One Shark Swimming

No Happy Hour at the Barre

2010-07-15T21:32:00.000-07:00

I have, inexplicably, decided that 28 is the perfect age to begin ballet.

Not wanting to enter this decision lightly, as I had never taken a single ballet class in my youth, I read up on adult ballet on the internets and learned to expect a non-judgmental, carefree activity in which no one else knows what they're doing either, and there's always someone fatter than you.

Well. I may have gotten a false sense of security from Russia's Big Ballet. I may have also gotten a false sense of superior athleticism. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I came to believe that ballet was invented specifically for sedentary fatasses; I just thought, If they can do it ...

My own adult ballet experience, thus far (and it's still early), can only be described as darkly comic. I'm kind of like Lucy, only less self-aware.

My class is full of former dancers so, actually, everyone knows exactly what they're doing.

Of course.

The movement, by definition, is stiff and unnatural. I am adept at slouching, and I'm also out of yoga practice, so every stretch hurts. My teacher keeps telling me to imagine I'm a marionette, that my head is being held up by an invisible string. Only bend at the joints.

I also, apparently, have no short-term memory, rhythm, or control over my arms. I haven't smacked anyone in the face yet, but I have found my arms thrashing awkwardly on several occasions because I'm working so hard to keep up with everyone else's feet. Is it supposed to require that much concentration?

I am the only one who appears to be playing a lonely game of Hopscotch while everyone else glides jauntily across the floor. I'm told I have "good turnout," which is important, I suppose. But right now it seems more important to have awesome thighs. I have flaws I didn't even know to be ashamed of until I entered a room with three floor-to-ceiling wall-length mirrors, clothed only in a leotard and pastel pink tights (NOT slimming). For someone who wears black all the time, this is extremely disoncerting. There is literally nothing to hide behind.

Still, I picked this specifically because I wanted something psychologically grueling. At least I'm getting my money's worth.

I write like ...

2010-07-13T09:19:00.000-07:00

This is kind of an interesting time-suck.

Copy and paste a few paragraphs of your text (any text) here. See what happens.

I write like
H. P. Lovecraft

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Starfucker!

2010-06-08T08:28:00.000-07:00

While listening to The National for three consecutive days has made me kind of inexplicably sad, I was delighted to find video of the concert I attended last Saturday.

In this video, I can even see my special man friend and Matt Berninger in the same frame. File under: dreamy.

Steve Jobs is a better teacher than me.

2009-12-09T14:28:00.000-08:00

If I had any kind of access to vital learning tools, like internets or computers, I would use this Apple commercial when I teach 1984 to this year's group of seniors.

Because:

a. My students only respond to visuals, and only learn from pictures, and
b. We could discuss the irony of a mega-corporation assuring us "1984 won't be like '1984.'"

But on the bright side, at least my job affords me the necessary free time to indulge in profound existential despair.

Fear-mongering at its finest.

2009-10-06T18:39:00.000-07:00

SMF and I moved into the new grown-up pad on Sunday, and I took Monday off to unpack. Of course, I also needed a full day to wait for Comcast to show up whenever the hell they felt like it.

I trusted Comcast guy immediately, as he showed up a) in a Cincinnati Reds hat; b) early. It's hard to say when, exactly, the second Comcast guy showed up at the door to assure me there was still stuff I could buy, but it was just enough time for me to refuse him without realizing the cable is busted (currently stuck on the CW, so I least I caught this week's Gossip Girl).

So, CG2 was all like, "O hai, it looks like you just moved in," and I was all like, "Hey, stop creeping and peeping, plz." And CG2 wanted to sell me some superfluous phone service. I said I didn't need that because it's 2009. CG2 said I did, in fact, need that, I just didn't know it -- because if none of the multiple cell phones in the house work, I could still call 911.

Because I've seen horror films before, I told him that I was familiar with how these things work; if the cell phones aren't working, then neither is the land line. CG2 told me all I had to do was just knock the phone over while running from the bogeyman, and it would automatically dial 911.

Toto: we're not in Baltimore anymore.

I found this argument pretty laughable until I came home to an empty house today, with little furniture to absorb the echoes, because SMF is in another state for work.

Well done, Comcast. This has probably sold some superfluous phone service for you. But I'm still not buying a land line from you because, based on your prior customer "service" record, I have to assume the phone would only dial one number, unless I knock it over while bleeding to death.

Won't Someone Please Think of the Billionaires?

2009-09-23T10:18:00.000-07:00

Dear Beyonce, Part Two.

2009-09-12T21:57:00.000-07:00

Ok. We probably all owe you one for the patented butt-shake maneuver in the "Crazy in Love" video. But imagine how much more disturbing this video would be if the 7 year-old were in your stupid Dereon costumes.

As is, she's just a total badass. And I like how her mom seems to be chopping onions or something around the 1:25 mark.

Dear Beyonce

2009-09-12T07:46:00.000-07:00

To be clear: although I find this kind of thing funny because I am mostly indifferent to children, I very harshly disapprove of their objectification -- sometimes, because it's deeply unsettling; sometimes, because it's just fucking gross.

I know, I know: But Miley Cyrus is always gross. True. Gross, and trendy.

Not to be exclusionary of pre-teens, adolescent pole dancing classes were immediately supplemented by a pole dancing doll.

What. The. Hell. Women are dolls? Children are sexy? Toddler empowerment? I don't even know what message I'm being sold. The best possible excuse for this is an attempt to combat childhood obesity -- and NAAFA is not amused.

Abercrombie thought it was a good idea to sell size 6x thongs, and 13 year-olds could, for a time, mail their birthday party invitations on Playboy stationery, so I don't really know why I reacted to this picture by telling Facebook Friend X that I would be calling Child Protective Services as soon as I was done retching.

Sure, it's a baby. But, after seeing this and this, I really should have expected that stupid onesie.

You know what though, Beyonce? I really expected more from you.

Toddlers don't need a freakum dress, ok? And why is the dark-skinned kid in the background?

But thanks, Beyonce, for devoting half of your ad space to the Asian fetish -- which is, apparently, a new and newsworthy thing. Gross, and trendy.

I'm no pundit.

2009-09-12T06:43:00.000-07:00

I would have probably just called Wilson a knuckle-dragging asshat and moved on, naively assuming no one could possibly be taking this guy seriously -- and that's why I don't have a TV show. But Keith Olbermann really laid the smack in a nearly-unparalleled way.

"Of course your comments were 'inappropriate' and 'regrettable.' You are a Republican trying to de-legitimize the elected president of the United States. That's all you do, and that's all you've got."

"Look, Congressman: all capital letters! For the benefit of the factually-challenged."

"If, whether through stupidity or a willful attempt to mislead the gullible, you decided to spend whatever credibility remained to you on a position in which you are utterly, inarguably, and in a manner obvious to newborns and the more sophisticated of farm animals -- WRONG -- you apologize for your lack of 'civility,' when are you going to apologize for your lack of being right?"

"I was almost too fearful of using that word, 'impregnably,' because of the prospect that Governor Palin would go after me the way she went after David Letterman."

"The time has come to rise up and take this country back -- to again make it safe for people who actually completed the seventh grade."

I'm so smitten.

Charm City Shoot.

2009-09-11T17:56:00.000-07:00

I bet I just fooled you because this is not about gunfire.

SMF and I went here earlier in the week and, while waiting for our food, this crew showed up.

The Hipster is wearing scrubs and eavesdropping on Guy's heartbeat with a stethoscope while he eats some sort of pulled meat sandwich covered in what I hope was the Kansas City Sweet sauce. Hat looks on while Bald shoots. No explanation needed. This makes perfect sense.

Of course, no mention of Baltimore would be complete without an allusion to crime, poverty, and despair. Oh, by the way, please enjoy these dancing Crackheads:

On a completely unrelated note -- because I do not work in Baltimore, nor do I evoke inferences -- one of my students told me I was "funny as a motherfucker" today. It was so sweet I decided to include the same high praise in any recommendation letters he might later request.

Children come (to the gym for indefinite holding periods) first.

2009-09-02T16:14:00.000-07:00

.
Quandary: What should you do when it's August 23, you are a guidance counselor in a public school system, and 8,000 of the 41,000 high school students in your county still don't have class schedules?

Apparently, if you work for PGCPS, the answer is 'nothing at all.' Even if school starts on August 24. Chillax, baby!

And then, when it's September 1, and the problem hasn't magically fixed itself over the course of several nights while you're at home watching Everybody Hates Chris -- give yourself the day off.

And on September 2 -- leave work early. I don't mean 'early' like 4:00. School's over at 2:30, so go ahead and leave at noon. You're worth it. Who wouldn't agree that after waiting the entire summer to address a known problem that has prevented you from completing the most important part of your job -- which should have been done months ago, with or without "flaws in the new computer system --" and then making minimal progress over the course of almost two full weeks, that you've earned this time off?

And while we're on the subject -- what does 'new' really mean, anyway? Because SchoolMax, the demonized computer program you've been publicly blaming for the total exposure of your stunning incompetence, has been up and running for over a year. A year. I mean, is a one year-old still a newborn, then? I feel like we're not even speaking the same language.

And should you even bother to tell the teachers what's going on? Fuck, no! They're only the most important people in the school -- keep them on a need-to-know basis, because it's not like they need to know anything about, you know, students or classes. Continually stall them in the weeks before school with ambiguous half-answers and glaring omissions when they express concern over the obvious red flags popping up everywhere.

Remember all those times last year when you demanded they block out instructional time so you could come in and talk to their classes about various items of banal minutiae -- and then didn't show up at all? These people love surprises. Remember their looks of unadulterated joy when they walked into work on August 24 and gazed upon a sea of pissed off adolescents herded into the gym like cattle?

It was like Christmas for them. The only thing better was when you started putting 50 freshmen in 11th grade history classrooms with 35 desks just to get a few kids out of the gym. What the hell? I mean, they'd get to 11th grade eventually, right? Standing against cinderblock walls in poorly-ventilated rooms for 90 minutes at a time like Jews at Dachau will improve everyone's posture. And maybe they'll learn about that this year.

I'm really pleased with my new leadership.

2009-08-17T13:40:00.000-07:00

Rolled into school for my first of four mandatory days of "professional development," before the students show up to "learn," at 8:00 this morning. On my way there, I kept thinking about how lucky I was last year because I was only asked to write one recommendation letter. And, I thought, I should try to be positive about the new administration -- we have two new assistant principals (Hot Pocket Enforcer is gone), and a new principal. I allowed myself to think the one thing you should never, ever verbalize in these types of situations: How much worse can it get?

I was pounding my fists into the wall of my classroom, trying to get posters to stick, when M, an 11th grader from last year ambled in and asked for a recommendation. I don't recommend M for anything, aside from maybe a few rounds of electroshock therapy, but, I asked, "When do you need it?"

That was after I read Hot Pocket Enforcer's jaunty email about his transfer; it was rife with unconcealed glee, and said something to the effect of Peace out ... bitches.

The one assistant principal remaining from last year informed me, bluntly, that I owe him a favor because he wrote me a recommendation; apparently, the former principal's email got forwarded to him when she got promoted for being completely ineffectual. So now I probably have to chair a committee or something.

My favorite part about working here has always been watching the scum rise to the top of the quagmire with meteoric speed. So, I feel really good about my new leadership now that they've called a meeting about Procedure X without first bothering to find out what we did last year -- or deciding how Procedure X will be handled this year. I especially appreciated that after waiting around for three hours -- during which time it was impossible to do anything productive because the class schedule, apparently, is best kept a clandestine secret until the last possible second -- to attend this mandatory meeting that was only scheduled to take 15 minutes, and probably took less time because no one had any idea what was going on. But we started late.

More to be ashamed of loving.

2009-08-14T13:13:00.000-07:00

I took a brief reprieve from thinking about health care reform today to get really excited for the season premieres of Gossip Girl and Project Runway. And I'm not at all embarrassed about that. I love watching shows about women being mean to each other, which might explain my Top 5 Shows I Should be Ashamed to Watch:

1. Gossip Girl. Misbehavior ranging in severity from underage drinking, to running away from home, to blackmail, to second degree murder. Plus: Chuck Bass, the scarf-wearing date rapist!

2. The O.C. There's witty dialogue, and it's uber self-aware. Plus, if not for Marissa Cooper, we wouldn't all be wearing flats right now.

3. The Bad Girls Club. I'm not entirely convinced the title shouldn't be 'The Bad Girls' Club,' but you had me at Ripsi.

4. The Hills. Yeah, I said it. I really love this show where blonds with no veritable life skills land all manner of dream jobs just because they're on a scripted reality show. I love the awkward silences, the West Coast cadence, and the visible eating disorders. I don't even care if it's not real. Plus: Heidi's old nose!

5. GRΣΣK. The ubiquitous red cup: it really takes me back.

Honorable mention: More to Love, and NYC Prep. Both have every ingredient in their favor, but they're just, you know, not that good.

Update: Is anyone surprised by this?

2009-08-14T06:29:00.000-07:00

It turns out insurance companies may have their claws directly in the melee, stirring up the mayhem. But, wait. I don't understand. I thought their only purpose for being was to protect us?

Now: let's play the deconstruction game!

$80,000 a year worker with no insurance: First of all, what the hell is wrong with you? You make $80,000 a year. Even in New York, can afford some fucking insurance.

Second, what's it like being the token poor one on this piece of propaganda? I mean, sure, you make $80,000 a year but, my God, look at you. You're of ambiguous ethnicity, you're female, and you appear to be serving that food. My feelings of pity as a direct result of the overt feminization of poverty are fighting with my disdain for all "people" in the service industry. You're so sad, yet so gross.

Third, where are you serving food where you're allowed to have your hair all over the place, yet still making $80,000 a year? Since you're clearly lucky, you probably don't even need insurance.

Small business owner who'll have to lay off one person to pay for health care for everyone else: Is this guy even in business anymore? If so, I guarantee there's at least one employee he's been dying to get rid of, anyway. No one will claim it's not worth laying off one person so everyone else can have health care. Besides, he can go work in that restaurant.

Wall Streeter: You are a pariah, and no one cares about you -- but you.

Married couple with a combined income of $1.5M: There are so many zeros behind you, they take up too much space on the flier, despite the fact that you two take up almost half the flier. Is that some kind of subtle metaphor, or something? Anyway, I can't possibly be expected to feel bad for you because you have to pay more taxes; I'm too busy planning to rob your house while you're in the Hamptons. Your disgruntled housekeeper, who's been polishing your glee club trophies with a sprained wrist, is going to let me in the front door.

Of course, all of this incidental compared to the mathFAIL.

The Wall Streeter is going to be charged a surtax of one percent on every dollar he makes over $280,000. That's 1% of $5,000. That's $50.

I'm just not sure how I feel about everyone else maybe having health care.

2009-08-13T08:15:00.000-07:00

Praise Allah! Barack Hussein Obama just won't stop terrorizing the American public by trying to offer them health care! Will there be no relief?

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that everyone's turning on Obama now that he's trying to make good on some of the promises that got him elected. I mean, we're not used to that kind of -- oh, what's the word?

Honesty? Integrity? Doing the job you're paid to do? I can't remember; I'm so used to this:

Anyway, suddenly every illiterate fucker is just swelling with civic pride. It hasn't been this hip to be politically active since back in the day when people were afraid of AIDS. I don't know why lunatics always scream the loudest, but if I hear one more person say anything remotely similar to "I want my country back," I'm going to commit a hate crime. Really. I can't take this anymore.

Oh, you love America? You get all hard and tingly for the founding fathers? Show me where it says "All men are created equal, but some aren't entitled to health care." Show me where it says "... life (unless you have a preexisting condition), liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." Because if not everyone deserves health care, then not everyone deserves to live (Right, Deamonte?). And that must mean that everyone who's fighting this health care reform is pro-choice, because otherwise they're hypocrites, right?

Right, guys?

Guys?

And stop saying you're against government medicine if you're on Medicare. Really. You're done. Thanks for playing.

After two years of completely inadequate health insurance, followed by six months of no insurance, I've grown really fond of my nearly-adequate health insurance plan. And I know change can be scary. But I can't even tell what I'm supposed to be afraid of anymore because all the lines of propaganda are getting crossed. Plus, no one's actually read the health care reform bill because it's 2,000 pages long. That, to me, implies that some thought might have gone into it, but, who knows. It's weird: I feel like we've been here before.

All I can tell, so far, is that this isn't really about Obama trying to limit anyone's freedom -- unless you consider limiting the haves' freedom to oppress the have-nots a violation of Constitutional rights. I didn't see that in there, but, please, show me. This is about us not wanting to pay for them, and being forced to consider the notion that our money might not buy us privilege anymore.

And now that I think about it, well, shit. I was getting really comfortable with my little piece of hegemony. But, remember kindergarten? Sometimes we have to share our toys. It's kind of like how I don't feel I should have to keep paying into social security since I'm not going to see any of that money, but it keeps coming out of my checks anyway. That's what it really looks like to lose your freedom of choice, and I don't hear anyone complaining about that. So can it, yokel.

Maybe, before we oppose our scary new black President, we should try to figure out what he really has planned for us. This doesn't even read like satire anymore.

CockBib Inventor 'DEMANDS' to be Taken Seriously

2009-08-11T08:29:00.000-07:00

In case you've missed CockBibgate unfolding at Jezebel, here's a CockBib megamix, in order, with greatest-hits-style commentary:

CockBibs: Keys to Not Getting a Blow Job by Tracie

5.19.09

Oh god. Washington City Paper introduces us to the CockBib, an adult novelty item worn around a penis, making "cleanup after oral sex a breeze." Because getting head can be a hassle for men!

The slogans on the CockBibs are so stupid, and the mental image of dangling a piece of cloth off an erect penis is so ridiculous, that it's impossible to imagine that they could ever be truly utilized, because most women who came face to face with such a thing would either laugh too much to actually suck a dick, or be completely turned off by the dork attached to it.

The creator of the CockBib came up with his invention after being a "victim of another sloppy blow job" and thought to himself, "Damn, I can't just fall asleep, I need to get up and wash my balls." It was my understanding that most guys liked having their balls licked and sucked on. It was also my understanding that most men make do with dirty underwear, a sheet corner, or, you know, evaporation, for a hideous problem like damp balls.

But what do I know? Maybe this is something that every man kept a secret from us for centuries up until now. I have to say though that if they're going to be babies about it, a bib is fitting.

DontFearTheReefer
05/19/09

WON'T SOMEONE PLEASE THINK OF THE MEN???? THEIR BALLS ARE ALL WET AND DROOLY. WET AND DROOLY!!!!

zu_zu
05/19/09

Damn if they're that devoted to cleanliness, I suggest they just get sexy with the vacuum hose.

saintbernadette
05/19/09

Does this mean I get to wear a HazMat outfit?

BabyJane
05/19/09

It's not like you're eating a lobster.

---

"It Would be Disgusting to Wipe Wet Balls Off with the Corner of a F*cking Sheet." by Tracie

5.22.09

Earlier this week, we posted about CockBibs, an adult novelty item intended to keep balls dry during a blow job. Well, someone purporting to be the CockBibs' inventor wrote us last night, saying he "had no choice but to respond."

I just read this article that you guys wrote on CockBibs and it was very dissapointing to say the least. You guys were so hard on me and my CockBibs that I feel I have no choice but to respond. As a man I love to get my balls sucked and licked, but what I don't love is a quart of saliva in my pubes, making is way down to my balls, with every intention of reaching my ass! It would be disgusting to ask a man to keep on some dirty wet underwear or wipe his wet balls off with the corner of a f*cking sheet. It would be even worse to let it evaporate. Would you as women let our saliva dry up on you? Would you go to sleep in some wet panties? I think not! I am thankful that we now have CockBibs, I would have been using these years ago if they were around. I am sure that you guys know that this is purely a novelty. Thought it can be utilized to keep ones balls dry, and quite effectively might I add, it primarily functions as a funny gag gift meant to bring a smile to someones face. I would like to think that everyone could find the humor in CockBibs, but what can I really expect, this is a femminist site right? I Do have to thank you guys though because you have inspired a new CockBib and that CockBib shall read... " Jezebels Need Only Apply!"! Maybe then you guys will lighten up and stop slamming CockBibs.

That's OK, Mr. CockBib. We would not want to take part in any blow job-related gag you have to offer us.

Related: we were not the only people to be on the receiving end of his marketing wrath. Amanda Hess, who wrote about CockBibs for the Washington City Paper's blog, emailed us to let us know that someone from Cockbibs HQ got all up in her comments section. "Some person from the CockBib coalition began posting a bunch of fake comments under my name and others (from the same IP address). They started out just being PR ("lol I love these CockBibs I'm going to buy one for my husband!") and then started to get more personal." This one is her favorite:

1. Amanda Hess Says:
May 20th, 2009 at 4:29 pm edit
Look at me, I'm amanda hess. I work for jezebel so I am special! I can show everyone my super posting powers because I am amanda hess! lol

HoneyBoom
05/22/09

When these don't sell, maybe he can re-purpose and re-brand them to LonelyFaceBibs- which keep your cheeks dry whilst you are crying because "Femminists" are mean bitches who won't give you blow jobs.

vivianthelibrarian
05/22/09

"It would be disgusting to ask a man to keep on some dirty wet underwear or wipe his wet balls off with the corner of a f*cking sheet."

You know what else might be kind of disgusting? Putting a dick in my MOUTH. Shut up CockBib guy, it was kind of funny as a novelty, but then you had to go getting all serious.

---

CockBibs Inventor Has a Few Words for Our Commenters by Hortense

5.24.09

The mysterious inventor of CockBibs has already written one Crap Email to express his disgust with our take on his product. But after that email was posted, he felt the need to respond—again.

I hate to break it to you guys, but Mr. Cockbibs is NOT pleased with you, nor is he amused by your comments. In fact, he calls several of our commenters out by name, which indicates that at least a handful of you are on the CockBib Enemies List.

Subject: I don't give a shit what your readers think, i sell CockBibs Baby.. get it right!

What is this shit? I created the CockBib.... and this is the mutherfucking thanks I get?

It was my understanding that feminist were supposed to to have some level of intelligence, and if not that at least some common sense. I not at all surprised at your readers comments which broadly displays their lack of self respect and decency.

I have never seen such unladylike like behavior in my life. They sound like a bunch of dirty mouth male bashing whores running to jump on the "I'm gonna hate CockBibs because she said she hates Cockbibs" bandwagon! I don't give a fuck what your degenrate readers (the ones who made those nasty comments) think about my product.

Lets be clear.. I am not purporting anything, I am the creator of the CockBib and I am not confused on whether or not my CockBib is a novelty or a utility item. It is a novelty item that can be utilized.

For example, I am sure you and some of your readers have been to a bachelorette party and I am sure at that party they had novelty items such as penis straws, penis candy, penis paper plates and cups, etc. The point is just because they are novelty items does not mean that they can't be functional. You can still eat the penis candy, sip from the penis cup with a penis straw and eat off the penis paper plate.

To your readers,

I understand that you guys may not be completely happy with your lives. Some of you are single and lonely, some of you are married and unhappy, some of you are divorced or headed there. Some of you are lesbians which if you are not outwardly comfortable, can be dificult! Shit, some of you might be happily married but just feel the need to bitch about something!

What I am trying to say is that I understand. I understand that when you guys get together and post hate filled comments on sites like Jezebel.com, about people you don't know anything about, it makes you feel just little bit better about yourselves. It gives you a sense of sisterhood and belonging when joining forces to use your super human bitching powers against the creator of the offensive "CockBib". My advice to you is (not like you will use it) try to do somthing more useful with your time than eating, bitching, hating on men and posting your problems away on Jezebel.com!

Regardless of what you guys think or say about me I am happy. How many of you can truly say the same?

Also, please tell the following readers I said fuck you!

pursedangler: fuck you

ichago18: fuck you

andbegorrah: fuck you

Ibleedglitter: you're cool

and natekyswhoreskidsister: fuck you

I am out!

***Oh, and to MorningGloria, I guarantee you that this "illiterate fucker" makes more money than you do! :)**

Oh snap! You just got told by a man who makes novelty bibs for men who don't want saliva on their balls, which, in case you were wondering, is the internet equivalent of being given the evil eye by the dude who works behind the counter at Spencer Gifts.

Will we ever reach the heights of Mr. CockBibs? Will we ever be able to touch the CockBib-enhanced stars that sail across his novelty product stars? Alas, perhaps we shall never know. For all we are, after all, is a bunch of "dirty mouth male bashing whores" who lack the "decency" of Mr. CockBibs.

Oh, and for the record, Mr. CockBibs, we are plenty happy. This is probably due to the fact that our boyfriends recognize that bibs are for, well, babies. But good luck to you, good sir! May your condescending, woman-bashing ways ensure that saliva on your balls won't be a problem you have to worry about for a long, long time, bib or no bib.

Update: The Urban Dictionary defines a cockbib as "A person who whines excessively about a common, everyday occurrence that the vast majority of people have no trouble handling or do not even recognize as a problem." You guys wouldn't know anything about that, would you?

Renee377
05/25/09

For those of you who were wondering what ever happened to the guy from "True Life: I'm Getting Married, Staten Island Edition," well, I think it's now pretty clear that he went on to invent cockbibs.

MediumMac
05/25/09

"I created the Cockbib and this is the mutherfucking thanks I get?"

Why SHOULD I give you any thanks, you self-congratulatory asshat? I don't have balls that will be lovingly draped in your silly invention. Come up with a Vag Vest or Pussy Ponchos, or a Bits Beret and then I'll give you your props.

Old Jean Gallagher
05/24/09

And it was MY understanding that if you're going to call someone's intelligence into question, you should possess at least some skill in spelling, grammar, and/or knowing when you're being a hypocrite.

Thanks for playing!

---

"I Know How You All Look Forward to Your Weekly Rampaging Bitch Sessions About Me and [CockBibs]" by Tracie

8.10.09

Do you remember CockBibs? Or the unhinged man who invented them? Well, he's firing off angry emails to us again. This time, he's irate about an Urban Dictionary definition that Jezebel readers created—and made popular!—for the term "cockbib."

All typos have been left unedited, because, well, it's just more fun that way.

I know that it has been a while since you have heard from me but I just wanted you and your readers know that CockBibs are Alive and Kicking! Sorry for dissappearing on you and your readers like that, I know how you all looked forward to your weekly rampaging bitch sessions about me and product.

It's funny, I took the time to read ALL the comments and I noticed that one of you readers took it upon themselves to create a definition for CockBib and a bunch of your readers co-signed this dumb ass definition! Lets just say I am not amused! I DEMAND that your readers go back to the urban dictionary and give that definition the Thumbs Down! Its like over 2000 Up Votes! I mean, what the Hell? Are you guys gonna start burning Cockbibs next in protest of them or throwing paint on then. I am sure your clever readers will find some new and innovative way to desecrate my bibs.

I guess he's trying to tell us that he prefer we spit on, rather than talk shit on his CockBibs.

Look, its not like I am selling Gangster Rap, Fur Coats or clubbing baby seals. Cut me a Friggen Break! I am really pissed about this urban dictionary shit! I did not work this hard to create a product just so that you and your readers can poke fun at it and misrepresent it! Alot of time and care goes into what I do and I happen to have a great product, as it turns out is more people buy it as a Gag Gift than a Blowjob Bib but Fuck It, Whatever! Its still funny as hell!

Tracie, I have no problem with you but it is your responsibilty to fix this!

He's right. It is my responsibility to fix this. I can't believe that the Urban Dictionary definition of cockbib ("A person who whines excessively about a common, everyday occurrence that the vast majority of people have no trouble handling or do not even recognize as a problem") is hovering around 2500. It should be way more. So go over and vote for it today!

likepenguins
11:53 AM

ha ha ha, "work this hard." Dude. You took a bib, narrowed the hole considerably, and stuck it on your cock. One time I masturbated by sitting on a massaging chair, but I didn't invent the vibrator.

pesematology
08/10/09

OMFG I just noticed the "get this definition on a mug" button. AMAZING. Now if only there was a "get this definition on a highball glass" button. I think I'm going to start hosting a weekly cocktail hour dedicated to "rampaging bitch sessions" in his honor.

ClockOnTheStove
08/10/09

It's a cockbibbin' shame that this cockbib just out-cockbibbed himself. He ought to cockbib up and just get a cockbibbin' clue! How many cockbibs does it take to cockbib in a cockbib? Cockbib.

The East Coast Opportunity Myth

2009-08-10T16:21:00.000-07:00

I went to look at some houses with SMF yesterday. It should have been a joyous occasion, as it is totally a big deal to buy one's first home. I was happy for SMF and, I think, appropriately reverent of his success heretofore, as I realize that, even if I had generous parents who loved me enough to kick in for a down payment -- which I do not, currently, have -- I still wouldn't be able to buy a house by myself here unless I doubled my salary. And that, I think, explains why these billboards are all over Baltimore:

So, here's how I came away from day two of househunting disillusioned, confused, and slightly angry. SMF has x number of dollars to spend. That number used to sound like a lot to me as, where I come from, x number of dollars will buy you something like this:

It's really greatexcitingwonderful that SMF is buying a home. That's definitely preferable to renting an apartment in the country's murder capital. But. For God's sake, my parents spent less than x, and they have an indoor pool. Apparently, in Maryland, x number of dollars buys you a townhouse with on-street parking. SMF sees nothing wrong with this, so that's definitely one benefit of growing up here: diminished expectations.

We looked at three houses yesterday and, as they went from fine, to nearly acceptable as a starter home, to decrepit and horrifying, I looked back with nostalgia at everywhere else I've ever lived. And even though I wonder, Why does anyone live here? at least three times a week, my normal bewilderment took on an edge of existential desperation during and after househunting. I was told our economy was in the toilet, and that home prices were falling to unbeatable lows. I guess I got too excited about that, because then I realized: What if these places are selling for less than they're "worth?"

I thought of a friend who just purchased a house in Ohio for $10,000. I thought about what x number of dollars will buy you in Delaware. And then I tried to picture the rest of my life in Maryland.

Mostly, I came away from yesterday's experience ashamed of my hypothetical inability to contribute; even if SMF and I were buying a house together, we'd still be looking at townhouses with on-street parking -- just, maybe, in Howard County. I have to get a better job. Immediately.

The real bitch about all this is that I only moved here because I was told there were jobs here. And every time I talk to a new transplant, they say, "There are jobs here." Of course, there are jobs here that you can't do anywhere else; no one I know has one of those jobs. But we all keep perpetuating this notion, like we couldn't be teachers, lawyers, engineers, social workers, journalists, literally anywhere else.

This East Coast opportunity myth must die. It's misleading, and untrue, and just wrong. Native Marylanders get weirdly offended when I ask Why does anyone live here? but, as far as I can tell, people only live here because they're already here.

But, you know, this isn't really my thing. I don't understand why people live here, but I have to admit I'm impressed by people who can. Good luck settling, homeowners.

National Racist Week

2009-07-22T13:50:00.000-07:00

Hey, racists!

Hats off to you, this week, for really stepping up your game. First, you arrested a black Harvard professor, blatantly furthering the notion that Boston is one of the most flagrantly racist places in America. But blaming the victim isn't just for cops anymore; some Boston Globe readers even got in on the action and left insightful anonymous comments [sic]:

Here we go. Let's blow this out of all proportion. Let's not wait until we hear the full story....bring on the Jesse Jackson/Al Sharpton circus.

sure. EVERY minority who has to deal w/ the police, merited or not, is the victim of...what was that again? racial profiling? oooh that sounds bad, the cops r badd peeple!

Enough of throwing down the race card ... we have a Black President now, so that tired old ship has sailed. The guy got indignant like any self-important Harvard professor does, pulled the old "Do you know who I am?" routine, and got arrested as a result.

Then, not to be outdone by those uppity bitches who can't even pronounce the letter R, but think it's a word, the Midwest stepped up its game and kicked some brown kids out of a swimming pool for altering 'the complexion' and 'atmosphere' of a country club.

No, really.

Now, of course, the Creative Steps daycare is suing the Valley Swim Club and Tyler Perry is bankrolling 65 of those brown kids to go to Disney World -- for two days. What a selfless and truly inspired move that is not only tax deductible, but will also completely erase the pain of racism -- for two days.

Coming soon to a theatre near you: Madea Makes a Nominal Effort.

Now look, South, I know you've had this racism thing in the bag since before Satan planted the slaves' bones here to trick President Lincoln into signing the Emancipation Proclamation, but don't get complacent on me now. You've been awfully quiet this week. Imagine: 65 yankee brown kids with minimal supervision in the happiest place on Earth™. That's a little freebie from the Midwest. Can you put down the Mountain Dew long enough to extend some Southern hospitality™?

When Keeping it Real Goes Wrong.

2009-07-20T13:19:00.000-07:00

I can't think of any quicker way to get your tires slashed.

A Tribute.

2009-07-01T10:42:00.000-07:00

My first thought, upon hearing of Michael Jackson's death: I didn't know he could do that. I seriously thought the man would never die.

My second thought: He threw out The Shocker a lot while dancing. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized how deeply ingrained this particular hand gesture is in our culture.

Of course, one always has options when throwing a sign:

But The Shocker remains tried and true because of its beautifully efficient symbolic nature in non-verbal communication. It's almost as if "When You Say Nothing at all" was written with this gesture in mind.

MJ does it.

George Takei almost does it.

Letterman does it.

Ben Stein does it.

Chuck Norris does it.

Administrative professionals do it.

W does it.

It runs in the family.

Cheerleaders do it.

Again.

And Again.

Retired cheerleaders do it.

No wonder cheerleading is the most dangerous sport.

The $588 oil change

2009-07-01T09:45:00.000-07:00

At this point, I feel I have gathered enough evidence to issue a general warning: Do not go to Jiffy Lube.

1. SMF took his reliable foreign car for an oil change. He got upsold a new air filter -- which was never installed. He told them it was never installed, and they remedied the situation by charging him for it a second time.

2. I took my humble Ford to Jiffy Lube for an oil change. Jiffy Lube then lost or simply discarded my oil filler cap, which caused oil to spray all over my engine like a fucking geyser. Of course, I didn't realize this until my car started smoking (like a fucking geyser) and I had to take it to a mechanic, who now wants to charge me $588 to replace a cap, some antifreeze, and power steering fluid.

It is worth noting that SMF and I did not go to the same Jiffy Lube, so I have to assume this is something more than coincidence, and I hereby dismiss them all as crap.

Do not go to Jiffy Lube.

Snapple for Becky, Herpes for Otto.

2009-06-29T16:44:00.000-07:00

It's not Valentine's day or anything, but if you've been getting a little lax in your personal relationships, I think you ought to pause, remember what it's actually like to date, and consider the alternatives:

This next video/ cautionary tale begins with an incomprehensible but innocuous photo shoot at Target and quickly escalates into the most awkward, uncomfortable, terrible thing you will ever see on the internet. Things get especially hairy around 2:19. Next time you hear a crack about white guys dancing, I want you to remember this video, ineptly "chorographed" by five soulful gentlemen in wife beaters. And mesh shorts. And socks.

You know, as the proud owner of a vagina, I think I can speak for all of us when I say that there's only one thing we appreciate more than homoerotic amateur dance-offs in studio apartments: baked goods.

Love means never having to say you're sorry (about the Herpes).

Junk/ Food

2009-06-24T11:37:00.000-07:00

IN THIS ECONOMY, I guess I can understand why advertisers might feel the need to resort to the overt sexualization of, well, everything. For example:

Personally, I find that ad a tad ambiguous for my taste. I prefer this:

In case you missed it: unmanageable pubic hair is unsightly.

Some homophobes are, apparently, upset about this Quizno's ad -- but only because the oven is male:

Speaking of phallic sandwiches, the reigning champion of ads-that-make-everyone-regrettably-uncomfortable is still Burger King. Good-bye, homoerotic King of yore.

Wake up with the King 'just watching you sleep.'

IN THIS ECONOMY, we've decided to go a different direction -- with doe-eyed blond blowup dolls who are visibly frightened and awed by the uber-masculine, vegetable-less Super Seven Incher.

I bet you look good in the psych ward.

2009-06-23T22:49:00.000-07:00

I think about Halloween pretty much all year.
.

In January, I'd decided on Darla from Dazed and Confused -- mostly so I could act like an asshole all night.

"Air raid, bitches!"

April: Margot Tenenbaum. But, really, I can't pull off a shirt-dress. And where am I going to get a wear-once fur coat that I'm actually willing to wear once? And a wooden finger? And I have to smoke for the night?

Nah.

Now I'm undecided, and experiencing great inner turmoil (brunettes are, sadly, limited), but since I'm a chick, I guess my costume has to be SEXY!

"I don't know if you noticed, but I am female."

I thought I'd seen SEXY! stretched to the limit by the sorostitutes in Morgantown, who enacted the SEXY! bumblebee; the SEXY! cop; the SEXY! bin Laden; the SEXY! food; SEXY! Stewie, SEXY! Spongebob, etc. -- but, today, I'm glad to see the return of the sexy mental patient.

I don't really understand this costume, as it renders jello shots pretty much impossible, but welcome back to 1991, you SEXY! beast.

Spawn in a box.

2009-06-17T10:34:00.000-07:00

Album de Famiglia will sell you a crib made out of a cardboard box -- with wheels on it -- for only $255.

Because, until someone comes out with a better idea -- like a crib shaped like a Dumpster -- there's no better way to say, "Sleep tight, God's Little Mistake."

Blaming your parents in therapy will never go out of style.

Generation Worst.

2009-06-16T08:59:00.000-07:00

As much as I dislike teacher kitsch, such as crafty holiday sweaters, or the keychain I found in my mailbox today ("5 Reasons Why I Became a Teacher: 1. weekends; 2. snow days; 3. Easter vacation; 4. Christmas vacation; 5. summer vacation"), two facepalm-inducing events today have forced me to consider purchasing one of those ceramic jars labelled Ashes of former students.

Colleagues: drink the pain away.

1. The huge number of female 11th graders who thought it was a good idea to turn in a final portfolio with a picture of themselves posed semi-provocatively on the cover page astounds and disturbs me. To be fair, I never said not to do this. To be fairer, it ought to go without saying that the world is not Myspace; your English teacher knows what you look like, and she would prefer not to be saddled with 90 softcore child pornfolios.

2. And then there's "Cloud 9," a haiku homage not written for Caryl Churchill:

Cloud 9

High up in the sky

Sitting on cloud 9 is fly

I am really high

This author did not include a picture of himself (because I'll see him again next year), but he did title his project "A Poem to Share is a Poem that Cares." I hesitate to even assume he used personification intentionally, but at least he gets rhyming. And it's not like the only thing he consistently excelled in this year was being a huge waste of time and space -- he also inspired me to write a haiku of my own.

Cloudy, With a Chance of FAIL

This is why you got
ninety out of two-forty.
How fly is that, bitch?

Hallmark should make a 'Thank You for Not Dating Me' card.

2009-06-15T19:05:00.000-07:00

I've been reading -- and thoroughly enjoying -- Psychotic Letters from Men today. Not only did this glittering piece of interweb brilliance lead me to this steaming pile of fuckery, it also reminded me of the following fond memory from last October.

I made nebulous plans to do something date-like with a gentleman who was, apparently, named Jeff. The details of how this arrangement came to be are hazy, as I was dating pretty feverishly at this point. I don't remember why plans were nebulous, but there must have been one of only two possible reasons in play:
.

a) He was too lazy, ineffectual, or stupid to come up with a date idea

b) I was ambivalent and didn't care whether I saw him

So, the pre-plan plan was for one of us to call the other on Saturday afternoon to establish plans. Unfortunately, I woke up sick that day -- truly, audibly, sick. My phone rang at noon, while I was attempting to sleep in. It was Jeff. I politely told him I wasn't feeling well, and would have to cancel the plans we hadn't even made.
.

I didn't think much of the whole affair. Obviously, Jeff did, because shortly thereafter, I got this email [sic]:
.

On Oct 21, 2008, at 1:30 PM, Douchebag wrote:

I thought it was worth mentioning that your behavior was not respectable at all. I had a girlfriend who told me about how she had been set up on a blind date, and it was VERY akward. Apparently she got up to go the the restroom and left the guy. I think that kind of thing shows incredible lack of character and decency. The fact that you wanted to cancel on Saturday was perfectly acceptable, and I would have had total respect for it had you taken the effort to tell me. Ignoring me and making me call you to find out is just plain rude. Your bahavior was disrespectful, low character, and completely unnecessary. Best luck.

Jeff

Obviously, there's a lot going on here.

1. The latent fear of rejection.

2. The comparison to an ex-girlfriend, contingent upon some perceived insight into my character somehow obtained before our first date.

3. The creep factor required to muster the anger to send me a passive-aggressive tirade about cancelling plans that were never made in the first place.

4. The delusional revisionist history and/ or inability to listen -- I did make the effort to cancel. By answering the phone that rang, while I was sleeping, at least eight hours before any potential date could have conceivably occurred.

5. The condescension. I'm glad my refusal to go out was "acceptable," but, no, it wasn't worth mentioning. Most things Mensa here has to say probably aren't worth mentioning.

6. The lack of editing. Jesus. Christ.

I hadn't received a Psychotic Letter from a man in a while, and I was at work, so I didn't really have time to peel apart the layers of stank in this onion of manFAIL, but I did the polite thing (again) and responded -- with prepositions -- to his missive.

Date: Tue, Oct 21, 2008 at 4:28 PM

Subject: Re: hey

To: Douchebag

I might have rescheduled if you weren't so thoroughly irritating, Jeff.

Meta-licious.

2009-06-15T16:42:00.000-07:00

A Spanish teacher/ Nice White Man at my school sent me this video today, along with a photo of four of the NWLs together in adorable white-lady clothes at last Friday's graduation.

I will find a way to work this video into a lesson plan.

Did I really just see this on a magazine cover?

2009-06-04T09:30:00.001-07:00

Yes. Yes, I did.

"I'd love to, but you're intolerable."

2009-06-03T11:17:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, I had a really good time with another teacher's co-workers. I never hang out with my co-workers because they are all either old, or live in Virginia. So, here's a problem: the school librarian keeps trying to hang out with me. And now, here are some reasons why that absolutely cannot happen:

1. She is a Close Talker
2. with occasionally foul breath.
3. She has something rude to say about everyone
4. which she somehow makes irritating, rather than funny.
5. Every time I've asked her a library-related question, it's "not her job" to tell me the answer, know the answer, or know who to ask for the answer.
6. Somehow, she has gotten the idea that her only job is to prevent students from ever using the library
7. and she walks around screaming at them.
8. In the library.
9. And now none of my students can do research projects,
10. effectively widening the achievement gap.
11. She has the voice of Bruce Willis's girlfriend in Pulp Fiction
12. with some sort of unidentifiable accent (Now, imagine that -- screaming. In the library).
13. She is in her 50s.
14. She is painfully stupid.

Exhibit A

15. She is already too chummy for my liking, and continues her one-sided conversations with me, even as I am plainly backing out the door, nodding silently.

I've never been good at hiding my disdain, and I'm not sure how I can be any ruder to this woman. Today, she got in my face, singing, asking me to identify the song. I said, "I have no idea. Because I was born in the 80s." I can only assume she keeps trying to hang out with me because of reason #14. Or because, despite reason #14, she has noticed my disdain and now she wants to talk to me about a close personal relationship with Jesus. I can't figure it out, but I'm running out of excuses. Today was my second successful dodge of a phone number request.

Last night, SMF told me a story about a co-worker who hangs out in the men's restroom trying to dip his elderly pe(e)n in the 20-something company ink. Is that what this is? It just occurred to me that I might have to find a diplomatic way to turn down an intolerable date with a socially retarded elderly lesbian because there is no way I can avoid the library, as it's the only place I can print or copy anything, because I don't work in a real school. If I did, I'd just give her the local Rejection Hotline number.

I have to give this some serious thought. Right now, I can't come up with anything other than, "Well, I would, but, you know, I can't stand you," or, "I'm sorry, I can't, because you remind me too much of the witch from Hansel and Gretel."

Gradually Going Suicidal?

2009-05-11T18:56:00.000-07:00

I am contemplating a Monroe.

I would like someone else to make this decision for me; I thought this dress was a good idea, but SMF shut it down.

Plus, I am concerned with accidentally sliding into Suicide Girl territory, or looking like one of my students (i.e. freshly released from the joint).

Ask a Wage Slave, Volume 1.

2009-05-11T08:46:00.000-07:00

Q: I've wound up at [P.F. Chang's] nearby twice in the past two weeks despite that fact that I don't actually like them. I'm just yet to find any other Chinese place in this neighborhood that doesn't suck. As our fabulously gay waiter so patiently explained the special sauce, I began to wonder what percentage of people use the sauce, and what percentage are like me, the type who nods with a feigned interest while listening to the thorough explanation despite the fact that all I really want is just the regular sauce for my potstickers and a dash of soy on my sesame chicken. Am I an evil person for doing so? If so, how do I restore my karma from the excessive number of times I've done that? -- Kirk

A: You make a good choice in not eating the Chang's special sauce. It's not very clean, really. I won't say it's "guaranteed" to hurt you, but I would prefer to ingest food that wasn't handled by at least three different people in the same day. I'm just finicky like that. Your waiter definitely appreciates you not touching it, because it saves him the time of assembling a new tray every time a new table comes in.

Every time you deliver one, you're supposed to make sure the bottles are full to the brim, and it takes about a minute and a half to wait for the hot mustard to slide down the spout of the pitchers before making contact with the air and singeing your nostril hair. So, half your tables are pissed off by the time you show up to bring them the sauce they might not even use because you necessarily fail to appear before them instantly. If your server could somehow carry the same tray of untouched sauce to every table, he could easily conserve a full hour. When I was at the Chang, servers would leave notes on their "Trios" threatening bodily harm to anyone who thought of stealing one of these unused timesucks for their own tables.

Most people can agree that the Trio is a waste of space in a restaurant that already uses three times the required number of dishes, just because. I have found that only a very particular demographic gets upset about the absence of the sauce. And they are not afraid to make a scene. Let's call them the Henry VIIIs.

H8s are really classy, and require a certain kind of patience; they're used to slathering their foods luxuriously with various condiments (i.e. Cool Ranch Doritos + any sort of dip), and loudly demand to be treated with RESPECT because they are AWESOME.

A nice beach scene airbrushed onto a fingernail, a Nine Inch Nails tattoo, and/or a money clip are all good indicators that you are in the presence of 100% class and, possibly, a H8 table -- in which case, a Trio is a required act of deference. I tried to be understanding of the fact that the H8s had places to be and babysitters to pay, so I would do my best to rush those tables along so they could get home to their Mountain Dew and Philly blunts.

A Celebration of Crazy Mothers.

2009-05-10T18:34:00.000-07:00

In celebration of Mother's day, and inspired by yet another accidental viewing of Bravo's The Millionaire Matchmaker, I've composed a Top 10 list of my all-time favorite crazy mothers. Another way of looking at this might be Top 10 Women I Love That Dudes Hate, or Top 10 Women Not to Bring Home to Mom on Mother's Day, or Introduce to Your Sister's Husband.

1. Tie: Angelina Jolie / Gisele Bundchen. For pilfering the seemingly-unpilferable in the most public ways imaginable. I have to admit -- I respect this, and I plan to do it one day, for the only reason anyone has ever been The Other Woman: just because I can.

"Can I borrow this?"

2. Marie Antoinette. For pre-millenial achievements in self-involvement.

"I have seen all, I have heard all, I have forgotten all."

3. Lizzie Grubman. Because she drunkenly ran her SUV into a crowd of pedestrian untouchables, and just kept driving.

"If I have a good time, it's not a good sign."

4. Lisa Lopes. For actually doing what we were all thinking.

"What now, Andre?"

5. Courtney Love. Still crazy after all these years.

"I used to do drugs, but don't tell anyone or it will ruin my image."

6. Olivia Palermo. For outstanding achievements in cuntyness within the confines of the extremely short first season of The City.

"I may be a young girl, but behind every young girl is a powerful father."

7. Patti Stanger. Blunt honesty and blunt-cut bangs.

"Can I give you a make-over?"

8. Karl Lagerfeld. The bitchiest being without ovaries.

"Yesterday [after the Chanel couture show], I had a problem. I said, 'I'm sorry, you’ve got to tell this woman that she needs to be taken away. Her smell is not possible.'"

9. Taylor Royce. MVP of character development, Vh1's Tough Love.

"OH. EM. GEE."

10. Janice Dickinson. For taking a lighting crew to the DMV, among countless other reasons.

"I want to be the best-looking corpse there is."

They're Playing Our Song.

2009-05-10T16:16:00.000-07:00

I can't get through this whole song -- maybe Cam'Ron is mad at me at the end -- but this does sort of remind me of a closeted gay friend I had in high school, who used 'cookies' as a euphemism for the opposite anatomical feature described herein.

Cheers, Mike (you're out now, right?).

I'm afraid I don't possess the capacity for irony required to really pursue this joke, given the new gay association ("'round the corner, fudge is made").

Maybe this could be our song, instead.

Pocky is the new Yorkie.

2009-05-06T13:56:00.000-07:00

Social Networking Makes Me Listen to Lesley Gore.

2009-05-04T19:40:00.000-07:00

Ever since I changed my relationship status and added my birth year on my Facebook page, I've been seeing nothing but ads for condos, wedding dresses, and in vitro fertilization.

You don't own me, Facebook.

Charm City Actually Occasionally Charming.

2009-05-04T18:06:00.000-07:00

Case in point: the annual Kinetic Sculpture Race.

These kids are blissfully unconcerned with being shot, run over by a kinetic sculpture, or catching Toxoplasmosis from this portion of the obstacle course.

All Hipsters go to Heaven.

(Except for this one.)

"Weather, weather, weather."

This guy had the right idea.

Baltimore's Harajuku moment.

A tribute to both Tchaikovsky and inadequate pest control.

That's a pun, you see.

Cool kids wear helmets.

North Carolina probably wants to claim credit for this, too.

Timely.

Grizzly Man in 3 ... 2 ...

The recession has been good for the tulle industry.

But those skirts are made of shopping bags.

Grilling + racing.

The Whitest Kids You Know.

2009-04-29T21:19:00.000-07:00

I know where they won't be this weekend (here).

Now that I know my students were disqualified this year because too many of them don't meet the minimum GPA requirement and our choreographer told us to fuck off, I'll just keep watching this Alice in Wonderland montage from another school in the county.

I picked that one hoping to see pregnant catwalkers, because Bladensburg has a day care facility on site. For students' kids.

What would Miss J say? Is that elegant? I can't tell anymore.

Still, it's nice to see school spirit -- if only in YouTube comments:

dat white gurl did her shytt!!!

we shouldve got 1st an yall no it its iight doe my mova went to surratsville an i do now

oh korsi dey faken lyke shyt but whole tyme everytyme we do catwalk we place and for da dumb bytch we placed sec and everyone knows we shouldve came in 1st sucky ass oxon but we got them next year

Prince George's County is an oxymoron.

2009-04-28T15:11:00.000-07:00

I heard sirens all day today, so it was no surprise to get stopped at a red light behind an EMS truck -- until I actually looked at it.

I don't want to live (here) anymore.

Keepin' it safe. My mind reeled. So many thoughts. So many questions.

1. This is why your schools are failing.
2. This blatantly faux-casual colloquialism offends me.
3. What is it? Is it the same it we talk about when we keep it real? Because it can't be Prince George's County (Gorgeous Prince George’s has accounted for 45.1% of murders in the state of Maryland since 1985).
4. I propose an edit: Mostly keepin' it safe for everyone but Cheye Calvo, Cheye Calvo's wife, Cheye Calvo's mother-in-law, and Cheye Calvo's two dogs.
5. I wonder how many people have been pried out of danger with the jaws of life, only to reach the EMS truck and say, "Put me back in."

And, finally: How did this come from this?

Safely oblivious.

Sometimes (like when I fantasize about working in Montgomery County) I have to remind myself that, on paper, we're all the same.

Charm City Shower.

2009-04-26T11:14:00.000-07:00

Amenities.

Every woman's collective nightmare came true for me in your shower, KS.

Your bathtub is much taller than mine, and I immediately hit my shin trying to get into it.

You have one bottle of two-in-one shampoo/ conditioner, one bottle of shower gel, and no loofahs or washcloths. I know you don't have hair like I have hair, so you don't really "get" conditioner; I'm sorry to tell you that it's just not in there. I knew that once I washed my hair, it would immediately cling to itself, forming some sort of steel wool nest on top of my head. It did.

The fun really began once I turned the water on, which is why you heard me laughing, alone, in your bathroom. There was no shortage of hot water, but I had to take a cold shower to dull the pain. Your shower head spews about six individual jets of water, each with the force of a BB gun. It actually feels a little like getting a tattoo. I couldn't face forward because I thought my nipples were going to come off, so I had to extend my leg behind me and blindly turn the water off.

You have no bathmat, and I thought about how humiliating it would be to knock myself unconscious while goose stepping out of your tall bathtub. You would find me on the floor with bloody nipples and assume the worst of me. I would have ruined your new towel. Your mind would be made up by the time I was lucid enough to explain.

Or, I would just bleed to death, thinking about how I wish I could buy you a mildew-free shower curtain, wishing I'd had the foresight to bring my own conditioner and loofah because now the mortician is going to give me split ends, and the last time my family sees me, I'm going to smell like Axe.

And so will I.

2009-04-15T18:11:00.000-07:00

Perhaps because he remembered my extemporaneous lecture about why it was probably a bad idea to go to the tattoo parlor down the road that advertises half-price tattoos on an old, spray-painted plank of wood, when I passed 12th grade Nick in the hallway before class today, he was really excited to tell me, with a newly acquired lisp, that he got his tongue pierced over spring break.

So, then I had him lead the discussion on Tolstoy's "How Much Land Does a Man Need?" because it was funny to me to hear him say 'much,' 'does,' and 'Tolstoy' over and over again.

12th grade Shantal and I continued arguing the merit of the Twilight series.

"Shantal," I said, "I'm on page 465 in the second book, and nothing has happened yet. Only one thing has happened so far in the entire series. What's the basis of its appeal?"

"Well," she said, "I know some people who read the whole series just to get to the sex scene in book four."

"It can't be that good. The author is a Mormon."

"A what?"

"I know, right? ... Mormons are a particular type of Christian. They're really into not having premarital sex."

"Oh..."

"Ok -- I never want to hear that The Iliad is boring again. Who would read 1,900 pages just to get to a sex scene that ends in conception?"

"I know some people."

"You did, didn't you, Shantal?"

"Yeah. I did."

A Game of Chess

2009-04-14T21:15:00.000-07:00

I don't like seeing my own blood and, consequently, I don't much care for the fact that the veins in my wrists stick out like knotted tree roots. If not for this unfortunate reminder of my own mortality, I would get a wrist tattoo. And it would say: HURRY UP PLEASE, IT'S TIME.

Stuff Sir Mix-a-Lot Likes:

2009-04-14T13:19:00.000-07:00

1. Big butts

2. Square butts

3. 'em on the glass (I just figured out that Sir Mix-a-Lot did not rhyme 'vulva' with 'soldier' as I originally thought. And now I'm disappointed. I should be a rapper. )

4. His hooptie

Asshole of the sea.

2009-04-06T11:52:00.001-07:00

I went to the Baltimore aquarium yesterday, and I can't believe I forgot to do the shark laugh.

Dudes: What the hell?

2009-04-03T22:19:00.001-07:00

I really don’t know what got into you today, but I think we need to talk.

1. Stooges on Route 50: There were three of you, in the front seat of a pickup truck. Even before you left me with no choice but to roll down my window and command “Stop. Staring. At. Me.” I think it was pretty safe to assume none of you were going to get laid today.

2. Carpe Diem in L’Enfant Plaza: You were excited by Ovechkin and pitched backward in imitation of something that happened at the Caps game for the amusement of your travelling companion. You brought the full weight of your body down on my left foot, which was nowhere near you. Did you really think I would give you my phone number so we could ‘meet up’ later? Perhaps you rationalized the decision to act on this impulse with a rhetorical device such as, What's the worst that could happen?

Well. Now you know.

3. ‘Bag at upscale dining establishment: “Will you excuse me? I broke my foot earlier, and my shoe is filling up with blood.”

Attention: Grown-Ass Women

2009-04-02T08:12:00.001-07:00

Please stop peeing on the toilet seat in the teacher's lounge.

That's hot.

2009-04-01T06:35:00.000-07:00

I found this in my classroom today.

The Giggle Loop, or: How I Almost Got Fired Over a Hot Pocket

2009-03-27T20:52:00.000-07:00

My friend, Chris, mooned me at school. It was lunch time. I’m sure I deserved it. I don’t remember what I said to him on the bleachers to make him get up abruptly and walk halfway across the football field before revealing two fluorescent white ass cheeks, then calmly walk to French class, but I do remember that I somehow ended up in the principal’s office for the incident, not him.

Perhaps it’s this memory, or my longstanding disdain for authority, that made my biggest fear about teaching high school that I wouldn’t be able to maintain a straight face in the middle of an absurd disciplinary situation.

Today, that fear was realized.

11th grade – we were all waiting for the guidance counselor to come in to talk about scheduling classes for next year. A raised her hand.

A: Can I go see Mrs. H and get a Hot Pocket?
Me: What?
A: A Hot Pocket. You know, with the dough, and they have that pizza filling inside.
C: Yeah, those joints are good!
Me: Yeah, I know what they are, and I still don’t understand the question.
J: Mrs. H sells Hot Pockets for $1.
Me: What?
C: And sandwiches, and cookies.
A: And sometimes, chips.
J: You should do it too. You could make a lot of money.

The enormously high percentage of students at my school who qualify for free lunch comes to mind. This is the only way I can make sense of what I’m hearing. We’re still a couple hours away from lunch, and I wonder whether A has eaten yet today.

Me: Ok, fine.
R: Can I get one, too?
Me: Sure. Why not?
A: You want one?
Me: No, thanks.

Less than five minutes later, one of the assistant principals – the one who’s seven feet tall – is at my door with A and R, livid. A is eating a Hot Pocket that smells like old broccoli. The AP is holding a clipboard and wearing a houndstooth blazer that I could wrap around my body three times. R is looking at me, expectantly.

AP: Have A and R been in your class at all today?
Me: Yes.
AP: Did you tell them they could leave to get a Hot Pocket?
Me: I did.
AP: Well, A is on a no-pass policy.
Me: I didn’t know that.
AP: Can I speak with you alone for a second?
Me: Sure.

I open the door for A and R and, from deep inside room 108, someone sings, “Hoooot Poocket,” and it begins: the Giggle Loop. I feel the corners of my mouth twitch slightly upward.

AP: Why would you do that? If this was some other class, maybe. But this is English. Come on.

And – there. There’s where it all went wrong. Because I don’t know how to talk to authority figures, I couldn’t decide whether there was any use trying to explain that I was concerned about whether A and R’s parents feed them. I assessed AP’s level of fury and concluded that I was going to get browbeaten either way, and any attempt to explain why I might have felt like it was ok for two students to leave class for a few minutes and buy contraband Hot Pockets in the middle of English class would be regarded as a flimsy excuse for my perceived negligence. And, of course, the absurdity of having to stand in the hallway defending my pedagogy over a black market Hot Pocket made the whole thing ludicrously funny. Eventually, I spoke again.

Me: Well, is there an official Hot Pocket policy?
AP: Pardon?
Me: I mean, would it have been ok for A and R to get a Hot Pocket from Mrs. H during lunch, or would R have to go get both of them because A is on a no-pass policy? Can you only buy Hot Pockets during elective classes?
AP: Look. We’re trying to help you, and we’re doing the best we can. We have a hard enough time keeping kids in class without you sending them out for Hot Pockets.

Hoooot Poocket.

Me: Ok.
AP: They need this class.
Me: I know. But I can turn my classroom into a concession stand, and you’ll look the other way?

Hoooot Poocket.

AP: No, I’m not telling you to do that.
Me: Right.
AP: I should write you up for this. But, I’m not going to.
Me: Thanks.

But now I wish he had written me up for this. I would highlight every mention of Hot Pockets, frame it, and put it on my wall.

Scenes from work.

2009-03-26T11:37:00.000-07:00

Rejected album cover for Blood on the Tracks.

No opportunity to lower the bar left behind.

Welcome to my class.

Big Brother saw you do a half-assed job on your Beowulf drawing.

This outrageous act of teenage rebellion brought to you by Sharpie.

Get that crazy-ass mother off your skull.

2009-03-15T22:55:00.000-07:00

"I can change."

Say what you want about reality TV; it can be cathartic as a Greek tragedy. For example, at tonight's Tool Academy reunion show, we all learned that Shawn, my TA favorite, impregnated a girl he met and fornicated with at a gas station (presumably all on the same day but, really, who knows).

"I love you."

You know, even after Shawn accidentally drunkenly depantsed himself while impersonating Matsuflex and we all saw the arched, tattooed text above his junk that says Kung Fu Hero, he was still my pick for Tool Academy winner.

Even after he picked fights with all the other tools and routinely used the word "bro" without irony, I still had a soft spot for Shawn. I really believed in him, which must be symptomatic of a larger problem.

Shawn's inability to learn how not to be a tool seemed a personal affront to me; so, tonight, when the TA reunion host asked him if he was still a tool, and Shawn confidently said "Yes," I realized: I was rooting for Shawn because hopeless tools are kind of my thing.

Ah, yes. And now my life makes sense.

Talking and Not Talking.

2009-03-14T09:44:00.000-07:00

o hai

I saw Girl Talk in Baltimore last night and, even though the show was at Loyola, it never occurred to me that I might be surrounded exclusively by undergrads (except for Brian and Simone, who were equally bewildered). I guess I might have guessed things were going to get weird when I couldn't find out which building the show was in, and there were no signs for parking, and there were no crowds of Hipsters looking bored while smoking.

I was expecting a normal Girl Talk show, like this:

But it was kind of like this:

There was a whole lot of walking around and texting going on. That audience was having a hard time focusing -- on mashups -- and I felt kind of like this:

Let's play a drinking game!

2009-03-08T13:35:00.001-07:00

... every time this show is on, smash me in the face with a beer bottle until I lose consciousness.

The Dude Manifesto

2009-03-04T18:42:00.001-08:00

Three years later, I still get the occasional email request for copies of the Manifestos. And one day, they will almost certainly get one or both of their authors in trouble.

The Dude Manifesto
By Sarah G. & Meg T.

Dedicated to those two Dudes in the Taco Bell parking lot, February 19, 2006. Because Dudes love Taco Bell.

The Complexities of Dudedom

Though it is not immediately visible, the Dude is a very complex creature. Dudes really like winter because they can snowboard, ski, and throw snowballs at faggots. When a Dude sees a hill in winter, he thinks about how totally awesome it would be to descend it at an extreme speed, because the Dude loves extreme speed. Yet, the complexity emerges in the Dude’s winter wardrobe. Dudes have no patience for winter clothes – especially winter coats – because that symbolizes weakness in a Dude’s mind. The Dude stoically endures winter, insisting that it’s not that cold outside. Real Dudes can take the cold without something pussy like a fleece-lined jacket to protect them. To a Dude, a hooded sweatshirt is a winter coat. Dudes never use the hoods on their hooded sweatshirts because Dudes always wear hats.[1] Sometimes Dudes pair their hooded sweatshirts with sweatpants. This shows he is fully prepared for winter, and Dudes love sweatpants almost as much as they love track pants, and definitely more than corduroy. Dudes hate corduroy.

Dudes often perform the peculiar activity of wearing shorts, usually mesh, in the winter because a) they love mesh shorts, and b) wearing shorts shows that they are definitely Dudes. Shorts show that the Dude is strong. He can take the sub-zero temperatures. Though it is rare, Dudes are sometimes seen wearing huge, fluffy parkas with mesh shorts (see also Aberration: The Jersey Dude). This is the Dude’s way of saying, “Hey, I know it’s cold, but it’s not a big deal” because if there’s one thing a Dude hates, it’s when people, especially bitches, make a big deal out of things.

Further evidence of Dude complexity is found in the Dude’s love of cars, in particular, Jeeps. Dudes love Jeeps because they’re unsafe, impractical, and expensive to maintain – everything the Dude wants in a vehicle and a bitch. And Jeeps are a big hit with the bitches, which is another plus in the Dude’s mind.

But the Dude also loves spoilers, and as of yet, no one’s figured out how to attach a spoiler to a Jeep. So, sometimes the Dude prefers a car he can modify. Dudes love to modify cars. Sometimes Dudes just say “mod,” as in “mod car” because Dudes like to exert the smallest amount of energy possible (see also Dude Names). Modifying a car usually entails installing a spoiler, a loud muffler, and tinted windows. Little cars are good for modifying, but don’t ever tell a Dude a little car is good for the environment. Dudes hate the environment almost as much as they hate faggots. Recycling, for example, is for hippies and lesbians, thus the Dude refuses to recycle. A Dude is perfectly content being surrounded by garbage and, though he probably doesn’t know what it means, the Dude is really glad he lives in a throwaway society because the Dude loves to throw stuff away.

Another example of Dude complexity lies in his consumption of energy drinks, as the Dude never physically manifests enthusiasm, energy, or excitement. Emotion pisses a Dude off. The Dude is always low-key.

When Dudes Dress Up

When Dudes go out they wear enough cologne to sedate a small horse or a group of eight to ten bitches.

A Dude’s idea of dressing up is wearing khaki pants that he’s just Febrezed because Dudes love Febreze. To a Dude, khakis are formal wear, and though he may have multiple pairs of khaki cargo pants, he sticks to sweatpants or track pants for informal affairs. Dudes wear a very specific type of jean – not too tight, because tight jeans are for faggots and pussies. He usually wears a thoughtfully disheveled jean to impress bitches, faded and distressed to perfection.

Dudes know the best way (and perhaps the only way) to pick up bitches is to shop at Hollister for jeans and striped button up shirts with a collar the Dude may or may not pop, depending on how sassy a Dude feels.

Usually there is only one Dude per group with a popped collar. He is the alpha male Dude. Dudes pop collars in much the same way roosters puff up their chests to attract hen bitches. Layered popped collars, increasingly rare, are the ultimate symbol of Dudedom. The Dude with multiple popped collars is the King of All Dudes.

In the absence of popped collars, bitches can look for the Dude with the most gel in his hair to find the alpha Dude. One popular Dude hairstyle that necessitates a lot of gel is the upward vertical Dude bang flip, in which the front of a Dude’s hair is gelled upward to resemble a duck’s ass.[2]

Dudes know not to wear hats when they go out to get bitches. Dudes sometimes struggle with this, as Dudes love to wear hats. New Dudes[3] occasionally wear hats when they go out. New Dudes must learn on their own, usually through observation of older Dudes who are getting bitches, not to wear hats out. Other Dudes won’t verbally instruct young Dudes because Dudes don’t really like to talk that much, unless it’s about March Madness, bitches they’ve fucked in the recent past, or bitches they intend to fuck in the immediate future.

Dudes only wear sneakers or shoes that look like bowling shoes, except in the summer, when they wear flip flops almost exclusively. The summer is also when Dudes pair layered t-shirts with a white coral necklace, a shell necklace, or a hemp necklace. Dudes sometimes get excited (though they’d never admit it) for summer because they can show off the tribal tattoos on their shoulders, calves, or biceps.

Dudes know they have to dance when they go out because that’s where the bitches are. Some Dudes prefer to stand at the bar drinking so they can watch bitches from afar. These Dudes hunt in packs. They really hate to dance, and if you try to make them, they’ll get really mad, and Dudes hate to get mad because showing emotion is for pussies. Dudes don’t know how to dance, so they employ the surprise attack strategy and dance all up on a bitch from behind. Dudes keep their hands around a bitch’s hips and sway back and forth with varying degrees of pelvic thrusting. This way the bitch won’t see that the Dude doesn’t really know how to dance. Dudes won’t dance within five feet of other Dudes if they can help it because they don’t like competition, plus they don’t want to look like a faggot.

A Dude’s evening out is never complete until two bitches make out. If a Dude is feeling particularly generous, he’ll buy both bitches a shot of Jaeger. This practice also serves as a way of marking the Dude’s territory and says to other Dudes, “I’m spending twelve dollars on these bitches, so they’re mine.” The ultimate goal of this interaction, for the Dude, is a threesome. Dudes love threesomes, as long as it’s with the Dude and two bitches, because Dudes hate sausage parties.

Dude Pets

Dudes occasionally own iguanas or venomous snakes, though most favor Pit Bulls or, as a last resort, Dobermans. The Dude’s dog generally weighs at least 80 pounds.[4]

Dude Names

True Dudes have one-syllable names – preferably ones that end in D, such as Chad, Brad, Todd, and Thad, although Chris, Mike, and Matt are also popular Dude names. If a Dude happens to have a very undude name, other Dudes will probably create a nickname for him, usually derivative of the Dude’s last name (i.e. Smitty, or Big D).

Dude Food

Wine is for faggots. Water is for pussies. Dudes prefer beer. Dudes love Chinese buffets. Dudes also love energy drinks, which range from the Vault/ Red Bull family to the Gatorade/ Powerade family. Dudes have sophisticated selection processes for identifying acceptable finger foods. Chicken wings and chips please the Dude palate, and either item alone can function as a meal. But don’t ever offer a Dude a finger sandwich or a canapé because those foods are gay. Dudes use hot sauce as a topping for everything. Dudes prefer to grill their food but, if grilling is an impossibility, Dudes will happily settle for Taco Bell because there’s hot sauce there. Taco Bell is a site of Dude-to-Dude bonding and, occasionally, bitch watching. Dudes go to Taco Bell in groups and sit together while they don’t talk. Dudes love to pay seven dollars for a turkey sandwich, and consider Panera fine dining. Dudes can be seen streaming out of Panera in droves wearing striped button up shirts and jeans from Hollister while they guide their bitches by putting a hand on the small of the bitch’s back.

Dude Entertainment

When entertaining a Dude, the most important thing to remember is that art is for faggots. Don’t ever take a Dude to the theatre, a poetry reading, or an art gallery. Dudes love X-Box. Dudes love text messaging because they don’t have to talk, and are easily seduced with a texted invitation to light fireworks, drink some beer, and then smash the empty bottles on the ground. Some of the more athletic dudes may also appreciate an invitation to play beer pong, while refined dudes with a discerning aesthetic sensibility enjoy judging wet t-shirt contests or Rear of the Year competitions.

Dudes have extensive collections of songs that make bitches dance (see also When Dudes Dress Up). Dudes love classic rock. Led Zeppelin and Lynyrd Skynyrd are dude favorites. Some Dudes also like Bob Seeger but not, like, in a gay way. Dudes can be spotted at concerts shirtless and sweaty, using one hand to hold a plastic cup of beer, and another to project the international dude rallying cry, “Play Free Bird!”[5] Even without popped collars, alpha male Dudes can be identified in this setting by the bitch (also, occasionally, shirtless) sitting on the Dude’s shoulders.

Dudes love Fight Club because there’s a lot of punching in it. So it makes sense that Dudes also love to lift weights. Dudes love porn, and favor the lesbian genre.[6] Dudes love Sports Center because it’s on ESPN. Dudes also love Scarface. Anyone who doesn’t love Scarface is gay. If Sports Center and Scarface are on TV at the same time, Dudes experience inner turmoil, and Dudes hate inner turmoil. Dudes love The O.C. and Laguna Beach because those shows feature a bunch of fine bitches. Marissa Cooper? The Dude would love to hit that. Dudes love Family Guy because Peter Griffin is an older Dude that Dudes can look up to. Plus, Lois is one hot piece of animated ass.

Dudes like movies with explosions or burning buildings because when bitches get trapped in burning buildings they take their shirts off to beat the heat. Dudes’ favorite movies feature former Saturday Night Live stars. Dudes love John Belushi. Many Dudes appreciate the subtle nuances of character that Chris Farley brought to his performances, while other, more highbrow, Dudes prefer the emotional depth found in Adam Sandler films.

Dudes rarely watch whole movies because Dudes really like to sleep. Dudes take at least one nap per day. Between napping, playing X-Box, and getting bitches, Dudes don’t have time to watch whole movies in one sitting.

Dude Spirituality

Dudes get freaked out when they have to talk about religion. The Dude only goes to church if a bitch makes him (see also When a Dude Loves a Bitch). Despite the Dude’s unfamiliarity with spirituality, the Dude has strong opinions regarding religion and favors Christianity without exception. Other religions are for hippies because they’re gay.

Academic Dude

The Dude is most ubiquitous on college campuses and further evidence of Dude complexity is found in academia. Dudes major in business, communications, or engineering even though they hate writing, talking and studying. Dudes think writing papers is for faggots, so they often refuse to staple their papers as an act of protest and Dude solidarity. When Dudes have to write papers, they write about sports because no other topic is interesting. The Dude’s presence is almost overwhelming to meek bitch instructors, so Dudes never volunteer to answer questions or contribute to class discussion. Dudes sit in the back of classrooms and roll their eyes or sleep during gay classes like English, only occasionally altering their routine to stretch and loudly yawn, scoff or guffaw, or to ask if the class will be dismissed early.[7]

Aberration: The Sensitive Dude

Sensitive Dudes listen to Jack Johnson, Howie Day, and Ben Harper. Sensitive Dudes quote Dave Matthews songs to get bitches and hang wall-length tapestries in their dorm rooms. Sensitive Dudes are hard to spot by sight alone, and are only apparent when they wear a blazer over their hooded sweatshirts. A Sensitive Dude will sometimes claim to know how to play the guitar, but if there’s one thing a Sensitive Dude does know, it’s that his sensitivity is a big hit with the bitches.

Aberration: The Regional Pride Dude

A Regional Pride Dude is a Dude who loves to hunt for bitches and deer. This Dude usually displays an American flag somewhere on his Jeep, SUV or truck, and is the only variety of Dude who enjoys country music.

Aberration: The Jersey Dude

The Jersey Dude is one of the proudest of his kind. Think male peacock. Easily recognizable even from a distance by his unduly arrogant swagger, the Jersey Dude is a prolific representative of true Dudosity. Jersey Dudes are rarely caught without a cell phone on one ear, though they clearly contribute to conversation monosyllabically, if at all. Jersey Dudes’ one visible ear protrudes from the bottom of a baseball cap and displays at least one gold earring to match the gold chain around the Dude’s neck. Some Jersey Dudes adorn their necklaces with gold crosses (see also Dude Spirituality). Jersey Dudes are the only variety of Dude who entertains the possibility of wearing rings.

In winter, Jersey Dudes pair an oversized, puffy parka with a hood trimmed in faux-fur with a pair of mesh basketball shorts, sneakers, and white ankle socks. However, under the parka, the Jersey Dude’s winter wardrobe is unchanged from his summer wardrobe; the Jersey Dude is widely credited with originating the “wife beater” trend and Jersey Dudes wear wife beaters year-round to most occasions (see also When Dudes Dress Up). Wife beaters are the perfect way for Jersey Dudes to show off their tribal tattoos.

The Jersey Dude is the only Dude who listens to techno. Jersey Dudes are among the most liberal and inclusive of the Dudes, as they have relatively low standards when it comes to bitches.[8]

When a Dude Loves a Bitch

Dudes make a habit of text messaging several bitches the same message before going out. This has multiple benefits. Dudes hate to organize, write lists, or make plans. So, by doing this, the Dude can efficiently select a bitch to spend the evening with without wasting time talking, as he can quickly identify the bitch with the most appealing plans and proceed accordingly. This also allows the Dude to keep tabs on all his bitches, and reserve a backup bitch to keep on standby in case plans fall through with his first choice bitch.

Dudes know bitches don’t enjoy Dude activities (see also Dude Entertainment), and Dude courting rituals respectfully acknowledge the differences between sexes. Dudes on dates pay for dinner, and then complain about the expense of bitches after the date to other Dudes. Dudes hate when bitches open doors for themselves because the Dude loves to feel needed. Bitches that are independent are lesbians. In exchange for the Dude’s consideration and attentiveness, bitches are expected to lead conversation by asking the Dude questions about himself, giggling and offering compliments accordingly.

Sometimes bitches get all uppity and accuse a Dude of cheating. This is an ugly myth, but a common misconception. The truth is Dudes don’t intentionally cheat on bitches; the Dude is monogamous by nature, preferring not to spend any more time and money on bitches once he’s secured a steady bitch. It’s just that all bitches look the same and act the same because they are the same, so sometimes the Dude cheats accidentally. It’s hard to keep track of the bitches because they’re all orange year-round, they all wear gaucho pants and really big sunglasses, and they all carry either an oversized bag covered with sequins, or a Dooney and Bourke.[9]

Sometimes Dudes are forced to pull a Houdini[10] when they get their bitches mixed up. But truly committed Dudes are noble and self-sacrificing. For example, a Dude will go to church for a bitch.[11]

The Dude Dictionary

Bitch: every woman, except a Dude’s mother.
Cock block: a person or action that prevents a Dude from getting with a bitch.
Dyke: a female that does not desire sex with a Dude.
syn. lesbian; feminist.
Faggot: a male who is not a Dude.
Freeball: to go without underwear.
Houdini, The: after sex, the act of getting dressed, then quietly slipping away while a bitch is in the bathroom.
Sausage party: an unsatisfactory ratio of Dudes to bitches.

Dude synonyms:
Chachi, sometimes shortened to Chach.
That Guy.

Quiz: Are You Dating a Dude?

1. Has he ever started and ended the same sentence with the word ‘Dude?’
2. Can he speak a complete sentence?
3. Does he prefer not to?
4. Is he the sort of guy that would have a really good time feeding mice to a snake?
5. If it were somehow possible to punch poetry, would he do it?
6. Does he own more than four hooded sweatshirts?
7. Does he ask you to write his papers for him?
8. If he knew what the ACLU was, would it piss him off?
9. When you ask him if he’d rather go to Taco Bell or punch a faggot, does he seem to experience inner turmoil?
10. Has he ever asked you to make out with another bitch in the hope of scoring a threesome with you and your friend?
11. Has he ever mistaken you for another bitch?
12. Has he ever downloaded a Motley Crue ringtone?

*** If you answered Yes more often than No, you’re dating a Dude.

A Dude’s List

Likes:
Hooded sweatshirts
X-Box
Jessica Simpson
March Madness
Beer
Girls Gone Wild videos
Sleeping
Metallica
Bacon
Modifying cars
Family Guy
Lifting weights
Hot bitches

Dislikes:
Belts
Poetry
Hillary Clinton
Philosophy
Wine
CNN
Voting
Emo
Tapas
Folding Laundry
Sex and the City
Diversity
Vegetarians[12]

[1] Dudes favor either a basic baseball cap, or a knit beanie with a bill attached.
[2] It isn’t recommended that you tell a Dude his hair looks like a duck’s ass though, as he might think you’re really calling him a faggot.
[3] Dudedom lasts approximately from age 16 to 30.
[4] Coincidentally, Dudes also prefer bitches that weigh about 80 pounds.
[5] The international Dude rallying cry was, for a brief time, replaced with “I’m Rick James, bitch!” But when the novelty wore off and it was collectively decided that that was gay, Dudes reverted to their classic catch phrase.
[6] Although in most cases the word ‘lesbian,’ in Dude vernacular, denotes any woman who does not desire sex with a Dude, in the context of pornography, ‘lesbian’ is synonymous with ‘hot bitch.’ In most cases, ‘hot bitch’ is preferable to ‘lesbian’ because the former only requires the Dude to utter two syllables.
[7] Dudes especially hate poetry, and react with unfettered hostility to assignments that require them to read British authors. Dudes write a hyphenated form of ‘faggot’ to amend titles in expression of their displeasure with poetry in library books around the country, i.e. Faggot-Assed Collected Poems of T.S. Eliot. If a Dude could punch poetry, he would.
[8] Jersey Dudes can often be seen with Jersey bitches.
[9] The sorostitute, a subcategory of bitch, prefers Coach, Gucci, or Louis Vuitton, but Dudes can’t tell the difference because designers are all faggots.
[10] The Houdini, in Dudespeak, is the act of getting dressed, then quietly slipping away while a bitch is in the bathroom.
[11] Dudes don’t go to church to meet bitches, but if a dude ends up with a Jesus-loving bitch, the dude will go to church on major holidays (see also Dude Spirituality).
[12] If a Dude knew what a vegan was, he’d hate vegans even more.

The Sorostitute Manifesto

2009-03-04T18:34:00.000-08:00

Dedicated to that Sorostitute Meg overheard talking to her Dude who said, “I’m starving. But I’m not eating today.”

The Complexities of Sorostitution

The Sorostitute is indigenous to the United States.[1] No one knows why it’s cool to be a Sorostitute[2]. Sorostitution lasts an indefinite period of time (see also Sorostitute Entertainment). A novel cultural oddity, the Sorostitute is a fascinating paradox. Self-absorbed, yet utterly lacking self-awareness, the Sorostitute drifts through life without any system of values or priorities in place until, as suddenly as it began, Sorostitution ends.

The Sorostitute is unable to discern or assign value.[3] Either she likes something, or, in her mind, it doesn’t exist. The Sorostitute’s anger, therefore, is fascinating; though she is seemingly surrounded by things she likes, she still suffers from general malaise and discontent (see also When a Sorostitute Loves a Dude).

Collectively, we really want to believe that the Sorostitute is harmless. Dangerous Hollywood stereotypes (i.e. Legally Blonde’s Elle Woods) portray the Sorostitute as a benevolent idiot, eager to improve the lives of others. In reality, the Sorostitute is more similar to a bronzed, highlighted caged animal; a quiet violence bubbles just below the surface. Do not provoke the Sorostitute.[4]

Sorostitutes only experience four states of being: angry, bored, reflective[5] or semi-conscious. The Sorostitute doesn’t know why she’s angry. She doesn’t even know she’s angry. She knows no other way.

Sorostitutes strive to stand out for their sameness, and openly hate anyone who does not share the Sorostitute lifestlye. The dominant feature shared by Sorostitutes is consistent anger. Sorostitutes are loose canons.[6] While always hovering near the point of blind rage, the Sorostitute is especially annoyed by waiting. It’s not that Sorostitutes are inherently impatient, it’s just that they don’t understand waiting because they’re obviously more important than everyone else. Sorostitutes are used to making demands and having them met in a timely fashion. They hate thanking people, because gratitude shows weakness in the Sorostitute’s mind. Gratitude is for beggars and they’re gross because they’re poor.

The Sorostitute’s anger is always self-centered. They get really angry, for example, when they have to wait to turn left at a traffic light or when they have to wait three weeks to get highlights, but they don’t get at all upset about injustice done to others. The Sorostitute doesn’t even notice social injustice because if it’s not about her, it might exist, but it doesn’t matter.

The Sorostitute does not grasp the concept of time. It’s not that she doesn’t care about the past or the future, it’s just that she is in and of the moment. This is a key feature of the Sorostitute; she chooses to dress and adorn herself in accordance with current trends, abiding by cultural standards of beauty. The Sorostitute, therefore, loves pain. Ever willing to wax, varnish and char herself, the Sorostitute is a product of our time, embodying our intrinsic social mores. It is important to remember, then, that we must be patient and wait for Sorostitution to pass. We created the Sorostitute and, though she is unpleasant to encounter, we can only blame ourselves for her presence.

Another key feature of the Sorostitute is that she is always at least partially blonde. Brunettes get highlights and diet. Redheads must compensate by being tan.

Sorostitutes all communicate in a nasally, sing-song voice and will never end a sentence, preferring instead to trail off because they expect you to know how they would end the sentence if they could be bothered to do so. Failure to understand the Sorostitute often results in frustration on her part, which she takes out on whoever’s closest to her.

Sorostitutes are serious by nature and hate humor, but get a big kick out of other people’s misery if they somehow benefit from it. They don’t think it’s funny when homeless people ask them for money because poverty pisses them off, but they think it’s hilarious when another woman gains weight, breaks up with her boyfriend, or falls down in public. Sorostitutes think there is a limited amount of happiness to go around in the world, so someone else’s suffering means more potential happiness for them. Unfortunately, the Sorostitute can rarely enjoy her victories, as she has to maintain the veneer of being angry or bored at all times.

Not that the Sorostitute ever does anything, but she refuses to waste time. Really, all she ever does is shop, tan, buy lattes and get drunk. The Sorostitute lives in the moment. She’s uninterested in the past or the future because she only fully comprehends the present. She’s very carpe diem. No day but today.[7] Sorostitutes don’t engage in free time. They are not even familiar with the concept.

Sorostitute Mobility

The Sorostitute is always on the go. During daylight hours, the Sorostitute is most commonly seen in a vehicle, fluffing her hair, reapplying lip gloss, or berating her passengers. Sorostitutes like the Jeep Liberty, the Jetta, the Honda Civic, or the new Beetle.[8] They’ll also drive anything with a BMW, Mercedes, or Lexus logo.

The Sorostitute is almost always on her cell phone, and driving is no exception. She’s plotting her next location, which is either a tanning salon, a mall, or Starbucks.

At night, the Sorostitute is either at a bar or at a party with a bar in it, but she’s always bored and impatient to get to her next location so she can look bored there.

When Sorostitutes Dress Up

The Sorostitute will not tolerate wavy, curly, short, or monochromatic hair. Lips must always be shiny. Shoes must be open-toed. In winter, boots must have stiletto heels.[9] It’s essential that shirts worn out on Friday and Saturday nights be conducive to body shots. At least one item of clothing should be bedazzled. She should be wearing that bracelet from Tiffany’s with the tag on it. The Sorostitute’s cell phone must also be dressed up, accessorized with a TRL ring tone and a jewel-encrusted exterior.

During the day, the largest sunglasses possible are worn, which are also normally bedazzled. Sorostitutes love pairing frayed denim with skin belts. In the Sorostitutes’ mind, frayed denim is ideal because it can be dressed up or down; when worn with heels, any piece of frayed denim becomes formal wear. The Sorostitute counter-intuitively prefers to wear heels for all occasions and can be seen tottering down High Street, clutching someone’s elbow for balance and yelling into a jewel-encrusted cell phone.

Sorostitute Pets

Sorostitutes own dogs. The smaller, the better, much like the Sorostitute herself.

Sorostitute Names

Sorostitutes are almost always named Ashley. But sometimes they have names that end in ‘A,’ like Shana, Jenna, Kara, Laura, Kira, and Sara.[10] Occasionally, they’re named after complimentary abstract concepts, like Faith, Hope, or Charity, and they see nothing funny about that. The fastest growing group of Sorostitutes, though, has unisex names like Riley, Taylor, Adrian, and Ryan.

Sorostitute Food[11]

Virtual Sorostitute

Sorostitutes have Myspace pages because their lives are better than yours. The Sorostitute’s Myspace page is very well maintained, yet completely devoid of substance, much like the Sorostitute herself. She usually has at least 300 friends, only three blogs, which consist of her terrible, reflective poetry, and a slideshow with the same, repeated pose of her with three or four other people holding shots. The background is predominantly lavender or pink hued with star outlines and / or hearts. Any amount of animated glitter is a bonus.

Her interests are limited to “hanging out,” “meeting new people,” “shopping,” “tanning,” and “just doing whatever.” Her pictures showcase her, scantily-clad and / or kissing other Sorostitutes, or posed with her Dude at a moderately priced chain restaurant. Her song is carefully chosen from the catalogues of Beyonce, Jessica Simpson, or Nick Lachey. Somewhere on her page, the Sorostitute should express her displeasure and boredom with her geographic location.

Every comment left for the Sorostitute must somehow pertain to drinking or the “crazy” night she and her friends had the night before doing the exact same thing they did last weekend.[12] Every weekend, the Sorostitute goes big, as if it’s the first and last time a weekend will ever happen.

Her headline is always an inspirational cliché, such as, “Dance like no one’s watching,” even though when the Sorostitute is dancing, someone better be watching. And planning to buy her a shot.

Academic Sorostitute

The Sorostitute only goes to class to cultivate an artificial air of careless perfection. For some reason, Sorostitutes think it’s ok to wear sweatpants in public as long as something is written across the ass.[13] By coming to class in sweatpants, she sends a signal to Dudes that she is low-maintenance and, therefore, a desirable mate. She believes this is true. Sorostitutes love rolling down the waist of their sweatpants to make them low-rise because Sorostitutes love showing off their thongs and / or hip tattoos.[14]

When the Sorostitute is required to write, she uses something adorable, like a pen with a fob at the end that writes in pink or purple ink, which makes it more fun to dot an ‘I’ with a star, a heart, or a little circle.

The Sorostitute demands a clear motive for every assignment given in class and does not hesitate to ask why she has to do anything; she needs to know why she’s made to do homework when she could be doing something interesting, like going through the Starbucks drive through or watching Oprah.[15]

Sorostitute Holidays

Sorostitutes love any holiday that involves getting presents. Sorostitutes probably also give gifts for holidays, but there’s no record of a Sorostitute giving any gifts ever, except to her Lil Sis during pledge time.

Even though there are no presents, the Sorostitute’s favorite holiday is Halloween because she gets to wear sexy costumes. A Sorostitute will wear pretty much any Halloween costume, as long as it can be prefaced with the word ‘sexy.’[16] This is great for the Sorostitute because since their costumes consist of little fabric, there’s no waistband to roll down.[17]

Sorostitutes believe Cinco de Mayo, Mardi Gras, and Spring Break are holidays created just for them, and they are prone to commemorate such occasions with piercings, tattoos, or an extra dash of promiscuity. Of course, rampant drug use will also occur, but only drugs that, to the Sorostitute, convey a respectable social status. Sorostitutes prefer cocaine, but will periodically indulge in Adderol. Sorostitutes only use stimulants because pot makes them hungry and acid makes them confused, which they hate.

Every moment of Sorostitutes’ lives is documented in photos, but don’t mistake this for a love of photography because Sorostitutes hate almost everything. Sorostitutes love taking pictures of themselves in the same pose[18] with four or five of their friends.

Sorostitute Spirituality

Sorostitutes believe in God, but, like, you know. They’re more “spiritual” than religious.

Aberration: The Sorostitarian

The Sorostitarian is a Sorostitute that happens to be a vegetarian, and really likes to talk about it. All the time.

The Sorostitarian is similar to the Alpha Dude that pops his collar in that she is the wild-and-crazy, on-the-fringe member of the group. In each group, there’s only room for one. She’s often overheard talking about how hard it is to be a vegetarian, thereby calling attention to her suffering, because the Sorostitute loves to suffer.

Aberration: The Sorostiposeur

The Sorostiposeur is any young woman that doesn’t quite fit the Sorostitute mold, but tries to anyway. Her misfit status could manifest itself in her willingness to eat seven days a week, having career ambitions, listening to classic rock, driving a Ford, being single, or having monochromatic hair. Sorostitutes generally embrace the Sorostiposeur because they don’t like it when people are different.

Aberration: The Sorostilez

Very few Sorostitutes are actually lesbians, but every Sorostitute is kind of gay for free drinks. Sorostitutes like to make out with each other if the occasion warrants it, like if they get attention, alcohol, or fame.[19]

Aberration: The Fat One

The Fat One[20] is different from the Sorostiposeur in that she embodies all the features of the classic Sorostitute, except that she’s overweight. The Fat One knows her role within the Sorostitute hierarchy, and must compensate for her weight by being uber-slutty. Being the Fat One hinders her ability to get Dudes, so the other Sorostitutes like her because she’s not competition.[21]

When a Sorostitute Loves a Dude

Sorostitutes show affection by having really high expectations. Some might call them unmeetable standards, really. Sorostitutes don’t even really know what their standards are, but they know they’re seeking perfection. In relationships, Sorostitutes whine incessantly and never express gratitude or satisfaction.

Sorostitutes should aspire to be in a relationship at all times, as they are very dependent on their Dudes. Sorostitutes and Dudes go on dates to Chili’s, Applebee’s, P.F. Chang’s or the Olive Garden, because Sorostitutes love upscale casual. Sorostitutes use their Dudes to vent frustrations about waiting, having to pay for things, having tan lines, and having to share the earth with other women.

The Sorostitute should try to lose her virginity by the age of fourteen, thereby beginning a lengthy cycle of paranoia and suspicion. Sorostitutes are very worried about losing their Dudes to other women, so they like to go through Dudes’ cell phones and delete the phone numbers of every other woman the Dude knows.

Sorostitutes interrogate their Dudes relentlessly. They love to quiz their Dudes on the details of the day, including everyone he saw or talked to, and how he thinks he could possibly justify wasting that time on other people instead of slavishly devoting all of his attention to her.[22]

Sorostitute Entertainment

Sorostitutes like reality TV in general, but they especially enjoy shows such as Laguna Beach, The Bachelor, The Real World, and American Idol because they feature other Sorostitutes. They also like The O.C. and Pretty Woman. Highbrow Sorostitutes like Clueless, but this requires knowledge of the past, as Clueless was made so long ago, it might as well be Casablanca in the Sorostitute’s mind.

In terms of recent cinematic experiences, Sorostitutes have certainly seen The Notebook, but they don’t know who Nicholas Sparks is.[23] Because the Sorostitute is unwilling to assign value, she will literally watch anything. And Dudes love that.

The Sorostitute is always searching for entertainment, though she does not recognize boredom as the root of her discontent.[24]

The Sorostitute Dictionary

Anyway: a filler word that signals the end of a sentence
Bitch: 1. a Sorostitute’s enemy 2. a Sorostitute’s best friend
Butt-hurt: a state of being that describes disappointment, sadness, or anger
Dunzo: derivative of the word ‘done’
syn. finished, over
So: a filler word that signals the end of a sentence
Sorostiscot: 1. a female the Sorostitute looks up to 2. a famous Sorostitute
What: a two-syllable word that denotes curiosity or lack of understanding[25]
syn. why
Whatever: 1. a filler word that signals the end of a sentence 2. an expression of flippancy
or disdain
Why: a two-syllable word that denotes curiosity or lack of understanding
syn. what
You know: a filler phrase that signals the end of a sentence

Sorostiscots:

Paris Hilton
Lindsey Lohan
Nicole Richie
Anna Nicole Smith (but only when she’s thin)
All of the Pussycat Dolls
Pamela Anderson
Jennifer Lopez
Mischa Barton
Tara Reid
Jessica Simpson
Every supermodel ever[26]
Kristin Cavallari
Christina Aguilera
Angelina Jolie (but only because she stole Brad Pitt from Jennifer Aniston)

How to Talk to a Sorostitute[27]:

1. Remember that everything is a competition; try not to say anything that could possibly be interpreted as aggressive.
2. Make sure to preface compliments with the phrase “Oh my God” to convey your sincerity.
3. Speak slowly and simply to avoid potential confusion.
4. Give her plenty of time to talk about herself. Don’t share anything about yourself unless she asks.
5. Give her plenty of opportunity to complain about things that don’t matter.
6. Try to look bored to establish camaraderie.
7. Remember that you are subordinate to her.

Things That Sorostitutes Don’t Know Exist

Aging
Debt relief
Contemporary poetry
Ethiopia
Farming
Serenity
Free time
Recycling
Injustice
Manual labor
Rotary phones
Martin Scorsese
Paisley
Grunge, punk, folk, and bluegrass
Tapes
The New Yorker
Native American Reservations
Graduation[28]
Melanoma
Renewable energy

A Sorostitute’s List

Likes:
UV rays
Manipulating men
Abundance
Pain and suffering
Skin belts
Cocaine
Trailing off
Inspiring fear
Cruelty
Cosmopolitan
Adornment
Pillow shams
Neiman Marcus
Bleached hair and teeth
Clutches
Spending others’ money

Dislikes:
Sunscreen
Other women
Poverty
Being confused
Turtlenecks
Carbohydrates
Complete sentences
Forgiveness
One-piece bathing suits
Newspapers
Simplicity
The History channel
Kmart
Freckles and enlarged pores
Messenger Bags
Studying

[1] The Sorostitute does not understand geography. For example, Canada is so far away it’s not even worth thinking about, mainly because there aren’t beaches there for her to go to during Spring Break.
[2] The onset of Sorostitution usually corresponds with the beginning of adolescence.
[3] An accidental positive side effect is that the Sorostitute fails to see color. Unable to discriminate on the basis of race, the Sorostitute sees only socioeconomic status and, therefore, hates poor people indiscriminately.
[4] Provocation could include talking to the Sorostitute’s boyfriend, making her wait in line, asking her to move her car, or suggesting that she get a job.
[5] They only get reflective when something major happens, such as a haircut, a break-up, a weight loss or gain, or a major purchase. When in this state, they like to withdraw into solitude and write terrible poetry in Comic Sans font, which they post on Myspace with blinking heart-shaped cursors.
[6] It isn’t recommended that you call a Sorostitute a loose canon though, as she will probably think you’re really calling her fat.
[7] The Sorostitue has never seen taken a Latin class, seen Dead Poet’s Society or Rent, because Latin is a dead language, and those movies are old. Anything made before three years ago is old.
[8] The Sorostitute is unaware that there was an original Beetle because it’s old.
[9] The Sorostitute, like the Dude, doesn’t know how to dress for winter. For example, when a Sorostitute buys a winter coat, she sometimes opts for a tight, midriff parka.
[10] Authors’ note: Sorostitutes usually spell Sara without the H. –Sarah
[11] As a general rule, Sorostitutes don’t eat. They’re known to consume 1800-calorie coffee drinks from Starbucks as a substitute for a meal. There is a very small subcategory of Sorostitute that likes to talk about how she can eat as much as she wants without gaining weight, but they’re extremely rare.
[12] They never get tired of going out, yet it bores them.
[13] Sorostitutes often fail to discern between loungewear and actual clothing. Anything from Victoria’s Secret is considered acceptable attire to wear in public.
[14] Sorostitutes have tattoos of hearts, cherries, or Playboy bunny heads because hip tattoos have to be sexy. Tattoos of butterflies are relegated to the lower back area.
[15] It is not recommended that the professor try to explain pedagogical motives because this will just piss her off. One should just say, “Because it’s worth fifty points.” The Sorostitute understands numbers because they remind her of money.
[16] Sorostitutes can be very creative with Halloween costumes, and have been known to sexify the most unsexy things. Examples include sexy Care Bears, sexy mice, sexy pirates, and sexy referees.
[17] Author’s note: One time I went to a Halloween party at Ohio University and met a Sorostitute dressed as a brick. Her Dude boyfriend was dressed as a bricklayer. Ha. Get it? – Meg
[18] Either on a beach or in a bar, and, of course, holding alcoholic beverages.
[19] The pinnacle of fame, to the undergraduate Sorostitute, is appearing in a Girls Gone Wild video, as this documents the unmatchable wildness of her spring break. The Sorostitute lives to inspire envy.
[20] Classification of the Fat One is entirely subjective. Depending on the group of Sorostitutes, The Fat One could be a Sorostitute who’s slightly larger than the rest of her friends, but not fat, or, she really could be fat.
[21] The Fat One may or may not even be slutty, it’s just that the other Sorostitutes are amazed that she manages to have sex at all because she’s so fat.
[22] Sorostitutes get violent when threatened, and have been known to break windows, key cars, or hospitalize female opponents. Passive-aggressive Sorostitutes prefer to verbally annihilate other women with gossip and unsubstantiated rumors of poverty, fake purses, or virginity.
[23] Except for, maybe, the Sorostiposeur.
[24] Sorostitution ends when the Sorostitute is finally entertained. Through amusement, she gains purpose in life, usually either via marriage or childbirth.
[25] Though not a two-syllable word, the Sorostitute usually drags it out to two syllables.
[26] Or so they believe. Sorostitutes are unaware that there were models around before Cindy Crawford.
[27] Try not to worry too much about communicating with Sorostitutes. There’s a very slim possibility that any of them will even notice you’re in the same room with them.
[28] Sorostitutes understand graduation as a general concept, but they plan to drop out of college upon marriage, which happens before graduation. If a Sorostitute is not engaged before her senior year, she will change her major to buy more time.

The Snuggie Problem.

2009-03-01T12:10:00.000-08:00

I don't usually fall for infomercials, but this one spoke to me on a primal level; I've tried every manner of volumizing product but, no matter what I do, I can't keep my hair from touching my scalp.

Enter the InStyler.

Aside from the fact that it looks dangerous and impossible to use, this is the fine print:

*LIMITED TIME OFFER! $14.99 Trial Offer is for two (2) InStylers® for 30 days. After 30 days, do nothing and keep BOTH InStylers® for just three monthly payments of $39.99. The second InStyler® is FREE!! (plus S&P).

So, not only would I have to buy two (which, by the way, is how you end up like this poor woman), I have to rent to own. Two. IN THIS RECESSIOLYPSE. I can't even figure out who is expected to go through the hassle of buying this, unless Princess Mombi's been relegated to the ghetto.

The kids aren't alright.

2009-02-23T20:34:00.000-08:00

I found a note after school today.

Im pregnant by Lonnie dont tell nobody cause nobody really know Im like 2 weeks now! [sic]

And then I found this next to my car.

"I put a bird on my head."

2009-02-16T15:43:00.000-08:00

Breakfast: having the best week ever.

2009-02-10T14:59:00.000-08:00

Breakfast put the smack down on both Michael Phelps and Chris Brown this week when, outraged by images of a twentysomething using recreational drugs (on a college campus), Kellogg's retracted their Phelps endorsement, and milk told Chris Brown he was a little too hitty and bitey to be the face of strong teeth and bones.

But, breakfast, you're pulling me in two separate directions. Milk, I think you did the right thing as, until yesterday, I knew Chris Brown only as the dancing choad in that gum commercial that looks like an iPod commercial. But, Kellogg's, who do you think buys Froot Loops, Eggo waffles, and EL Fudge cookies?

Olympians. That's who.

I haven't felt this conflicted over breakfast since my parents' divorce. Nonetheless, if there's one thing we can all agree on, I think it's that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

Words are all we have.

2009-02-08T21:08:00.000-08:00

I got this tattoo of a lotus flower last October but, now that I'm feeling like myself again, I've been thinking I'd like something a tad more pessimistic to balance it out. Also, I really want some words, and in retrospect, I can't believe I totally disregarded my love of words when I got my lotus tattoo.

A few weeks ago, I thought I'd like something on my other flank. Either: "Words are all we have", or "Quintessence of dust".

The latter is ruined because it kind of rhymes with Evanescence, and if I ever get naked in front of someone who doesn't love Samuel Beckett as much as I love Samuel Beckett, the former will become a constant reminder of our incompatibility.

So, then I was thinking I might like: "They want to know which tools. They never ask why build".

But, I don't really want two tattoos so much as I want to be able to redo the first one; so, I'm thinking I should add onto the first one. I thought "Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt" would be a good add-on for the lotus, until I remembered what tattooing feels like. Now I'm considering "A supposedly fun thing I'll never do again".

Another graduate of the Drunk Gypsy School of Cosmetology.

2009-01-30T13:40:00.000-08:00

It's my birthday, and I'm having a 100% necessary glass of wine right now. Having finished my end-of-semester grading yesterday, I had the day off work and decided to seize the day by getting my oil changed, which I should have done a few months ago, and paying a stranger to rip out some hair on my face with hot wax, which I haven't done in months because a) we're in a recession, and b) I'm anglo-saxon.

I drove my car to the nearest Jiffy Lube without incident. And that's the least I expect from it after having to dump several hundred dollars and five days of work into it. Two pages into the old magazine I was reading, a Jiffy Lube employee tells me my car won't start.

And then it does. You have to push the clutch down. That's the key.

So then I went to the salon to get my hairs ripped out. And that turned out to be a ten-minute sadomasochistic experiment in the limits of human pain.

I guess I was wincing a little because my waxer said, "I haven't even started yet."

"I know that, but you're pressing on my eye."

It got worse when my nose ring got caught in the towel she dragged roughly across my face for no reason whatsoever. I don't have that much hair anywhere on my face, so I am still confused as to why she was acting like she was brushing a rug.

I opened my eyes at several points during this process, in an effort to appear nonchalant. Plus, in the event that she was actually trying to hurt me, I thought maybe I could make amends with a closed-mouth polite smile. But my vision was blurry with tears.

I let the tears stream down my face to clear my vision. Why was this taking so long, and, sweet mother of God, why is my whole forehead in searing pain?

Because she was scraping scissors across my face.

When she didn't use the post-wax aloe, opting instead to send me home pissed off, inflamed, and possibly cut up like the Joker, that was the final straw for me.

I didn't tip.

True story.

2009-01-29T18:06:00.000-08:00

I tried to leave a comment for DABA, but I couldn't figure out how to do it on their fancy WordPress.

Someone needs to take care of me. I hear Steve Jobs is less busy these days.

She works hard for the scholarship money.

2009-01-25T16:51:00.000-08:00

Hearty congratulations are in order for Katie Stam of Indiana, our new Miss America. Just remember nothing lasts forever, Katie -- not even cold November rain.

Cupcakes are the new birthday cake.

2009-01-19T09:37:00.001-08:00

Look. At. These. Shark cupcakes from Hello, Cupcake!

Hello, Cupcake! is so awesome, I'm thinking about buying it, and possibly even baking some cupcakes. Unfortunately, most of the cupcakes probably won't fit in the Cupcake Courier which, until Hello, Cupcake! rocked the world, was the greatest invention of our time, according to me and Jenna Fischer.

I'm a dude playing a dude disguised as another dude.

2009-01-09T18:55:00.000-08:00

Even though parents have brought guns to my school to give to their kids -- so that they could shoot other kids -- yesterday was the first incident of violence that involved the successful implementation of weaponry.

I hate to brag, but we made it all the way through the winter break before someone tried to cut a bitch with a box cutter. Because no one actually got hurt, I'm willing to admit that this is somewhat humorous to me; I know you can hijack a plane with one, but it's still the world's lamest weapon. I remember using them in art class, in elementary school. That this one-sided knife fight happened in a Spanish class elevates the story's status to Hilarious in my eyes.

A Year in More of the Same.

2008-12-31T22:57:00.000-08:00

It was hard for me to get excited about music in 2008. So hard, in fact, that it is quite literally impossible for me to adhere to the traditional Top 10 format because I only really liked eight albums.

The payworthy:

The Last Shadow Puppets - The Age of the Understatement
Black Kids - Partie Traumatic
Portishead - Third
Mugison - Mugiboogie
Sigur Rós - Med Sud I Eyrum Vid Spilum Endalaust
TV on the Radio - Dear Science
She & Him - Volume One
Los Campesinos! - Hold On Now, Youngster ...

Still ok:

Girl Talk - Feed the Animals
Wolf Parade - At Mount Zoomer
Of Montreal - Skeletal Lamping

Overrated and/or Over it:

Vampire Weekend
The Hold Steady
The Killers
Beyonce

Love to Hate:

Duffy: A Dolphin. With a microphone.

Lil Wayne: There are so many ways in which you make it impossible for me to take you seriously.

Katy Perry: The world does not need a brunette Avril Lavigne. Ur so dead to me.

50% more allergic!

2008-12-28T19:27:00.000-08:00

(June 12, 2008)

I used to think about having children in the same manner I think about doing my taxes: Eh. I'll do it later. But nannying this summer has forced me to consider logistics, which makes me wonder if I should revise my notion of child rearing as an inevitability. I might actually have to think about this. For example:

Did you know many car seats require an advanced degree in mechanical engineering for installation?

Did you know that, if a kid is allergic to soy or dairy, that's a collosal pain in the ass? Did you know that if a kid is allergic to both soy and dairy, there's a pretty good chance you'll accidentaly kill it -- and it will cost more to feed your kid than an entire stable full of ponies?

I don't understand how anyone who stays home alone with children all day is not an agoraphobe. Sally, Charlie and I are planning a trip to the pool after nap time. Did you know that this requires a kind of deranged military precision?

Wrangle both children into bathing suits, then car. Take 32 so Charlie doesn't have time to fall asleep in the car because he's always in a bad mood if he's woken up and when he's in a bad mood, he starts biting Sally. Sally won't use the Aveeno sunblock because it's "stinky," so bring the spray kind, too. Somehow, make sure that none of the spray kind gets on Charlie -- even though he insists on being held almost all of the time -- because the spray kind has soy oil in it, and he's allergic to soy. Get Sally a strawberry and banana smoothie. Get Charlie a raspberry and pineapple smoothie, but make sure the underpaid wage slave at the cafe washes the blender in between smoothies, because Sally's will be made with yogurt, and Charlie's allergic to dairy. Somehow, get sunblock on Charlie without causing a scene because if he cries, everyone will assume you're an inept child care provider, a terrible human being, or his mother. Do not allow children to drown in pool. Have fun!

My God. Having kids seems like it takes an awful lot of, you know, effort. And that part definitely does not appeal to me nearly as much as being able to force someone else to do household chores.

No way that just happened.

2008-12-28T19:26:00.000-08:00

(May 30, 2008)

It was really hot today, so I left my car windows down, sure that no one would rupture my safe bubble of pure white suburb just to steal some burnt CDs and June's Vogue. What I didn't anticipate was the possibility of a bird flying into my car and perching on the steering wheel before dropping the foster kids off at the pool. So, I learned a valuable lesson today: leave one window down on hot days; in the event of a fly-by shitting, there's a good chance the bird will kill itself trying to fly through the closed window. And that's some consolation.

Feels like sour milk.

2008-12-28T19:24:00.000-08:00

(May 20, 2008)

I'm beginning to worry that I may never smell or taste anything again. It's been days. I'm eating some cereal because I was craving the texture of something other than Airborne and these terrible oranges I got which do not maintain their segmentation. And this cereal may or may not make me violently ill because my milk was dated yesterday, but I can't smell it. I took a gamble. Let's see what happens.

In other news, Anne has invited me to go with her to a casting call at a BMW dealership (wtf) for The Bachelor. I'm pretty torn because while this does seem like a pretty classy thing to do, I'm not sure I'm the kind of personality the Bachelor producers are looking for. Because I have one.

I've never seen The Bachelor, so maybe there's a big cash prize I'm not aware of -- bigger than the one you got for eating pickled bull balls on Fear Factor -- but last night, watching the Flavor of Love 3 finale, I decided that if I was ever going to really enjoy television, I was going to have to overlook the inexplicable strangeness of the huge number of people who are willing to go to casting calls at car dealerships for the opportunity to compete for a claim of ownership over a complete stranger.

Somewhere, there is a grad student writing about the parallels between Kierkegaard's leap of faith and the willful suspension of disbelief required to participate in/enjoy A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.

Butt Cracks!

2008-12-28T19:21:00.000-08:00

(May 2, 2008)

1. One of my roommates anticipates having sex this weekend, so she got a Brazilian wax. I've never thought it might be a good idea to pay a stranger to violently rip out all the hair in my genital area with hot wax, so I had no idea how thorough the procedure actually is. Apparently, the waxing occurs not only on the surface, but also underneath, and all the way up the butt crack.

2. I was going to interview for a job as a bartender at a strip club, in pursuit of my enduring dream of pulling in a load of cash really quickly with minimal effort. I'm not saying it's right to profit from other women's childhood sexual trauma -- but I'm a utilitarian, so I've found multiple ways to justify earning a cut from the deaths of feminism and childhood innocence. I've never been to a strip club before because, you know, they're gross. But SMF told me that since I was interviewing for an upscale establishment, I'd probably be asked to go above and beyond the call of duty and serve shots from my butt crack and/or cleavage. I'm not willing to meet any gentleman willing to ingest something served in such close proximity to my pooper. And in the event that he might want to follow a butt shot with a cleavage chaser, I certainly don't want his face that close to my face.

3. Sally has some kind of fixation with her butt crack. We talk about it all the time, and she likes to touch it, which means that my existing hand washing fixation has intensified. Sally's mother, a psychiatrist, told me that personality is fully realized before the age of five. Sally's three, so I guess she's still in Freud's anal stage. Of course, Freud's been pretty thoroughly discredited by now, so I have to wonder whether this is foreshadowing a future butt crack fixation, and whether I watch "Little Einsteins" three days a week with someone who will eventually use her butt crack as a serving tray.

4. I went tanning today. There was a long line for Melanoma, so I read the Tanning Tips handout for the first time, which advised me to lift my hips and spread my butt cheeks to avoid tan lines on my butt crack. I am uncomfortable lying naked on a heated surface on which someone before me has just spread his or her butt cheeks.

I don’t understand what’s going on, but I’m really excited about it.

2008-12-28T19:18:00.000-08:00

(January 23, 2008)

I don't know about you, but I can't wait for the stock market to crash. I'm pretty excited about living in a Hooverville, not wearing panty hose, going to speakeasies, listening to Fireside Chats on XM, wearing flapper pleats, and possibly getting fleas. I might even become a union supporter, contract Polio, and learn how to make a cabbage-based stew. Seriously, can you imagine how fun this will be? Obviously, the misery will be artful -- occasionally sepia.

Every face will be smudged with a thin layer of dirt, but will appear wise and world-weary, and the Baby Boomers will finally stop calling Generation Y greedy and self-important because we will have lived through something (everyone knows our fake war doesn't count, obviously). Plus, some of them will probably die finally. Hooray! We can claim all those corner office jobs to which we're entitled. All it takes is one devastatingly thorough economic catastrophe, which should happen any day now. It'll be so Scene.

Don’t take the beltway!

2008-12-28T19:07:00.000-08:00

(August 22, 2007)

I've already decided my days as a Mid-Atlantic state dweller are numbered. Maryland's not dead to me, but it's in the ICU. Today I saw a commercial for a furniture store and their primary selling point was the fact that you don't have to take the beltway to get there (Also: I still do not have a bed). At the end of the commercial, the store's address and phone number flashed on screen, but the phrase "Don't take the beltway!" was featured even more prominently.

Last Friday, as my four-hour trip to Virginia Beach stretched into six hours, I used that time to contemplate my next nomadic move. I realized, then, that moving close to DC seemed like a good idea in May because a) Ryan Claycomb told me to, and b) it's a city that's not New York. I like cities for their absence of trees and neighborly small talk, but I somehow forgot about my overriding distaste for other people. I've decided I'm willing to suffer the boredom of small town living in exchange for relative solitude. For now, there's not a lot I can do about it, but I've decided that as soon as my lease is over, I'm moving to Montana, Wyoming, North Dakota, Nevada, Oklahoma, Idaho, or some other state you never meet anyone from. I'm willing to drive 40 minutes to the grocery store and talk to the people in it as long as I don't have to stare at a line of stationary single-car drivers as far as the horizon in the process. I don't want any mass transit, either. I'm not going anywhere with a population dense enough to warrant public transportation. I only want to see pick-up trucks and that one van that takes senior citizens to the mall. I'm drawing the line at hunting my own food, though. And, yes, I know this is probably how Ted Kaczynski started.

Once I actually got to Virginia Beach, I had a pretty good time. I got sick pretty much immediately as a result of constant exposure to proper nutrition and natural light, but I tried not to let that get me too down. One thing did sort of bother me, though, and I know I've written about this before, but still -- how can the catcall continue to exist? Not only has it never worked on anyone, but now there seems to be a new strain of hostile catcall that's somehow even less effective.

The three-block walk back to Steph's house was full of pretty standard sexual harassment (one reason not to go blonde), but one dude got really creative and warned us to "watch out for the attack." That time, I actually did almost stop and ask for clarification. Obviously, yelling at me on the street didn't make me want to sleep with him nearly as much as if he'd revved the engine of a Camaro blasting techno music, but did he have to be all menacing about it? Why not try something like, "Come back to the parking garage, baby" or "I have an ether-soaked rag in my back pocket"?

So, apparently we're doing violent catcalls now, and I'm really excited about this. I'm officially encouraging my female friends to get involved.

"This womb won't fill itself!"
"I want to sue you for child support!"
"I'm gonna fuck you in the ass with conical household objects until you cry like a little bitch!"

Water motif.

2008-12-28T19:05:00.000-08:00

(August 16, 2007)

I used to live here.

Remember my Sunnyside apartment -- my old friend? Let's take a moment to reminisce about the first apartment I occupied without a roommate.

Notable features:

1. surrounded by undergrads on all sides
2. the "Penetration Station" sign
3. slumlord Kathy
4. negligent pet owner neighbors upstairs (threw pet shit out window onto shared sidewalk)
5. abusive misogynist neighbors next door (occasional yelling, hitting sounds)
6. keg pinata with bullet holes
7. conveniently located near Stabby Avenue
8. proximity to crack-smoking physicists
9. temperamental heat, water, and electricity
10. weird caterpillar infestation
11. peeling lead-based paint
12. mold

I didn't have a lot of company, which is a shame because I never got to share the experience of my aquatic kitchen. I lost count of how many times the shit-throwers upstairs let their toilet run for hours, leaving me to come home at the end of the day to find my kitchen flooded. The only bright side to that situation was that I'd have to call Kenny, the maintenence guy (he was a West Virginia version of Groundskeeper Willie -- all red hair and anger), who would have to key into the shit-throwers' apartment and stop their toilet from running. Then he'd come downstairs to my apartment and help me mop, and/or replace parts of my ceiling. We grew close.

Given all of the other unfortunate disadvantages of my Sunnyside apartment, I naively assumed the water motif was just a Sunnyside thing. But, now I'm starting to think it's me. Tonight my roommates and I discovered our washer drains into the sink next to it. We realized this because the washcloth in the sink nestled over the drain, which caused a massive flood in the basement. I'm ok with that, though, because I haven't seen any caterpillars yet.

Bringing home boredom.

2008-12-28T19:01:00.000-08:00

(August 9, 2007)

Today I had to get up kind of early-ish, so when I got home I took a nap, thereby missing the end of What Not to Wear. When I woke up, something called Bringing Home Baby was on my TV. Initially, I was sucked in by the promise of hospital gore, as a clip of the birthing video was included, and the baby was all squinty and sick and covered in blood and baby juice. Man, that baby was pissed. But that portion of the program turned out to be very misleading; for the remainder of the show, a camera crew followed the parents around while they spoke entirely in cliches while sitting around their house, looking at their clean baby. Earth-shattering insights on parenting include:

"It's hard being a parent."
"He's so little."
"I just wish he'd sleep through the night."
"I don't know how to make him stop crying." "He's the most important person in my life, now."

Bor-ing. So, then I decided that I would really like to be on this show; I will rent a baby for an afternoon (the show only follows the parents around the day they bring the baby home from the hospital, hence the title), and say inappropriate things for the TLC camera crew, such as:

"Now I can start drinking again. I mean, liquor."
"Look how big my boobs are now!"
"Yeah, I don't know. I was hoping it'd be cuter."
"It still smells like vagina."
"Am I supposed to feed it every day?"

Kirk's contributions:

"There's stuff coming out of both ends. Which one gets the diaper?"
"Don't forget to go back on the pill, and do it right this time!"
"He really does look like the mailman, doesn't he?"
"What do you mean you can't put it back in?"
"Your boobs are going to stay that big, right?"
"So, when are you going to start speaking English?"
"Ok, pregnancy's over. You can't blame hormones for your bitchiness anymore."
"So how long will it take before you get rid of those stretch marks?"
"Don't worry, TV will keep it busy when we're not watching it."

More abuse, please.

2008-12-28T18:56:00.000-08:00

(June 21, 2007)

Last week, I went to a Pirates game on what was apparently Ladies' Night, although ladies didn't get free beer, beer in buckets, t-shirts, t-shirts in buckets, or any other special benefit that I'm aware of. The overall lameness of Ladies' Night was only compensated for by the pierogi race. Sauerkraut Saul won. Oh, and so did the Pirates.

I don't really understand the correlation between Pittsburgh, pierogies, and pirates. Maybe pirates love eating delicious, carbtastic foods in Pittsburgh. And there's nothing wrong with that.
That's all for my segue. Now, here's my list of Top 5 Places in Morgantown (and the vicinity) to Get Abused:

5. PNC Park on Ladies' Night -- because ladies get free disappointment.
4. 123 -- because if you're not there every night, you're not a regular. And if you're not a regular, you can go to hell.
3. High Street, any time after 9 p.m., any day during the fall or spring semesters -- because I am a vagina, not a person.
2. Black Bear Burritos -- because the air conditioning may or may not be on, and you may or may not see the entire English department, but the one thing you can bet on for sure is that there are going to be a lot of screaming toddlers running around unchecked while their parents ingest Spring Creek tofu and PBR.
1. The Blue Moose -- because hipsters are total dicks.

Every time I go to the Blue Moose I have to interact with the same hipster -- the one with the hair that looks like a Lego helmet. And she's always a total dick to me. Her latest thing is acting like she can't hear me when I've just politely ordered at a reasonable human volume, and then standing behind the counter with her head cocked to the side giving me a look that conveys her suspicion that I am not only a freakish mute, but also possibly retarded.

Yesterday, I saw her smoking and I thought, Good.

Freddy Krueger for a pet.

2008-12-28T18:52:00.000-08:00

(May 21, 2007)

Although I don't really mind cats that are old and feeble and barely move, there are plenty of reasons to hate cats in their healthy prime -- which lasts for twenty years. If you die and no one finds you for a while, they will eat you; they are impossible to discipline; they love to shred furniture; they make me sneeze and itch; they're kind of sketchy, and I have reason to believe they're anti-semitic. They have knives for hands. It's like having a furry Freddy Krueger for a pet. While I don't understand anyone's motivation to own a cat, I do currently live with one -- West.

West likes to play. He's really into wrapping his body around my leg and then biting me. He climbs on the table. He likes to spray litter all over the bathroom. He can't stop, won't stop scratching, and he follows me around the house, darting out of corners and remaining constantly under foot. Fortunately, West and I are beginning to understand each other -- by which I mean that he will continue to torment me daily and there's nothing I can do about it.

There's really no escape. He even body slams the door to the bathroom and tries to climb in my lap while I pee. It's so adorable I've been inspired to come up with some nicknames for him, such as Wolverine, and The Fucking Cat. Traditional feline aversion techniques are no good because West likes water. Stephanie suggested putting some coins in a coffee can and shaking it when he does something annoying because he's supposed to hate the noise, but I think I'd hate the noise more -- especially since I'd be shaking the can every 43 seconds.

Yesterday, Hamilton told me about a cat her family had way back in the day. The cat was named Fago, after a villain in an Italian indie film rather than a delicious beverage. Fago liked to sit on top of a tall dresser across the room from Hamilton's parents' bed. Every night, at 4 a.m., Fago would launch himself across the room from the top of the dresser and land directly on Pete Hamilton's head. This went on for months, and nothing could make Fago stop his reign of terror. So, one night, Pete Hamilton pretended to sleep. He waited until 4 a.m., heard Fago prepare for the dismount, and met Fago mid-leap with a fist to the head. Pete Hamilton has slept soundly ever since. So, maybe cats can be disciplined after all.

Hogging.

2008-12-28T18:48:00.000-08:00

Hey, kids. Gather 'round. Today, I learned about hogging (though, thankfully, not firsthand).

Have you heard of this? Apparently, it's huge. It's when dudes go prowling for obese women, take them home, and humiliate them in various ways. This usually entails the hogee on hands and knees while the hogger makes whatever kinds of noises he thinks a hog makes. But there's a collaborative element to hogging, which is really key. One example, I was told, would be like if a hogger's friend jumped out of a closet with a videocamera in the middle of the hogging.

Hogging is enough of a cultural phenomenon to entail entries in both Wikipedia and the Urban Dictionary. There's also an essay by Sarah Fenske called "Big Game Hunters," which was featured in the anthology 'Scoot Over, Skinny: The Fat Nonfiction Anthology.' And, in volume 27 of the journal, 'Deviant Behavior,' there's an essay called "'Knocking off a Fat Girl': an Exploration of Hogging, Male Sexuality, and Neutralizations." I'm also told there are MySpace and Facebook groups for hoggers, but I haven't mustered the bravery to check those out yet.

I worried that my previous ignorance of hogging might mean that I'd been hogged myself; but, I was told I don't meet the minimum weight requirement, and besides, hogging never leads to relationships.

If hogging is something everyone (but me) already knows about, I have to wonder why potential hogees aren't just a little more guarded. I'm not condoning hogging or anything, but nothing good has ever happened in a Lane Bryant tube top.

Don't we all know when we're out of our league? I mean, the only ridiculously good looking people I trust are my friends, so in the event that a male model-looking dude ever spoke to me, I'd assume he was either gay (and wanted someone to make fun of high-waisted pants with) or blind (and I sound much, much taller, and blonder -- with bigger boobs.). Logically, I think this question makes sense, although I will concede that it does presuppose a moderate sense of self-worth, a pinch of dignity, and possibly a fear of STDs. Unfortunately, not all hogees seem to possess these traits because, as we all know, fat people are sub-human, and exist solely for everyone else's entertainment. Fat guy in a little coat.

Some hoggers argue that hogees like hogging, because at least they get to have sex. Others, I guess, just feel entitled to ruin lives because they're just that awesome.

But, that's beside the point. The more pressing issues, I think, are:

1. Hoggers need to admit that they like hogging. If they didn't, hogging would be physically impossible. You know what I'm saying.
2. Hoggers are taking potential mates from their oversized brethren. Shouldn't that be against the Bro Code?
3. Hoggers are totally gay for each other, hence the collaborative element. And that's all I have to say about hogging. I leave you with some of my favorite quotations from Fenske's essay (http://www.clevescene.com/2003-10-01/news/big-game-hunters/4):

"You're not embarrassed getting shot down by them," Mark says. "You're not embarrassed when they leave."

"I just talk to them like they're complete disgusting pigs," he says. "You gotta break 'em down with insults. Comment on their fat -- 'You're a dirty little pig.' They call me a dick, an asshole, but after a few beers, they're into it."

"Everyone knows that if you want to get belligerent with your friends, hogging is the way to go. It's not something you aspire to, but no one decent is going to talk to you when you're at the bar with your friends, doing shots of Jaeger. Sometimes you just say, 'Fuck it, let's get a pig.'"

"You don't want to have a hot bitch blow you off because she can. You want a fat bitch who'll suck your cock. Last call, I like to get my dick sucked rather than play euchre all night."

Awesomely terrible lines from student papers: the (new and improved) finale.

2008-12-28T18:46:00.000-08:00

(April 27, 2007)

"The second section of my research question is how much time do we have? Well, it depends who you talk to. The Christians, Mayans, and many scientists say not long but of course they have been saying that for years."

"Without industry, where would people work? The answer is simple: people would be farming in their backyards, living off the land, and rolling the wheel back. This simply cannot be stood for."

"As the evolutionary progress has continued, humans have faced weakening in their senses in old age. Many children are even vision impaired or hearing impaired. What would happen to these humans had it not been for the use of plastics, a pollutant to the environment, to develop hearing aids?"

"A deaf human in a hunter-gatherer society would become an overwhelming burden to his comrades and would likely die young."

"As stated earlier, the ability for mammals to evolve quickly has been our strongest trait. This statement may start to seem redundant, but I cannot stress the importance of the recognition of the evolutionary process."

"Pollution is a major problem. I admit it."

"The first time the ape stabbed a big ole hornet nest, he learned his lesson: hornets are not a good food source due to the high opportunity cost."

"An albino rabbit in a dense forest is not going to survive very long."

The stupidest thing I've been a part of (recently).

2008-12-28T18:43:00.000-08:00

(April 24, 2007)

Today I invited Ultimate Co-Worker, along with Ultimate Fiancee and Ultimate Friends, to this weekend's Republican Fest. Deb has to work, but Ultimate says he thinks he'll make a convincing Dick Cheney. Aaron says he's coming as Ann Coulter.

So, during my fifteen-minute break at work, I tried to print an Ultimare Flyer for Ultimate Co-Worker. Here's how this is supposed to work:
1. Deposit money to account.
2. Swipe student ID at nearest printer to deduct money from account.
3. Print whatever you want for six cents a page.

Having completed step one some time ago, I went to the nearest printer to complete steps two and three. I should have immediately known something was wrong when I saw a Dude and an Emo kid hunched over the printer at the same time; those two subcultures never mingle -- probably because the Dude wants to punch the Emo kid all the time, and the Emo kid would die.

Nonetheless, Dude and Emo were both staring at the printer, pressing buttons, opening doors, and being all-around take-charge kind of guys, bonding over their shared sense of confusion. They looked a lot like Hansel and Zoolander trying to get the file from the Mac. I watched this for a few seconds before asking, "Do you know what's wrong with the printer?" And then Dude said, "It says it's out of paper..." and then he opened the door where the ink goes. "How do you put paper in there?"

So then I said, while opening the paper drawer, "I think the paper goes in here because this drawer has a picture of a piece of paper on it."

Then, Dude picked up two -- seriously, two -- folded pieces of formally discarded paper beside the printer and put them in the tray. Emo identified one problem: "I bet we'll need more than two pieces of paper." And I picked another: "That's probably going to get caught in the printer."

But Dude proceeded anyway. He hit the print button again, and nothing happened. So -- I swear this is true -- I closed the paper drawer for him. And, of course, the paper immediately got jammed in the printer and I felt vindicated. That was the moment I decided to stick around to the end of the ordeal just to see what would happen.

Dude opened the correct drawer and pulled the crumpled piece of paper out. Emo turned to me, full of despair, and asked, "What do we do now?"

"Get more paper."
"Where?"
"Ask a librarian."

And then Dude and Emo both looked at me like I'd just suggested asking the Godfather for a favor on his daughter's wedding day. I could tell they were both just going to give up because the challenge of asking a librarian for paper to fill an empty printer in the library was completely insurmountable. Dude was like, "Fuck it," and walked away. Emo looked longingly at the printer, hoping that either the paper supply would magically replenish itself, or I would ask one of the librarians for paper myself. That was the moment I realized our shared experience had crossed over from the realm of the entertaining into the realm of the unbelievably stupid.

I left Emo standing at the printer as a Sorostitute approached. She stopped me, and asked, "What's wrong with it?" Assuming she was referring to the printer rather than the Emo staring at it, I told her the printer was out of paper and she gave me the same terrified look as Dude and Emo.

I fled back to work before things could get any stupider. As I relayed the story of my experience to Ultimate Co-Worker, I began to realize its full impact. I had just met three people who were so astonished by the prospect of having to take initiative to do something ridiculously simple for themselves that they were frozen with shock. No wonder some of my students still don't know how to write a thesis statement.

The Tailor of Morgantown.

2008-12-28T18:38:00.000-08:00

(March 15, 2007)

If, like me, you're under 5'8" and happen to live in Morgantown, I have some wisdom to pass along to you.

Start drinking more milk and hope to grow, because the tailoring scene here is not so awesome. I went to what I'm pretty sure is the only tailor in the immediate vicinity this morning. Actually -- just to make sure Sam gets offended -- I would say it's safe to assume this is the only tailor in all of West Virginia. As such, it seems the tailors there are taking advantage of the novelty, and have formed some kind of tailors' union, whereby they don't have to tailor anything they don't want to tailor -- even though the act of tailoring is implied rather directly in their job title.

I should have just left when the tailor looked at the jacket and asked, "Is that a jacket?" but this jacket needed a fair amount of work -- shorter sleeves, and a smaller waist. So, instead, I just nodded, yes, this is a jacket.

So, my sleeves got pinned, but the tailor has refused to alter the waist (apparently they can do that, now -- like conscientious fashion objectors) because, "it's a jacket". And then I gave up, because I can't argue with that kind of cold, hard logic. So, if you see me wearing a teal jacket with perfectly-fitted sleeves and a potato sack waist, just try to imagine the possibilities, please. It could have been a nice jacket -- even though it's a jacket.

Adventures in online dating.

2008-12-28T18:36:00.000-08:00

(February 18, 2007)

Inspired by Celia Ellenberg's article, "Hey, I Like Your Profile..." in this month's Jane Magazine, Meg and I have decided to try online dating. And, by 'try online dating' I mean we've decided to challenge each other to see who can create the most whore-tastic profile to attract the largest number of appalling freaks possible -- it's a freakathon, a freak-off, a freakatition.

We probably won't try Match.com because I think that costs money. Also, I think Dr. Phil endorses that, and Dr. Phil's dead to me. But, we're definitely going to try ConservativeMatch.com (Likes: zygotes, thieving corporations, declaring war on abstract concepts). I'm also really excited about the possibilities of JDate.com (Likes: domineering mothers, delis, Moses). Of course, Celibatepassions.com is probably more up my alley. No pun intended. Snap! Can I 'snap' myself? And, is that a pun, too?

Trekpassions.com might prove to be a bit of a challenge for me, as I've never seen Star Trek (Likes: men who live with their parents? Men who have asthma? Men who also have profiles on celibatepassions.com?), but I'm willing to try to bluff my way through. You know, like in a relationship.

Sportsfriends.com is just out of the question. Ditto for stdsingles.com. Datemypet.com would give me a good excuse to get a puppy (Likes: mutilated furniture, shedding, cleaning up shit). Gothicmatch.com would give me a good excuse to be even more moody and demanding. Plus, then I could borrow my date's eyeliner.

Between JDate.com and greenfriends.com (Likes: recycling, organic pot-lucks, patchouli), I think I've got this thing in the bag. The real competition is going to be on Nerve.com, where Meg has already called dibs on listing giving blow jobs as one of her interests. I call dibs on not wearing underwear, and having sex in public places.

Love Lucy, hate Sarah.

2008-12-28T18:31:00.000-08:00

(February 11, 2007)

I haven't baked anything in about eleven years. I think I can remember the exact occasion of my last baking experience, and I think I made chocolate chip cookies while babysitting. I got a banana-shaped burn on my hand that I thought would turn into a badass scar, but didn't. I think that's the last time I baked, because when I offer to help my mom, who runs a catering business, she usually says, "No! I mean, that's ok." Helping my mom in the kitchen has always been limited to wrapping leftovers or washing dishes, and I'm pretty sure that doesn't count as baking, even if I happen to be in the same room where the baking is going on.

I've recently acquired a baking dish, which I usually use for chicken but, today, I decided I had to make a cake. Naively, I thought this would go pretty well because I got a mix from a box (I know my limitations), and the directions only called for three additional ingredients -- and one of them was water.

Since I haven't baked in eleven years, though, I forgot that every time I try to bake, my kitchen ends up looking like a really sad I Love Lucy rerun. My first problem was that I didn't have a bowl large enough to mix the incomprehensible-chemical-fusion cake powder; I used a spaghetti pot.

My Hurculean strength caused me to spray brown powder over half my kitchen and I had to scrape it, from various surfaces, into the spaghetti pot.

Then I had two eggs, not three, as the recipe called for. I didn't bother to get eggs because, I mean, what kind of domestic retard keeps less than three eggs on hand?

I thought I only had olive oil, but some rearranging of peanut butter and cereal, thankfully, unearthed some vegetable oil. I have no idea how or when I got vegetable oil, but I added some more of that in lieu of a third egg.

But, of course, I don't have a mixer, or a wisk, so I had to use a fork.

And I don't have a spatula, so I had to use a spoon to get all of the batter out of the spaghetti pot.

The cake takes forty minutes to bake, but I wasn't paying attention to what time I put it in the oven because I was thinking about medieval lit.

I'll take it out soon, I guess. What the hell. At least my house smells delicious. You're all invited over for cake.

Last call, more guilt, and a near-death experience.

2008-12-28T18:29:00.000-08:00

(January 3, 2007)

It's last call to visit with me if you're in Dayton, as I'll be re-opened for business (translation: going back to WV) on the sixth.

At the mall today, I experienced more middle-class consumer guilt after I watched a large-footed baby Sorostitute --16 or 17, maybe -- abuse a meek salesperson. The baby Sorostitute wanted red shoes, and the salesperson accidentally brought out green ones, so the baby Sorostitute decided to express her displeasure with the situation as rudely as possible:

LFBS: Hun -- these are green. I want red.
MS: Sorry about that. Size nine?
LFBS: Yeah.

Meek salesperson was trying to get shoes for several other, only slightly less demanding, customers. Sadly, there were no more red size nines for the baby Sorostitute, so she left to terrorize another wage slave.

I don't like to see people who work in retail abused. I almost said something to the large-footed baby Sorostitute, but I didn't. Then I felt guilty about it when I saw the four-inch vertical marks on the meek salesperson's wrists, fresh enough to be puffy, but not bandaged. Honestly, I don't see how this suicide attempt could have failed.

Then I felt even more guilty because being that close to someone who almost died, but didn't, made me feel like a really bad person for being in a mall. Having worked in the service industry around the holidays, I have certainly contemplated dragging something pointy across my wrists, but I've never seen such a sincere effort. Being around people who are more obviously miserable than I am makes me feel bad about not feeling worse. Hopefully, this will put me off shopping for a while.

Can't. Sleep. Books will eat me.

2008-12-28T18:25:00.000-08:00

(December 26, 2006)

I want to go back to WVU now. I haven't been to the 'brook in a year, but my home is pretty boring already. Actually, it's not really my home anymore, it's my parents' home and, since I'm not a true West Virginian in spirit, I guess this means I have no home. And I'm ok with that.

For someone without a home, though, I seem to have a lot of crap piling up around me. You know how when you go back to your old bedroom in your parents' house, it seems a lot smaller than you remember it? My bedroom is so stupid. It's still got the oversized antique furniture I've always hated, but it's actually shrinking because every time I come home, I unload two or three boxes of books. This is becoming an issue because a) I'm developing middle-class consumer guilt, b) it's a constant reminder of how long I've been in school, and c) I have an obstacle course leading to my closet.

I wish my parents would empty the nest already. Every time I'm in town I hope to find my room cleared of all my stuff and reimagined as an office, an exercise room, or another guest room. Instead, it's apparently regarded as a halfway house for wayward possessions. There's an errant sink in a box on the floor. I've been assured that we're not white trash now, but there's a ridiculously Seinfeldian anecdote detailing the botched sink trade I haven't heard yet, so maybe my parents are engaging in a little plumbing racketeering on the side. Speaking of racketeering -- would you like to buy some books?

Ultimate Co-Worker, Conversations with the Third Reich, and the Wisdom of Woody Allen.

2008-12-28T18:19:00.000-08:00

(December 7, 2006)

I am always glad to have the Ultimate Co-worker with me during close encounters with obvious lunatics. Since I've started slinging the coffee, steaming the milk, icing the chai, and so forth, I haven't met too many notable crazies. I mean, no one can keep up with Sam. However, this means that the crazies I do meet are all the more memorable.

Tuesday, for example, an Aryan gentleman came in for something other than tea. Still, something about the tea display compelled him to comment disdainfully: "Zen tea? You think Japanese people drink Christian tea?"

In these sorts of situations -- in which there is no correct answer -- I find it's best to go with something non-committal in the interest of sidestepping any potential outbreak of physical violence. Had I not been talking to a psycho, I could have said what I was thinking: "Nothing tastes better than a steamy cup of self-righteous hypocrisy." I think, instead, I went with something like, "Uh ... hmm" while Ultimate Co-Worker said, "Right, man."

Today, as I was mid-latte, a tall psycho thought it'd be really fun to lurk around over the espresso machine and then quiz me over the contents of his companion's drink.

Tall psycho: So, what -- you just steam milk?
Me: Yeah, and then blend it with espresso.
TP: Gross.
Me: Actually, it's kind of delicious.
TP: I bet you think it is.
Me: Ok. Fine. We're done here.

After today's tall psycho, I kept thinking about that scene in Annie Hall where Woody Allen is interviewing people on the street -- "I ask a psychopath, I get that kind of an answer." I've come to appreciate the Sorostitute consumer; at least they're too busy talking into their cell phones to engage me in conversation.

Misanthropy FAIL.

2008-12-28T18:18:00.000-08:00

(October 26, 2006)

I've found that one serious benefit of thinking just about everyone is an asshole is that sometimes I get overwhelmed by random acts of kindness that aren't really that big of a deal.

A week ago, one of my classmates from the post-war British drama seminar and I realized we were at the same concert five years ago. Ok, maybe that's not that weird; U2 has a lot of fans, I know. They're kind of a big deal. But I think it's weird that we found out, because he's from Virginia and I'm from Ohio and, somehow, we both ended up in Cleveland's Gund Arena -- which is really fun to say, because it sounds like a venereal disease -- rocking out at the same time.

Also, we both had tickets to see them in Boston in 2004, and neither of us ended up going. Eerie.
So, those two discoveries alone were enough to make me forget about the need for universal health care for a minute, and enjoy the humanness of the whole thing in an oh-how-sweet-we're-all-connected state of mind.

But then, Jim shows up to class last night -- with mix CDs. Mix CDs! U2 live, and Beatles b-sides! I mean, come on. That nearly destroyed me. It was one of those completely unselfish acts of thoughtfulness that left me shaking my head in amazement (Cynics, take note: Jim is in his mid-thirties and married, so it really was an unselfish act of thoughtfulness, not a geeky romantic gesture. Not that mix CDs aren't romantic. You know what I mean.). I still haven't fully recovered.

Josh is really raising the bar for misogyny and terrible writing.

2008-12-28T18:11:00.000-08:00

(October 19, 2006)

So, I was in my office, grading some papers today. Ho-hum. They were responses to Judy Brady's essay, "I Want a Wife". It's short, and you can link to it here: http://www.columbia.edu/~sss31/rainbow/wife.html. But, if you don't, I don't think that makes little Josh's response any less funny. Enjoy.

... What kind of a husband is she describing anyway? She depicts men as giant assholes. I acknowledge that many women are taken advantage of, but I don't know any women that would happily support me financially, keep up my house, take care of my kids, please me sexually, prepare my food, organize my social life, tolerate infidelity, and do it all without nagging or complaining. I would like to meet a woman like that though.

Brady completely fails to mention that many husbands are the sole breadwinners in the family. Most lower class husbands don't have time for social lives. They work all day and come home to sleep so they can get up and do it all over again. They have so many children to support because they can't use contraceptives correctly or the mother has an overdeveloped maternal instinct.

I think Brady is a feminist asshole that needs to write with a little less bias and a little more logic. She completely ignores the fact that many men support the family while the wife goes to school and sluts around campus. The husband will probably increase their standard of living when he graduates anyway, so what is she complaining about. Maybe the wife shouldn't have had so many children, and then her job would be a lot easier ...

Why does it always have to be the male's fault with these feminist people? Why can't Brady take a little of the blame for her actions that led to the life she has now? Why shouldn't the woman be equally responsible for the birth control? Men can't take a pill yet, if it doesn't make the wife sick, then it only makes sense that taking a pill is her service to the marriage. It will save her the trouble in the long run because feeding her one pill is easier and cheaper than feeding five kids vitamins.

Dudes sometimes like rhyming.

2008-12-28T18:09:00.000-08:00

(October 14, 2006)

The more astute Dudes also like puns. Case in point: the "Penetration Station: Freshmen Welcum" sign the upstairs Dudes had on the porch for a while.

Sunnyside is all very Foucault. I can never walk around without feeling like a bunch of younger people are staring at me. And not because I'm narcissistic. They really are.
Case in point: leaving this afternoon for beagle-sitting, some Dudes playing beer pong on the porch before noon delivered the following rhyming assessment: "Look at the shitter on that critter."

That was too much, really. Isn't it standard Dude practice to wait until a bitch has passed before cuing other Dudes to look? Most sexual harassment that occurs in real time is delivered in the form of inarticulate shouting from the window of a moving car.

The strange part about this incident, though, is that no one playing beer pong on the porch actually lived there. And they were all gross. So, either they're some resident Dude's friends, or they just look for empty porches to gross around on.

I think the more pressing question, though, is when we can expect to see the demise of the catcall. And I'm not asking because I'm liberated, it's just ineffective -- maybe because women never really learn anything new.

I already know I have a nice "shitter". Readers, please note: calling attention to the obvious will never make a stranger want to sleep with you. I'll admit I was a little surprised to be called a "critter", but I guess that's all part of the colloquial charm of the Regional Pride Dude.

Friday the 13th

2008-12-28T18:06:00.000-08:00

(October 13, 2006)

This morning when I woke up, I could see my breath. In my apartment. I turned my heat on. I hope we don't have another one of those mid-October incidents where it gets all cold and then the frost knocks a bunch of trees down over power lines and then we lose power for a few days and I end up trudging across town with a bunch of frozen meat because it's too depressing to have to throw it all away.*

* Censored excerpt from sincere mass email from Meg, 27 Oct. 2005:

Oh hi,

So things got weird in Morgantown on Monday and it snowed like a mother. And all the trees were like, "Whoa, we still have all our leaves and our sap in liquid form therefore making us really, really heavy and totally not ready for snow." So needless to say a bunch of trees fell down on power lines and people lost electricity. Which leads me to a story about how I'm psychic and me and Sarah carried 15 pounds of frozen meat across town.

... So many a people lost electricity when we had that storm, including little Nader. So obviously we went to her home, drank the rest of her orange juice and vodka in a Poverty Screwdriver, packed up her valuables and Anne Franked it to my home. At the beginning of our trek, we lightheartedly referred to it as the Chickenwalk, but it slowly morphed into a ChickenTrudge because we stopped talking to each other in favor of thinking about how much weight we were carrying and how far we were from my house. I started seeing mirages of white Ford Festivas slowing down to pick us up. Then we got to my house and ate Funfetti cake.

Grocery store schizophrenia.

2008-12-28T18:04:00.000-08:00

(September 26, 2006)

Did you know you can get Mozzarella cheese for less than eight dollars? Because I didn't. What a revelation at the Giant Eagle. I've been buying the eight-dollar Belgioioso variety because I seriously didn't know you could get blocks of cheaper Mozzarella.

I'm kind of dumb. But I knew no other way.

So I guess this is the end of my cheese splurging. I can't really justify it since I already splurge on coffee, whole wheat pasta, and seafood. I get really nebbish and paranoid and unbearable to be around in grocery stores (and most other places, too, but always in grocery stores).

I should probably look into psychotherapy to get at the root of my hatred of grocery shopping. I suspect it has a lot to do with other people's children, and that episode of 20/20 about the bacteria on cart handles. I hate grocery stores so much that I don't want to stand around for hours looking at ingredients, but I'm also dumbstruck by the unhealthiness of virtually everything, so I usually freak out and end up with a schizophrenic cart full of Kashi, soy milk and Stouffer's macaroni and cheese.

I'd like someone to just tell me what to buy because, aside from raw vegetables, I don't know what to get. I honestly can't tell anymore what will give me high blood pressure, what will give me cancer, and what will begin many years of living in lonely misery after I reach the point of weighing as much as a Yugo. I have a lot of disjointed food facts memorized (Flavored yogurt has a lot of added sugar; whole-grain and organic products are generally stocked on the bottom of shelves.), but no real plan of attack.

So, if you run into me at the grocery store, don't feel obligated to say hello. I'll probably just mumble something incoherently spazzy about unbleached flour and then run toward the wine aisle

Retarded people aren't really that funny.

2008-12-28T18:00:00.000-08:00

(September 15, 2006)

So, two weeks ago at McClafferty's, Meg and I were calmly sipping and waiting for the post-game traffic to subside when, four or five hours later, this Dude approaches, and asks if we'd like to play pool. Then we said no, because we're not big joiners, and the Dude considered this an invitation to sit with us and share a joke he heard. Here it is. Ready? Seriously, here it is. No, really:

"So there's this chair, right? ... And the chair's wearing shoes, ok? ... And the chair walks down the street ..."

That's the whole thing. I'm positive, because he told it two times after that for good measure. After the first telling, Meg and I realized that this Dude was not only drunk, but also retarded. Around the third telling of the joke, his retarded friend came over, and in the spirit of celebration after the WVU win, he put on Meg's hat, swayed a little bit, shared his sunglasses with all of us, danced a lot on the booth and on the table, and tried to rip the lamp out of the wall a few times. So, Meg and I were trapped in the booth and, meanwhile, a non-retarded guy, who I guess was sort of in charge, came over and hung around the end of the table, just watching indifferently.

Then, a beacon of hope, Matt and his 70+ IQ materialized and the retarded comedian got up. I'm not proud, but I saw the opportunity and I took it -- I left Meg trapped in the booth.

So, milling along the periphery, I'm explaining to the Materializer that no, these are not our friends, when I hear Meg, all gruff-like, say "Move. Get up!" Because apparently Meg and the retarded comedian had the following exchange:

RC: "Have you ever been raped before?"
Meg: "No."
RC: "Why not?"

And then, while leaning forward and shaking his fist, he promised to remedy the situation himself.

RC: "I will rape you."

So, I think I'll be sticking to Vice Versa. I really, really love Vice Versa. Really. Good weird things happen there. I was working on a list of top 10 funny / bizarre things I've overheard in the bathroom, but I'm afraid no one will ever be able to top the pregnant woman who, judging by her mullet, and the fact that she couldn't understand why everyone kept giving her weird looks in a smoky, pulsating gay bar, was clearly incapable of irony. She casually responded to someone's congratulations with, "Thanks. This'll be my first. I had two miscarriages because my boyfriend pushed me down the stairs."

My cervix, myself.

2008-12-28T17:59:00.000-08:00

(September 14, 2006)

Every time I get a pap smear, my doctor says something crazy to me. Aside from the normal awkward conversation, I mean. I'm convinced there's a class gynecologists take in medical school to teach them when and how to solicit personal inquiry; there's definitely a fine art to the timing.

Visits to the gynecologist invariably invert social mores and patterns of conversation. I'm not sure why my sexual history and mating habits are discussed while I'm fully clothed and sitting upright in a chair, yet when I'm naked and V-shaped on a table, I have to talk about what I made for dinner last night, or the weather, or my undergraduate major.

The third worst thing about getting a pap smear is the polite conversation. The worst thing is the subsequent hyper-awareness of everything happening below my bellow button, and feeling like a walking vagina for the remainder of the day. The second worst thing about getting a pap smear is the unpredictability of the anatomical commentary, such as 2004's classic: "You're kind of a bleeder."

I'd like to say today's experience was especially uncomfortable ("Any itching, bleeding, or discharge?"), but, honestly, it wasn't any worse than usual. Until -- "Ok, we're almost done. You're really tight."

Of course, from anyone else, I'd probably have to say "Thank you," but in absurd gynecological world, everything is inverted. So, instead, I just said, "Oh. Sorry."

I'm sure the "Turn your head and cough" moment is uncomfortable, too.

When in the Hoosier State, Do as the Hoosiers Do.

2008-12-28T17:53:00.000-08:00

(July 10, 2006)

So, I'm laying on Steve's futon, ready to sleep, and I keep hearing this buzzing. It's this tiny unidentified green bug that can't stop, won't stop body-slamming the wall. I've chosen not to kill it because that's not very zen. Also, I'm not tall enough to reach it. I started sighing loudly and giving it meaningful looks that say, "Fine, if you don't care about your exoskeleton, neither do I" (our relationship is kind of passive-agressive), but it seems bent on self-destruction (I should note that technique has never worked with my students, either). It could be worse. I could be on a plane packed with uncontrolled venomous snakes. Or, I could be the person responsible for allowing Snakes on a Plane to be created.

Fine. I'm awake. Here's a blog.

I'm in Indiana for the ridiculously over-the-top Fourth of July party hosted annually by Steve's neighbors. Now I know why the wealthy deserve all those tax breaks: they really do love America more than the wage slaves. And what better way to display your patriotism than with pyrotechnics? I now know what $50,000 worth of fireworks looks like. Awesome.

Aside from the fireworks, guests were treated to two outdoor bars with free drinks and bartenders we weren't allowed to tip, a giant buffet, big inflatable stuff (like slides, a jousting ring, and a bounce house), and a cover band with a badass horn section.

This was an all-day event, but things really started on Friday.

We rolled in Friday night to a houseful of rowdy Christadelphians acting like derelicts. Everything was fine until Meg went missing. Forty-five minutes later, sobered and freaked out, Ashley, Paul and I find Meg, running toward us through the backyard, covered in mud and soaking wet. Kind of like Swamp Thing, but more disoriented. I asked what happened to her. She said, "I don't know. I went swimming, and then I was in a forest, and then I heard all these horses and I took my shoes off and just started running."

And, after all this, the Christos got up Sunday morning and went to church.

These Hoosiers sure know how to party.

Christmas Rage

2008-12-28T17:51:00.000-08:00

(December 23, 2005)

As we all know, beginning in late November, and lasting through December, the air quality diminishes or something and everyone falls victim to the airborne asshole virus that goes around ever year. Look, we're all guilty. Doesn't really matter whether you're an asshole because you think your family is the only one that matters and you feel like you have to abandon common decency in the quest for the perfect pieces of plastic crap to give your loved ones or, like me, you hate other people already and you get really tense around all the psychotic consumers. Add that anxiety to a mild claustrophobia and you've got a whole bundle of walking neuroses just waiting to be medicated. But that's another story.

My story really begins with my good friend Amanda's Christmas rage. Now, pay attention if you haven't heard this yet. Last week, Amanda was Christmas shopping and some yo dude at a mall kiosk approached her, rather creatively, with "Can I ask you a question?" Amanda, being much nicer than me, chose not to ignore him and responded politely and honestly with something like "I'm sorry, but I'm in a hurry," and then attempted to continue about her busy day. But then kiosk dude says "Where are you going?" And then Amanda turned around and said, "Like it's any of your fucking business."

Ok. Keep that in mind. Today I went shopping with my friend, Jaclyn. For those of you who don't know, Jaclyn waits tables at the Dayton country club. Obviously, she has a pretty high tolerance for bullshit. The one thing she really hates is when parents expect everyone else to work around them just because they have kids. This, of course, can happen in two different ways:

1. Ignoring the children in public and assuming others will provide care, or
2. Ignoring everyone but the children and assuming everyone will accommodate the whole family as it destroys, disrupts, congests, or otherwise creates public disturbance.

Of course, we all know this isn't country club-exclusive behavior. Jaclyn told me a story in the vein of #2, which actually led back to the country club correlation, but the point is this: Something has to be done. So from now on, I'm making it my personal crusade to change lives one at a time by providing morons with gentle reminders to act like polite humans.

Seriously, I've made it a New Year's resolution. So, for example, next time I see a family abusing their server by making absurd demands that might give a serf pause, or letting their children leave piles of food, trash, or bodily waste on the table, I'm going to calmly walk over while the server is gone and say something like, "You're being very rude to your server. When he/she comes back, you need to apologize. And tip."

I could not be more serious about this. I vowed today to call out unnecessary public rudeness. I mean really outrageous things. Obviously people don't know they're doing it. And I figure the worst that can happen is I've given these people a story to tell for the next week. Even if they don't apologize, we're no worse off than when we started, right? I think of it as a Pascal's wager with manners.

I really shouldn't have been surprised because it is December, but no sooner did I make that resolution than I was forced to follow through. Picture the scene: 6:30 p.m. A crowded parking lot at an outdoor mall. The garage is full. In your immediate field of vision you can see 10 other cars trolling for spaces with no success. You've driven for several minutes.

But back to me and Jaclyn -- then, I saw people heading to a car RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE DOOR! THEY'RE LEAVING! So I asked Jaclyn, "Should I go stand in the spot?" Because we saw it first, but we couldn't back up because there were cars behind us. Jaclyn hesitated, but I was like, "I'm doing it." And I did. Jaclyn made a small circle to get back to the spot -- call it a victory lap -- and I chatted with the leavers before taking my position in the middle of the space.

Ok, I know this is kind of dickish. But this is a capitalist society and it's three days before Christmas so it's every shopper for him or her self. Plus, given the layout of the lot and the fact that there weren't cars coming from the other direction, we had to have seen it first. Honestly. So I'm standing in the spot and Jaclyn's approaching from my right. I see her glee through the windshield, and just as she's about to park, some guy in a Lexus cuts her off, whips in from my left and stops two feet from me.

Oh no he didn't.

Yes. He did. Now, I think my inspiration for this next action stems from a combination of Amanda's aspirational act of defiance in the face of mall heckling, and my new resolution but regardless, now we're in a standoff.

At first I don't say anything. I merely raise my arms meaningfully, offer a questioning glare, and shake my head no. And he doesn't do anything either. We stare at each other. Tumbleweed rolls by. I hear saloon doors creaking in the sub-zero wind. I know this may be the end of my kneecaps and possibly my life, but I'm not moving. This is our spot.

Then, he guns it and halts abruptly, now a mere foot away from me. I have to admit, I jumped. Just a little. His wife rolls down her window and she's saying something, but she's not talking to me.

I think it was around this time that Jaclyn's window also came down and she started yelling, "Give it up! We were obviously here first!" Meanwhile I'd assumed my first posture, but with an edge of aggression. I look to my left; cars are beginning to pile up, maybe to watch, maybe just because they couldn't get around us. I look to my right and I see my oldest friend hanging out of her window, yelling in my defense, and at this moment, I know.

I know we've come too far.

So I lean forward. One foot from the nose of the car. I stare into the windshield and yell, "NO, NO, NO! YOU'RE BEING VERY RUDE!" I yelled a few other things, but Jaclyn was yelling too and this is when the adrenaline kicked in, so it's all a blur until I deliver the fatal blow:

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!"

And then he drove away.

Lexus: 0
Honda: 1

Everyone won. We got our rightful parking spot. Other drivers had a good story to tell. Lexus guy got served some ice cold manners -- tough love. Merry Christmas to all.

Still crusading for common courtesy,
Sarah

"We found poop in there!"

2008-12-28T17:44:00.000-08:00

(May 17, 2006)

Getting new neighbors. Actually, I've already gotten two of them in the house across from me. Drew said when he went out to walk his dog he heard one's mother saying, "We found poop in there!"

Ah, Sunnyside. But that was days ago. I met them last night, and also the people that live on the third floor. No one has rented the second floor yet, and I'm hoping it stays that way. Maybe I'll put some poop in there to try to deter prospective renters so no one will live directly above me.

As most good friendships begin, I met my neighbors, Lauryn and Kimmy, outside at 3 a.m. while they were grilling t-bones and drinking beer. I wasn't sleeping anyway.

Then, the third floor guys from my building came home and, long story short, started running around in circles on the roof in their boxer shorts while some girl (a girlfriend?) half hung out of the window swinging a baseball bat before storming out in a drunken rage.

I've broadened my theory of alcohol as a paradoxical balancing agent, as apparently it doesn't just apply to me. Granted, it's hard to stand still while drunk, but somehow I can run across an icy Michigan parking lot in heels, and Donny and Justin can run around a wet, slanted roof without falling and getting concussions. It's one of life's greatest mysteries, really -- Stonehenge, Nostradamus, shroud of Turin, the correlation between alcohol and athleticism.