The Easter Bunny is Real!

(https://twitter.com/IngrahamAngle/status/979021639458459648)

If you didn’t know that Laura Ingraham is the butt end of a warthog, now you do. And if you’re not getting great pleasure watching so many of her sponsors walk away from her garbage pail of ideas, you’re also wrong. It’s perfectly acceptable—healthy even—to question the motives of positively anyone (see, buy, read The Missionary Position). Even a student activist who’s recently survived a school shooting. But make sure you think through your criticism before you heave a balloon full of baboon’s blood from your marble tower. Make sure you have a thoughtful reason to question that person’s actions, motives, clothing, whatever, and that you’re not just using your widely-followed Twitter account to try and publicly shame his 4.2 grade point average (bitch, please). Because that makes you an asshole. A bully. A person devoid of morals.

This isn't just Ingraham's terrible, horrible, no good, very bad angle shame show regarding the Parkland survivors and their motives. We must congratulate another pillar of corn-laden poop, Rick Santorum, who also last week decided to dip his pasty toes into the shit river of bad ideas when he said on CNN, in response to student protests of gun violence, “How about kids, instead of looking for someone else to solve their problem, do something about maybe taking CPR classes, or trying to deal with situations that when there is a violent shooter, that you can actually respond to that.”  Santorum should be carnival crane clawed from the public forum of plush toys based solely on his poor use of language, but he’s also chock full of bad ideas. Again, it’s healthy to question positively everything, but telling kids who've been shot at that they shouldn’t worry about stopping bullets from entering their bodies, but about figuring out how to use their Justin Bieber t-shirts as tourniquets is perhaps a little much. I'm all for ripping up a Justin Bieber t-shirt, but that reasoning is as upside down as Melania Trump leading an anti-bullying charge. And for that head-up-his-ass approach, Rick Santorum shall be punished in the form of living the rest of his life as himself. 

In case you haven't had your fill of meatloaf-level reasoning, Ted Nugent, the saddest thing to happen to a guitar since God told Abraham to take his Fender up to Moriah and smash it on a rock, has opened his face hole and let from it pour more retrograde, beef jerky-smelling drivel, calling Parkland survivors "liars," saying they "have no soul" because of their criticism of gun rights. Not that we should ever take a man wearing a dead opossum on his head seriously, but allow me to remind you that he's a media cousin of Alex Jones -- who claims the Sandy Hook school shooting was a government hoax, that child actors were used to perpetuate the illusion, and that no one died in the massacre -- who reaches 2.5 million people every month and is making a fortune on their unwillingness and/or inability to sort fact from fiction. Jones has called Parkland survivors crisis actors who are being paid to attack gun rights. These guys are bloviators. But they're bloviators (Nugent's a mere bloviating idiot, while Jones is a bloviating con man taking advantage of weak minds) who are probably on Trump's list for "Guy in Charge of Calming Shit Down," and they're bloviators with an audience. Many people don't have the ability to reason, and so allow the dangerous anti-democratic swirlings from brains like Nugent's, Jones's, Ingraham's, and Santorum's to corrupt their own neurons. Point is, if someone attacks another person, but cannot back up their criticism with evidence that is not a quote from their Uncle Kenny's blog, maybe look a little deeper, because sometimes Uncle Kenny is a little too full of Bud Light and Funyons to really get to the root of things. By all means, criticize a shooting victim who criticizes gun rights. But maybe stitch your shirt sleeves back onto your camo button-up, be open to the possibility of changing your mind, and Google "reason" before you do.

Now, after so many sponsors have made an exodus away from her show, Ingraham’s announced she’s taking a week-long “Easter Break.” But, even if she does rise again, let’s hope nobody rolls the stone away from her tomb so she can spend a little time poring over her lack of morals while she waits to die again, then slowly decomposes into a human soup of bad choices – the most thoughtful thing Ingraham and other critics of her caliber could do for all of us. 

A Funny Thing Happened During the Rape Scene in the Theater

Sometimes my mom and I go on dates. She likes it because she enjoys spending time with her daughter. I like it because I enjoy spending [some] time with my mom. And also so I have someone to blame my farts on. 

Recently we dated at America's second-favorite mass-shooting locale, the movie theater, where we saw a lot of black people lose their back meat in "Twelve Years a Slave." Is it wrong to say Brad Pitt was looking good in his Canadian workman linen after saying "a lot of people lose their back meat"? In any case, it's what you'd expect from a slave narrative inspired by real live human beings -- lots of hate, lots of self-righteousness, lots of characters who probably run for Senate in later years. 

And there was this scene where, in the dark of night, one of the masters enters the slave shack and quietly violates a young slave. There is no music. There is no dialogue. It's just this silent, awful scene, which carries on (as rape scenes tend to). Everyone in the fully white audience is already clenching their pasty butt cheeks together with a sort of unexplained shame when, at the end of my row of seats, someone's cellphone erupts with the ring that people who don't know how to use cellphones choose. And it's on the volume setting that people who don't know how to use cellphones choose. And, because of this, and because they have nowhere to go but into the vortex of empathetic embarrassment and non-empathetic hate, everyone's pasty white butt cheeks are now being sucked up inside of themselves -- it's like we're all starring in our very own drug-smuggling drama.

The cellphone offender plunged into her purse to smother the thing, but it was certainly too late. And all of a sudden we all want to tie this lady to a wooden pillar and whip the flesh off of her back like she's Jesus and hasn't picked enough cotton. And that's the moral, I think -- don't be all white like Jesus (and Megyn Kelly) if you're going to let your cellphone ring during the rape of a black slave.

Why I don't want kids

I don't dislike all kids, and I don't think you should dislike all kids. Some kids are wonderful and bring an abundance of joy to the world. And some kids need to be spun on a tire swing until they throw up the macaroni and cheese that they, earlier in the day, complained about having to eat. All I'm saying is that, right now, a few years before the time in my life when, if I were to decide to get pregnant, I'm pretty much guaranteed a baby with far-apart eyes, I still don't want a baby. But I could always adopt. And I still don't think I would want kids. Because I have way too much vintage Blacktron Lego that I don't wanna share.

First of all, I'm pretty sure that the kids I don't like are the fault of their parents, whom I probably like even less. So I'm not blaming kids on kids altogether. But I am blaming them a little. Here's a brief bit of an infinite list of reasons why I do and don't like kids:

I don't like kids for putting on the Macho Man costume they screamed and cried and oozed all over the Target aisle for until they got it.

I do like kids for choosing the Macho Man costume. And for tying up everyone around them with their neon orange Macho Man fringe.

I don't like kids because they're not dogs. [I've always wanted dogs, which I think are a nice alternative to being a parent to a human. You can't have a conversation with dogs, and you can't teach dogs how to do long division (barf anyway), but you can love a dog, and it will love you back. This is one of the things many parents enjoy. It makes a lot of sense. Being loved back is a nice thing. But why must we be loved back by something that requires absolutely every bit of us? I can throw a sock for my dog while I read a book. It's a little annoying, but it can be done. You can't throw a sock for a kid and still get something done because a kid wants to have your undivided attention (worst case scenario, the kid is helpless enough that it requires all of your attention and without it will die) -- it knows when you're not paying full attention to it, and it alone. And when it doesn't get all of the attention, it will make horrible noises. And if the noises don't work, it will shit its pants. And there goes whatever it was you were doing, especially if you were eating a hot peanut butter sandwich.  Also, unless you're doing things all wrong, a dog will never rip your vagina.]

I don't like kids because they're sometimes allowed to be so helpless. [This could be a cultural problem. For instance, a four-year-old living in the United States isn't expected to do more than chew up the pre-cut cheese cubes from its plastic tubby and spit them at the wall, while a four-year-old living in many other parts of the world is dabbing its own chapped ass with bag balm after a long day of splitting wood. The same bag balm it used earlier in the day on the udder of the family cow. I'll accept that children are important, but only if we're teaching them that they're not that important. Ah, a Zen moment. If you have kids, that probably hasn't happened to you in a while.]

I do like kids because sometimes they'll stop the world to tell you that they think panda bears are their favorite animal instead of regular bears. But I guess that's also a reason why I don't like kids.

If I did want a kid, I'd think real hard about adopting one. Why must we play the "If They Mated" game in real life? If most adults who wanted children were adopting them, the issue of children would be so much different because then we'd be attempting to solve problems that already exist instead of creating beings that will develop a hundred thousand new problems. Adopting is a great way to get a heap of bonus points before you even start playing the game. Plus you save a woman in the relationship from gaining a minimum of fifteen pounds of un-losable belly fat (level down), and from either the horror of pushing a watermelon-sized thing out of a grape-sized hole in her body (lose fire flower), or from reenacting the best-known scene in Alien (game over).  

I don't hate kids. And apparently neither does Jesus. In fact, they say Jesus loves all the little children of the world. Well, that's probably because Jesus never raised a kid. He never had to wipe some sweet little child's diarrhea out of its crack, then listen to it scream for hours because its genitals were scratchy from having to lay in donkey hay all day. It's really easy to love kids when you don't have to be around them all day. Even if you're around kids in the morning, then get to go out and raise a guy from the dead, then you come home to kids at night, you're cheating a little. Because that guy's gonna be like, man, I sure could use a drink after raising that guy from the dead. And we all know what kind of a babysitter booze makes. [Side note: maybe Jesus DID have kids, and that's why he was cool with being crucified].

Here is the thing I want to say: right now I don't want kids because I cherish my time, my sanity, and my nice things. But I'm also currently living a life that is quite happy and fulfilling, and introducing a child to an already happy and fulfilling life would be like adding a keytar player to the Beatles. It wouldn't be like adding a new kind of flower to the world. It would be like adding seventeen extra tines to a fork -- it would still work, but you'd spend a lot of extra time getting that thing into your mouth [TWSS]. Bringing a child into my life might add joy, but only in the way that you have a good story to tell after you break your face open while rollerblading naked. I love it when I get home and my dog wags its tail and licks my face and pees on my foot. Sure, while I was away he didn't color me a stupid-looking periwinkle house with dinosaur spikes and a seesaw with a fat guy on it. But he also didn't wear my husband out so hard that he has to go to bed now, leaving me to drink whiskey out of a wee-sized moon boot until I pass out on a Barbie van.

Alright, fine, I was at Chipotle again

I eat at Chipotle maybe three days a week. Five if we've run out of bread, in which case I have to wait until whenever I build up enough motivation (i.e. hunger) to visit a grocery store. Let's just call it six days. 

So I was in the burrito (slash burrito bowl, slash taco, slash quesadilla) line, dutifully relaying my burrito desires to the burrito maids, and the one who sloshes the salsa on says, "What kind of salsa, sir?" I'm used to this kind of thing: I'm six feet tall; I dress like a man; I have a strong nose; I don't wear makeup; I have Hanson hair. I get it. But here's the thing: I also don't get it. Because as much as the choices I make about my physical appearance are generally construed as masculine, I am also, when you look at me, pretty clearly a woman. I don't have boobs bursting out of my v-neck, or a tall hat made out of fruit, but still. And, fair enough, the salsa queen did eventually notice that I was not a man. And her mistake embarrassed her, frazzled her, and caused her to mangle my sofritas burrito. It looked like the bowels of a recently-happy Mexican. It looked like the part of the sewer system where the pinto beans, sour cream, and tomatillo salsa have not yet had a chance to mingle (there's a sign at this point in the sewer system that reads "One mile to Illegal Pete's"). It looked like a serial killer had sliced through the belly of my burrito, then stomped on its chest. So Frazzled Burrito Maid sort of wraps up my "burrito", but doesn't hand it to me. She just leaves it nearest to where she's wrapped it. In my dog fur-covered man jacket, I have to reach across the stuff that will soon be in other peoples' lunch to get my "burrito," which is, at once, bleeding sofritas juice and gender vomit all over the stainless steel counter. This is the "burrito" I ate five minutes later with the help of a spoon and twenty-seven napkins. 

 

I'm not interested in all of the in-between sour cream of this issue right now. I think all I want to say is, maybe look people in the eye. Because the last thing the world needs is a sad-looking burrito.

The Elegance of the Poop Bag

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if humans wore underpants even if they didn't have a groin? Like the Ken doll I had while I was a kid. He had flesh-colored underpants pressed into his plastic, John Boehner-colored flesh, and even as a young girl I knew that that dude didn't have anything going on downstairs. I mean, he had fake underpants going on, and a pair of some pretty gay loafers. But that's not really "going on," that's plain old weiner-shielding, 20th century style (today the wiener-shielding is done by Facebook and the citizens voting for Mayor of New York City). I can't really connect the dots fully right now, as I am, once again, fully plastered, but it seems to me that wearing underpants when you don't have a groin is sort of like filling up a dog poop bag with dog poop, then leaving the dog poop bag full of dog poop on the side of the trail/sidewalk/walking-space. So you make the effort to be a good person, but for what? To be an even worse person than you knew there could be. There is no groin. 

I get angry a lot -- that's why I keep renewing my driver's license -- but this full poop bag-leaving is one of those special anger-inducing instances that makes me want to poop my pants and leave them in the crawlspace of whoever left that bag. Especially if I see one of those loaded bags lying along a path that is purposefully dotted with trash cans every 100 yards or so in order that people don't have to get their stupid little fanny packs all stinky. 

I'll talk about this some other time, but Levi and I chat a lot about what kind of a dictator I would be (it's obvious I would be a dictator). Let's just say there would be a lot of public executions after which bodies would be bagged up neatly, then deposited into the nearest trash can.

Drunk brog, slash I just need to say this one thing, Chipotle

Two beers does a 130-pound (Hooray! I've been 125 pounds since middle school! It must be all of these beers I've been drinking! Or maybe it's just a tumor!) girl in, let me tell you. Or let Levi tell you -- he's the one whose lap I'm writing this from. He's all like "Girl, get your keyboard out of my lap!" And I'm like, "Dude, I just need to type a few more words". Which, I get it. A few more words in drunkspeak is at least 2,419.  And a lot of those words are slurred together, so it's actually like 5,201. Doyouknowwhatimeandrunkdrunkdrunk? So I was in Chipotle today, just like any other day, only today I read that in 2014 Chipotle is planning to raise its prices. So I made a joke about it, which was something along the lines of asking for extra-extra sour cream and cheese. You know, to make Chipotle really PAY for it, and since I already ask for extra sour cream and cheese, I'll have to ask for an embarrassing heap more of it. So today, I'm in Chipotle, ordering my burrito (Which, turns out, is totally out of style, as my burrito was surrounded by ONLY BURRITO BOWLS on the eat-line. What is so uncool about tortillas all of a sudden? That's one of my favorite parts about a burrito. Sometimes I ask the Chipotle person for an EXTRA tortilla. Not ONE FEWER tortilla. Tomorrow I'll ask for a CAPITAL LETTER tortilla.), and, in the midst of feeling uncomfortable like you feel in a too-tight pair of underpants full of pistachio pudding, I notice that there's a misplaced apostrophe on the menu. Two times. Both times in the same word, but still. It's Chipotle. If you're going to sell humanely-raised meat AND raise your prices, you MUST put your apostrophes in the right place. (Chipotle would have put an apostrophe after the letter "e" in "apostrophes" in that last sentence). But, no. At the Cherry Creek Chipotle, there is an apostrophe looking all haggard and bunchy here: "Kid's Menu". At first I thought it was because I was in Cherry Creek, so it was totally possible that there's this one kid who gets this Chipotle to herself. But then I saw THREE kids in line (all in Patagonia puffy jackets just like their female caregiver whose Burberry uterus, I assumed, was their Invitro oven), so I settled on it being an error in apostrophes. So that's annoying. How can I trust my burrito when its kids' menu pardner is not even punctuated correctly? But then I asked for extra, extra sour cream on my burrito (with god-forsaken and now scrutinized tortilla), and all of that sour cream ended up in the bottom fourth of my burrito. The whole way through the eating of my burrito I was thinking I'd ordered extra sour cream, and, Jesus, where is it, then I get to the last fourth of burrito and, yes -- THERE IT ALL IS. Here's what I think. Nobody wants to place the apostrophes in the right places. Fine. I can live with it. But I want something in return, Chipotle. Put the sour cream in ALL of the word.

Either way it's 'Merica

So we've endured our first mass shooting of the week, and I'm starting to think that there's this one thing that maybe both sides of the gun debate aren't considering well enough. And it's not just where did all of the Super Soakers go (wtf?). It's more that, at any moment, any regular-seeming, gun-legal American could become a crazy person. Not just a look, I'm wearing a Mickey leotard and my hair is spiky, and my tongue is out, and I'm naked on a wrecking ball crazy. But an I want to rip you up and feed you to my pigeons crazy. Like, if I had a gun on me right now, I'd pull it out and shoot you and your turn-at-a-no-turn-on-red-intersection ass. The gun nuts (nuts, I think is an appropriate word -- I am nuts about picking my toes, and I would fight good and hard to keep this right, should the right for Americans to pick their toes no matter what ever be made into an Amendment, but the fact remains: I know that how often my toes are bleeding is unacceptable) want all the guns n' stuff, all the time. The Mounds (sometimes you feel like a nut...) would rather limit the guns n' stuff people can have, which, like it or not, would probably result in fewer prematurely dead people. The Mounds would also like to limit who can have these things. And that, really, is the hairy drain: there will be some point[s] in every person's life when said person should not have access to a firearm. There will always be gabiliondy-round magazines, Terminator IV weapons in which to put them, and people who are willing to shoot them at other people. But there will also be people who seem perfectly calm and happy until their team fumbles in the end zone. There will always be people who like the Eagles, and people who don't like the Eagles. There will always be people who start watching "Lost," then finish watching "Lost." There will always be people who live next door to people playing loud oom-pah music. There will always be people who have to wait for other people to write checks at the grocery store. There will always be people who eat other peoples' Cheetos. For the time being, the problem is that there will always be people. So we either get rid of all of the guns ever and live "The Walking Dead" with Whopper-eating zombies, or we watch the fuck out. Either way, we'll have to live our dream in 'Merica.