Saturday, March 31, 2018

Telling Me to Love Myself is Actually Really Bad Advice

You should love yourself more. You should be kind and forgiving to yourself. You should practice self-love.

When people say this kind of platitudinous shit to me, I know they mean well, and I thank them for their kindness. 

But in my head, I’m secretly just like nah, son. You don’t know this bitch.

One of the reasons I’m able to be as forward and honest and out there as I am is because I hate myself. Self hatred, you see, is my greatest asset and armor against the slings and arrows of outrageous trolling. 

Nothing anyone can say to me (you’re a reprehensible cunt, you should never have been born, etc., etc.) could possibly be worse than my own self-criticism or is something I haven’t already considered.

It’s like, oh yeah?! Well guess what?! I already think I’m a stupid bitch who should have been aborted in 1977 so suck my dick because I thought of that shit 20 years ago you’re fucking TARDY TO THE SELF-HATRED PARTY! 


When I mindfully check in with myself to practice self-care, I’m always just like WOW. What a fucking mess you are. 

Your blood stream courses with Prozac, THC, and Cadbury Creme Eggs; you hide under your blankets whenever possible; and every moment your children are awake, fighting with each other, and disrespecting your authorit-AH is another notch in your epic life failure belt.

On the other hand, if I didn’t hate myself, I’d presumably give more fucks about the consequences of what I do and say on the interwebs, and while giving more fucks about myself could lead to self-love, more likely than not I’d be both bored and boring.

So if it’s all the same, I’ll confine my self-love to the dope AF Hitachi Magic Wand™️ and call it good.

Friday, March 30, 2018

If You Throw Shade at the Cadbury Creme Egg You are Dead to Me!

And that’s really all there is to it. I’m drawing a line in the sand here. Racism. Littering. Misogyny. Rejection of the Cadbury Creme Egg. These are friendship DEAL BREAKERS for me.

The world is made up of two kinds of people: (1) Those who love the Cadbury Creme Egg, and (2) Those who gag just looking at it. There’s no middle ground on this. No one is like, “Oh, Cadbury Creme eggs are just meh.” Or “I’m kind of indifferent to Cadbury Creme Eggs."


You're either with the Cadbury Creme Egg, or you're against it. Either you look at a Cadbury Creme Egg and throw up a little bit in your mouth, OR you want to be buried in Cadbury Creme Eggs when you die, and just retained a lawyer to make sure this stipulation is in your will. I've heard of this happening. Not that I've done it myself. I'm just saying it could happen.

I’m in the latter camp, and, frankly, simply do not understand those in the former. Easter/Passover is my favorite time of the year because Cadbury Creme Eggs! I have a whole process for eating them:

1. Pick off the foil (it's WAY better when none of the egg part has leaked out through the seam of the chocolate egg halves and the foil peels off easily).

2. Gently bite off the top narrow point of the chocolate egg, being careful not to crack the shell and make a mess.

3. Gaze into the delicious refined, processed, sugary white and yellow pretend white/yolk part and contemplate what exactly it is and how they do this like HOW DO THEY DO THIS HOW DO THEY GET THAT YELLOW PART INTO THE WHITE PART WHAT EVEN IS THIS I WANT TO GO TO THE FACTORY I WANT TO LIVE IN THE FACTORY I WANT TO DIE INSIDE A CADBURY CREME EGG.

4. Stick one pinky into the gooey egg part and swirl it around in there for no reason, lick pinky.

5. Abandon all discretion and shove the rest of the Cadbury Creme Egg into my mouth in one bite.

6. Sit with my shame. Like, really FEEL it, ya know?

Thursday, March 29, 2018

Come On, Baby. Why You Gotta Be Like That?: An Apology Tour by Mark Zuckerberg

Aw, baby. C’mon! Don’t be like that. You know I didn’t mean that shit. 

I’m just a bro. A short bro. A short bro with a $500 haircut. A short bro with a $500 haircut and a tight T-shirt. A short bro with a $500 haircut and a tight T-shirt standing in front of billions of users (including you, of course) asking you to love me. (You're my #17,999,908).

Or, not even love me, necessarily.

Really, I’m just asking you not to flee my very lucrative platform in droves just because I surreptitiously mined your data for more than a decade and conducted unauthorized, secret, totally unethical and reckless dystopian psychological experiments on you and harvested your personal information and preferences and made cosmetic nods to privacy while aiding and abetting information warfare and a silent coup on American democracy by a hostile foreign power, all to enrich myself to the tune of 61.3B USD.

I know I fucked up, believe me. And I promise to be a Better Man™ for you, because if I can’t, well, baby, you know I don’t deserve you. 

But also if you leave me I will still have your data. That’s not a threat. I’m just saying. It’s true and it’s a really hard thing to get around because I made it that way.

Also baby, be straight with me . . . you knew what you were getting into when you signed up for this. I mean, this is like, ME. This is literally what you signed up for. You read the fine print. You know what kind of man I am.

Not saying that makes it right, just saying it is what it is, like so much of life. I said we’d always be free. And we are. We ARE free, baby. Except you’re also kind of the product. In a good way. I think.

I just want us to move past this, ya know? I need you. Well . . . really I need your clicks and your pics and your preferences. 

See, I love you and I want to know every little thing about you. Like whether you prefer Bernie to Hillary or whether you like bald eagles or keep chickens or drink almond milk instead of regular cow’s milk in your coffee or are a woman in menopause or maybe a teenager thinking about trying out Thinx period panties so that I can sell all of that info to advertisers with pinpoint precision and make another 10B this year.

Please baby, don’t go away mad. Stick with me! I might be President someday! And I’m sorry not sorry.

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

Texting With the Void

Hiiiiii. WYD?

Me: New phone who dis?

Void: LMAO. WAIT. Did you just srsly “new phone who dis” me?! 

Me: C’mon don’t play games. iOS upgrade ate all my contacts.

Void: It’s THE VOID.

Me: Ugh. You again?

Void: I know. Haven’t hit you up in awhile. Since the Grand Canyon, I think. Miss you, babe...

Me: What do you want?

Void: I want you to do something incredibly stupid. What else?

Me: Too late I already did like, ten incredibly stupid things today.

Void: Oh yeah? Like what?

Me: I'm not doing this with you.

Void: C'mon baaaabe.

Me: Like forgetting I drove to work and starting to walk home and taking Aleve without water

Void: No, not like that. I mean, like jumping off the 8th floor of the State Office Building, just to like, see what happens.

Me: No effing way. I’m scared of heights. You know that.

Void: I’ve been trying to convince you otherwise since you lived in your parent’s 9th floor apartment building in the Bronx.

Me: Ugh I know. 'Member that time I legit almost DID fall out the window? Also that whole Eric Clapton’s kid thing was crazy.

Void: I didn’t have anything to do with that.

Me: Not saying you did.

Void: So . . .

Me: Dude I’m tired, I need to go to bed. Srsly WTF do you want RN?

Void: I’m just calling on you to like, expand your horizons.

Me: What are you suggesting?

Void: I already said.

Me: What?

Void: I want you to do something incredibly stupid.

Me: Like what?

Void: Like come to work naked or start crawling over everyone in the audience of a movie theater or airplane.

Me: How about starting a blog where I tell everyone (including my dad) all about my pubes and booty eating and mental health strugggles and how much I hate myself and risk my career to make sure the whole world knows that Donald Trump is an epic shitlord?

Void: Yaaaas Queen! Now we’re talking.

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

The Lyle Lanley of Hypnosis is Coming to Juneau and He Wants to Snatch Your Dollars for Nothing

When I heard the ad multiple times on the radio, I just knew I HAD to cover it on O.H.M., no matter the blow-back.

On April 22, the “Mark Patrick Seminar” is coming to Juneau. Some guy named Mark Patrick* (*presenter might not actually be Mark Patrick, as you'll see below) wants to take a fistful of dollars out of the hands of Juneauties, and pretend to hypnotize them into being skinny and quitting smoking. 

The second I heard this I was just like, what the actual fuck?! Lyle Lanley from the Simpsons is trying to build a hypnosis monorail right here in Juneau!

So natch, I went down an internet rabbit hole to confirm my bias that this guy is a total scammer charlatan and that no one should pay him a fucking cent for anything. Rather, we should all disabuse him of the notion that he can just drop his racket on our little closed universe of a remote Alaskan hamlet, turn us upside down, and take our Carharts to the cleaners in a massive shakedown.

Let me just say I have no idea who is bringing this guy here and as usual I give precisely zero fucks re: who I offend RN, because this is some straight bullshit, and I think people should stay home and eat shrooms instead because that's just as likely to make you a skinny non-smoker.

Check it: 

The Mark Patrick Seminars™ website claims that Mark Patrick is going to hypnotize you into quitting smoking and losing weight. I’m sure if it were that simple, everyone would have a perfect BMI and their Camels would all be broken in half by now, but that’s not the case sooooooooo . . . as we say in Latin legalese, res ipsa loquitur (the thing speaks for itself). 

Consumer protection organization Truth in Advertising already did a brief muck-rake of sorts on this guy, and I encourage you to read it (it's short, link above), but the bottom line is the unsurprising conclusion that he is a bigger con artist than POTUS.

Here’s the fine print from the Mark Patrick website, which itself is amazeballs. I’ll give you my Official Legal Translation
 after the jump:
*$59.99 in Alaska and Hawaii. All Seminars brought to you by Mark Patrick Seminars & Associates LLC, Mark may not be the presenter at your seminar. Testimonial results from programs are based on individual effort and other factors. Such results are exceptional or atypical and are not to be expected by the average person using these programs or methods. No one has been paid for their testimonial. By signing up for seminar you are agreeing to receive electronic communications from us. © 2018 Mark Patrick Seminars & Associates LLC. All Rights Reserved
Official Legal Translation
There's a sucker born every minute, which is good news for our profit margin and ethically bankrupt people like us who prey on the vulnerable gullibility of folks who are at their wits’ end with life struggles. 
We will fleece you even harder if you don’t live in the contiguous 48 states. Our bullshit has been delegated in a pyramid scheme of bullshit peddlers, so you might get one of those guys, and not the actual bullshit Picasso who created this racket. 
Scientific evidence that you can be hypnotized into shedding all your bad habits is specious at best, and even if there is a single shred of legitimacy to this idea, this scam is not trafficking in that shred. 
The people who took this seminar and vouch for its efficacy are likely confusing correlation and causation. Actually benefiting from this program is unheard of and you should expect precisely nothing after giving us your money. Really, you’d do just as well going to a fortune teller on the Santa Monica pier. 
By registering for this seminar you are flushing money straight down the toilet, but you’ll get spam from us every day anyway. 
Yes, we incorporated this. Welcome to America.

Sunday, March 25, 2018

Can Anyone Help Get a Bunny Stoned?

That’s the $64,000 question. 

One day a few months back, Isaac came home from school to report that someone had brought in homemade Kombucha. 

It was probably one of the 150,000 or so kids named after a Greek deity, a constellation, a mountain, or a plant,” I thought to myself. Regardless, it was a decidedly “Juneau Gonna Juneau” moment, and so too is this Craigslist ad from several years ago.

Someone is trying to find their elderly bunny a weed hookup! 


11 seems very old for a rabbit (she says without Googling), but I’m kind of impressed with the care his owner is providing looking out for his old bunny’s basic needs: food, water, and the dank nugs.

Because celery and carrots won’t cut it for THIS rodent! This fuzzy little guy wants the stickie ickies. The skunk. The dope. The chronic. The greens. DA TCHREES FAH YAH MIND! 

I mean, I get it!

I’d be pissed too if I was a California stoner bunny and my supply suddenly dried up after my owner stuffed me in a cage and transported me from my nice sunny garden to a cold, wet, rainforest.

Someone? Anyone? C’mon, Juneau. Hook a rodent up.

UPDATE: A few “rodent elites” have commented that a rabbit is not a rodent. I fucking told y’all I didn’t Google that shit. Full stop!

Saturday, March 24, 2018

Deep Thoughts: Is Squiggles the Frog Happy? And Does it Matter?

I ask myself this question--I wouldn't say frequently--but sometimes. Specifically, when I feed Squiggles the Frog (a.k.a. "Squiggles II"), since Squiggles the First died in tadpolehood. 

Anyway, on the rare occasions that Squiggles II's customary caretakers (i.e. the rest of my family) are out of town, I'm tasked each day with tending to Squiggles II. This consists of dumping a tiny, plastic yellow teaspoon of froggie pellets into the top of Squiggles II's plastic aqua-habitat, which is made of two plastic boxes linked together by two plastic tubes that look like a hamster tunnel. 

That's it. Full stop. The end. That's all there is to Squiggles II care, because I'm not alone long enough to have to change his water, fortunately.

Squiggles II has been our lone family pet since tadpolehood. He (or she?) is very low maintenance, and, miraculously, has managed to remain alive for almost three years. I'm no frog biologist, but three years seems like a long time for a frog--or at least it's a track record for me and this sort of pet. 

But I do have to wonder. 

Is Squiggles II "happy?" Does he have the capacity for happiness? I want to tell myself no, because I feel sort of bad for Squiggles II. He hasn't had a bad life, per se. This is all he's ever known. He gets fed daily, his water is cleaned, and he seems to be thriving physically by all objective measures.

But what about psychologically? 

Does he realize he's trapped? On some level he must; he tries to escape every time "we" clean his tank. And does he get sick of eating the same thing every day? For his entire life? He has eight fingers and ten toes. Is he bothered by this disparity? What about his toenails? They seem long. Does he want them cut, do you think? He'd never sit still for that.

Sometimes we'll be watching TV in the living room behind the desk where we keep Squiggles II and I'll hear chirping and bouncing around. He's nocturnal (I think, because this is when I hear him) and he swims around a lot and makes a ton of froggy sounds, and all I can think of is to go over there and whisper into his internal frog ears that there's no point.

Like, there is no one to hear him ribbit. No froggy mate is going to heed his call. He's just going to die here alone. We could get another tadpole to keep him company, I suppose, but they'd be so far apart in age that Squiggles II would probably eat the new arrival before they even got to know each other.

In the grand scheme of things, I realize none of this matters. Children are literally out in the streets today demanding not to get shot in school by weapons proliferated by Congress and their war-mongering corporate overlords while the President of the United States pays hush money to porn stars and can't spell "Marine Corps."

So there are bigger problems. I get that. That being said, I just hope Squiggles II is having a happy life and doesn't have a crippling case of froggie nihilism like I would if I were him.

Friday, March 23, 2018

More FAQ on O.H.M.

Here are some answers to frequently-asked questions about my blog.

Q: Why do you curse so much?
A: Fuck off.

Q: Do you ever think about toning it down a little?
A: Only when misogynists try to tone police me and then I think about telling them to fuck all the way off.

Q: Aren’t you worried about your professional reputation?
A: No. There are some things that are more important than hypothetical future career opportunities, and making a public record of Trump’s relentless assholery, parenting fails, and eating the booty like groceries are just a few of them.

Q: You should put ads on your blog to make money off of it.
A: My blog is a hobby and not a job, and if you read it you’d know how much I hate ads and literally everything they stand for. So no.

Q: Can you tone this post down so we can reprint it for free?
A: Sorry, I’m profoundly disinterested in your unsolicited disinterest in my hobby.

Q: Why do you hate America?
A: I don’t hate America, I just hate you.

Q: You do realize that white privilege isn’t actually a thing, right?
A: You do realize you’re stupid AF, right?

Q: Can I make a suggestion?
A: No.

Q: How about I reword my suggestion like this?
A: How about fuck off.

Q: How about men’s rights?
A: See previous answer.

Q: Can you promote my product?
A: Are you high RN?

Q: How about THIS product though?
A: Bye, Felicia.

Q: I think more people would respond to you if you did this thing.
A: I think one of those people is me and my response is no.

Q: I think your foul language undermines the points you’re trying to make.
A: I think you don’t understand me, and that’s okay, Dolores.

Thursday, March 22, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

I find this jarring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--Nicki Minaj, French Montana

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

--Milkshake, Kelis

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

--Tik Tok, Kesha

I eat my dinner in my bathtub

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

--Habits, Tove Lo

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

--Last Friday Night, Katy Perry

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

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

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Ugh I Want to Control the Weather So Fucking Badly!

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


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

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

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

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

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

Like honestly, how amazing would this be?!

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

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

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

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

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

Boom, bam, done.

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

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

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

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

That’s really all there is to it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not because it matters. It doesn’t. 

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

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

Sunday, March 18, 2018

Trump Knock-Knock Jokes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Knock, knock
Who's there?

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

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Nita who?

Nita pretty good lawyer to keep you outta jail.

Friday, March 16, 2018

Someone Gotta Bring This One Home to Mama!

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

If you can find him, that is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, March 15, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking PAW PATROL, y’alllllllllllllll!

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

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

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

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

Then they came for Paw Patrol, and I tweeted 

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

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

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Do Not Let Them Tell You ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Additional photo credits: Aaron Brakel & Karla Hart

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I don’t understand.

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

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

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

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

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

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


Monday, March 12, 2018

Incompetent or Asshole: Pick a Lane

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

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

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


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


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


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

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

Saturday, March 10, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, March 9, 2018

This is Where We Are

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

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

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

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

Dear Diary,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like here's how I imagine this went:

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, March 6, 2018

What the Dick is Happening Here?

Like I am legit so confused by this.

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

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

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

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

This is SUCH a mystery.

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

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

Monday, March 5, 2018

Everything I Know About the Iditarod Could Fill a Book

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

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

Then that book would look like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spoiler alert: that guy doesn’t win.

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

And it’s super sad!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End.

Saturday, March 3, 2018

A Cease and Desist Letter to My Children

Our House

Paige and Isaac
Our House

March 3, 3018

RE: Cease and desist fighting with each other

Dear Paige and Isaac,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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