Tuesday, January 21, 2020

Really, My Dude?

Governor Dunleavy just doesn't get it, or maybe he just doesn't care. I don't know which, but it's probably both. Here he is on the 8:30 p.m. flight from Anchorage to Juneau last night, asking someone to move their bag out of the way so that he and his third floor minions (whom the state pays six figures for doing more or less nothing) can sit in first class on Alaska Airlines.

This is a big no-no, and every Alaskan politician knows that. Ever since Frank Murkowski traveled the state in a publicly-funded private jet--which Sarah Palin immediately sold in a stunt-queen gesture of solidarity with the commoners--gifting yourself special perks on air travel has just been a bad look.

Every Alaskan has seen senators, legislators, and governors sitting in coach, because, DUH, optics. Look, I get that Governor Dunleavy is 6'9. His entire horseshit brand is built on his height. But Fascist Giraffe™ can easily sit in an exit or bulkhead row and have just as much legroom without exposing himself for the asshole he is, and not have to do that thing where he watches his constituents shuffle past him and his lackeys like zombies into coach class.

That averted-eye look of shame most first class passengers give to the coach plebes as they walk on by to seat 26E is apparently not in Dunleavy's repertoire. I don't care if you're a gold-level million miler who gets free upgrades and it costs the state nothing. I can count on one hand the number of times that I, in my 12+ years as a lowly AAG state employee, took even a free upgrade offered to me while traveling for work. 

Because, again, optics.

For high-profile politicians especially, it's simply a really bad look to lounge around in first class; especially while you are out here in these Alaskan streets telling elders they have to pay 140% more to live in the Pioneers' Home, cutting ferry service to the point that rural Southeast needs to beg for diapers on Facebook, and slashing Medicaid funding because Donna Arudin.

The hypocrisy is stunning, and the flagrant flaunting of privilege is even worse. Mike Dunleavy or Micheal J. or Big Mike or Tall Mike or Mike J. or whatever TF he's calling himself these days is the living incarnation of mediocrity ascending to the heights of power based on nothing but privilege and family wealth. It's certainly not his charisma or intellect or hard work that got him where he is, since, I think it's safe to say, he's proven himself fairly deficient in all of those areas.

The legislature gavels in today, and if "The People's Governor" is starting out with free drinks for rows 1-4 at 30,000 feet, it's going to be a looooooooooong session, my dudes.




Monday, January 13, 2020

File This Under Things Literally No One Asked For ...

 . . . And that yet somehow now exist and are being marketed for $75 because . . . Gwyneth Paltrow? Here's how the actor and lifestyle guru's latest gift to female humanity went down:

NO ONE:

LITERALLY NO ONE:


LIKE, ZERO PEOPLE:

GWYNETH PALTROW: Here is a $75 candle that smells like my vagina, which I will literally call "This Smells Like My Vagina."

NO ONE: What does your (and by your, we mean "Gwyneth Paltrow's") vagina smell like?

GWYNETH: I'm glad you asked! It's a "“funny, gorgeous, sexy and beautifully unexpected scent”, a mix of “geranium, citrusy bergamot, and cedar absolutes juxtaposed with damask rose and ambrette seed."


SOMEONE: Oh, it's unexpected, alright.

NO ONE, ONCE AGAIN: What does it cost? 

SOMEONE: Please say Nothing.

GWYNETH: Oh, you. No! I'm selling it for $75 on my website.

Not since the jade egg--which is the last thing Gwyneth told us to shove up our coochies and thereby bought herself a hefty legal sum in damages--have I thought about Gwyneth's vagina. Actually, scratch that, I have NEVER thought about Gwyneth's vagina, or imagined what it would smell, look, or--God forbid--taste like.

First off, I don't like vaginas. Not one bit. Vaginas are the one and only reason why I am regrettably 100% heterosexual and also not a midwife, doula, or OBGYN. I have no interest in anyone's vagina--not even my own. I am like the Dr. Seuss/Sam I Am of vaginas. I do not like them in a park, I do not like them in the dark. I do not like them in the rain, I do not like them on a train. I do not like them during childbirth, I do not like a single vagina on earth. 

So why would I buy a wax facsimile of Gwyneth's vadge? Maybe I would, if only to confirm that, as advertised, it is "funny, gorgeous, sexy, and beautifully unexpected" with a "mix of geranium, citrusy bergamot, and cedar absolutes juxtaposed with damask rose and ambrette seed." 

Because let me tell you something: I don't believe it. 

Unless this candle comes with Chris Rock, I promise you it is not funny. It is also not gorgeous or sexy, at least not to me, because as noted above, I find vaginas gross, but also even if I liked vaginas, it is a fucking CANDLE. 

Also, not for one minute do I believe that Gwyneth's vagina or anyone else's smells like geraniums, lemonade, roses, and cedar absolutes. What the fuck is a cedar absolute? Is it different from a cedar uncertain? What is an ambrette seed? And what is bergamot? I don't even know what these things are. I had to Google every single last one of them and you will too. I think you need a total household income of over $500K per year before the Illuminati makes you privy to this kind of information.

Regardless, I don't/won't buy it. At BEST, Gwyneth's vagina smells like soap. At worst, it smells like the crotch of her Lululemon Bikram yoga pants mixed with Chris Martin's junk. But "post-Bikram yoga crotch sweat juxtaposed with that dude from Coldplay's ball sack" just doesn't have the same ring as "ambrette seed" and "cirtrusy bergamot," and I don't think people would spend 75 cents for that, much less $75. Most people could probably accomplish almost the same thing by sticking a Hanukkah candle in their 'na for a minute and sparking it up.

But even if this candle and Gwyneth's vadge both smell as good as advertised, I just think it's a little . . . um . . . weird? To light up a candle like this? Like how is this date going down? "Hang on a second, hand me a lighter . . . let me dim the lights and set the mood here by flooding my apartment with the stench of celebrity poon?"

I don't think so, people. I don't think so. In this case, it is much better to curse the darkness than light a candle.










Wednesday, January 8, 2020

Once You Go Brand Name Pepper Flakes, You’ll Never...?

You’ll never ... go to an Irish wake? Drink a chocolate milkshake? Nothing quite rolls off the tongue on this one, but still. Come on. We’ve all been there. 

You sit down with a piping hot slice of pizza. You reach for the red pepper flakes, sprinkle them on liberally, take a bite, and BAM. Something’s off. WAY off. It’s the GENERIC red pepper flakes, and you can tell the difference.

That’s why brand name pepper flakes are the only kind of red pepper flakes you can ever consume again. Flatiron, McCormick, whatever. The point is that your pepper flakes shouldn’t be some supermarket off-brand like Frosted Ohs or Froot Hoops. Your delicate palate should not have to endure such a grievous affront.

It’s kind of like salt. You wouldn’t just put any old salt on your food. There’s Pink Himalayan Salt. There’s Black Sea Salt. There’s Tahitian Sea Salt. Hell, there’s probably a Mariana Trench Salt or a Norwegian Fjord Salt for all I know. Point is, you’re not just gonna pick up any old salt shaker and unload. Even that little brat Morton with her yellow raincoat and umbrella is better than THAT. 

Do me a favor. Next time you order pizza take those little red pepper flake packets that sometimes come with it, open them up, and dump them right into your eyeballs as a reminder that you are not so much as to LOOK at a generic red pepper flake again.

Seriously if more people would just put on their big girl/boy/they panties and cross the Rubicon to brand name pepper flakes, we’d probably have cured cancer and solved climate change by now. 

I want you to go home (or if you’re already home stay there) and think long and hard about this because brand name red pepper flakes will change your fucking LIFE.

Capisce?




Saturday, January 4, 2020

Climate Change is Finally Real Because Kim Kardashian Said So ... OR IS IT?!?!

I don’t know you guys. I just don’t know who or what to believe anymore. 

2002 has jumped off to a confusing start after famous-for-indiscernible-reasons Kim Kardashian West tweeted that "climate change is real." Just two days later, however, has-been singer/songwriter Meat Loaf said climate change is a bunch of bollocks and that Greta Thunberg has sadly been brainwashed into thinking otherwise.

That leaves me, stuck in the middle, unsure which of these two eminent authorities on climate science to believe: the aspiring lawyer, ass-exhibitionist, and author of an entire book of selfies, or a 72yo named after Wednesday's school lunch who by his own admission would do "anything" for love except "that."

I mean, y’all can see how fucking real the struggle is here. 

On the one hand, Australia is a blistering inferno to the point that kangaroos are turning into flash-jerky and old ladies are practically diving into the ocean to escape encroaching flames while koala bears roast in the shell of eucalyptus trees like the whole continent is a Coleman BBQ. Alaska has also had its warmest year on record, and sea ice is getting harder to find up here than a boyfriend without a felony.

On the other hand, piles of scientific paper that have been accumulating since the early 1960s and that could at this point reach the rings of Saturn if laid end to end suggest irrefutably that earth is warming at alarming rates and that people are the reason. 

On the third hand—which I don’t have so I’ll just say ass cheek—devastating hurricanes, refugee crises, and octopi washing up in Miami parking structures suggest that Kanye’s boo has the better end of this argument. 

After all, the counterpoint is coming from an okay boomer named Meat, which again science suggests is a little bit of the problem because agriculture and cows burping methane. I guess by “doing anything for love” he actually meant “sliding back into relevance for being a moron.” What “that” is remains a mystery, however, but by deductive reasoning and process of elimination (i.e. science), we can conclude that “that” is NOT “piling on a teenager for trying to ensure her generation still has oxygen by the time they can vote.” 

Ever since Jenny McCarthy told me not to worry about polio because vaccines make autism, and Gwyneth Paltrow said underwire bras start breast cancer and that we should be shoving jade eggs up our vaginas, I’ve taken all my medical advice and scientific information from any celebrity on or above the C-list who opens their mouth. 

If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do the same.