair and blue eyes; my own daughter passing behind the safety of these same traits, despite her 100% fictitious, constructed Semitic "bloodline" going back on both sides, unbroken, for centuries.

Of course that gives me that old familiar feeling of "I cannot."

But it was always there, stupid and unforgiving. All the more so for lack of an objectively legitimate target in my easy, comfortable, thus far relatively trauma-free existence.

I cannot handle the old man at the bank who yells at me for touching a Christmas tree when I'm four years old. I cannot absorb one more social snub from the cool kids at school. I can't deal with one more algebra or chemistry problem. I can't do a single morning subway commute again. I cannot stomach another nasty email or phone call from a lawyer. I can't have another allergic reaction to a cat or dog. I can't have one more fight with my kids over their unbrushed teeth and filthy rooms. I can't be happy for my friends when I should be, because I'm jealous and spiteful. I cannot "cherish" the present, because no matter how hard I try, I can't let go of the past. 

I cannot find "resilience," even when there is little need for it in the first place. So what will I do when there is? Huh? What then, genius? And now I'm more scared about the future than I've ever been. 

I try to be grateful, and meditative. I try to be positive and thankful. I read this and that and change my diet and take pills. But the harder I try, the more the way I am finds new and creative ways of asserting itself.

That old familiar feeling of "I cannot" lurks around every corner, but oddly, that feeling of "I cannot" is the one thing I reliably can do all the time.

Hey. It's something.

Monday, November 21, 2016

Neo Nazi White Supremacists are Taking Washington by Storm, but It's Cool Because They Look Like Tom Cruise in Risky Business


This is NOT your racist grandpa's white supremacy movement! Get a load of these hotties finally getting what's theirs in D.C. And hold onto your panties, because RRROWWWR!

With the quasi-election of Donald Trump to the U.S. Presidency, a long-persecuted and marginalized group--white men--have at last found their voice in Washington.

And not just any white men, but white men who would like to see America turn into Berlin circa 1935, where only people of Anglo-Saxon descent and the purest, hwitest, blondest, most mayonnaise-saturated bloodlines are permitted within the borders of our Great Nation.

Goodbye brown people and immigrants who assemble their Arby's prime rib sandwiches, because these repressed babes are about to get what's coming to them: someone with blue eyes and meth-teeth making their Arby's prime rib sandwiches instead! 

BOOMThat'll show 'em.

And the best part? They are SMOKIN' HOT! Say goodbye to that boring old Casper the (Un)Friendly Ghost white hood and weird Lord of the Rings/Harry Potter titles like "Grand Wizard Dragon," because the new "alt-right" is a hip reboot of all that old school, dated white supremacy.

Just look at this article in the L.A. Times, titled "White nationalists dress up and come to Washington in hopes of influencing Trump," which features 38 year-old Richard Spencer--president of a white nationalist "think tank" (read: "bigot terrarium") with the benign-and-vaguely-smartish-academic-esque-sounding name "National Policy Institute." 

The reporter points out that the quarterback studs behind Mr. Spencer's bowel movement are "entirely young men, many sporting the same haircut of short sides and back with a familiar flop on top." (a.k.a., "the Hitler youth"). 

And their style game is on point, because "[t]he formally dressed men more resemble[] Washington lobbyists than the robed Ku Klux Klansmen or skinhead toughs that often represent white supremacists, though they share many familiar views."


Or this pre-election profile from Mother Jones, which describes Mr. Spencer as "dapper" and "an articulate well-dressed former football player with prom-king good looks and a 'fashy' (as in fascism) haircut," who has "seize[d] on an extraordinary presidential election to give overt racism a new veneer of radical chic," and who, despite his purist Aryan leanings, once dated Asian chicks because he has an Asian fetish and Asian girls are "smart" and "have kind of a thing going on."

Cool cool cool. How long before Richard Spencer lands People's "Sexiest Man Alive" cover?! Or maybe just a "5 Things You Didn't Know About" profile?

You guys. FO. REALSIES.

This has ALL the makings of a geopolitical rom-com/dram and I SERIOUSLY might need to take a leave of absence from work to write the screenplay. 

The main character will be based loosely on MOI, (bien sur), and will be played by the world's hottest Jewess and my own personal thinspiration, Natalie Portman. The part of Richard Spencer will be played by Robert Pattinson from Twilight (natch), and here's the plot:

Plucky young Jewish lawyer dyes her hair blonde, changes her name from "Rachel Goldstein" to "Ashley Worthington" and gets a job at the National Policy Institute as Richard Spencer's personal research assistant. Ashley pretends to be all in for Dick's--she calls him Dick--Aryan race-cleanse mission, but is secretly going undercover in order to expose the hottie Neo-Nazis' most virulent leanings and take down their organization from the inside out. 

But the two have an undeniable chemistry that transcends eugenics. By the time Dick discovers Ashley is really a Jew named Rachel--(he finds an Aetna EOB in her desk drawer for the "Ashkenazi panel" genetic testing associated with a routine mammogram)--he's helplessly in love with her. 

And the feeling is mutual. 

Ashley/Rachel's attraction to Dick has taken her by surprise, and threatens to undermine her covert operation, while Dick is forced to choose between true love and his neo-fascist ideals, thus calling into question everything he's ever assumed about the world.

Eh? Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh?!?

Sunday, November 20, 2016

David Attenborough Should be Listed as a Schedule II Controlled Substance

Sure he's an award-winning British naturalist, broadcaster, and knight. But did you know he should also be listed as a schedule II controlled substance by the United States Food & Drug Adminstration in conjunction with the federal Drug Enforcement Agency? 

Well he should.

Neil DeGrasse Tyson and his cosmic dust have NOTHING on the mellifluous, dulcet English lilt of David Attenborough talking to you about plants. 

Have you ever had general anesthesia? And they're rolling you into the O.R., and you hear them say "you should be getting sleepy soon," and the next thing you know you wake up five hours later feeling like you had a close encounter with a chipper shredder?

Well that's what it's like watching and listening to 90 year-old David Attenborough narrate the "plants" episode of BBC's "Life" after 8:00 p.m. and while lying prone on a couch.

One minute he's like, "the delicate tendrils of the poppy plahnt reach skyward toward the canopy . . . " and all of a sudden you're waking up in a puddle of drool with credits rolling and no idea where you even are.

For real. 

David Attenborough is a potent anaesthetic and belongs on the FDA list of prohibited controlled substances, to be administered only under close medical supervision.

Saturday, November 19, 2016

2016 Updates to Key Amendments in the Bill of Rights

Amendment I

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, unless that law stops gay people from buying Christian people's wedding cakes, prohibiting the free exercise thereof, unless it's Islam and maybe Judaism; or abridging the freedom of speech, as long as that speech is swastika graffiti and not booing the Vice President at a musical, or of the press, as long as the press continues to report on plate memes and kittens on a 24 hour loop instead of complicated and scary stuff like Russia engaging in cyber warfare to manipulate American democracy; or the right of the white people peaceably to assemble at a Trump rally, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances and get a pleasant staffer on the phone whose boss has no intention of ever redressing a single grievance.

Amendment II

A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed ever under any circumstances, even if it means a classroom full of kindergarteners gets annihilated by a psychopath in 30 seconds, and despite the fact that no one who ever suggested that might be a bad thing ever took a single gun away from anyone.

Amendment IV

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, unless you are living while black or brown, in which case all bets are off, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized, again unless you're black or brown.

Amendment VII

In fraud suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, but the suit will be settled by the defendant President-Elect for 25 million dollars, even when he tweets that he could have won at trial but had to focus on the country instead, which was the only reason he settled. preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise reexamined in any court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

Amendment VIII

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted, unless you consider the death penalty, lack of health care, ethnic and race-based harassment, sexual assault, and the President-Elect's Twitter feed cruel and unusual punishment.

Amendment IX

The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people,
unless a rogue's gallery of terrifying white nationalists and supremacists in the White House says so and receives acquiescence from the judges they appointed to the Court who is the last line of defense for such things.

Amendment X

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people, so be thankful for small favors because God knows the federal government is about to fuck you in the ass so hard you'll need colorectal surgery (paid for out of pocket, of course).

Friday, November 18, 2016

Alphabet Soup Now World's Only Source of Reliable Information

We now live in a post-factual universe. One where a Facebook algorithm decides the presidency and Alex Jones from Info Wars appears to be as credible as the New York Times. (A publication which, let me remind you, gave HRC a 92% chance of beating Donald Trump up until 45 minutes before her campaign flat-lined in real time on the gurney of its live website. It was like watching an episode of ER, but without George Clooney and less entertaining).

Don't get me wrong. I don't blame the media. Not one bit. I blame myself, and everyone else who apparently lacks the ability to think critically or sort fact from fiction, and is naive enough to rely on anyone else to do either of those things for us.

Which is why I will now resort to Campbell's alphabet soup as the world's only remaining source of reliable information. 

Each day at lunch from this moment forth, I will open a can of alphabet soup, heat it up in the microwave, stir it around, and see what random letters pop up on my spoon. I will then use those letters to form words, and those words sentences, and those sentences facts, and those facts news, and I will then distribute that news on the internet and call it the truth.

I mean, why not? 

It's as reliable a source of information as anything else. Since facts don't matter, cable news is ethically bankrupt, and the internet is an undrained swamp (to borrow a metaphor from our Fearless Leader) of lies and disinformation, we might as well get the truth from our soup. That way, at least we can gobble it down with some tender canned green beans, cubed carrots, and our full daily allowance of the most American element on the Periodic Table:


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Thursday, November 17, 2016

More Global Therapy from My Mother

I asked my mother for more election-based therapy, because frankly I continue to need it. I've been letting myself get baited into self-destructive fights (and picking them)--mostly online--with old friends and acquaintances. I've been intentionally avoiding in-person contact with Known Trumpites, but my rage and upset keeps spilling over everywhere.

For example, I got into a stupid Facebook messenger argument late at night about protests with an old friend who works in law enforcement. I know he didn't vote for Trump, but he was criticizing misbehaving protesters, since that's his professional perspective. I told him I was more concerned about a Neo-Nazi in the White House, and lashed out that this clearly wasn't a concern for him as a Christian white man. He accused me of playing the "victim" and "the race card" and I guess some other cards. 

I was upset and began to despair about how much this election has already frayed my interpersonal relationships, mostly by my own doing. I realize that I have a lot of anger and frustration. I'm having trouble relating to and interacting with people who don't see what just happened as totally calamitous, which I realize remains to be seen. 

I also know that ultimately this is a self-destructive, divisive way to feel and behave: getting into arguments online with trolls and close friends alike--instead of putting my phone down and taking action in real life. 

So I asked my 71 year-old mom for more advice. Here's what she said, reprinted with permission:
Despair and depression about Trump's election is conceding victory to him not only for the next four years, but even beyond that. Fighting makes much more sense to me, and that's why I feel angry and activated rather than despairing. I don't know if the structures of our democracy can withstand the assault, but I want to be part of the effort to withstand it. 
Since a majority of people in the U.S. did not vote for Trump, I think that over time we have a chance to move beyond this outcome, and even if we don't succeed, it will feel better to resist than to become immobilized or self-destructive. 
Human nature contains incredible ugliness. We have engaged in murderous behavior all over the world and since the beginning of recorded history. Working in South Africa shortly after the end of Apartheid and in Rwanda 15 years post genocide has shown me that, nonetheless, it is also possible to rise up above the horrible acts we have committed and focus on healing. Our greatest heroes have shown us that this is what we must strive for even when it looks like the odds are against us. 
I'm also affected by my childhood experience. I was so numb and lost by the time I entered foster care. I realized my very survival depended on strangers who had no real connection to me. It was so important to hold onto whatever energy I could muster to forge on and hope that somewhere down the road it would be better for me. That's why I fight against paralysis and giving up. 
Also, I admired my mother for her drive to do her best even as she was slowly dying. I'm certainly not a Pollyanna, so I'm not minimizing your concerns. I'm only arguing against throwing your hands up and accepting that all there is to do is accept that we are totally doomed. Evil needs to be fought against, whether it's in one's own family (like my very own aunts and uncles) or in a large and powerful government, like the situation we face right now. 
If I believed I was at risk of being killed, I would move somewhere else. But right now I live in a well-armed city that mostly hates Donald Trump. The residents of Trump Towers along the fancy west side of Manhattan have voted to have his name removed and that's what will happen since he doesn't own the buildings.  
Yay for tiny victories, and I'm going to do my best to be a part of more important struggles.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Things People are Entitled to in Addition to Their Own Opinions

1. Shitting in their own hand.
2. Putting their dick in a donut.
3. Watching all three Jackass movies and re-enacting every scene in order.
4. Competitive hot dog eating.
5. Calling themselves Carlos Danger and sending the world a picture of their boner.
6. Playing Russian roulette.
7. Fucking each other in Barney the Purple Dinosaur costumes.
8. Playing Pokemon Go until they get hit by a bus.
9. Paying money to listen to Justin Bieber.
10. Thinking this tweet storm from the elected leader of the free world is remotely normal.

So next time someone tries to justify a trash AF opinion with "everyone is entitled to their own opinion," maybe read them this list of what else they're entitled to.

That Juneau Feeling When . . . 10 Awkward Moments Only Juneauites Will Understand

1. Counting the days until the opening of Rainforest Farms and worrying that someone will see you walking into/out of there.

2. Regarding #1 above, knowing everyone is about to find out exactly who in Juneau has seen Friday, Next Friday, AND Friday After Next.

3. Encountering your internet trolls in person and being forced to make pleasant small talk with them.

4. Going to dinner at someone's house, personally knowing several women who smashed that dick, and finding yourself wondering whether it was any good. Then making a mental note to ask all of them individually later.

5. Climbing into the stir-ups at the gynecologist, day-dreaming about how maybe she'll discover a fatal disease in your vagina that will prevent you from having to live through a Trump Presidency, and then remembering that the person who is currently prying apart your undercarriage with a speculum and lubed-up latex while cheerfully narrating every minute of it ("two fingers separating the labia!") is LEGIT another mother from Girl Scouts.  

6. Road raging on someone who cut you off at a red light, making eye contact with them, and then seeing them at your kids' school drop-off and pretending you weren't giving each other the finger ten seconds earlier.

7. Two words: Known Trumpites. (See also: #3).

8. Sitting in first class on the flight to Seattle or Anchorage, watching people walk by, and feeling like you need to clarify to every single one of them that it was a free upgrade.

9. Exchanging compliments on your outfits with another woman, and suddenly realizing you swapped them for each other at a clothes swap last year.

10. Bringing a bottle of $11 wine to someone's house and then remembering they brought the exact same bottle to your house last month and fully know it's a re-gift.


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