Notice!

Once upon a time there was a giant douchenozzle named Kyle Payne. He wrote a smug little blog about what a super awesome feminist/pro-feminist/feminist ally he was. He counseled rape victims. He was totally against porn because of how totally awful it was. He talked a lot about social justice. And then, one day, while working as an RA at a college, he walked into a girls room, lifted up her shirt, and filmed her bare breasts. He was charged, rightly, with sexual assault.

And now he's back- not mentioning his abuse, blabbing on again about what an awesome "feminist ally" he is, and linking to blogs about feminism, and blogs by rape and sex abuse survivors. This man has absolutely no place in any nook or cranny of feminism, and though he probably loves the attention, as Ren says, it's better to make sure that any Google search of his name turns up this information about him.

Fucker.

Love to laugh, but you're making me gag

As you may know, one of my favorite hobbies, for various reasons, has always been reading personal ads. I'd like to say it's because of the interesting cross-section of humanity, or something like that- but really it's because they're hilarious, and also I like the feeling of superiority I get reading them. You know, because I can spell and form complete sentences. Also, I tend to have an instinctual aversion to saying painfully cheesy things, especially self-complimentary cheesy things. There's nothing like someone trying to sound deep, or super hip to trigger my gag reflex.



But anyhow- out of the kindness of my heart, and because the bus took forever yesterday, I have compiled a list of the most painfully cheesy phrases written in the Reader personal ads this week!



"My attributes are still being discovered"

"appreciates every day"

"Someone who knows what they value, what's important to them, and can take a moment to enjoy a moment: a hug, a sunset, a cup of tea, a smile, a song."

"regular kinda gal"

"heart of gold"

"I'm a smart alack" (SIC)

"I am looking for the soul that can not only keep up with me, but make every day of my life that much better just by being there to share it"

"Would love to meet people who don't ask me who Fellini and Bergman are." (Oh, puke. How awesome and deep you are that you can name the two most well known "art film" directors ever. I knew who Fellini and Bergman were when I was 11, ok? It's not a major accomplishment.)

"I enjoy the art of curiosity."

"heart of gold"

"I'm looking for a girl who is interested in interdependence"

"My family is worldly"

"Simply looking for friends who are transparent, earnest, and attach value to living life"

"My short and sassy haircut sums me up. Short and sassy!"

"I've been told I have an outgoing personality making friends easily." (This is not a sentence.)

"There are no strangers in life, only friends we have yet to meet" (Like Ted Bundy.)

"Protege wanted for life expedition"

"Muse Wanted"

"I am very much grounded in the present. I believe that it is our responsibility to paint our masterpiece we call our lifetime. I have a cornucopia of activities I like to do from yoga to found art sculpture and everything in between (like Mongolian throat singing and eating mushrooms)."



And then there is one truly priceless ad, which I will post in it's entirity, just because it is *that* amazing.



OPEN HEART AND ACTIVE MIND

(Note: please imagine this in the J. Peterman voice)



I love to lay on a beach, and journey through the stars and wonder about the universe. The innocent joy of children singing (Your first date will be a 2nd grade choir recital!). Self effacing humor. To be at a trancendent symphonic performance. Service. Culture and nature. Being present. You: interested in exploring Chicago, museums, music, ourselves and life, with a potential for a long-term connection. I love to learn, and am willing to try anything I haven't already done. Love stretching the mind and the body. I'm seeking a woman attractive on the inside and out. More than just a pretty face. Independent, and willing to try new things.



Analysis: He has a totally deep reason for wanting to fuck you in the ass.

I thought I wanted an apple cinnamon muffin, but it turns out I want to eat a baby

Oh Christ. I thought/hoped I was hallucinating the other night when this thing popped on the telly:



Via http://www.videogum.com/


Really? Baby hungry? Baby hungry? Ew. I don't know a single "single girl" that doesn't screech in horror or throw up in her mouth at the mere mention of child bearing/rearing, so I do not know where you are getting your information from, Mr. Dude I've Never Heard of Before, but I suspect that you might be the delusional one here.

Yeah, we're all totally after your super high quality sperm, there. I dream of the day when I might drop a mucus plug and squeeze out a nine pound demon child with my eyes and your hairplugs. Also, I want to be your girlfriend and subsequently marry you, despite the fact that you are basically terrible in every way possible. You know, because you've got a penis and all. Everything else is just gravy.

Oh, and also, I'm Cathy. Ack! And I love shoes! And chocolate! And talking about my weight! And, um, whatever else the womenfolk are into these days! Ack! Marry me!

See, this is the thing- women are just not like this any more- not the vast majority anyway- and at least no one I personally know. To tell me to stop being desperate for a man and baby hungry is in the same league as telling me to stop speaking German and wearing leiderhosen all the time. In fact, as a whole, I think we're way better at being independent than men are. And I think that's a kick in the balls to some dudes who might prefer that we were not.

I don't think that the weirdo who tells me he's not "ready for a relationship" after two dates really thinks that that's what I'm after- I think it's wishful thinking. Not that I'm such great shakes, but I think he would like to assume that pretty much any lady in town would be thrilled to pieces to have him all to herself, or to bear the fruit of his loins or whatever. It's nothing but blowing smoke up your own ass.

It seems as though certain men are trying to create a strawwoman narrative that just isn't there anymore. It's a narrative more flattering to themselves than based in reality. And despite the fact that shows like this, and books/movies like "He's Just Not That Into You" claim to be intended to show women how to not be pathetic, they seem to be more hung up on creating perpetuating the idea that this is what we are in the first place - and that we, of course, need a brilliant, tough lovin' dude to show us the error of our sad little ways.

How not to date a tool

In addition to having been horrified by that "Tool Academy" show the other night, I've also spent some time thinking of ways one would avoid being in that particular situation. There are reasons I don't. I take after my mother, who doesn't take shit from anyone. My father criticized her macaroni once and she dumped it in his lap. Ever since then he's said everything she makes is fabulous.

Now, it's not as though I've never dated a douchebag- I think we all know that this is not the case. However, as soon as they revealed themselves to be as such, they were promptly dismissed (I said 'Good Day!' Sir!).

But anyway, here you go! (also, though I say "he" in several instances, most of it goes for everyone)

1. Enjoy your own company to the point where you are not afraid of being alone. If you aren't afraid of being alone, you will never be hesitant to walk.
2. Always be willing to walk.
3. Get a pre-fab man (or woman)- not someone you feel you have to change the personality or behavior of. (I assume that most people need a bit of my help in the realm of style and skin care.). Should you need a project, I suggest you take up needlepoint.
4. Be aware of how people make you feel about yourself, and know when you have been insulted. If someone is giving you a self-esteemectomy, you don't need to be around that person.
5. Believe people when they tell you who they are.
6. Always remember that the beginning of any affair is "The Honeymoon Period"- the best it is probably ever going to be. I suggest you start on a high note, rather than with a list of things you already have to work on. You can't very well sing "You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore" if he never did it to begin with.
7. Screw me once, shame on you- screw me twice, shame on me. You'd think it would be obvious by now.
8. There is no such thing as a controlling boyfriend/girlfriend/whatever. There is only someone telling you what to do and you going along with that.
9. Pay more attention to their manners than you do to their personal tastes.
10. Never, for one second, think of yourself as a victim or as a doormat. We tell people how to treat us, and if you, as the main authority on yourself, do not think you are fantastic and strong, than no one else will either.
11. Remember that we are no longer in the 50's. Sure, there was a time when maybe you needed a husband lest you risk starving to death on the street- but luckily, that is no longer the case. You are better off being alone for the rest of your life than living it being stuck with a douchebag.
12. Ideally, no one should have to feel like crap. However, if someone must- make damn sure it isn't you. Or at least make sure that they feel worse.
13. Listen to how they talk about their parents. If they're shitting on the people who raised his damn ass, don't think you're getting any special treatment. Also highly indicative of maturity.
14. Dating is like shoe shopping. If you try and shove your foot into a size four, it's going to be nothing but a pain. If it doesn't fit, move on and try another pair. It's not the end of the damn world.
15. Don't take no shit.

Cheers!

The Ur-Drummer

So... the other night I ran into the ur-drummer. The first in a long line/near constant stream of drummers I have dated/seen/hung out with what-have-you... that have all basically been the same dude. It's kinda weird, but life tends to carve out patterns like that. For a string of years something broke every year on my birthday (my foot, my heart, my car...).

But, well, with the drummers it goes like this- an overenthusiastic beginning (on their part), quickly followed by a catastrophic end, nearly always brought about by a jaw-dropping lack of basic manners and tact on the part of said drummer. This one was always late, and then, when he was supposed to meet me at a showing of The Purple Rose of Cairo (which was like, my favorite movie ever at the time), called me ten minutes after he was supposed to meet me at the theatre to say he couldn't make it. This, however, is absolutely nothing in comparison to the insanity that followed it from any of the others in his wake. At most, it rates a 1.5 on the scale of douchebaggery I have been exposed to. Trust me, I could tell you some stories (which I totally will. Also, uh, I write them- which you think would cause some sort of self-censorship on their part, but no.).

But this is the thing, the curse on my birthday? It stopped after Reagan died on it. I'm sort of hoping that running into the ur-drummer will put an end to this Groundhog's Day-like pattern of dudes. Which would be pretty rad, because frankly I need something new to write about. It's getting a bit tedious, don't ya think?

Planes trains and automobiles

I made it to Rochester- not in the "without a hitch" sense of the word, but I'm here, I'm watching The Golden Girls, and typing this all on the new laptop my parents were lovely enough to get me for Christmas.

Getting there was bad enough, and quite a bit like the last act of The Graduate. I took a cab thinking it would be faster- it wasn't. Traffic was so bad that I had to have the cabbie drop me off at the train station, and then I had to run all the way to the gate (except for the minute or so I stood behind that stupid family on the moving sidewalk thingy. If any of you are reading this, I think you suck at life) because I was so horribly late, and made it exactly on time and completely out of breath. I should probably quit smoking but I won't.

BUT... let me tell you about the guy I sat next to on the plane. I can tell you a lot, because he didn't shut up for the entire ride. First of all, he smelled like beer and Old Spice, and had his hair in an altogether new version of a combover, in which all the hair was pulled forward into bangs. He made prosthetic legs, and although he was Canadian, he worked in the States because the business for such things is bigger here. I am not sure why, I didn't ask. He told me that people were awfully vain about their prosthetic legs, and especially picky about them being symmetrical with their other leg, should they have one.

He did not think I needed to apply lipgloss to impress him, despite the fact that I was doing it because, ya know, my lips were dry. Because I just ran a marathon to get there and all.

He was on his second marriage to a mail order bride. Mail order brides, he said, were the way to go. Because, you see, an "attractive young girl" like myself would not look twice at a man like him here in this country, but in the third world, he had pick of the litter- and also they were more old fashioned, which he liked (ie: They don't have like, opinions and stuff). And he was right about that, because he was gross and he smelled weird and he was at least 50. Oh, and he was totally wearing a Starter jacket, which I have not seen since I was in middle school.

Oh, and then he ordered a beer. And he asked me if he could borrow a dollar for it. I said I didn't have one, so he paid for part of it in dimes.

Then the plane went into turbulence, really awful, "I think this might be the end- I'd faint except I have to stay conscious in case those oxygen masks pop down from the ceiling and I have to put one on" turbulence. It was a bad time altogether. And while I'm whiteknuckled and gripping the armrests, he's yelling "Wooooweeee! It's like a rollercoaster! Woooo! This is kinda fun! If you think this is bad, you should have been on this plane with me to Reno- now that was turbulence! This is just fun!"

And then the plane landed. And he continued talking. "If I'da known you had a problem with planes I'da tried to keep your mind off of it by talking to you"

Yup. I never really thought I'd top the guy who tried to feel me up on the plane and offered to be my sugar daddy, as his wife was suffering from cancer and was too tired to do him. But I did. And at least I got a limo ride home from that deal. Oy.

And that's my story. I told you I have no luck with planes.

Psych!

The NY Observer ran an article today on a new male archetype- l'homme fatale - a type rather similar to the one described by Tracie over at Jezebel a while ago as The Emotional Conquistador - a phrase which has rapidly become a part of my everyday vocabulary. I prefer Emotional Conquistador because l'homme fatale sounds too aspirational.


It's the same story on both sides- instead of scheming to get into your pants, they're scheming to form some sort of fake emotional bond. Which is way weirder. And sort of a waste of time, if you ask me- there's no forseeable gold at the end of that rainbow. I would never put in that much effort just for the glory of spinning around and yelling "Psych!"- I just don't get that. At least try to get laid. Be respectable.

It seems as though things have been radically switched around. Once upon a time girls were warned about men who would pretend to be in love with them in order to get laid. Back then, maybe it was easier to get someone to believe that than it was to get in their pants. Not so much now, except perhaps among super religious types, maybe. It's probably easier to get a girl to fuck you than it is to convince her that you're not a douchebag.

So they pull all the same lines that they used to, the lines we were warned about and never lived to hear in that context. They overflatter, they do nice things, they talk constantly about doing things in the future... except this time they don't try to sleep with you, at least not figuratively. Except this time it's not clear what they want from you. And when it's over, you're left thinking "Well, what fresh hell was that? That wasn't at all necessary!"

You harken back to a better time, a simpler time- a time when things made sense. When a dude would just buy you a drink, tell you you're pretty and make a pass at you- and you could say yes, or say no, and either way know what you might end up with (Ideally, not Mr. Goodbar). Alas, alack, Alaska.

Well, then I guess I'm elitist. Thanks, Ben Shapiro!

Oh wow. So Ben Shapiro (Harvard Graduate) has taken it upon himself to identify the traits of an elitist in the populist style of Jeff Foxworthy! So, I must wonder... am I in fact an elitist? Lets find out!
You’re an elitist if you love Brokeback Mountain, but think that John Wayne movies are jingoistic expressions of outdated American machismo.

What if I just think they're boring and have no intention of ever watching one?

You’re an elitist if you believe that anyone who supports the standard of a married man and woman raising a child is a bigot.

Bigot- n. One who is strongly partial to one's own group, religion, race, or politics and is intolerant of those who differ.

When the definition changes, let me know.

You’re an elitist if you love watching soccer and you’re not a recent immigrant.

Well, I guess soccer moms have gone out of style...

You’re an elitist if you hate Whittaker Chambers but love Arthur Miller.

Yeah, because non-elitist people totally know who Whittaker Chambers was. And who would prefer a dude who ratted on all his friends to the guy who wrote Death of a Salesman, and All My Sons? Which, btw, were not exactly plays about the elite of the nation.

You’re an elitist if you believe Jon Stewart is non-partisan, but Fox News is an outlet for the Republican National Committee.

Jon Stewart is a comedian on purpose. Fox News is just a joke

You’re an elitist if you don’t mind Sarah Silverman’s language but can’t stand James Dobson’s.

You're an idiot if you don't get that it's meta. She's not serious. James Dobson is.

You’re an elitist if you worry what the Europeans think of us.

Because making the world hate us works out so well, right?

You’re an elitist if you think public school teachers are qualified to inform your children about sex, but parents aren’t qualified to teach their children basic math.

Well, yes- because they have a curriculum. Also, as I imagine this refers to homeschooling- it's a lot more than basic math that people have to learn. Jen was homeschooled and was one of the few people she knew who went through that and ended up going to college and being able to function in the world.

You’re an elitist if you think the government should manage the health care system even though it can’t manage to keep the tax code within a 10,000 page limit

You're an asshole if you think only those with the financial means deserve health care.

You’re an elitist if you think transgenders ought to have their own bathrooms for privacy reasons, but public distribution of pornography is fine.

No one says that. What we actually say is that bathrooms should be unisex, and who gives a shit anyway? And who knew that only elitists liked porn? Go know, right?

You’re an elitist if you think that pro-life folks are fascists unmotivated by true sympathy for the unborn.

I'd be more likely to believe them if they had the same sympathy for the born.

You’re an elitist if you know what arugula is but don’t know who Jimmie Johnson is.

Arugula is delicious, and I think he's the sandwich guy?

Oh well, so I guess I'm an elitist. Go know. Thank god I have Ben Shapiro (Harvard Graduate) to fill me in.

You know You're an Elitist if... by Ben Shapiro

Sweet Love

I got Nicole the world's most amazing housewarming present yesterday- a lotion pump shaped like a toilet with the words "lotion pump" emblazoned on the tank. Priceless. And the fact that she understood just how glorious it was... well, that's why we're friends. That and the fact that she came up with a plan to take a trip to the "Sweet Love Douche" factory (if we can find it) to film a "re-imagining" of the Laverne and Shirley opening segment. Because we really want to put a glove on a douchebag and wave goodbye to it as it passes.

He should talk...

Dennis Leary, in an extra classy Vanity Fair article (which also refers to trollops slobbering on his knob):

"Most heterosexual men do not find Renée Zellweger attractive -It’s true. Nice girl, and I have met Renée. She is the kind of girl who bakes really good muffins, you go out to dinner with her, but that’s it."

You know, I am quite sure, Mr. Leary, that even if you weren't married or whatever, that Miss Zellwegger would not deign to make you any goddamned cupcakes. Call me crazy. I'm sure she's crying herself to sleep at night because some gross looking, barely relevent comedian doesn't want to do her. I know it would kill me.

You know, I lost all respect for "men in general's" taste in things when I read two other articles, so I am not all that gaggy over this. Article number one was about how women are more likely to find Miss Zellwegger's Chicago co-star Catherine Zeta-Jones to be super hot than men are. That was pretty surprising. Then there are always the articles in fashion magazines about dudes liking women in clothing made out of the following materials: Lace, cashmere and velvet. I'm down with the cashmere, I can do a little lace here and there- but velvet? Ew. Really? Does anyone wear velvet outside of 8 year olds around Christmas time and sad, renaissance fair-esque goths? These are pretty much the only instances where I find being unduly swathed in velvet to be any kind of appropriate fashion choice, and I use the term appropriate lightly, because those evil renaissance fair goth chicks scare the crap out of me. Not because I am especially judgemental of their lifestyle, or that it's just like, so subversive that I can't handle it- I assure you it is not. I'm freaked out by the renaissance fair, period, ok? It's a thing I have. There are mimes there, and clowns, and people who walk up and sing at you, and people eating turkey legs without proper utensils- so, suffice it to say, I find it rather traumatic. So, like, evil renaissance wear is especially disturbing to me. Where was I? Oh, yeah, dudes have bad taste in things.

But not really. It's just that whenever someone like Dennis Leary speaks on behalf of all men, or when some idiot magazine takes a poll, men come out having really bad taste in things. So do women, so do any people, when taken as a whole, or represented by a douchenozzle. I mean, I've never dated a guy who was like "You know, you should really wear more velvet!" I can't imagine I ever will. That would be totally weird. Also, I'm pretty sure that quite a few heterosexual men find Renee Zellwegger attractive. Probably more than anyone finds Dennis Leary attractive. He has awful skin, greasy hair, and weird beady albino eyes. so I'm not sure what makes him think he's any arbiter of taste in anything. So there.

Things that are good vs. Things that suck. A booze infused list I will probably delete when sober

Good things:

1. Two eggs, over easy, wheat toast, hashbrowns and sausage links. Right now, I can promise you that this is the most importantly good thing ever.

2. Mr. Catface being absolutely delightful.

3. The episode of Fantasy Island I am about to watch.

4. Writing in a bar.

5. Chocolate! I hope to find some in my apartment! I should have gone to Dominicks and purchased tiramisu before they closed. Alas.

6. Closure.

7. The awesome list of ways not to get murdered I wrote today, based upon my watching far too many true crime shows. I'm pretty safe, as I do not jog, I didn't marry my highschool sweetheart or anyone with the last name Peterson, no one would describe me as the All American Girl Next Door with a charmed life who smiles all the time and goes about lighting up rooms with her zeal for life, I have no Sears Portrait Studio pictures of myself donning a floral bib dress and an 80's bouffant, and I would not describe any of my neighbors as people who are quiet and keep to themselves mostly.

8. The most amazing episode of Intervention, ever, is now on the OnDemand thing. The huffing episode with the girl who feels like she's "walkin' on sunshine!" It's so, so disturbing, and yet I cannot turn away.

Bad things:

1. Camille Paglia

2. Dudes that I used to date or see or whatever being painfully, gag me with a spoon, jaw droppingly cheeseball-esque human beings. I tell you, it's absolutely painful, and it kinda makes me feel embarassed to be alive.

3. Tucker Max

4. Having to sit still for too long. I'm not so good at it.

5. The fact that no one seemed to want to be out tonight, when I was way too hyper to go home.

6. The guy who said earlier "what's a gal like you doing in a place like this?" I really wanted to punch him. A lot. More than you could possibly know. Like, A) dude, we are not in the country, and I most certainly do not appreciate being referred to as a gal anymore than you would like being referred to as a motherfucking redneck douchenozzle, and b) Really? You actually said that? Out loud? With the intention of my hearing you? What's next? Asking me what my sign is? Or if I come here often? Oy.

7. The fact that I cannot foresee myself remembering to take off my makeup tonight. And the fact that I didn't finish hanging up my laundry today, and thus will have to remove things from my bed in order to sleep. Sigh.

Go suck a thumb, Walter Kirn

Walter Kirn is a man who wrote a semi-autobiographical novel called Thumbsucker. About a boy who sucks his thumb and has trouble with a girl who wants to screw around with him, but godforbid does not want to be his soulmate, and get married, and form a family band. What a total whore, right? Fuck her! If she had any sense she'd throw herself at his feet and thank him profusely for deigning to consider her worthy of his glorious affections. (I digress. Also, my boyfriend Vincent D'onofrio was in the movie... so I can't totally hate it)

He also wrote this charming article in Elle that made me want to shove his thumb in his ass and then into his eye, and hope that he not only goes blind, but also suffers from a terrible bacteria infection that eats his brain. I should preface this by saying that he also wrote another article for Elle about how "your boyfriend is lying to you about your body"- ie: he is actually absolutely disgusted by it and wants to vomit everytime he looks at you, especially if you have stretch marks anywhere!

They tend to go out on the town in pairs, I’ve noticed: the conventionally pretty one, all dolled up and shining, and her average-looking friend, who’s barely had time to do her hair. The pretty one, I have a hunch, is generally the instigator. With the plainer one by her side, she thinks she’ll look even more dazzling than usual. And the plainer one goes along with the idea because she wants to bask in her friend’s glow—or maybe because she just doesn’t get out
much. I don’t know. I do know, however, that when I spot them and manage to push in beside them at the bar, I often feel sorry for the pretty one.

Because she’s about to learn she’s not the pretty
one.

Yeah, you're totally going to ruin that girls day, aren't you Walter Kirn! You're going to punish her, and all the other women who thought they were too good for you! I'm sure all of her self esteem relies on soliciting your favor. I bet she'll go home and cry about it! (By the way, totally imagining that last sentence of his paragraph in the voice of movie preview announcer guy)

He goes on and on for pages extolling the virtues of homely chicks- but not really. Primarily, what he's harping on is his own awesome deepness, and ability to "see through" those totally stupid bitches with symmetrical features (yeah, apparently the whole symmetrical feature thing is a big deal for him). However, let me tell you- Walter Kirn is not deep. Walter Kirn is a) recently bitterly divorced from a model, and b) a puritanical douchebag.

First of all, buddy, I do not choose my friends based upon whether or not I look better standing next to them. I like them because they are hilarious, brilliant, ballsy chicks- who also happen to be super hot. Contrary to what you may believe, my entire life is not in fact devoted to reelin' me in a husband! I don't wear heels because I'm trying to impress the menfolk, I wear them because I like being taller than you. And because they go with my outfit, and I fucking happen to like shoes, k?

Homely people do not get a free pass on the good personality express. If you believe that, you have watched like, way too many teen movies, or your mom was blowing smoke up your ass to make you feel better. I have met more boring ugly people than I can shake a damn stick at. It's not that you like homely chicks, it's that you don't like women whom you suspect feel a little too good about themselves. Not taking care of oneself is often a sign of depression. Men like homely chicks for the same reasons they like short chicks- they want someone who appears kickable. They are insecure themselves and afraid of rejection, afraid of a woman with too much love for herself- because if she does love herself, she'll never be grateful enough for you, she'll never be afraid to leave your sorry ass. That's what you're afraid of, Walter Kirn.

Ok... haven't gotten into this one yet. I am so, so, so, so in favor of rejecting privilege. I have always believed that in order to eradicate all the -isms, those with the privilege must recognize it and reject it.

HOWEVER. Dude, my family did not own any businesses. They only got here like, last century, k? Oh- wait, I'm sorry- my relatives owned a bakery, and a TV store. In Providence! The only benefits I ever saw from that were like, in pastry form. I think my parents got a good deal on a TV that probably fell off the back of a truck- but I'm quite sure that's the extent of it. That's not to say that I don't benefit at all from white privilege, but still.

First of all... this guy is a Catholic. In case you didn't know, Catholics do not allow women on the pulpit- in addition to like, 20 million other retardly misogynistic rules they've got going on. I call bullshit on his whole rejecting privilege thing. Pots and kettles bitches.

This is the thing, though. Racism and sexism are both things that suck- equally. Neither is worse than the other, and if you even try to make that argument, you're going to end up sounding like an ass. If you are anti-racist, but totally sexist (which this guy clearly is)- you suck. If you are anti-sexism, but a giant racist, you also suck. Sure, Clinton has white privilege... but uh, Obama has male privilege. So they're about on equal ground. As this douche nozzle is a white male, he probably hasn't experienced the effects of institutionalized privilege first hand, and really, really needs to shut his damn mouth.

It's too late baby, now it's too late

So, there's a lot being said about this new Scott McClellan book. First of all, like most people, I feel like it's too little too late. But second...

Duh? I mean, really- I feel like I could have written this book just by like, guessing around at shit and been at least 85% correct. I can't see what would make me purchase it. It's like purchasing the novelization of a movie you've already seen.

Yay! I'm actually working on this shit again!

I am in fact once again working on my illustrated interpretation of a piece I wrote a couple years ago called "I Never Liked You Anyway." Basically, it's like a field guide to Robyn's occasionally horrifying incidents involving the opposite sex. It totally needs to be updated to include flip phone pick-up artist. Here are a few of the ones I did before... (it sucks because I totally cannot locate the one about my gothic cookie guy stalker. Alas...)

You'll have to click on them to actually see them, and then click on the large size. Because they just won't fit on here. Sad, but true.

Cult...




Children of the Corn...



Brits...



Dreams...