Purple Pain

I’m convinced that some male fashion designers absolutely abhor women. They make shit for, what they claim, is for art’s sake when in reality they fucking hate us.

Don’t believe me? Well, feast your peepers on these fab frocks and please, by all means, tell me what you think.

(courtesy of weirdomatic.com)

And, finally … nothing quite says art like a big, stank-ass ashtray with a smoldering cig in it that’s really a chapeau:

(courtesy of puppiesandflowers.com)

Once upon a time, actually it’s more like once upon many a-time, I puked up stuff resembling these threads. That was a time when I was knee-deep in a nasty-as-fuck eating disorder where refunding food was a common occurrence. So, it’s only natural that when I gaze upon such stuff, it’s like a bulimic ‘Nam PTSD flashback minus the “DIDI MAO!!”, rats eating through my tumtum to get out of the bamboo/water trap and Charlie. Thank dog that I no longer do such a thing. Instead, I prefer to showcase my self-loathing via this blog, and by committing petty crimes like flipping off truckers on the interstate and flashin’ mah boobs at the religious nutlies who dare to ring my bell.

All was well and good.
Then came you.

Fortunately, this didn’t cause me to stick my fingers down my throat, but it did give me one helluva chuckle. After watching it a few times, it reminded me of something. Long lead-in, but it’s worth the wait.

There. That’s much better.

What’s next?

Oh yeah. While I was shopping for various sundries and my weekly supply of box wine, I had a wee run-in with one of the neighborhood’s more colorful characters. I’ve seen this woman around from time to time–yelling at trees and fire hydrants–whatever object is harshing her mellow that day. She’s harmless–as far as I can tell–and she’s never said one word to me.

Until today.

After my reign of terror in Jewel, I was pushing my goods in a cart out to my car. I was in my own little McCrabass universe so I didn’t notice her quickly sidling up to me. By the time I spied her, it was too late. I turned just in time to catch some spit with my cheek and a dirty hand moving quickly to my head.

“WITCH! WITCH!”

I know, I was surprised too, but not really. I’ve been called worse and consider being called a “witch” a huge compliment, a badge of honor if you will. Unlike Christine O’Donnell, it would be easy for me to capitalize on this moniker.

Ruh-roh, I forgot to mention an important detail here. I had a layer of my chocolate-thunder brown hair dyed dark purple/blue. Also, the ends in the back look like they’ve been ‘dipped’ in the same color. It’s subtle, and looks good. Not outlandish at all, and considering what I’ve seen lurking on the streets of Chicago, my hair color is fucking Ann Romney-esque in comparison.

Not according to my touched little friend.

I grabbed her paw just as she was about to fondle my purple goods.

“Oh, no touch, dearest. You touch me and you’ll lose your hand, mmmkay?” I said, my eyes locked on hers.

I noticed then she looked an awful lot like Miles Davis and it gave me pause, but not for long. There was no time to ponder this similarity since her other hand was careening quickly toward my hair. This time, I slapped her hand away, put my hand up, palm facing her and raised my voice.

“You try this again and it ain’t gonna be pretty. I suggest you walk away before you get hurt.”

My heart was pounding by this point because this woman was big — bigger than me. I was scared shitless but my eyes never left hers. She finally backed down and started to wander off. I watched as she stomped off and was about to get into my car when it appeared she was at a safe distance, when she spun on her heels and screeched:

“I CURSE YOU AND YOUR PURPLE HAIR YOU FUCKING BITCH!!”

With that, I blew her a kiss, got in my car and drove home.

What you see is what you get & then some

There’s something so magical about Coco.

Coco

Before you click away in utter disgust and decide to block my blog forever, maybe even report me for being a hack, a fraud OR worse–stooopid–please give me a chance. Who knows–you may even agree with me. If you do, you’ll be a better person for it.

I admire and like Coco because she doesn’t attempt to act smarter than she really is; she doesn’t pretend to be something she isn’t and is happy with who she is. Most important, she appears to not give a shit what others think of her. She’s a gutsy broad who puts it all out there and doesn’t seem to mind the negative press. Hey, she’s making a shitload of cash off of her look, is in what appears to be a happy marriage and cares about those around her. In my book, that’s huge. What do I admire about her the most? She’s not a skinny chick, is proud of it and celebrates her curves. How refreshing!

Coco’s a(n) (in)famous American woman who is comfortable in her own skin–a rare species here since we are trained from early on to despise ourselves for not being pretty, smart or thin enough. Or, for being too pretty, smart and thin. Those of us who dare attempt to break out of this hobbling, disgusting mold, are chastised and called selfish bitches. Hey, argue with me allll you want. Tell me I’m wrong with your so-called well-thought out arguments about how women have more power than ever before and I’ll listen quietly. Then, when you’re finished, I’ll hand you a stack of fashion pubs & suggest you take a gander at the photos and ads & hopefully you’ll see how all of the models are in dire need of a couple dozen Sliders–then try that lame-ass argument again.

The constant barrage of Biafra-esque thin women that grace the media, plus the multi-billion dollar diet & plastic surgery industries in this country, are constantly telling women we’re not good enough physically. Sure, we’ve made huge strides as women, but we’re still harshly judged by our looks over our intelligence and wit. If you don’t believe me, think back to how horrible folks were toward Hillary Clinton’s looks when she was running for President. Same with Sara Palin–yep, I said it. There was a lot of ridiculous attention paid to her looks–it even had me shaking my head because I noticed immediately that her room-temperature IQ was more dangerous and important than her appearance. Fortunately, anyone with a pulse realized that too–so we’re safe–for now.

Coco’s not like the Kardashians–who are desperately clawing their way up from the bottom of Crap Mountain to be taken seriously as something other than what they really are–fame whores. These sisters & Mama pimp would appear at the opening of Malaysian whore house if E! was in attendance. Sure, society is to blame for the Kardashian’s success–this culture celebrates mediocrity. How else would you explain Dane Cook, George W. Bush and the entire “Jersey Shore” cast?  But, I will give the K-Klan this much–good move on cashing in on your sibling’s sex tape. Who knew that having tape of your sister’s muff being munched on by a mustachioed gutter dick could prove so profitable?

I wonder what Camille Paglia thinks of Coco. No…. wait…nah…not really.

There is much to say about Coco and whether or not she’s good for us. Maybe I’ll write more about her later, maybe not. But I’ll leave you with what my pal Shannon M. said about this shot:

“That titty is way better looking than all of Janice Dickinson.”

AAAAANNNND SCENE.