Man, the news bums me out. Rebels are fighting Gadhafi’s regime in Tripoli, kids are trying to bomb their schools, hurricane Irene s’a’comin’, and Florida tomatoes are literally giving people cancer.

I can’t catch a break can I, world? Is it too much for me to be able to wake up in my secure house, in my ridiculously huge and comfy bed and not hear about other people’s problems? Christ, like I don’t have enough of my own. I ran out of orange juice last night and now I have to buy more. I can’t tell you how much I hate going to the grocery store, but I do. I hate it. Do you need to pile on the grief?

But let’s not be too hasty, because I also don’t want to hear stories of how awesome and successful other people are. I like to keep a good gap between my opinion of myself and the rest of you philistines, so I don’t need my news stories getting in the way of that. A light sprinkling of these stories atop a heaping helping of mediocrity sounds good to me. Leave the bad news out; it just bums me out and makes me feel like my problems aren’t real or important. And they are.



Nothing says creepy like searching for “little girl” in Google images. Now if Chris Hansen doesn’t barge through the door in the next few minutes, I can explain myself. Every day at my job, I open a buttload of mail. It’s almost always junk and the other day was no exception. Only, it wasn’t your run-of-the-mill useless adult catalog crap, it was worse. It was Garnet Hill Kids and Mini Boden. FML for even knowing what those are…

Allow me to shed some light on the situation, friends. What’s up with parents trying to make their kids look like miniature adults? Kids are like midgets with better motor functions and body proportion; they don’t get to dress like grown ups. OK, so this isn’t J. Crew kid and they don’t look like actual grownups, but still; the ‘fashion forward’ mismatched prints look with knee high boots and a useless scarf? They’re one step away from [insert trendy nightclub here] and an Urban Outfitters addiction. What is the deal?¹ First of all, these clothes cost the same or more as the clothes I buy and unless I get picked up for Woman vs Food (fingers crossed!), I’m actually going to be able to wear mine forever. Anyway, in my creepster Google session this morning, here’s what really took the cake:

As far as models go, they have the whole androgynous and disgustingly thin thing down, but…what? I don’t know who this designer is, because who the hell really cares, but what normal² parent is going to dress their children in this? I saw a little girl wearing heels the other day and just about had a seizure. What happened to turquoise leggings with a Little Mermaid t-shirt (true story: that was pretty much what I wore every day when I was seven) and disheveled hair? Between this and allowing women to vote, I don’t know what this country is coming to…

Now here’s an outfit I can really appreciate.

It’s slightly conservative, super cute, and even a little fun paired with the right shoes.

Not to mention, it looks really good with a splash of red and they can wear it forever and ever and ever…


¹ Hi, Jerry Seinfeld.


So, heh, guess I’m a little slow on the uptake, but I just realized my blog has no point. It’s really just an excuse for me to complain (profusely) or try to make you laugh (unsuccessfully) about, well, absolutely nothing.

I’ve never been featured on the front page of WordPress, which I can only attribute to the fact that either my posts are 1) not relevant and/or 2) ridiculous. Still, have my charming witticisms been overlooked? Surely not; thus I must seek out some direction for my blog.

Maybe I could get pregnant. Shit yeah: If there’s one thing I’ve learned about baby blogs, it’s that other moms care about your baby as much as you do (or at least pretend to long enough to support your blog). But then I’d have to deal with this. And the nine months before dealing with this in which I’d have to deal with this:

Seriously, the more I think about in the last two minutes I’ve been thinking about it, having a baby is lamesville. I think I’ll write a blog about all of the reasons not to have a baby. And when I start to get baby fever, I’ll just Google “crying baby” or “baby puke” for a quick fix. But, let’s move on, obviously a baby or anti-baby blog is out of the picture for now (and, probably, forever).

I could get into the tourist blog. Only, I’m not really into flying, so maybe I could tour places that are car accessible. Only, I’m pretty lazy, so this moves my new blog from a travel blog to like a, um, local hotspots kind of thing. You’d be into that, right? Heck, even if you live in Montana, you might be interested in what’s going on around Florida, right? Well, you do live in Montana, so I guess you’re not really representative of the US. Seriously, what’s up with Montana? Have you ever paid attention to commercials in which a company will show you all of its locations on a US map? There is never anything in Montana! Here is a map I could find of something in Montana (McDonalds) and even then there are only, like, 20 McDonalds in Montana. Look at the black holes¹ in other places because of the high concentrations of red dots. New Jersey, which is the size of one of Montana’s boogers, has one million more McDonalds(es?) than Montana. Sup, Montana?

What was I talking about? Heck, I don’t know. Hey, what about this: If you had a choice between being the top scientist in your field or gettin’ Mad Cow Disease, what would it be?

¹ McDonalds is a black hole.


As of late, Gabe has been harassing me to write more, but I’m just… See, I can’t even construct a sentence to relate my inability to write lately. Maybe it’s writer’s block or my agoraphobic behavior, but I just don’t feel like I have anything to say and it’s like pulling teeth to do so.

So, it’s time to pull out the big guns (which is really my cop-out attempt to have a blog post before the month of July ends): Facebook ads. I’ve been conducting a very scientific (see also: lazy, haphazard) study of ads on Facebook. In conclusion, they are intriguingly odd and disturbing. Unfortunately, because of my, well, lack of commitment, I wasn’t quite as thorough as I could have been so most of the examples are all for the same advertisement. To be fair, I will only make fun of those, though I’m sure 90% of them are all worthy of my mockery.

I’m not sure if you’ve guessed by now based on my many posts calling children little dillholes and turds, but Iiiiiiiii don’t really like kids. There about four kids in my life that I absolutely love and the rest can go fly a kite. Regardless of my distaste for the little brutes, who in their right mind would be a social worker after seeing these ads? Call me crazy, but watching a child’s head spin around while it spews green vom everywhere is not my idea of a good time. I’m also not looking to be probed by two wonky alien babies. Who does their PR because, just sayin’, these babies are whack.


Now, here’s an ad that tells it like it is. If you’re planning a visit to Tampa, may I present to you your biggest incentive. Plus, it’s a Groupon, so you know it’s a deal.

Tip: if your facial hair is so bad that you previously had to attack it with a razor, give up. Stop giving people hope, American Laser Center.



Come November, San Fransisco-ans (Fransiscans? Fransisco-ites?) may have to sneak their babies across the border (to another state, not Mexico. Eesh, could you imagine?) to cut off a bit of their willies.

Deeming it unnecessary and likening it to tattoos, those lobbying for this movement claim parents are guardians, not owners.

Wait, what? Next you’re going to tell me I can’t pick out their outfits, pierce their ears, or inject them with Botox to win beauty pageants. I suppose I won’t be able to even lovingly shake my baby to sleep when he won’t shut the hell up stop crying. Isn’t that the point of having kids? You get a dog because you want to own it and dress it up in stupid outfits, crop its ears, or pull its tail so having a kid is like having the ultimate dog. The possibilities are endless; like trading in Skipper for Barbie. Skipper is cool and all until you realize she has flat feet so she can’t wear Barbie’s heels and no one makes clothes for her anyway. For all you young jezebels out there scratching your heads about who Skipper is, picture a much less slutty Bratz doll.

Aw heck, I’ll do it for you. Dang, look at that cell phone, made to scale and everything. Man, the nineties were a good time. Nobody gave you crap for smacking your kid upside the head and they damn sure didn’t tell you not to cut off your son’s pee shooter.

Or maybe they did. Heck, I don’t know, I was between the ages of three and twelve, give me a break. Geez.



Say hello to women you will almost never meet in person that are looking for hot young lovin’. I always figured there was a pretty basic checklist for cougars which eliminates the need for a cougar dating site:

  • Already married (see also: mature trophy wife) or
  • Finding dudes without having to go online or
  • Not a cougar. Continue reading

These ads, ridiculously entertaining as they are, are sad lies to desperate, idiotic young “cubs” (Really. They’re called that. FML.):

You can’t see pictures of sweet babes like this on without signing up, but take a stroll over to for some fine pickins. Bait and switch is illegal, women. Why don’t you stop messing around, break out the Ben & Jerry’s, put on Murder She Wrote and call it a night.


The other day I heard the term “quarter life crisis” to refer to the 20-something group of kids who are coming to grips with their mortality, insignificance, and emotional impotency (and, well, other forms of impotency). I thought it was some new term designed to drive book sales or create movie spinoffs, but it has been around for at least ten years (ultimately creating lame movie spinoffs and books from that time period that I will refuse to read for lack of technological relevance alone).

In any case, I googled it because that’s how I find my facts. Google led to Wikipedia (read it) which led to my new-found expertise on the matter because, let’s face it, Wikipedia knows what’s up. Basically, young kids who might be reading this, here’s what you can supposedly look forward to:

  • confronting one’s own mortality
  • insecurity concerning ability to love oneself, let alone another person
  • insecurity regarding present accomplishments
  • re-evaluation of close interpersonal relationships
  • lack of friendships or romantic relationships,sexual frustration, andinvoluntary celibacy (which, for some of you poor suckers, will be an all-life crisis event)
  • disappointment with one’s job
  • nostalgia for university, college, high school, middle school, or elementary school life
  • tendency to hold stronger opinions (gasp!)
  • boredom with social interactions
  • loss of closeness to high school and college friends
  • financially-rooted stress (overwhelming college loans, unexpectedly high cost of living)
  • loneliness, depression, and suicidal tendencies
  • desire to have children
  • a sense that others are doing better than oneself
  • frustration with social skills

Awesome. But I’m a visual person so I wanted to see what a quarter life crisis looks like. Sweet Jesus! First of all, don’t people of all ages deal with things from that bullet list? Moreover, aren’t we supposed to hate our jobs in the beginning? It’s kind of natures way of weeding out the leeches. Those who are motivated to move on from whatever crappy position they’re in will eventually improve upon their general state of happiness (here’s a helpful chart for those of you who are into that sort of thing). Those who don’t will forever work at their local crap-store jobs, get wasted every night, and hate their lives. It’s how our society is supposed to work.

And feelings of insignificance are normal. We’re tiny specks on a huge planet in an infinite universe. We don’t register on any scales of significance save for our own self-created, superficial ones. Excluding the obvious poster-children for life/world significance (Mother Theresa, Ghandi, etc.) most major claims of fame and/or notoriety (see also: our definition of significance) are based on completely idiotic and superficial grounds. Half of the world probably knows who Snooki is, and I’m supposed to feel bad because half of my town doesn’t know who I am? Suck it, MTV.

If you haven’t already read the article, I’ll go ahead and save you the trouble with this simple circle-your-answer cheat sheet that you can decide on when the freight train of the quarter life crisis rams you in the rear:

  • Suck it up
  • Quit life