We Need a New Plague

Apparently, the last vestiges of a particular plague are finished with Congress.

Jim DeMint (R-SC)

Jim DeMint (R-SC)

I’m not here to write about politics because I just got out of my padded cell due to good behavior, and writing about the cacophony that is our Legislative Branch would send me right back to face-biting territory.

Who knew that Newton Minow‘s words he uttered back in the 60s would still resonate today? Was Minow clairvoyant enough to realize that reality tee vee would be the beginning of the end for society? Is he in cahoots with those wascally Mayans?

I believe he is and I present to you a few examples of the modern-day “vast wasteland.”

“Neat Freaks” coming soon to TLC. I watched an episode of this show and it made me want to never, ever clean anything ever again. Ever. Nope. Not gonna. What it did make me was very sad. The people featured have serious issues with, well, everything. My fave was the personal trainer who told a prospective love interest that he would spray her body with hydrogen peroxide before they got “intimate.” Seriously–I’d leave both kinds of skid marks getting away from that loon.

“Amish Mafia” hasn’t aired yet, but will debut on Dec. 12th, and I can’t wait.

Hmm..something about having a Don named “Lebanon Levi” doesn’t exactly strike the fear of God into me. The Moses beard and woolen socks aren’t the same as lizard skin loafers, pinky rings stacked on stubby digits and having several severed heads in bowling bags. To me, he’s the farm community tough you call when you discover that the shady farrier didn’t put enough nails in Stumblebum’s shoes and he needs to be taught a lesson with a rasp. There’s Levi’s right hand guy, Alvin the Chipmunk who’s the muscle. Oh and the Henry Hill (not Sicilian) of the group, Jolin (Mennonite) carries about punishments willy-nilly since he’s not pure Amish and therefore, not subject to their laws.

I’ll be tuning in to see just how tough this Mafia is, but if there isn’t at least one killing over some barn raising shenanigans then I’m done.

I’ve watched about 3 episodes of this show, and all I’ve got is: Imagine the smell.

What the entire fuck? I couldn’t get past the beards and the idea that they smell like a combo platter of animal guts, chew, dirty/diseased pussy, moonshine and wood smoke.

Shows like “Duck Dynasty” tell me that tee vee development execs have given up on ever producing anything worthwhile because the American public learned years ago to eat the shit we’re given politely with a knife and fork. All of the good stuff is on cable anyway … hey… wait .. a damn..minute…

I remember reading something once upon a time as to why shows like the ones listed above are so popular–people can relate to the folks featured. Really? You can relate to people who are third-rate philosophers, sex tape producers and are afraid of what happens when you mix soap and water together? Oh Moses smell the duck-gut soaked roses folks, it’s reprogramming time!

Oh and these shows are super cheap to produce, plus there are some folks walking among the intelligent who believe the whole 15 Minutes of Fame rumor. Sadly, these folks are tee vee execs who have the creativity of a car battery.

Finally, for those of you who are mourning the impending doom of “The Jersey Shore”, you have this to look forward to.

Basically, MTV took the spooge/cheap liquor/tanning oil-soaked cast and rednecked ’em up a scosch and plopped them down in the middle of the set of Deliverance 2.0. but this time with inbreeding, moonshine, ATVs, dorks and illiteracy. Talk about a huge shit sandwich. Perhaps MTV should changed its name to Shit TV since they no longer play music vidyas. Knowing how the viewing public is, “Buck Wild” is sure to be a huge hit.

The slide down crap mountain continues.

 

 

 

 

Suckwad McSuckersons

The gal with the mostest moxy on WordPress, Madame Weebles, had a great post earlier this week. So, whilst I was getting my sweat on during Bikram, I decided to answer the call of this siren and play along.

I blow donk at the following:

Not holding my tongue (shut up, pervs). Now, a little history about yours truly here. I’m a WASP (doormat) and with that pedigree comes learning how to make good conversatin’ at a wee age, a wicked sense of humor, a good edumacation and the ability to hold a lot of liquor and still be a McCrabass.

In other words, I’m a youngish Ouiser Boudreaux.

I wish.

However, when I was younger, the rule was to not talk about yourself (doing so was considered selfish), be polite and not ruffle any feathers (once again=doormat) regardless of what was being uttered to ruffle said feathers. Same goes for the utterer….right. Be polite to that person, then rip them to shreds when you’re with the fam. As I’ve aged, I’ve switched those two rules. Simply put, I don’t suffer fools lightly–and it shows. Now, I don’t immediately jump down someone’s gullet when they start spewing stupid, but I do when what has been said is either a right-out falsehood or an insult to me or mine. When I do say something, it’s usually quick and sharp, and has been known to harbor a certain amount of acidity that was part of my kind and genteel demeanor a few years ago. This is where I get into trouble–and lots of it. But changing my ways would be bad to my mental health so I’ve learned how to take what I dish out at a relatively early age.

My laziness when it comes to taking care of myself. I’m a lazy ass–I just am. I eat well, but if no food is in sight, I won’t eat. I’ll just think about food and hope that it’ll magically appear. On the plus side, I do Bikram yoga, go for long walks and drink copious amounts of water — and that’s about it aside from the occasional box of wine and trough of chocolate.

I can’t play basketball — at all. I’m turrible, turrible at it. What’s real odd is I believe that I should be good at it–why? I grew up playing tennis, riding to the hounds and plunging off of 3 meter springboards at break-neck speeds–where does basketball fit in?

Tally ho!

I don’t even like basketball all that much–same goes for baseball–come to think of it. The sight of me attempting to play can cause blindness so I don’t even try anymore because I do care about my fellow citizens that much.

Even Stanley is better than I am.

Being employed. I’ve been job-free for almost 2 years now and have no idea as to why I’m still not working, and find it odd that I’m persona non grata in the Chicago media world. I don’t want to talk about it though.

Overthinking. Being too cerebral. Too much in my head. This horrid habit tends to paralyze me at times. Instead of just “going for it”, I sit back and think of every possible thing that could go wrong AND right! Then, by the time I decide to go for it, the moment is gone and then there I am–holding my limp dick, or a limp dick. Depends on the situation I guess.

This next one may come as a shock, but I’m not all sweetness & light. I’m a born cynic. I see pictures of fluffy kittehs, puppehs and other woodland creatures, and do they warm the deep, dark parts of my soul? Nah. In fact, they fill me with dread because I know those critters are being pimped out for their cuteness but will soon be put back in some horrid basement or animal shelter somewheres because folks are too fucking stoopid/macho to get their animals fixed. Those animals never had a shot, see, and that sucks.

Pretending to like popular music–both new and old. I can’t stand 90 percent of the music that’s out today. It’s just pure horror produced by no talent shitstains who got lucky–or had someone killed so they could succeed. Same goes for old(er) stuff like Paul McCartney & Wings, Elvis Presley, Edie Brickell, U2, Tracy Chapman, John Mayer, DMB — I could go on and on, but I don’t want this bad juju on my blog. Plus, I wanna see the comments flow in about my audacity of not liking someone’s precious U2 or DMB.

So, to the 3 readers of this blog, what do you absolutely suck at?

Target as a target

I got this the other day.

“Julia –

In the last week, over 230,000 people have signed my petition asking my employer, Target, to change its Black Friday shopping hours to let employees have Thanksgiving dinner with our families.

The response from media has been incredible, too — I was interviewed on the Today Show, and my story has been covered by CNN, the Wall Street Journal, Good Morning America, NBC, and major newspapers across the country!

When I started my petition, I didn’t expect it to get this much attention. Shortly after my petition took off, Target employees in others stores across the country were inspired to take action as well by starting their own petitions. The response from both employees and customers alike has been unanimous — Target should set an example by stopping the trend of retailers opening earlier and earlier for Black Friday deals. 

We have real momentum, and this Monday, I’ll be delivering my petition with over 230,000 signatures to Target Headquarters — click here to join us and add your name.

After I was on TV, my manager offered me Thanksgiving day off. But I declined. This isn’t about just me — it’s about respecting one of the few days retail workers have a year to spend time with loved ones. 

I know that Target is feeling the heat, and the more signatures we have to show them on Monday, the more they’ll feel pressured to change their Thanksgiving hours. Sign my petition now.

Thanks for your help — and Happy Thanksgiving. 

Casey St. Clair
Corona, California”

Let me get this straight–in this shitty shitty piss piss fuck fuck economy, you actually have a job and while it might not be your ideal job, it’s more than a lot of us have. Also, Ms. St. Clair has worked at Target for a while, you know, BY CHOICE, see.

Target decides they want to open on Thanksgiving night because, well, they are kinda choady but hey, they’re not here to be all PC n’ shit–they’re here to make a big, ass buck or two. In order to open on Thanksgiving night to deal with the throngs of shoppers who have some sick desire to get away from their alcohol-fueled, overstuffed gobs and feuding holiday family fun time to load up on gifts to give to their ungrateful, spoiled spawn, Target needs its employees to work. I know, I know, that’s crazy talk!

Target employees got wind of this and the whining wah wah wah starts. And since online petitions are the latest “It” Girl, someone decided to start one protesting big old mean Target. Then, the media gets wind of it as does Change.org, and now we’re being bombarded with online bitch and moan sessions.

Give me a break.

Here’s an idea: If you don’t want to work holidays, don’t get a job in retail.

In other words… SHUTTIE.

The Choad Menagerie

You’re probably hoping that this particular post is the McCrabass version of Tennessee Williams’s classic “The Glass Menagerie”, but it isn’t.

Simply put–I am here to crush your dreams once again.

The nice thing is that once I get going on this post, you’ll see why it has been awarded this particular hed.

Who here has heard of Kerry Bentivolio? Anyone? His grand plan is to be the Republican rep in Congress for Michigan’s 11th district which was left vacant after former-Rep. Thaddeus McCotter abruptly resigned in July. He’s not your run-of-the-mill-Republican (whatever that means) either, he’s much more fun. (fun in a herpes-outbreak kinda way)

Kerry Bentivolio (courtesy liberty-candidates.org)

From DetroitYes.com:

On the first day of school last year, Kerry Bentivolio told students in his English class at Fowlerville High School that he had one goal: to make each one of them cry at least once.
……..
Nine months later, school administrators reprimanded him for intimidating and threatening students by grabbing their desks and yelling in their faces or for slamming his fists on their desks.

Oh it gets so much better. Yeah, um…. I’ll just let youse guys read it. From Politico.com

The brother of Kerry Bentivolio says the Michigan congressional candidate, who’s favored to win on Tuesday, is “mentally unbalanced” and could end up in jail.

“I’ve never met anyone in my life who is conniving and dishonest as this guy,” Phillip Bentivoliosaid, according to the Michigan Information and Research Service   (subscription required). “He’s my brother so it’s hard to talk about this, but I believe that if he gets elected, he’ll eventually serve time in prison.”

Kerry Bentivolio is the Republican candidate in Michigan’s 11th district, running to replace Rep. Thaddeus McCotter, who failed to secure enough valid signatures to qualify for the ballot.

Kerry Bentivolio is a Santa Claus impersonator and reindeer farmer. He made headlines after old court documents surfaced quoting him saying he had a “problem figuring out which one I really am, Santa Claus or Kerry Bentivolio.”  He’s running against Democrat Syad Taj.

Philip Bentivolio said that in 1992, he helped his brother build houses in Arkansas and Kerry owed him $20,000. This month he told Kerry he would go to the media with the story if he did not get paid, and Kerry then said he called the FBI and the Little Rock Police Department.

“He told them that I told them that if he didn’t send me money, I was going to kill myself,” Phillip Bentivolio said. “I couldn’t believe it.”

Kerry Bentivolio said that his brother has “serious mental issues” and that the FBI was looking into his brother’s request for repayment 20 years after the fact.

Kerry Bentivolio reminds me of the crazy uncle you see once a year at family gatherings. And, because of your strong sense of family coupled with WASP guilt, you’re forced to spend “quality time” with him which will ensure that the karma train doesn’t mow you over during a future run. Watching him pound Jack & Cokes would be similar to watching cement harden. He also strikes me as the type of uncle who gives the female relatives WET KISSES, but not on the cheek, oh no! Them smooches are bound for your beak, hon, and it’s best just to let it happen then start pounding French 75s to help douse the image of his maw careening toward your pucker out of your mental Rolodex. Um, I speak from experience as a matter of fact.

Back to the feud de Bentivolio Brothers. Holidays are probably rough at the Bentivolio manse. Also, I’m quite verklempt on the whole “I don’t know if I’m Kerry Bentivolio or Santa Claus” bit. It’s .. it’s … it’s just …. yep.

I’m gonna go on the record and say that if Obama was a white dude, this shit wouldn’t be spewing forth from the Mayor of 9/11 and his ilk. I’m waiting for Rudy to take credit for the clean-up of NYC post-Sandy. You know it’s gonna happen and here’s a pre-emptive ‘shuttie’ to him.

“Get in the ring”

It’s no secret that I follow politics. Why do I torture myself you ask? Oh, because I’m an emotional cutter.

But, seriously, I follow politics because I love studying human behavior– especially the magic knickers, Kenyan birth certificates, dressage horses, videos from 1998 that have nothing to do with nothing, et al. It’s all fascinating to me.

Each presidential election cycle is more whacked-out than the previous one, and as we draw closer to Election Day, I find myself saying on an almost hourly basis “Well, just when I thought it couldn’t get any whackier, ______ happens.”

In this particular case, ______ is our favorite pearl clutcher, Ann Romney. Take a listen to the clip below from an interview Mrs. Romney gave to an Iowa radio station yesterday. The fun starts about 1:23 in.

http://www.radioiowa.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/AnnRomneyInterview.mp3

So, this got me thinking (I know, there I go, working without tools again)….Hmmm…

Sure, I can go into the usual talking points about how her husband is basically a spineless chump who is shaking his campaign Etch-A-Sketch on a daily basis, or how he’s pandering to a particularly dangerous segment of his base who believes that Obama wasn’t born here, but that’s just too easy. Plus, it’s been done.

Instead, I’ve decided to have some fun with “Stop it. This is hard” and Mr. Romney’s recent 47 percent gaffe. You’ll see and please, feel free to join in on the fun.

“Stop it. This is hard. Sometimes I have to drive one of my many Cadillacs through neighborhoods inhabited by 47 percenters in order to get to one of my mansions. I don’t like white-knuckling it.”

“Stop it. This is hard. I had a horse in the Olympics and it was so difficult making sure he had the correct hoof polish.”

“Stop it. This is hard. I didn’t know what to do with the tax write-off Rafalca  awarded us, so I bought some fur-lined mom jeans for Mitt.”

“Stop it. This is hard. You try having conversations with some of your husband’s 47 percenter campaign staffers! I LOATHE talking to serfs!”

“Stop it. This is hard. I have to pretend I like people who aren’t exactly like me.”

“Stop it. This is hard. We had to sell stock to get to this place.”

“Stop it. This is hard. You try being married to a man who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.”

“Stop it. This is hard. You know how difficult it is to get John Boehner to cry about someone he doesn’t give a red rat’s ass about?”

“Stop it. This is hard. Why didn’t those bitches at the RNC 2012 believe my insincere “I love you” during my duller-than-paste speech?”

“Stop it. This is hard. I just learned that some LGBT folks have families. They’re ruining my America.”

If I had a nickel for every time the Romneys said something stupid, I’d be in their tax bracket.

Aaaand SCENE.

What a difference a year makes

On July 6, 2011, I started this blog. I had no idea how it would turn out or if it would even last more than a few posts. There was always the chance that I’d grow bored and dump it like a bad boyfriend. Hell — that could still happen, but I doubt it because this is just too damn much fun. It’s my own creation that hails from the most mysterious, silliest, contemplative parts of my soul.

With the exception of a few posts where I find inspiration in another news story or in normal everyday human behavior, I never truly know what I’m going to write about until I click on “new post” and start typing.

It’s that very moment when I feel the most creative and free. I feel fortunate to have this innate ability (some might argue with my word choice) to create and write, and I’ve learned that the more I do it, the (hopefully) better I get. To me, writing is a release, a comfort and a source of nourishment. It’s what I long to do for a living.

When I started this blog, I was unemployed and uncertain of my future. Sadly, that’s today’s theme too. It’s been 17 months since I was laid off from my job at Modern Healthcare magazine, and very little has changed. I’ve had a few, brief freelance assignments, sent out countless resumes and went on a bunch of interviews. Southern California was my home for roughly 6 months — and I long to make it my permanent home, dog willing. I do believe that will happen but it’s just a matter of when. While I love Chicago, Southern California just suits me better. There’s a comfort level I’ve never been able to achieve in Chicago — a concept that is lost on so many folks, but not on those with whom I am closely yoked.

A year moves quite fast these days. Time moves faster when you’re not working, by the way. It wasn’t unusual for me to experience a myriad of emotions within a 24-hour span. Brutal, yes, but I learned a great deal about myself, and have realized it’ll all work out — life has a way of making things just so. Sure, the path is riddled with crap and more crap, but it’s worth it all in the long run.

So, thanks for your support. I do plan on writing more political posts since we’re smack-dab in one of the biggest political pig fucks of all time. What’s happening in this presidential election season breaks my heart, makes me laugh and gives me hope.

Odd, yes, but it’s not unlike what I’ve personally experienced during the past year.

A Saturday in June with David

David is one of my dearest friends. He’s highly intelligent, has a quick wit that’s matched by no one, and is kind and caring. I met him in Los Angeles right after a horrible break-up and we became fast friends.

We’ve known each other for almost 20 years.

Since I’ve been back in LA, we’ve spent a great deal of time together and have fallen back into some of our old routines from when I previously inhabited this city. We’ve sipped coffee at two of the best coffee places on the planet, had a mini-Oscar viewing party and had long discussions about both of our pasts, our presents and futures. Those are the conversations I treasure the most.

Then, there are the ones that aren’t particularly earth-shattering, but are memorable.

Julia: David, we both need jobs.

David: Yes, but we’re too old to be whores.

*****

While watching “Aliens”(spoiler alert — really?) & Michael Biehn acting through his body armor and the colony dirt his bod was covered in — David: I just wanna sleep with his forearms, is that so bad?

… the part after Newt, Bishop and Ripley escape, and colony goes nuke-cu-lar.

David: They didn’t cut Newt’s hair — what is that about?

*****

Reminiscing in his mind about a White Trash 4th of July party a friend had back in the late-1990s in Hollywood, David blurted out:

“Hey Jules, remember when I crawled naked across Mitch’s apartment floor and licked his cute friend, Manhung?”

Of course I remember. How could I forget? Some memories you need to expunge from your mental rolodex, but I knew that this particular one would be useful someday. Also, who in their right mind would want to do away with such a gem? I’d gladly take some of that fancy book learnin’ I did in college that isn’t helping me right now (statistics-*ahem*), and replace it with David memories.

I was dressed like a trailer park princess (shut UP) and oh so glad those pics have been destroyed. This particular party was a low-point for David — drinking-wise. Soon after, he dried out and has been sober now for 12 years and 5 months. The party was on the roof of Mitch’s apartment building that was on the edge of Runyan Canyon, and David wandered down to the apartment to use the loo, and chill out.

Oh and lick Manhung. Yes, there’s more to this yarn. So much more. Delving into that particular memory might toss me back into therapy — circa 1997. I remember driving someone to the ER because they had stabbed themselves with a Spork or a tin can, or got a fish hook to the eye. I don’t remember the specifics.

After the naked crawl down memory lane, David decided he needs to find a hairy Chinese guy with a big dick.

Charming.

He still hasn’t found what he’s looking for.

*****

David: Julia, you know what a theremin is, don’t you?

Julia: Yes, dear, I do. What is the purpose of the question? 

David: Just curious. 

*****

We have one of those friendships where, if we don’t talk for a couple of weeks — or months — we can pick up where we left off as if only a few hours have passed since the last time we chatted. When we were roommates at the appropriately dubbed Palazzo (credit: David) on Beverly Glen, just north of Olympic in West LA, we would spend many a-weekend with our other roommate and great friend, Kim, not doing a damn thing, just keeping the couches down. We all had stressful jobs at the time — I was working in animation at the Mouse, David worked (& still does) in PR and Kim worked as a producer for home video — so we treated our apartment and each other’s company as a sanctuary of sorts. This was a time when we were still finding our way — in that fearless manner that’s de riguer of late-20s/early 30-somethings.

Oh, how the times have changed.

As I was getting ready to leave, David was just finishing up a phone call with an acquaintance. He was mumbling about how he’ll help some folks, if they’ll help themselves. I nodded along since his logic makes sense to me.
I looked up at him just as he said, “But for you, dear Julia, I’d walk on hot coals.” 

I’ve known this to be true for years, but hearing it always feels good.

Next up: Camping with David in Kings Canyon.

Sliding down Crap Mountain

I worry about the future of this country.

Wait, scratch that. I worry about the future of the human race.

Why?

Read.

Courtesy of WetPaint.com

“Honey Boo Boo Child” Toddlers & Tiaras Star Gets Her Own Spin-Off

What the entire crap? I have no idea who this is because I’ve never watched this show. See, I have issues with embracing mediocrity so I don’t watch reality tee vee. Most of the folks featured on such shows are complete half-wits, and it disgusts me that they have jobs & make shitloads of shekels for being dicks on national tee vee. Meanwhile, I did all things right and am staring down 17 months of unemployment. Land of opportunity? Yeah, sure, if you’re a choad with big tits.

But, I digress.

“If a dollar makes her holler we can only imagine what Toddlers & Tiaras star Alana Thompson thinks of her new spin-off.

The breakout star of the controversial TLC show, who won her way into our hearts with her “honey boo boo child” refrain, has inked a new spin-off deal with TLC. Us Weekly reports that the show will be appropriately titledHere Comes Honey Boo Boo and will premiere with 6 half-hour episodes in August.

The show will reportedly take a look at the little girl behind the go-go juice, following around Alana and her family as they live their lives in rural Georgia. Alana’s family is no stranger to reality television, her mother was featured on Extreme Couponing before appearing on Toddlers & Tiaras.

If you are unfamiliar with Alana and her magical one-liners, please do yourself a favor and check out the video below. You will not regret it!”

Video: Must Watch: Toddlers & Tiaras’ Alana Steals Some Dollars to Make Her Holler

Alana’s new spin-off won’t be the first Toddlers & Tiaras spin-off. Tiny pageant queen Eden Wood landed her own spin-off, Eden’s World, on Logo, but the show has garnered mixed reviews and lackluster ratings. Alan’s spin-off will be the first TLC spin-off from their popular series.

All we want to know is why did it take so long for Alana to land her spin-off?”

Let me get this straight. Some dirt farmers in Georgia (of course), breed and give birth to a brat with blonde locks. So, they dress her up and pimp her out at those baby beauty pageants where she gets to strut her stuff (so wrong I wanna crap myself) and say sassy things to those around her, and watch her mom grow more chins.

Sometimes I wish I was born dumb.

This is a poor example of life imitating art. From Inquisitr.com

Vanderbilt Football Coach James Franklin: My Assistant Coaches Must Have Hot Wives

America has had enough of shitty behavior by those in charge of college football programs. While what Coach Franklin said wasn’t nearly as deplorable as what happened at Penn State, it just shows the level of the mind that is in a position of enormous influence over young men. It also shows that stupid begets stupid.

“James Franklin, the head coach of Vanderbilt University’s football team, apparently has an interesting screening process for potential assistant coach applicants. Forget a strong resume and a solid interview:  He wants to meet the wives to make sure they are attractive enough to qualify as  “Division 1″ recruits.

As reported by multiple media sources, Franklin went on a local Nashville radio station and said the following:

I’ve been saying it for a long time, I will not hire an assistant until I see his wife.  If she looks the part and she’s a D1 recruit, then you got a chance to get hired. That’s part of the deal.  There’s a very strong correlation between having the confidence, going up and talking to a women, and being quick on your feet and having some personality and confidence and being articulate and confident, than it is walking into a high school and recruiting a kid and selling him.

According to Yahoo! Sports, Franklin got his inspiration from the film MoneyBall where a baseball scout opines that “Ugly girlfriend means no confidence.”

There are so many things wrong with this sentiment. First, you’re not allowed to ask anyone in any type of job interview their marital status. It’s illegal.

When they made James Franklin stupid, they made him real stupid. He should lose his job over this “oops” but he won’t because college football rules all, sadly.

Second, the Moneyball reference. If the ‘hot girlfriends’ line was all he got from the film, then he missed the message and doesn’t deserve such a position of power. Oh, and if memory serves, Vanderbilt’s record ain’t that great so it’s probably not wise to rely on Hollywood to help you turn a 6-7 team into a winning one. If Franklin had stopped yanking his pud over his perceived awesomeness of the hot wives mantra, he might have learned that Billy Beane bypassed that recruiting philosophy because it’s horsehit. 

Finally, men like Franklin are dangerous to women. I know this type of man too well I’m afraid. Women, according to Franklin and his ilk, are only as valuable as their dress size. The smaller the size, the more they’re worth. They prove that sexism isn’t being bred out with each new generation.

Call me crazy, but the side of a highway is not a place I’d want to play with my kitty. I know, I know–SHOCKING.

But some women don’t have a problem with pearl diving as 18-wheelers go whizzing by. Especially this gal. Aaand, once again, Florida has the most people occupying Darwin’s Waiting Room (thanks Dennis Miller).

Woman Accused Of Masturbating On Florida Highway

Do you need my commentary on this one? No? Good because I’m too damn tired. Please read here for more info.

I need a drink and perhaps a sedative.

Cake baby

I just have to weigh in here. But first, I must preface this post with that fact I’ve written about such odd soon-to-be-parents & new parents behavior before.

This latest trend? I’m at a loss.

Well, not really.

From the NYT. God love ’em.

(The text has been edited for space.)

A Boy or Girl? Cut the Cake

“THE house was filled with balloons and confetti, the chips and artichoke spinach dip were ready, and the guests, about 25 of them, were decked out in team colors, ready to cheer. Minutes before the party kicked off, they eagerly cast votes on the outcome.

But this festive gathering, held recently at the Miami home of Carolina and Carl Marrelli, was not a Super Bowl celebration. The decorations were all in very un-N.F.L. pinks and powder blues, and the sides involved were “Team Boy” and “Team Girl.”

“Team Boy” and “Team Girl”? Oh, this has got put-me-out-of-my-misery-with-a-pointed-stick-that’s-been-dipped-in-a-raging-festering-herpes-sore written all over it.

Joe and Ashley Brickner found out they are expecting a daughter.

“This was a gender-reveal party, during which expectant parents share the moment they discover their baby’s sex, unveiling results of the ultrasound test among loved ones (often replaying the moment later on Facebook or other social media). It’s the rare surprise party that people can give for themselves.

Until recently a little-known practice, the concept is quickly becoming a pre-parenting custom, a dress rehearsal of sorts — or sometimes a replacement — for the baby shower. In a culture where many expectant parents feel obligated to tweet their pregnancy announcement, live-post their ride to the hospital via Instagram, and Skype the baby’s first smile, it’s the latest example of one of parenthood’s formerly private moments becoming a matter of public consumption.

In the last year alone, the number of gender-reveal party discussion threads on BabyCenter — one of the most popular Web sites for new parents, with 11 million visitors a month — has rocketed to 282, from 28, a spokeswoman for the site said.”

With the meteoric rise in the popularity of social media, people now feel that everyone who inhabits this rock and has Twitter, Facebook, Fuckbook, Tumblr, Google+ et al accounts, needs to be privy to every single thought (including the most mundane), movement, reaction, dirty image, achievement, puppy & kitty image, vidyas of babies giggling/wretching, song choice et cetera, et cetera, at the very moment these events happen — no matter what. What’s even more disturbing is there is an audience for these events — a very large one, in fact. Some folks are friends with the poster, but if you tweet your personal life and you don’t have your settings set to private, millions of fellow Twittererersss will be privy to that twitpic of little Milo crowning through a hastily done episiotomy. Yummo. Why is this happening? Is it ego run amok?

Are expecting parents the new media whores?

“On YouTube, the first video of such an event dates from 2008. It shows the expecting parents simply opening a sealed envelope containing the ultrasound results before friends and family.”

YouTube shoulda seen the future and outlawed the future. Fuckers.

“A handful followed in 2009 and 2010. But in the last six months, more than 1,800 gender-reveal videos were uploaded onto the site.

Parents typically arrange for the ultrasound technician to withhold the gender finding from them. The technician places the information Oscars-style in an envelope, which the couple might then deliver to a baker, who whips up a pink or blue cake, covering the telltale color with frosting. The couple discover the gender when they cut the cake amid shrieking in-laws and fluttering confetti.

“It gave us more time to cry, laugh, scream and just be free to celebrate with all of our hearts, rather than to be in some dark room with a total stranger,” said Ms. Marrelli, 34, who live-streamed her results (boy) and the cheering throng in her home to dozens of other friends and family members around the country.

I find it so hard to believe that anyone outside of the immediate family (and even this is a stretch) gives a fiddler’s fart about the sex of the baby. Just tell them where to send the gift and maybe they’ll stop by for the first time at Junior’s 10th birthday. And the real reason the in-laws are shrieking? Because they know that they’ll be asked to babysit all the god-damn time and won’t be able to offer any parenting advice because new parents these days know EVERYTHING.

Again — fuckers.

“It was a way to get everyone involved, and you experience this huge payoff after all the building anticipation,” said Brett Grayson, 28, a high school social-studies teacher in Irving, Tex., who can be seen getting misty-eyed in the video of the celebration he posted on YouTube. “I’m normally not emotional, but when I saw the pink cake, it was like a flash of me teaching her to drive and marrying her off.”

Let me paint a different, more realistic picture of what your darling daughter will turn out to be. First,  the over-programming you and your wife will inevitably do in your wee daughter’s first few years of life will turn her into a bitter, resentful 10-year old. By the time she’s 12 she will have stolen three cars; spent time on the high school lacrosse team’s stank-ass mattress they keep in the equipment closet for such situations, and plotting the demise of the entire honors program. How do I know this? It’s science.

“Creative decorating tips for the parties have popped up on design blogs, and handmade knickknacks for gender-reveal parties are sold on Etsy shops (one seller offers pink and blue question-mark-shaped lollipops, 12 for $15).

Ashley (0f course) Brickner, a fashion marketing teacher and expectant mother in Virginia Beach, found out about the concept a few months ago, when she ran across ideas for festive décor on Pinterest.

So she and her husband, Joe, held their own party a few weeks ago. Since they each come from large families who live nearby, it just seemed natural, they said, to make this private moment public, particularly in an age when the family is likely to get updates on the baby’s development on Facebook.

You know, folks, you there isn’t a law that says you must tell every sordid detail about bebeh’s development on the Facebook. You can keep it to yourself and maybe do something a titch more productive like bullying your friends into having an over-the-top baby shower for you and 100 of your nearest and dearest. Just a thought.

“They’re going to be very much a big part of the baby’s life, so we thought it was just a cool way to incorporate them,” said Ms. Brickner, 28, whose cake was pink.”

Shit howdy, they just want the cake, not the expectations that come along with noshing on it.

“In rare cases, the gender-reveal party turns into a comic misfire, like the video of the Woodall party last year in Kentucky, at which it became clear the baker had given them the wrong cake: it was white inside. (“Epic fail!” a male voice booms in the background.)”  I bet he sued everyone in that bakery and put contracts out on the future children of the owners, the landlord’s family, the suppliers, the people who drive the supplies to the bakery, the people who breathe the air around and inside the bakery — you get the idea.

At increasingly popular parties, a baby’s gender is revealed via pink- or blue-colored cake.

Carl and Carolina Marrelli live-streamed their party.

Toni White

A pink shoe in the cake signified a girl is due.

“Donna Vela, who owns Little Angel Announcements, an online stationery store, said she began getting requests for gender-reveal party invitations about a year ago and now gets several orders a day.

“I think it goes with today’s Facebook generation that shares everything with everybody,” Ms. Vela said.

Indeed, Brooke Flatt, 24, sent out invitations on Facebook to the gender-reveal party she gave in February at Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst in New Jersey, where she lives with her husband, Airman First Class Bryan Flatt, 26.

“It was an excuse to throw a party,” said Ms. Flatt, who streamed the event live on Ustream for relatives in Mississippi. “We had cocktail food and I gave out cards for people to guess the weight, hair color and eye color for me to put in a scrapbook.”

The cake, which turned out to have pink icing between the layers, was decorated on the outside with bumblebees and the message: “What will it bee?”

Buddy Valastro, the host of the “Cake Boss” television show on TLC and the owner of Carlo’s Bake Shop in Hoboken, N.J., says that he makes several gender-reveal cakes a month, which cost $100 to $1,000.

“Some people go crazy and want something totally elaborate,” he said, such as multitiered cakes with startlingly lifelike fondant babies on top. “I think it’s a cool way for people to find out what they’re having.”

But Greg Allen, 44, a filmmaker in New York who also writes a blog for new fathers called daddytypes.com, said he found the trend baffling.

“Creating drama around your baby’s gender seems so staged and fake,” said Mr. Allen, who found out the sexes of both his children the comparatively old-fashioned way: with his wife in a sonogram examination room. “The whole connection of cutting into the cake to find out, like it’s a stand-in for the uterus, is sort of sickening.”

Oh, I just fell in love with this man. But, now I want some uterus cake. What’s that? Oh right. Fucker.

Kimberly Wageman, 37, of Richland, Wash., avoided this association by having guests at her gender-reveal party bite into cupcakes, which had dollops of blue icing inside. Her baby boy, now 6 months, was her third child.

I’m sorry — she had a party for her third pregnancy?

“The first one, we found out the sex when we had the ultrasound, the second we waited until she was born and the third we had a gender reveal,” said Ms. Wageman, a stay-at-home mom. “I couldn’t say which was best because they were all such unique experiences.”

I hope that someday these folks will consider not over-sharing to be a ‘unique experience.’

Shitty news: The mid-week roundup

The past few days have been rough. First, a barbaric law in Florida has allegedly played a role in the death of yet another young black male. My heart aches for his family and friends who mourn Trayvon Martin, but this heartbreak doesn’t match the anger I have for the state of Florida for being the land of choads. Social media stepped up to the plate this time in a big, important way. If it hadn’t been for Facebook and Twitter, Mr. Martin’s death would’ve been another sad footnote in the history of violence aimed at young, black AMERICAN males. This shouldn’t be happening in this day and age. This country has made leaps and bounds with regards to other aspects of social justice, but we’re lacking when it comes to the African American community.

Yes, yes, yes…how would I know how it is seeing that I’m a well-educated  white woman from an upper-middle class family? First and foremost, I’m a human being and I view all human beings as equal. A relatively rare attitude as of late, since some of my white brothers have their knickers in a twist over the fact that we have a black POTUS, and believe that Mr. Obama is going to take away their ‘rights.’ Whatever the fuck that means.

What happened to Trayvon Martin affects all of us. With some it’s immediate and profound, with most of us it’s subtle. This type of senseless death chips away at the structure of American society little by little. I pray that justice will prevail.

Onward.

This guy needs to shuttie his pie hole. Folks who don’t listen to NPR or pay attention to when the media do an ‘Oops! Our bad!’ don’t know the whole Mike Daisey tale of whoa! In short, Mike Daisey is a guy who did a play/performance piece about the horrors of working in an Apple factory in China. Turns out, most of the yarn was fabricated but that didn’t come to light until after “This American Life” did a whole story on Daisey and his play. Note: TAL fact checks everything. EVERYTHING. Daisey lead them astray with his ‘facts’ and that’s where the trouble began. Then, TAL devoted yet another whole show to the fabrication. Got it. Should be the end of it, riiiight? Nope, now Daisey is blaming his wife when he should just shut it down, lick his wounds and do some serious soul searching because he doesn’t want to be known as the Stephen Glass of the performance art world.

Looks like my former governor will be going through some unfortunate changes whilst in the pokey for being all greedy n’ shit. That hair color is not his own–it’s manufactured then sent to drugstores between hither and yon where Mr. Barbers everywhere can buy it for their vain customers.

From the Chicago Sun-Times via the AP.

Blagojevich’s barber: Ex-gov’s hair is dyed,will turn gray in prison

“Rod Blagojevich’s barber says the former Illinois governor’s famously thick, dark hair is dyed and will turn gray within the first months of his prison term.

Peter Vodovoz, also known as “Mr. Barber,” has been Blagojevich’s barber for more than two decades. Vodovoz said Wednesday that the 55-year-old Blagojevich has dyed his hair for years.

Blagojevich reported to a Colorado federal prison last week to begin serving a 14-year sentence for corruption. A prison spokesman says hair dye is banned because inmates could use it to change their appearances in escape attempts.

Vodovoz says Blagojevich’s dark-brown dye will fade quickly, and he could be as gray as talk show host Jay Leno within three months.

When he was governor, Blagojevich was so obsessive about his hair he had a security official carry a brush.”

Hey gov, as the song goes — “A change would do you good.” It would do all of us good since I’m a bit weary of my homestate being the political laughing stock of this nation. Now please Rod, go away so us Illinoisans can get back to business as usual. Well, maybe not AS usual since that behavior tends to land our fearless leaders into buttloads of trouble with the Feds. Also, looking like Jay Leno ain’t necessarily a compliment.

Here’s another who should shuttie her yapper. What’s sad here is how the baby daddy wants nothing to do with his son. Shame on him. And shame on her for not wearing any make up. Knowing how this country is, she would’ve garnered a lot more sympathy had she tried to whore it up a bit during the initial interviews and investigations.

There’s something quite unappetizing about this. Gross. Art, schmart. I’ll say it again: Gross.

Next time, toss a salad in the way we’d all like to see. Orrrr….maybe not. You decide for yourself.

Finally … well, you’ll see.