Tuesday, February 28, 2017

25 Ideas for the Walmart Building in Juneau

1. A Hall of Fame Hall of Fame, honoring the world's greatest Halls of Fame.
2. A dope grow
3. A pepper cave
4. A trampoline park
5. A paint ball range
6. A P.F. Changs 
7. A TJ Maxx
8. A TGI Fridays
9. A mold museum 
10. A giant, sketchy abandoned parking lot and forgotten box store
11. Indoor pony rides 
12. A Turkish bath house
13. A Russian bath house
14. An indoor wind farm
15. Bumper cars 
16. A puppy mill
17. A gin mill
18. A cock-fighting ring 
19. S&M Dungeon & Supply
20. A pod of cryogenic chambers
21. An alien autopsy laboratory 
22. Trump brand products reject outlet 
23. A combo private prison/child care facility
24. Mel Gibson's house
25. A permanent silent auction 

Feminist AF, Nervous Breakdown, or Both? 5 Edgy Hairstyles that Will Keep Everyone Guessing

These days, it's more important than ever to rock a hairstyle that tells the world you're feminist AF, while also freely admitting that you're having a TINY bit of a nervous breakdown right now for what is objectively probably a very good reason.

That's why O.H.M. style editors are bringing you 5 edgy, DIY, feminist AF hairstyles that will keep everyone guessing: Is she feminist AF, just needing to check into "rehab" for "exhaustion," or both?

Look # 1: The Blunt Bang
A blunt bang goes great with a "woman's place is in the house and senate" babydoll ringer tee, a "get your laws off my body" protest sign, and hairy armpits. Even the name--BLUNT BANG--says "do not come for me, bitch." Yet the severe, high cut of this bang can also sometimes make you look like an understudy on the set of Dumb and Dumber and/or like you are deadass off your meds, which is fine.

Get the look!: Grab a poultry shears from the knife block on your kitchen counter in one hand and a big clump of the front of your hair in the other. Stick the hair clump in a doorway like that scene in Sixteen Candles where Jake's drunk girlfriend's even-drunker BFF frees her from a door by sawing off a giant section of her hair. It's hip, retro, and oh-so-easy! Quickly tousle the rest of your hair to create an aura of mystique around your sanity.

Look #2: The Modified Pixie

Short hair don't care, amirite? This look is feminist as alllll the fucks because it automatically self-selects for woke dick. When was the last time you saw a Rutgers varsity lacrosse player dating a girl with a pixie cut? Never! At the same time, this perky 'do also implies maybe you're done with dick altogether, (which would be smart), or that maybe you're about to quit your barista job to go on the road with the #resistance, paycheck be damned!

Get the look!: Select a sharp knife (again from the knife block) and begin vigorously hacking large swatches of your hair off at random. Take a buzzer to the back and don't quit until the tiny hairs all over your neck and collar bone become unbearable. This look is best achieved in a gas station bathroom with a stained and broken mirror while your getaway ride idles outside in a pickup truck full of all your remaining earthly belongings, at least those you didn't throw off that bridge yesterday.

Look #3: The Never-Cut

If you're able to pull off this look, you already don't give a fuck and haven't since birth! The never-cut says "I love Renaissance and Goth cosplay, I don't care if my bathtub drain is clogged beyond repair with my soapy black hair-ferrets, and I will have a built-in cloak for warmth and protection after the mushroom cloud comes. It also makes people stop and go, hmmm . . . I wonder why she never cuts her hair? Does she have 800 cats? Does she love Rapunzel? Maybe she's having a lifelong nervous breakdown of some kind? The never-cut really keeps 'em guessing!

Get the look!: Never let a scissors near your head again, no matter what, from now until you die. Cradle to grave, baby. You do you.

Look #4: The Cue Ball

Sinead O'Connor pioneered and perfected this look in the early 90s, followed by Britney Spears in the mid-aughts, succeeded shortly thereafter by Natalie Portman--suggesting you kind of need to look like a model and be a little mentally unstable to fully achieve this look. Regardless, the shaved head cue ball is guaranteed to make peeps be like, Is she making some sort of a "statement?" Is she going through chemo or donating to Locks for Love? Did she just get fired and/or divorced? Or is she just low-key over everything to the point that her very last fuck is now being swept up off the lineoleom into a dustpan?

Get the look!: Put on Ani DiFranco's Living in Clip, crank up the volume to 10, and start buzzing your hair off while laughing maniacally and screaming "FUCK THE PATRIARCHY!!" until your neighbors call the cops, and people who are taller than you can see their conformist reflections in your head.

Look #5: The Half-Shaved Head

This versatile look is perfect for the feminist who wants it both ways. Flipped up, the trendy half-shave says "I'm not afraid to shave half of my head, and now I dare you to ask me if I have a clit piercing." Worn down, however, you can still infiltrate oppressive, patriarchal systems with the gender-conforming second half of your head, without anyone being able to tell that you're actually giving conformity the middle finger by shaving the first half.

Get the look!: This one couldn't be easier. Lock yourself in your bedroom with an electric razor. Part your hair in the middle and choose one side to shave off completely (preferably your "good selfie" side). Work quickly in case you change your mind halfway up that flagpole. If you're feeling really bold, you can tattoo an inspirational Buddhist quote of some kind on your exposed scalp.

Monday, February 27, 2017

This Tweet from Tomi Lahren's Lip Gloss Hole is the Dumb AF Analogy We All Need Right Now

Look, I'm the last person to defend celebrities or celebrity culture (especially the always-painful and melodramatic awards shows), and I send them to the burn unit on this blog every chance I get.

Celebrity culture is undeniably vapid, materialistic, and generally devoid of serious thinking or thinkers. In other words, it's fun to read about on a rack in an airport Hudson News, and irresistably fun to drag.

So for once, I see eye to eye with Tomi Lahren on something. Where the bottle-blonde, far-right "provacateuse" and I part ways, however, is in the logical underpinnings of this here tweet, which is a straight up 140-character series of unfortunate events:


Let's break this down for a sec, shall we?

Tomi's central conceit, ostensibly, is that the Hollywood "elite" who oppose Lord Dampnut's immigration ban are hypocrites, because they are simultaneously attending private after-parties with tight security and guest lists.

In order to imbue this analogy with even one iota of meaning, you have to endorse the idea that the United States of America is akin to a private after-party at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and that anyone who isn't on the "guest list" is a terrorist who should be bounced at the "door" by armed guards.

You also have to accept a different definition of "ironic" than this:

There is nothing about the fancy Hollywood after-parties Tomi describes that is happening in an opposite way from what is expected, and I doubt they're even amusing. Indeed, they are likely precisely as insufferable as expected.

Again, I think the word Tomi's really grasping for is "hypocritical," but even that requires some mental gymnastics to embrace.

That's because Tomi's analogy ignores a fundamental difference between the public and the private sectors, a distinction that most adherents to Tomi's principles have long struggled to grasp.

The United States is not an expensive nightclub party with an exclusive guest list of Aryans like Richard Spencer, Steve Bannon, and Tomi Lahren--much as they would like it to be, and certainly not for their lack of trying.

It's a nation of laws--and of immigrants--with a formidable governing constitution and centuries of established jurisprudence interpreting it, all of which Tomi would be well-served to review by watching a few episodes of School House Rock on Netflix.

Ridiculous and vacuous as celebrities might be, there is nothing "ironic" or even hypocritical when, on the one hand, they pressure the government to enact and enforce humane immigration measures, and, on the other, attend an exclusive private party with their colleagues immediately afterwards.

In short, it's a false equivalency that falls apart the moment you give it a nanosecond of thought, it is dumb as aaaalllll the fucks, and thus, those of us who care about humane immigration and refugee policy should take heart in its utter stupidity.

Still, reading tweets like this makes me want to rub this eczema eye cream in my eyeballs, because the initials are apt:

Tell you what, Tomi. I'll use this FML cream because FML. And you can breathe through a ventilator the next time you get your hairs did, because the fumes are stunting your vocabulary and killing your frontal lobe brain cells.

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Half of America Has Same Two Thoughts at Once

Fully half the country tonight had the same two thoughts at the same time in quick succession: 

1. Why couldn't that also have happened on 11/9/16; and

2.  Can this please be a metaphor for the entire future? 

small fraction of the nation also wondered where Steve Harvey was and if this was all just a big conspiracy and stunt from the jump.

Meanwhile, #MAGAs everywhere were pissed about LaLa Land even though they didn't see it, had never heard of Moonlight, and still think taco bowls are Mexican food. 

Legal Weed is Maybe the Only Thing Saving America from Itself Right Now

No one could have predicted that when the Founding Fathers drafted the Constitution and structured the republic, dank-ass nugs would be the ultimate savior of their democratic vision.

Safe to say, the country is tragically divided right now, with one half pretty much totes cool with Nazis, and the other half more or less praying to die in a fire 25 times a day. 

But one thing on which ALL Americans (except Jeff Sessions) can agree is that the legal sticky-icky should stick around, otherwise Americans be like . . . WUT. DAFUQ.

Confederate-flag wielding rednecks with no teeth and mud-flaps on their Ford F-150s in Alabama, and vegan hippies pretzeling themselves into child's pose on a yoga mat near a winery in Napa can all find common ground in torching a giant 420 blunt packed to the gills with chronic.

Now that legal weed is a $3B (as in BAZILLION) dollar industry, elected officials hailing from states where THC gummy bears are raking in green gold doubloons by the bushel are suddenly paying attention and rightfully scared for their jay-oh-bees.

They might be scurrying away like rats from their enraged, soon-to-be-uninsured-and-dying-of-cancer constituents, but they'll never escape the reality that ganja, Mary Jane, da trees for your mind, or whatever you want to call it is the one thing that unites everyone who can and will fire Congress the second they harsh America's mellow.

So before siding with Jeff No Bong Sessions, Congress would be wise to think twice and stop and frisk their constituents for the dime bag that's inevitably somewhere on their person right now.

Kumbaya, y'all!

Please Allow Me to Narrate This Cauliflower Grilled Cheese Video

One of my favorite things on the internet are those food videos where a recipe that takes 10 hours to make in real life zips by in 30 seconds of fast-forwarding. For example, the unicorn cookies that poop sprinkles, which I exposed previously as a total fucking con.

Now I'm about to do the same with this recipe for grilled cheese made with mushed-up cauliflower instead of bread for some reason. 
The video recipe can be found here, but let me save you some time by breaking it down into these easy steps:

1. Dust off your Cuisinart and pulverize a giant head of cauliflower because "bread is overrated." Yeah. Like Meryl Streep is "overrated" according to POTUS. As someone who's had the misfortune of following a gluten free diet for the past 8 years, I can tell you for a FACT that bread is actually highly underrated. Also--and unlike an entire head of ground cauliflower--it won't give you explosive diarrhea.

2. Crack three eggs and mix them into a bowl with the cauliflower, along with Parmesan cheese, salt and Italian seasoning. 

3. Take a minute to look into this bowl of oatmeal-colored mush with the consistency of dry wall spackle and acknowledge that you could already be eating a perfectly serviceable grilled cheese by now if you'd just used two pieces of bread instead.

4. Take an ice cream scooper, which for some reason you are now using to scoop cauliflower mush instead of ice cream, dump two scoops of the mixture into a pan with olive oil, and "shape [them] into toast."

5. Look at the two scoops of "toast," take stock of what you're doing, and tell yourself to get your fucking life right. You are using an ice cream scooper to shape two balls of cauliflower-raw egg goop into pretend toast. Ask yourself what led you to this place.

6. Get one banana. Contemplate ending this project, going into your garage, shoving the banana in your tailpipe, turning your car on, and sitting in your car until you fall asleep forever.

7. Decide against #6, and cook the two pieces of "toast" for five minutes per side. During these ten minutes, stare into the pan and pray it ignites a structure fire that forces you to start your entire life over again from scratch, because again, how did you get here?

8. Sprinkle grated white cheddar cheese on top of the cauliflower and tell yourself once again that this is a huge mistake. There is no reason to defile grated cheddar cheese by sprinkling it on two piles of future farts instead of on greasy tortilla chips to make nachos.

9. Pull apart the so-called grilled cheese and watch as it completely disintegrates into your bare hands and creates a disgusting, greasy, inedible pile of soggy, limp fried cauliflower and cheese.

10. Run your hands through your hair and all over your face. Look in the mirror and tell your reflection that you deserve to have your entire head covered in cauliflower and cheese grease for making this recipe.

11. Sit on the toilet and cry until tomorrow.

That's exactly what I plan to do when I make this for dinner tonight.

The Pajama Game

I don't know why exactly, but the musical "The Pajama Game" was a super popular performance at my sleepaway camp in the late '80s and early '90s. 

Every summer, 20 prepubescent Jewish kids from the suburbs would pretend to be beleaguered factory workers in 1954, and, well, let me just say their acting lacked depth and verisimilitude. 

Yet somehow, I still know every word to "Hernando's Hideaway" and "7 and a Half Cents." Not exactly a good use of precious neurological real estate, is it?

In any event, nowadays the pajama game carries a whole different meaning for me. 

It's a little style game I play with myself: Try to see how close I can get--and how often--to wearing pajamas 24/7 without anyone being able to obviously tell that's what I'm doing; or if they can, the pajamas still vaguely pass as real clothes.

The cotton tunic and leggings look is a great example of this. Also the yoga pants and hoodie sweatshirt. Both of which, by the way, are my two biggest go-to's for pajama clothes.

Like I basically want to get to that point where I can still be a gainfully employed and productive member of society, yet the only difference between getting dressed and putting on pajamas will be that the former involves putting on a bra (and SOMETIMES jeans), and the latter involves taking a bra off.

Other than that, pajamas and real clothes should just always be one and the same.


Saturday, February 25, 2017

Je Suis That Mom Whose Otherwise Pretty Well-Behaved Daughter Lives in a God-Forsaken Pig Sty that She Refuses to Clean Ever

I stand before you today in solidarity with that mom whose otherwise pretty well-behaved daughter lives in a God-forsaken pig sty that she refuses to clean up. 


Je suis that mom. All across the First World, there are candlelight vigils/burn barrels full of junk, people are changing their profile pictures to photos of their daughters' disgusting bedrooms, and the Empire State Building is lit up in pink to symbolize the primary color palette of this unmitigated shit show. 

One time, I sat on the couch and streamed several episodes of Hoarders back to back. The show features people who call in a team of interventionists that come into their house wearing masks and Tyvek suits to pick through piles of rotten banana peels, old regional newspapers, Taco Bell chicken chalupa wrappers, and other vile detritus. The hoarder wrings her hands and cries as the clean-up crew goes item-by-item, trying to convince her it will be okay to part with a broken tea kettle and half-empty tube of 17 year-old Aquafresh toothpaste.

Je suis that interventionist, except I'm yelling and not speaking in dulcet psychotherapist tones. Je suis SCUH-REAMING at my daughter in disbelief that SHE COULD POSSIBLY LIVE LIKE THIS.

Je suis THREATENING LOUDLY to take every single last gum wrapper, roller skate sneaker, and three-month old math homework worksheet that is on the floor, on her bed, on top of her dresser, under her dresser, under her bed, in a corner, in the hamper, in one of the many storage vessels designed and failing to rectify the situation, and pour gasoline on them, and set them all ablaze in a giant bonfire in the back of our house.   

Je suis that mom who gets all kinds of advice for different systems, charts, carrot-and-stick reward strategies, and other verified parenting techniques and self-help books to push the boulder of childhood cleanliness up a mountain of goodwill whose summit is forever out of reach.

Je suis that mom, and I stand in solidarity with her.

The Torso

Amsterdam is one of my favorite cities in the world. I've been there only three times for brief visits, but I love it.

There's something about the friction between sketchy modern grit and majestic old European urban architecture that creates a kind of umami flavor. The narrow row houses amid chaotic bike and foot traffic remind me of New York City below Houston Street, which makes sense because the Dutch settled New York. The undulating canals, concentric streets, and overpasses create a disorienting sense of repetitive foreverness--like being inside an infinity mirror that makes you feel lost without being afraid. 

The last time I was in Amsterdam, we were visiting friends from Juneau who had moved to Europe. Geoff and I were walking down a cobblestone street, our kids skipping up ahead, when we happened upon a shop window full of latex sex toys, one of which was a full-sized human torso with breasts and a penis.

Now, "chicks with dicks" is what I named our favorite weeknight go-to dinner (chicken with pasta, sausage, and broccoli), but it was also the name of a late-night porn show on Channel 35 Time-Warner Cable in NYC circa 1988, so I've always been rather fond of the concept, if not the actual anatomical arrangement (personally). So it wasn't the fact that there was a latex model of this that was troublesome to me. 

It was the fact that it was a disembodied torso.

I mean, I get why they made it that way. It's like, here's the least amount of material you need to recreate these two body parts and make this thing affordable. So why waste money on limbs and a head, when all you really need for business purposes, so to speak, is the torso? 

So I get the logic. What I think would be hard however, would be leaving Amsterdam with that as your only souvenir. Because it would have to be your only souvenir. It was a life-sized torso, like I said. So effectively you're flying back to wherever you came from with one-third of an extra person made of silicone, which I imagine sort of changes your packing strategy.

For example, you could very easily envision getting to the point where you're forced to carry-on the torso separately as its own item, and then what? 

You have to have a lot of guts to roll that down a conveyor belt through Dutch TSA at Schipol. I applaud anyone who can pull that off, for real, because I think carrying on a disembodied human sex torso with boobs and a dick for an entire international air terminal to see would be a bridge too far. Even for me, for whom almost NO bridge is too far. 

Here's the only possible solution: They've got to ship it, and they have to do it in brown paper packaging. That's all there is to it.

I think I'll put this tip on Trip Advisor: the next time you're in Amsterdam and are browsing around for a life-sized, disembodied silicone human torso with breasts and a penis, make sure you choose a store that will ship it directly to anywhere in the world.

Friday, February 24, 2017

Shopkins Ain't Shit, School Lunch is Not a Top Chef Quick Fire Challenge, and Nothing Matters Anyway

Kids today. I swear.

This morning, Isaac told Geoff the school lunches he lovingly packs in a compartmentalized, BPA-free container each weekday morning don't have enough "pop," and by "pop" he meant "pizazz," not Coke or Sprite as described in the Midwest. 

I asked him to elaborate, and he said, "you know, like a Gogurt or something. Like other kids get Gogurts."

I guess it's our own fault for letting him and Paige burn their eyeballs and neurons out on too many cable cooking shows while we sleep half of each weekend morning away.

Am I surprised that a First World six-year old critiques the presentation of his lunch and the lack of portable yogurt therein, despite his parents' relentless efforts to instill in him basic gratitude for running water and not living under a pile of rubble as bombs and drone-fired missiles rain overhead?

No. No, I am not. I'm not surprised, because Shopkins, and also nothing fucking matters anymore. I know I sound like the captain of Team Petty when I say this, but Shopkins ain't shit.

When WE were kids, we had Beanie Babies, Garbage Pail Kids, and those little plastic charm bracelet thingies that are exactly like Shopkins, but with even more plastic because you attached them to a plastic chain with plastic clips and wore them as jewelry.

'Member? I know you do. That tennis racket was dope.

Anyway, all of this unmitigated useless crap--the charms, the Shopkins, the Beanie Babies, and possibly even the Garbage Pail Kids--will outlast us all anyway. Long after the forests and oceans reclaim our ephemeral edifices of lust and greed, teeny tiny harmonicas and itsy bitsy purple cupcakes with googly-eyeballs will dot the landscape as the sole evidence of humanity's contribution to the cosmos.

All of which leads me to a new level of nihilism, which in case you didn't know is Nietzche and Kierkegaard for truly giving ABSOLUTE ZERO by way of fucks anymore.

As a society, we now care more about what bathroom people use than we do about them dying of preventable diseases and bankrupt from medical bills.

Our POTUS is a manifestly delusional, likely senile, sociopathic, treasonous, semi-literate, lecherous oligarch who is scissoring the Constitution into red white and blue confetti like Edward Cheeto-Hands with the help of Congress, all at the direction of a repellent, rheumy-eyed alcoholic who legit wants to destroy democracy and perpetuate the master race.

Meantime, those with the gall n' balls to make the painfully fucking obvious foregoing observations are besieged and lurked on the daily by thirsty AF, sorryass, unemployed neo-Nazi trolls and farm-fresh, cage-free, Twitter egg basement-dwelling motherfuckers with nothing better to do than get all up in our shit like white supremacy on rice.

And all the while, American Girl dolls with their cross-country skis, trundle beds, and allergy-friendly tiny plastic food (all of which will also outlast humanity) have a better quality of life than almost all their sentient human counterparts.


Let's put a Gogurt in that lunchbox and arrange some Shopkins on a table, because why not? Nothing matters anymore anyway, and IDGAF!

Thursday, February 23, 2017

If Shaving My Legs Was Part of the Trump Agenda

This leg. Look at it. It's a DISASTER. It's hairy, it's not a ten. Not even a five. Far from it. And I will tell you folks, we are looking at this situation very closely. VERY closely. 

Believe me, okay? 

And we are going to get these hairs out. These hairs, they're growing on this leg, and they have to come out. Not all of them, just most of them. All the ones we can reach with a razor anyway. Look, this leg needs help. It can be great. It will be great. We're gonna take care of it, folks. It's going to be a beautiful, amazing, absolutely terrific leg.

Right now, though, it's a huge disaster, okay? Absolutely. This whole unshaved leg situation. It's my number one priority to fix this really terrible, awful situation on this leg right here. 

I know a guy at Gillette, terrific, guy. Great guy. I met with him four weeks ago. And we're about to announce a huge deal. Huge, huge deal. The FAKE NEWS doesn't want to cover it, because the dishonest media likes to lie to you about shaving, and they are the enemy of all hard-working, God-fearing women who remember to shave their legs more than once a month.


But let me tell you, I feel it's very, very unfair the way this leg has been treated. It's been so misrepresented by the FAKE MEDIA. Are there close to a million hairs on this leg? I don't know, maybe. Many people are saying that. You tell me. You tell me. One thing I can tell you, we're going to launch an investigation to find out how this was allowed to happen.

We have a lot to look into. The so-called hygiene of the person responsible for this MESS? It's a job-killing hoax planned out and paid for by the Chinese shaving cream manufacturers, by the way.

What I will do for this leg will be amazing, it's a movement. A big, BIG movement of a razor up and down this leg because what this leg has become is just terrible. How was this allowed to happen? That I cant say. But it's not going to happen anymore. 

Not gonna happen.

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

I'm Staking a Firm Position in the Snuggie Trade Wars

Amidst recent talk of trade sanctions, Chinese manufacturing, and outsourced jobs, I'm honored to be a member of the noble profession that was involved in resolving a matter of great import: 

Whether a Snuggie--the as-seen-on-TV blanket with sleeves--is technically a blanket or a "priestly robe"/"vestment." 

Ultimately, the federal trade court tasked with this critical decision came down on the side of blanket, rejecting the Justice Department's argument that Snuggies are apparel and thus should be subject to a higher tariff than blankets. 

The judge was apparently unmoved by the Snuggie's sleeves, and more persuaded by the lack of a closure in the back of the Snuggie. Bottom line holding of this case: sleeves alone do not a priestly robe or vestment make.

There was no word whether the judge recused him or herself for wearing the equivalent of a Snuggie every day on the bench, but in so ruling, the court added to a canon of storied jurisprudence that includes "Spork: Spoon or Fork;" "Dijonnaise: Mayo or Mustard;" and "Bromance: Bros or Romance."

While I don't necessarily disagree with the decision, I do believe that Snuggies are worthy of their own religion, and if I were a God-fearing man or woman (as the case may be), I would don this leopard print Snuggie as my priestly robe or vestment, and abide by the following ten commandments: 

1. Thou shall have no other blankets before Snuggie.

2. Thou shall not watch American Idol in a Snuggie, or really at all because that show sucks.

3. Thou shall not take the name of the LORD of the Rings in vain while streaming all three of those movies in a row, on the couch, while wearing a Snuggie.

4. Remember Super Bowl Sunday and keep it holy.

5. Honor thy Mother and Father while lying on the couch in a Snuggie, putting them on mute, and watching RHONY until they scream your name to make sure you were really listening, which you were not--not even a little bit.

6. Thou shall not kill, not even for a Snuggie. Especially not for a Snuggie.

7. Thou shall not commit adultery and leave behind a Snuggie, because that shit is conspicuous.

8. Thou shall not steal someone else's Snuggie, even if it is a leopard print Snuggie which is cooler than most.

9. Thou shall not bear false witness by saying that a Snuggie is better than a regular blanket because the reality is no one needs a blanket with sleeves and Snuggies are dumber than shit.

10. Thou shall not covet thy neighbor's Snuggie, which again is not very hard because no one wants a Snuggie as I found out the hard way after my husband bought me one as a joke this one time.

Everyday Mom Heroes

I’m not a big fan of hero worship or lionizing individual people (especially celebrities). People are complicated, and most of the time, it’s folly to reduce human beings to heroes and villains. I tend to idolize ideas, values, and principles more than I do the people who embody them, but that doesn’t mean I don’t stand in awe of people in my everyday life.

I do.

I’ve been thinking for a long time about my everyday mom heroes, and if or how to write about them in a way they would be comfortable with. There are several women in my life, who, for various reasons, are my personal heroes. They do more with less time and money in a single day than I could accomplish in two weeks with twice as much of both. They’re raising multiple children on their own, have faced unthinkable adversity, and are resilient and resourceful.

Recently, one of them posted something sad on Facebook about her daughter missing out on a father-daughter class:

Being a single mom doesn’t bother us about being a broken family until one of [her daughter’s] friends makes the statement about I wish your dad was around so you could go to the father daughter class with us we have so much fun! I don’t know if that sliced into [her] as much as it has been bothering me!
It was an innocent comment, of course, but I knew our kids happened to be together at the time. After confirming Paige had not been the one to make the inadvertently hurtful statement, I told her something I’d long been thinking anyway, which is that she is one of my biggest mom heroes, and I asked if I could write about why.

To my surprise, she enthusiastically endorsed the idea, so now I will briefly explain why Victoria is one of my mom heroes, without going completely bonkers over-the-top about it.

Basically Victoria is at least ten years younger than me, although two of our kids are the same ages/genders. She lives alone with her three biological kids, ages 2 through 9, and her nephew, a high school junior whom she is parenting as a foster mom. Her kids’ dads live far away and are not involved in their lives financially or otherwise. She drives a school bus and recently got a scholarship to finish college. Her mom is in assisted living, and her dad lives far away as well, although fortunately she has an older sister here in Juneau.

As far as I can tell, Victoria never stops moving and she never quits working for her family. I see her EVERYWHERE, all the time. She has all her kids in dance, skating, karate, church, scouts, hockey, plays, etc. and spends every free moment, it seems, taking them to and from school and from one activity to the next. It’s almost like she has the ability to matter-transport herself to three different places at once. On top of that, all of her kids are great to be around--they make all our lives easier when they’re playing with my kids at our house or spending time with our family.

I once asked Victoria how she keeps her shit together, and her answer stuck with me. She said she doesn’t have patience for or understand people who don’t keep their shit together.

I know Victoria is not alone, in that there are many other incredibly strong and resilient moms (and dads) out there who have their shit together on this level. I know several of them personally, although I'm not one of them. 

They go about their business just doing what they do, but their everyday heroism in parenting and decidedly NOT "broken" families does not go unnoticed, at least not by this mere mortal.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

A Conversation With the Pygmy Slow Loris

It seems like every day, the news gets more depressing. Or at least it does if you're an immigrant, a Jew, a Muslim, a woman, a person of color, LGBTQ, and/or a leftist libtard snowflake. 

Since I'm at least two of these, I've decided it's time for O.H.M. to profile the Pygmy Slow Loris.

We caught up with one PSL named "Lori" in her habitat deep in Vietnam's Mekong Delta, to find out how she's coping with life after Trump, who she's interested in mating with this season, and what it's REALLY like to be the cutest mammal in evolutionary history. 

Following is a verbatim transcript of our exclusive interview with Lori. As POTUS would say, Enjoy!

O.H.M.: Thanks for taking the time to meet with us! I know you're usually asleep during the day and prowling through the jungle canopy for ants and small fauna at night, so we really appreciate your taking time out of your busy foraging schedule.

Lori: No problem, I actually just turned 16 months yesterday, which means I'm now sexually mature and ready to mate during the summer fertile season after putting out a few urine scent markings, so I'm not getting much sleep lately anyway.

O.H.M.: So let's get right to it. How are YOU dealing with the election of Donald Trump?

Lori: To be honest, I don't pay much attention to primate politics. Or really any politics. I mean, I'm just a tiny, adorable, arboreal, nocturnal primate who spends all day asleep in the jungles of Southeast Asia and all night foraging for bugs and berries and stuff. I guess you could say I feel vulnerable, since that's my listing on the Endangered Species List. But no more vulnerable, certainly, than during the Vietnam War (a.k.a. the War of American Aggression) when my great-great-great-great grandparents' habitat was decimated by extensive burning and defoliation. Wait . . . who's Donald Trump?

O.H.M.:  Do you realize how cute you are? I mean, how do you feel about the fact that pictures of you on the internet are but a small glimmer of joy and pleasant distraction in an otherwise endlessly bleak electronic hellscape and human cesspool?

Lori: [Laughing]: I mean, I get that a lot. People say it's the giant eyes. Also the tiny hands. And the fuzz. Also the very small size. And how I grab onto a pink highlighter. And how I eat grass out of someone's hand. So yeah, I've heard that before.

O.H.M.: Okay, I think we can all agree the world could use more of you, notwithstanding your venomous bite--so tell our readers what they REALLY want to know: is there a special sexually-mature male in your life?

Lori: Well, not yet. I mean, I'm sniffing out a few familiar males (their consistent scent makes it clear they can defend their territory), and I'm mildly aggressive while I'm in estrus, which is basically now. So if I had to guess, I'd say I'll be a mom by the time I turn two.

O.H.M.: Well, hopefully we humans won't drop a nuclear bomb on your last remaining habitat and we'll get to see your babies someday! If they're anywhere near as adorable as you, we're in for a ton of great memes and shares on Bored Panda!

Monday, February 20, 2017

O.H.M. Movie Review: Frozen

Editor's Note: This is NOT a review of Disney's Frozen starring Princess Elsa and that insufferable animate snowman whose obvious and sole purpose was product tie-ins. As I said long ago, that bitch Elsa from Frozen can kiss my ass. Disney's Frozen was the bane of my existence for three years, since it coincided with Paige's princess phase. If I never hear "Do You Want to Build a Snowman" or "Let it Go" again, it will be too soon. Also, this review contains spoilers, obvi.

I didn't learn how to ski until I was 30, at which time I instantly recognized it was the highest you could ever get without drugs or alcohol coursing through your bloodstream. Now that I have sunk literally dozens of paychecks into hundreds of feet of sick pow, I also fully recognize that skiing is the most First World, bougie sport ever. Like, EVER. Anyone who loves skiing and gets defensive about this should admit that they are lying to themselves. 

Accordingly, if I or one of my kids dies snowboarding or skiing--which at the current rate, honestly, we probably will--we will have no one to blame but ourselves, since no one forced us to strap fiberglass boards to our feet and careen down a hill toward a Douglas fir at 60 mph for hundreds if not thousands of dollars in equipment and fees. 

Please make sure to point this out EXPLICITLY at my funeral, with an itemized invoice of exactly what my demise cost me in time and money. This is my dying wish.

Moving on.

Frozen was preposterously compelling and compellingly preposterous. I'd only been skiing for a few years when I watched it, and it came out during that brief phase of low-budget "OMFG IMAGINE IF THIS HAPPENED" horror movies like Open Water and that other one where a surfer gets stuck on a rock with a shark circling around her for 120 minutes. It was one of those films where you basically spend the exact same amount of time watching the people go through this horrible "OMFG IMAGINE IF THIS HAPPENED" ordeal as they do actually experiencing it. 

So Frozen was a little boring, but it was also laughable and creepy, and the whole time I watched it I was ping-ponging back and forth between "OMFG IMAGINE IF THIS HAPPENED" and "THIS IS THE MOST FUCKING RIDONKS PREMISE FOR A MOVIE EVER."

Due to a highly improbable mixup, a trio of mid-20s pals (two bros and a damsel in distress) get stuck on a chairlift late on a Friday afternoon when the New England ski resort they're in is about to close down for a week due to an impending storm. 

I won't go so far as to say this has NEVER happened, because the second I do, someone will school me with a smug-ass I TOLD YA SO link of a real news story where this happened. All I'm saying is it seems highly improbable, and I am guessing that MOST ski areas have better failsafes in place to avoid such situations than two stoners giving the all-clear over a walkie-talkie.

Anyhow, these three yahoos who just HAD to get one last run in get stuck on a chair high above a mountain, and realize pretty quickly they are fucked AF. It's freezing cold, the girl pees her pants, and finally one of the dudes decides to jump down off the chairlift to get help, because he realizes that if he doesn't, they'll be there for a week and die of frostbite. Sadly, the second he jumps down from the chair, he promptly breaks both his legs, and the blood from his injuries attracts a pack of roving wolves who begin to eat him alive.


Again, I am not going to go so far as to say there are NO packs of wild roving wolves left in New England. Because once again, the second I do that, some wildlife biologist will try to preacher-teacher/father-figure me by linking to a study about a pack of wild roving wolves near a ski area in New England. All I'm saying is that a pack of wild roving wolves in a highly-populated ski area--which then arrives en masse to feast upon the blood of the compound-fractured--appears unlikely at best. 

The girl and the one dude who's left watch the girl's boyfriend get mauled and then wake up the next morning, when the other dude tries to climb around above the chairlift and disappears somehow. Then the girl finally jumps down and slides on her ass to safety while avoiding the wolves who are still gnawing on her boyfriend's carcass.

The best part of the movie is when she makes it out to the road and hitchhikes to safety. The redeeming part being, of course, that the worst skier and only woman in the group is somehow the only one to survive.

I give this movie four out of five poop emojis. Stream it today!

California is Totally Jacking Our Alaskan Style With Its Secession Plan and I Call Bullshit on That!

California likes to think of itself as being on the cutting edge of socio-political and cultural movements. Well, I call a giant-pan-filled-to-the-brim-with-gold-rush-nuggets-of-straight-up-BULLSHIT on that! 

Today's Washington Post reports that a "fringe group" in California is trying to secede from the union because Trump being mean to immigrants, ignoring climate change, and some other shit I guess they don't like about 'Murica in the age of #MAGA.

According to the article, a group of about 15 people met next door to a sweaty ol' gym in (where else) San Francisco, to plot the revolution and try to figure out a way to chop Cali off the map before an earthquake and global warming do it for them anyway.

There are so many issues with this, I don't even know where to begin.

Let's arbitrarily start with the fact that Texas tried that shiz in 1869 and failed. In the aptly-named Texas v. White, SCOTUS said "GET STUFFED, LONE STAR BITCHEZ!" to unilateral secession, and it is categorically not allowed. 

In other words, this moronic plan has been unconstitutional AF for 150 years. And unless and until we stop caring what the courts say the constitution means (which let's face it is looking more likely than ever), it'll stay that way.

Back to Alaska, though. Alaska has tried to secede since basically the day after statehood and failed; again, because Texas, SCOTUS, and inchoate, disorganized wing-nuts in the woods plotting a coup. 

Cali thinks they're the first state to be too cool for the 50-state school?! 


We still have many, MANY a committed Alaskan determined to take the state's non-contiguous status to the next level by booting the Republic and becoming a sovereign nation-state. So AK, not CA, is on the frontier of wacky unconstitutional, theoretical acts of defiance. 

Whatever Cali tries to do, Alaska does it bigger and better.

Just look at that poser grizzly bear on their flag. There hasn't been a wild bear in California since before Barbara Streisand and Kris Kristofferson looked normal, and there was one here in my fucking garbage in Juneau just the other day!

To say nothing of the agriculture: I'd stack a giant blunt packed tight with Matanusksa Thunder Fuck up against Humboldt County Outdoor any day of the week. Not to mention, the midnight sun makes California's cucumbers look like our Sentient Cheeto Overlord's tiny below-the-belt package.

All this to say, the peeps plotting secession in Cali need to look North to the Future and face the fact that Alaska is better at fringe acts of faux civic defiance than those Kombucha-drinking, downward-dog vegan pussies will ever be.

Sunday, February 19, 2017

I Have the Verklig Falska Nyheter!

For those who don't speak the language, "verklig falska nyheter" is REAL FAKE NEWS in Swedish. And in case you missed it, our Sentient Cheeto Overlord shocked/horrified/terrified the globe (again, I know, snoozzzzze) this weekend with some VERY FAKE NEWS

Specifically, Lord Dampnut said there was some sort of terrorist "incident" in Sweden. According to FAKE NEWS source FAILING REUTERS, here's what the Rabid Orangutan blurted out of his taco bowl hole:
Trump, who in his first weeks in office has tried to tighten U.S. borders sharply for national security reasons, told a rally on Saturday that Sweden was having serious problems with immigrants. 
"You look at what's happening last night in Sweden," Trump said. "Sweden. Who would believe this? Sweden. They took in large numbers. They're having problems like they never thought possible." 
No incident occurred in Sweden and the country's baffled government asked the U.S. State Department to explain. 
"My statement as to what's happening in Sweden was in reference to a story that was broadcast on @FoxNews concerning immigrants & Sweden," Trump said in a tweet on Sunday.
Awesome. So, let's review.

The President of the United States is regularly skipping his intelligence briefings in favor of getting all of his VERY REAL INTELLIGENCE from FUCKING TELEVISION while he eats KFC with a fork and knife. 

Fuck it. Seriously. Fuck all of it.

Why bother having a presidential election at all? Let's just elect the next guy by raffle at a local bingo hall. That way, your racist next-door neighbor's uncle can govern by network TV from his La-Z-Boy recliner instead of wasting all your hard-earned tax dollars on fancy state dinners and lazy federal bureaucrats. 

No matter. O.H.M. has all the goods on the VERKLIG FALSKA NYHETER. Here's what Trump really meant when he told the world to "look at what's happening last night in Sweden."

1. The Swedish Chef finally came out of the closet, and walked straight into Trump's cabinet. There, the lovable Muppet will serve as director of LGBTQ outreach and culinary arts, alongside Omarosa as head of the Office of Civil Rights. In other news, the NASA aerospace program is being renamed "Pigs in Space."

2. At long last, the makers of Swedish Fish have abandoned all the other shitty colors and flavors of Swedish Fish and are making/selling only the red ones, whose mysterious fruity flavor is oddly addictive, and the only kind anyone likes anyway.

3. A secret ISIS terrorist cell was poised to initiate a child pornography ring at a pizza place in Stockholm, but stopped at a food cart for Swedish Meatballs followed by a lingonberry torte, and then fell into a food coma, so their plot was foiled.

4. The getaway car for the highly under-reported Bowling Green Massacre turned out to be a Volvo, and the only reason the perpetrators got caught last night in Gothenburg was because they tried to drive up a snowy hill and rolled backwards in rear-wheel drive, straight into the waiting clutches of Gothenburg P.D.

5. It turns out that IKEA is not really a shitty pre-fab furniture company after all. The whole chain is a secret conspiracy by NATO to distract and frustrate Americans by trying and failing to use Allen keys when every hole in that so-called couch is an eighth of an inch off, and even after you finally put it together, your ass hurts like hell after ten minutes of sitting on it. While America bangs its head against a wall trying to assemble the Blixtorpe, NATO is laughing all the way to world domination.

6. Trump tried to get ABBA to play at his last post-election campaign rally in Florida, but they refused because: (a) they fucking hate that burnt sienna bastard; and (b) they already had a conflicting gig playing some deportable immigrant's bar mitzvah in Palm Springs.