Gucci Jumps The Shark

Gucci is betting that we’re all idiots, and good for them. Here’s net-a-porter gushing over this special contraption:

Sometimes you spot something on the runway that you just have to have, regardless of how impractical it may seem – cue Gucci’s black leather harness. Part of Alessandro Michele’s Spring ’17 collection, this Italian-made accessory is decorated with rows of gold studs at the fringed shoulders. Adjust the buckles to find your most comfortable fit.

Hahaha! “No matter how impractical.”

Who among us does not want to spend $2,500 to masquerade as a horse?

You know what, fuck it. It speaks for itself. Wear it like this

or you could wear it as you prance around a track.

Maybe Gucci’s creative director finally saw “Secretary”? Is it an S&M thing or a slavery fetish? Do you like the part about “finding your most comfortable fit?” Is it code for DON’T BUY THIS, ARE YOU CRAZY?

Here’s the best part – it’s ‘low in stock.’




Posted in Fashion | Tagged , , | 9 Comments

Horrible Old White Guys

If you’re like me, and I know you are, you feel overwhelmed by the current plague of horrible old white guys who are doing their best to ruin our lives while brazenly or covertly enriching themselves.

Forgetting about Trump for one moment if that is possible, let’s take inventory.

Pence, Gorsuch, Bannon, Trey Gowdy, Jeffrey Lord, Roger Stone, Tom Price, Jeff Sessions and Mitch McConnell.

These are the once that are bothering me the most, but I know they’re just a fraction of the pestilence. They are the figureheads. When I see any of these fuckers on the news, I am filled with disgust. I think it’s fair to say they are all child molesters, even if they aren’t.

Pence is a real  weasel, isn’t he? His squeaky clean altar boy image is particularly offensive. As if he didn’t know about Mike Flynn and Russia. As if he sleeps with his wife. What a despicable cunt he is.

I am especially enraged at the moment by Mitch McConnell, and I know I’m affected by his physical repulsiveness. Hey, I’m human, alright? He looks like a turtle but it’s so much more. You just know instinctively that he’d murder a bus full of school children if it meant he could stay in power a little longer. He is pure evil. He’s the reason we need to limit senate terms.

I don’t want to give short shrift to the others, but I want to move on to my central issue here, which is, how to rate the horrible old white guys who are blighting our lives. We need a system. It’s not really adequate to rate them by how sickening they are. Being physically repellent is a quality they all share but what about the level of corruption? The monumental hypocrisy? The smugness? The propensity for metaphorical or literal child molesting?

Let’s put on our thinking caps, shall we?

I’ve listed 9 horrible old bastards and I need one more who is worthy to make the top ten. Then I need to rate them in order of horribleness.



Posted in Horrible Stuff, News, Rants | Tagged , , | 10 Comments

Was Blind But Now I See

After decades of glasses and contact lenses, I got the news that I had cataracts.

Naturally I was horrified, imagining life as a blind old lady, stumbling around and crying out in a weak little bird squawk.

Instead, I learned that I could have the cataracts removed and replaced by tiny lenses that would improve my vision to nearly 20-20! Jesus Christ! Why don’t people go around praying for cataracts?!? Without contact lenses, my vision was 20-700, meaning I couldn’t see my own feet, let alone anything else.

I’m not brave about surgery, not at all. The word is fraught with dread and unpleasant flashbacks to past injuries. But the idea of seeing clearly was like discovering I could fly. I was eager to do it. Until the actual week of the first surgery. Then I freaked out.

Want to hear about the surgery? Probably not, right? So skip this part. You go to the surgery place and they put you in a room until your boredom creates a kind of stupor. Then, they stick a needle in your arm for an IV. They put your hair in a cap and ask a bunch of questions. The nurses are all perky and happy to talk about nail polish and tattoos. So then you relax. Then they wheel you into the operating room and start the opiates.

You tell the anesthesiologist that you’re not stoned enough. He says, “Well, this is as stoned as you’re gonna get,” in a bossy tone. But he holds your hand.

Then, they transfer you to another table and fit a thing over your eye that keeps it open.

You know what, I’ll stop there, in case you’re thinking of having eye surgery. I don’t want you to worry about how disturbing it is.

But when it’s all over, it’s fantastic! They tell you how great it went and you go home with a bunch of eye drops, and in a few weeks, you go back to do the other eye.

Seeing is so incredible, I can’t really describe it. When I leave the house, it’s like I’m taking my eyes out to see the world. The detail! The colors! I had no idea how bright my own face is. It’s magical.

When I wake up, I can see the clock! I can see all the ships in the harbor across the street, instead of just a big harbory blob.

I plan to take my eyes to LACMA. I also plan to wear a ton of eye make-up.

I should point out that this procedure isn’t cheap. It’s so costly, in fact, that I’ve decided I have to keep living for at lest two years, to offset the expense, sort of. Otherwise, my family will go, “After spending all that money?!?”

So if you were worrying about me, relax. Until 2019, anyway.

Posted in Horrible Stuff | Tagged , , | 10 Comments

Autopsy, Seven Years In


The second time Max killed himself it was too surreal to take in. He was lying in his bed with one knee up and his headphones in his right hand, next to his IPod. When he wouldn’t wake up, I yelled his name sharply in a parental tone, the one I used when he was little. I was so sure I could bring him back. I breathed into his mouth and continued to call his name. By the time the coroner guys arrived, I was getting panicky. I didn’t want them to take him away. I cried and argued with a hulking red-faced man who followed me when I got a scissors to cut a piece of Max’s hair. I looked up at the red face and demanded, “Do you believe in god?” I was planning to issue a mother’s curse, foretelling an eternity in hell. But he threw me by answering “No.”When they wheeled the gurney into the living room, Max was in a blue body bag, unzipped just enough to show his face. He looked peaceful, but white fizz was coming out of his mouth. I kissed his lips and told him that I’d see him on the other side. I once heard him say this to a friend, one of the times he was off to rehab.

The first time Max killed himself was so shocking and traumatic that none of us could get over it, especially Max. I told him later that when he jumped, he took everybody with him. His family and friends, all his loved ones. I thought this would increase his efforts to recover, because he owed it to us. What a stupid and heartless thing to say to a man whose failed suicide attempt had left him with so many physical disabilities. I would like to take it back, along with so much else.

That first time began at six in the morning, with his text message: “Going to jump onto PCH. So sorry.” It took just a moment for me to understand that “jump” didn’t mean jump into his car and drive. I was flooded with horror and adrenaline. I woke up my husband and called Max’s cellphone.

I can’t remember what happened in the next two hours. I think we made some frantic phone calls to Max’s friends. We didn’t think of calling local hospitals. When I got the call from UCLA, the woman on the phone said that they had my son and that he was hurt but alive. She urged me to sit down. She told me that at first, Max wouldn’t give them permission to call his parents but finally he had relented. She was great. You need great people when your son kills himself. You need people who are experienced with trauma.

We found the ER, where Max’s dad was waiting, jingling his keys. He turned to me and said, “It’s just like September 11 only this time it’s real.” On September 11, Max was working at the World Finance Center, next to the twin towers. A morning with a better outcome: Max was fine. Max’s dad, Nick, had grown more repressed and robot-like over the years. His tone was almost jaunty. I fucking hated him. It would only get worse as we moved through this tragedy, mirroring our bad marriage and again trapping Max in the middle.

After a few hours, we were directed to the Intensive Care Trauma Unit, where Max was in an induced coma, with tubes and machines everywhere. I felt only relief. UCLA seemed like a heavenly safety net designed to save my son and nurse him back to health. I didn’t know about the internal bleeding or the broken sacrum or anything else. Max was alive. He was meant to be here. How could he have doubted that?

By nighttime, everyone had gone home except for me and Duncan, Max’s cousin. They were like brothers. A nurse offered us juice and we fell in love with him. His name was Tim. We grew to become seasoned connoisseurs of nursing staff. The good ones, like Nurse Tim, earned our sincerest adoration.

That first night was endless. The blood transfusions and flashing monitors and complex web of tubes seemed reassuring to me. I inhaled the acrid odor of stomach acid that flowed through a tube into a large bag. It was fragrant with life, with Max, like the sour milk he spat up as a baby or his filthy socks as a teenager.

The next day, Max was being prepared for surgery. His attending nurse refused to speak to me and handled Max like a tire she had to rotate. She stood staring at the drip bags as if trying to decipher ancient wall drawings. I complained to the nurse in charge, who scolded me for complaining. I wrote a desperate letter to the head of the hospital, begging for a different nurse and explaining that Max was my firstborn child who meant everything to me. I must have sounded crazy but the nurse disappeared and we never saw her again. It was the first of many times I would beg, threaten or manipulate people whose decisions, to my mind, could either save or kill my child.

Every night at 7 o’clock, visitors in the ICU had to leave during the change of shifts. The hallways at night were dimly lit and mostly deserted. Duncan and I would sit together in one of the tiny waiting rooms. If he left me alone, or if I tried to sleep, my mind would fill with dread. What if Max died? The thought was literally unbearable. He had to live. My world depended on him. Why would god take him from me? I don’t believe in god but I believe in his vindictive streak. Maybe he was mad because I once lost Max at the beach, when he was only three years old. God wasn’t going to let me get away with this unpardonable sin, even though Max himself had officially forgiven me.

One night Duncan left me alone to make a phone call. I could see his reflection in a waiting room down the hall. The silence was broken by the horrible sound of a woman sobbing. The sobbing rang of uncontrollable grief and I wanted it to stop. When Duncan returned, I asked him if he’d heard that woman sobbing. He paused for a moment and said, “That was me.”

I don’t know how to tell Max’s story without lingering on his time in the hospitals. The hospitals became a progressive nightmare. The ineptitude and carelessness were terrifying. At one point, we took turns sitting with him so that he was never alone with a nurse or a doctor who might kill him. I had absolute faith in my ability to save him, and even boasted about my various triumphs, like getting him moved to a bed near a window. I was the one person who could comfort him. But I had no understanding of what he was going through. I thought it was the story of a heroic mother. I remember stroking his hair and whispering, “Don’t worry, honey. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” He answered, “It already has,” and he cried for the first time.

At UCLA, Max became delusional. I walked into his room and thought I’d made a mistake. A sweaty old man lay trembling in the bed with his mouth open, not my handsome 34 year old son. I actually said to my husband, “Oops, wrong room.” But it was Max, jerking spasmodically and staring up at the ceiling with wild eyes. He jabbered nonsensically and didn’t know who he was. At one point, he began singing “I’ve been working on the railroad” in a comically strong voice. Maybe he was back in first grade. He waved his hands in the air and clawed at something invisible. Eventually they tied his arms to the bed after he pulled out an IV.

They tried sedating him but his body continued to jerk and spasm. I sat with him in the dark, watching the monitors. I could see that his heartbeat was climbing. A doctor from the psychiatry team stopped by and ordered two mgs of lorazepam every hour. A neurosurgeon came in and expressed concern. He asked me what drugs Max had been given and I sputtered, “Don’t you know? I’m just the mother.” I told him the latest theory, that Max was in withdrawal from klonapin, the drug that had landed him in rehab. “I don’t like the way he’s breathing,” he said darkly, and left.

By morning, Max was deeply sedated. The shift changed and a nurse named Sarah Spendlove was alarmed to find he had no gag reflex when she inserted the tube to clear his lungs. She looked at the clock and hesitated. She announced that she was going to make a decision she wasn’t allowed to make, overriding the doctor’s order. She stopped the lorazepam and slowly Max began to rise toward consciousness.

I remember all the times I thought about sending flowers to Sarah Spendlove to thank her for saving my son’s life. Now it’s too late. I don’t know how to thank her and then tell her that he’s gone, that he took that life because he found it unbearable.


The only other time I saw Max cry as an adult was the day he revealed that he was a heroin addict. He was 20, home from college for the summer. It was a confession made under duress. A friend had given him 24 hours to tell me, and then she would spill the beans. She was the only friend willing to rat him out. The code of silence in his circle was as strict as the Mafia’s.

Heroin addiction was alien to my world. It was still something that William Burroughs did, coughing and spitting in the junk-sick dawn. I had no idea that half the student body at Sarah Lawrence was strung out on heroin. I was shocked to the core but I felt no anger, only concern. “It’s been so horrible,” he choked out in despair. All I could do was hold him and chant, “It will be okay. I’ll help you.” Over and over. For the next fourteen years, I tried to help. I insisted on helping. Keeping Max alive was my engine, humming in the background of other struggles. I didn’t believe in the concept of Tough Love and I scorned every parent or professional who espoused it. The one and only night I practiced it, Max drove himself to a cliff and jumped.


Max’s delusional episodes in the hospital were mystifying to the doctors and nurses. They all offered different theories. Some of them stuck with Klonapin withdrawal; one suggested an imbalance of potassium. Seeing someone you love staring into space and smiling insanely is profoundly upsetting. His agitation was heartbreaking. Duncan had the most success at calming him down. There were times when we laughed, during his imaginary phone conversation with Michael Moore or his mic check for a gig with his old band. Duncan was the only one who could get Max to put his arms down when he thrashed them helplessly in the air. Duncan was the Max-whisperer.

The delirium passed and Max was serene but confused. A voice from a speaker called for Doctor Something to report somewhere. Max turned to me and asked: “Am I him?” I began to write down his questions and comments, finding his confusion adorable. When he asked, out of the blue, “Does God have any greater insult?” I had no idea how to respond. It never occurred to me that he was serious and rational. “Oh, I’m sure he does,” I told him. Max nodded and said, “Yeah, probably, because he’s God, right?”


Max’s dad came to visit the ICU at exactly 6 pm every night. He is a man who lives by routines. For the first few days, I would confront him outside the security door, and elaborate on how this was all his fault. I made no attempt to contain my rage. I blamed him for screaming at Max on the morning of the night he jumped. I blamed him for every bad decision he had ever made, all leading directly to Max’s broken body on the other side of the door. I sobbed and shouted in his face that every one of his instincts had been wrong. I still believe this but it gives me no comfort. I hear from my family that Nick is a broken man, a ghost of his former self whose life feels pointless. “Then let him blow his brains out,” I always tell them.

I don’t know why I married Nick except as a way to opt out of my own life. He was a daddy figure who would take care of me. I wouldn’t have to make my own way in the world. I had no ambitions beyond the wish to avoid anything difficult. He was controlling and emotionally constricted. There was nothing about me that he appreciated. Later, I would have affairs just to hear someone say that he loved my hair or my hipbones. Meanwhile, I kept a journal and ranted there about my empty marriage. Then Max was born. He was my savior and my gift to the world. He was indescribably beautiful with huge solemn eyes. An old soul, everyone observed. He was so sensitive that he covered his face when a contestant lost everything in Final Jeopardy.

Growing up, Max was physically timid, an observer. He sat and watched as other kids performed risky maneuvers. He was exceedingly gentle with his stuffed toys. He loved books and he loved to sit by the fireplace and watch the dancing flames. When Mr. Rogers said “Goodbye, friends,” Max would cry out fervently “Goodbye, Mister Rogers!”

What am I supposed to do with his baseball card collection? Heavy binders filled with rookie cards, boxes and boxes of random cards and unopened sets. For several years, they were his life. He and his friends spend entire afternoons bartering for cards. I learned to love baseball because Max did. I came to love the avuncular voice of Vin Scully and wished he would run for President. Max joined a small baseball league and earned a reputation as a reliable pitcher with a masterful poker face. Maybe that’s how he learned to keep everything inside. When he discovered music, he began to ponder the dilemma of becoming either a baseball player or a rock star.

Last night I dreamed that Max was alive again, after being dead for two years. It was some kind of medical miracle. I was telling everybody how miraculous it was, emphasizing that he’d been buried all this time and now he was alive. He was in a hospital where his health was being monitored. I told him how great he looked: he looked so healthy, young and fresh-faced. He was pleased. But the next thing I knew, I was desperately trying to make my way to the hospital, fighting my way through detours in a heavy rain. When I finally got there, a nurse told me that Max had died. I was devastated. It was an upsetting dream and yet I got to see Max, and to tell him how happy I was to have him back.

Before the dream, I had been sobbing hysterically, reminded by someone on TV of Max’s taste in music. It hit me with unbearable force that he is gone and not coming back. My husband sat with me and handed me tissues. It hurts him to see my pain and it frustrates him, too. He thinks there should be a time limit to this grief, that I should be ready to resume some kind of purposeful life full of activities. He can’t understand that my light has gone out. I’m not coming back, either.

Posted in love | Tagged , | 22 Comments

A Horror Story For The Age Of Trump

horror story for the age of trump

In North Carolina last week, an 18 year old boy chopped off his mom’s head and then called 911.

I read an account of the incident and listened to a excerpt of the 911 call, which actually lasted for 16 minutes. You can hear the boy tell the stunned operator that he killed his mom, because he “felt like it.” The kid has a deep voice, with no affect. The operator asks some questions and the boy answers obediently.

There are two young children in the house, and the 911 operator is concerned about their safety. The caller assures him that he won’t hurt the kids, for just a moment exhibiting a flash of normal emotion, like, Hey, I’d never hurt them, are you nuts?

I can’t imagine why it took so long for the cops to arrive but I was pleased to find audio of the entire call.  That’s how I am when I read about something horrible. I need to know everything.

It’s no surprise that the boy, Oliver Funes Machado, had been in a mental hospital for psychotic behavior. Four medications prescribed to him were found inside the house. But friends and family noted that Oliver had been a normal child, until the last few years, when he started to isolate himself.

Oliver’s mom Yesinia was 35 years old, so she had him when she was only 17. She went on to have 3 more children, and to gain a reputation in her community as a kind, happy person who loved to sing.

Poor Yesenia! All those years as a mother, only to have her head chopped off with a butcher knife. I would not find it unusual to learn that her teenage son loved her very much. All that stabbing and mutilating is probably just the flip side of a child’s love when they become psychotic.

Remember that Virginia State senator whose son tried to kill him before shooting himself? They were very close, unusually close. You don’t always hurt the one you love, but when you’re crazy you do. 29 per cent of family homicides involve a killer who is mentally ill.

Oliver has had his first court appearance, his feet chained together and his face blank. His hands look like a baby’s. Who will care about him?

I’ll tell you who: Right wing Trump supporters, who are blaming Obama because Oliver is an illegal immigrant from Honduras. To read their comments on this story is to confirm everything you think about Trump’s “base.” All they see is a brown-skinned young man who should never have been allowed to cross our sacred border! Fox news used this headline for the story:

Illegal immigrant accused of beheading his mom gives chilling 911 call

Immigration and Customs Enforcement officials told Fox that they have issued a detaining order for Oliver, who has been charged with first degree murder. Meanwhile, his next court appearance will be on Thursday.

This is a family tragedy of the highest order, one of the worst things you can imagine. I can envision being the son, the mother, the grieving father and the two young siblings. Because that’s how I am.

But I can’t imagine finding any meaning in the fact that the kid is here illegally. That’s beyond my powers of empathy. Let’s get everyone properly diagnosed and then put on the right meds, including those people who voted for Trump.


Posted in Horrible Stuff, News | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

Guess How Much For These Jeans!

guess how muchObviously they are very special.

You want to feel special? Be prepared to pay for it. Especially when it comes to denim. There are fifty thousand brands of denim to choose from, and the “cult” brands are changing every minute. You want to express your status to other status-obsessed losers so you need to look around before you invest.

The shredding alone tells you that these jeans are special. It is clearly the work of teething babies and rabid squirrels. You let them chew for a scientifically calibrated amount of time to get this effect, then you  smack them away, so it’s very labor-intensive.

Then, there’s the exposed zipper with the big ring-pull. How cool is that? Not to mention the long rope belt, which you can use to strangle yourself if no one reacts to your denim savvy. Before you take that option though, make sure to point out that these jeans are actually repurposed Levi’s.

Isn’t that incredible!  They took some innocent Levi’s and turned them into arty street-wear that broadcasts your exquisite disregard for fit and function.

Here’s the rear view:

guess how much for these jeansNow you see where the money went!

Before you guess the price, let me reveal the brand: Off-White c/o Virgil Abloh.

Virgil Abloh wears many hats: Kanye West’s creative director, in-demand DJ, blockbuster-show producer, and most recently, designer for a line of streetwear that launched in 2013. Mixing provocatively printed T-shirts with athletic hoodies and oversized flannel shirts, OFF-WHITE c/o VIRGIL ABLOH is setting new standards in urban apparel.

Okay, take a guess.
















$1,075 (and sold out in size 24)

Posted in Fashion, irritants | Tagged , , | 6 Comments

The Trump Regime: Casting The Movie

After Kellyanne Conway flashed members of the Black Caucus in the Oval Office, it became clear that only Sharon Stone is qualified to portray her in the movie.

The movie will actually be a 6 episode series on Netflix, with Pee Wee Herman as Reince Priebus and Ellen DeGeneris as Mike Pence. Paris Hilton will co-star as Ivanka, with Adam Levine as Jared “but he’s Jewish!” Kushner.

Lyle Lovett will play Paul Ryan, with the great Orson Wells as Steve Bannon. I know Orson Wells is dead, okay, I’m not an idiot. I’m just saying, dig him up, brush him off just a tiny bit, and voila, a rotting Bannon!

Mickey Rourke stars as The Donald, and has agreed to put on 300 pounds for the role. In her first dramatic role, Caitlyn Jenner will play Melania “not a hooker” Trump.

Racist liar Jeff Sessions has not been cast yet, and all I  can think of when I see his face is the Gerber Baby.

trump regime casting the movieCan you help cast Sessions and the rest of these fuckers, I mean characters?


Posted in Art, News | Tagged , , , | 15 Comments

Warren Beatty: What a Fucking Cunt!™

warren betty what a fucking cunt

This is my annual Academy Awards Exegesis but I can’t let Warren Beatty get away with his behavior. Good for him for being a hall of fame loverboy, he is not a gentleman. He handed that card to poor Faye like, “You do it, I’m not taking the blame.” Almost on a par with Winston yelling “Do it to Julia!

Man up, Warren, you fucking cunt. And then, after the mistake is revealed, he insists on taking up time to grab the mic and explain that it wasn’t his fault.  What vanity, even in Hollywood. Awful.

Okay, let’s do celebrity fashion and get the hell out of here.

Best dressed was Ruth Negga, stunning in bright red lace.

warren beatty what a fucking cunt!

Most hideous dress, a tie between Scarlett Johansson and Charlize Theron. What’s wrong with them? Is Scarlett still trying to live down her sexpot image? Done deal, Scarlett, we see that you can look unattractive! Stop it already. And Charlize, stop buying up the black babies and look in the mirror. Come out of the closet or don’t, but face the fact that the days when you could wear just anything are long gone.

Brie Larson looked like a John Singer Sargent painting, so I’m giving her second place after Ruth.

warren beatty what a fucking cunt

Dakota Johnson looked awful, but her penance for those Shades of Black movies will never be over. Meryl Streep showed Chanel that Karl can go fuck himself, she will wear pants under her dress. Team Meryl all the way.

Way too many actresses wore gold column dresses, so they canceled each other out. Judd Apatow’s wife whatsername wore a welcome Pop of Color but looked like she was trying out for a Disney cartoon. Karlie Kloss wore an awful white shroud and Salma stuffed her boobs into a dated black beaded thing. Halle Berry wore a ridiculous wig that fooled no one on Black Twitter.

Now let’s do the men.

Ryan Gosling, please, please have sex with me. Please.

Dwayne Johnson and Samuel Jackson wore blue velvet jackets, I guess it’s a pimp look and if so, nice  y! Tarell Alvin McCraney looked gorgeous in a white tux and is my choice for second place. Casey Affleck needs to wash his hair.  Dev Patel‘s hair looked clean and fresh. People were hoping that Dev would make out with Andrew Garfield but that’s just mean.

warren beatty what a fucking cunt

Justin Timberlake always looks nice in Tom Ford, but the question remains, Why did he marry that awful Jessica Biel???

That’s it, it’s been a long day. I went to my eye doctor today, long story for another time, but while reviewing the Oscars with me, he noted, “Faye Dunaway is one of my patients, so I know she had no trouble reading!”

Wow, right?

Okay, let me know if I left out anything important.


Posted in Celebrities, News | Tagged , , , | 9 Comments

Dear Donald™

dear donald

If you’re anything like me, your consciousness has been co-opted by Donald Trump, with all the attendant fear, dread and hatred associated with his rise to power. It’s hard to focus on other things.  It’s draining and exhausting.

So maybe it would help to express our feelings in one burst daily*, instead of letting the rage contaminate the rest of our brains. I’ll start, by addressing him directly.

Dear Donald,

Why can’t you die, you stupid motherfucker? I can’t stand to see your face or hear your voice, and by “can’t stand” I mean it is fucking up my entire organism. I hate you with the power of a trillion suns. You are the stupidest man on earth. You have made me use the term Piece of Shit when it wasn’t even in my lexicon or whatever it’s called.

You are too stupid to live. I would give my life to undo your existence. Speaking poetically by the way, since I am not armed! Still, you have made me a patriot. It’s unbearable to have such a vulgar lowlife cunt pretending to be a President. Please take your awful family and go to a distant planet where you can make those hand gestures all day long without making me sick.

I hate you, you fat stupid pig.

Love, Sister Wolf

You know what, that felt pretty good!

I invite you to share your own letters to Donald. I’m looking forward to some bracing, heartfelt invective, as long or short as you wish.

*This is a public service and collaborative literary project.

Posted in Horrible Stuff, Rants, Words | Tagged , , | 15 Comments

Hookers, Sluts, Sex-Workers, Feminists or First Ladies?

hookers sluts

Okay, this is a complicated story and I’m pretty stoned. But stick with me.

There’s a model/actress named Emily Something who is mostly known for her large breasts. I almost wrote “big tits” but stopped myself. Anyway, she was at some celebrity event where she was seated next to a New York Times reporter.

The reporter made a comment about Melania Trump, referring to her as a “hooker.”

So the Emily girl goes to Twitter and scolds the reporter for the sexist comment, tweeting:

Sat next to a journalist from the NYT last night who told me ‘Melania is a hooker.’ Whatever your politics it’s crucial to call this out for what it is: slut shaming. I don’t care about her nudes or sexual history and no one should.

followed by

Gender specific attacks are disgusting sexist bullshit.


Melania Trump heard about Emily defending her, and used her FLOTUS account to tweet her thanks:

Applause to all women around the world who speak up, stand up and support other women! @emrata

Wow, Melania is woman, hear her roar!

Then, Emily retweets a person who also defends Melania’s honor with the following lecture:

and Emily adds, “Bravo!”

Okay. So, on the one hand, Emily is all “How dare you call Melania a hooker!” and on the other hand, salutes the notion that being a hooker is a personal, valid choice. I don’t think we can trust this Emily.

Emily has those large breasts and she will get them out at the drop of a hat. She writes essays about how she and Kim Kardashian are being feminist when they show their huge tits, I mean bosoms. Emily wants to get your attention and then scold you while lording it over you. Her tits are everywhere. I don’t know how we could possibly satisfy her need to get them out. Maybe she could become a wet nurse. It’s a valid choice!

Meanwhile, Emily is threatening to sue a photographer who took a million nude pictures of her five years ago before she knew she was going to be a feminist. So she’s really mad. She doesn’t look mad in the photos but that was then.

Leaving Emily’s tits for just a moment, if we may, and getting back to the poor reporter, he has apologized profusely for his unseemly comment, and The New York Times has issued an apology for him as well.

The reporter happens to be the son of Carl Bernstein, one of the two guys who broke the Watergate story.

To sum up, we have a validly slutty model/actress who shamed a reporter for suggesting that the First Lady is a hooker even though Bravo for Hookers; and The New York Times has to apologize, even though the Washington Post didn’t have to apologize when his dad broke the Watergate story.

Or: Tits + Hooker – Sex Worker + Twitter x Shaming -Reporters = FLOTUS -Watergate.

Thoughts or explanations?

Posted in Celebrities, irritants, News, Rants, Words | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments