Roller Derby Enrollment Skyrockets; Tea-Partiers Blame ObamaCare

Before Mary Rocco became “Marilyn MonRoll,” she spent quiet evenings watching Breaking Bad reruns with her boyfriend or chatting with her up-cycling group at local coffee houses. But when Mary saw a hand-written flier for a local roller derby league, the mousy, almost full-time administrative assistant thought it was time to lace up her wheels. “I hadn’t worn them since I dressed up as Rollergirl for Halloween. I wasn’t even sure if I could zip them past my ankles anymore.” Not only could she zip them, but in little time, she found herself zipping around a waxed roller rink with girls who looked like this:

The Boner Crushers recruited SvetLama a.k.a “Roller Serb” from a Ukranian dodgeball league in 2003, when women acting like men was at an all-time high with the hit HBO series Sex and the City.

Mary is one of a thousand of unfeminine women across America who are having bottom surgeries and joining roller-derby leagues. When asked about her inspiration, Mary said, “That Juno girl gave up her baby and then joined a roller derby team. I found it inspiring.”

Mary’s teammate PeTUNA Clark, a gym teacher by day and a defensive jammer by rink, said that she’s been wanting to join roller derby for years, and now can thanks to her new ObamaCare health insurance plan. “Roller Derby is too dangerous of a sport to do without health insurance. Unfortunately, Phy ED teachers are going down all across the country. Not only are our benefits and hours being stripped away, so are our gender identities.” Clark cites ObamaCare as the reason she is able to join a league of women who are so successful at making both men and women equally uncomfortable.

Clark says that before derby, she got most of her pleasure from teaching basketball to freshman girls because there was a lot of “bouncing up and down and jumping around.” Here she is posing in her locker room.

And Clark isn’t alone. Her teammates HairThere Delilah, Barron Erin, and Dolly Pardoner have been waiting until they’re insured to join roller derby. U of Texas-Austin Gender Studies grad student and roller derby participant TestosteRhonda, states that roller derby enrollment has been up “a whole lot” since the rollout of ObamaCare this past October. She estimates an increase of “like 200%” since the sport was established in the “1970s or so.”

Rollerderby is a sport that was inspired by the 1979 cult- hit film The Warriors in which the music band the Village People turn in their police outfits for roller-skates and switchblades and comment on racial tension and HIV in New York City. Early pioneers in the sport include Billie Jean King, Cheryl Miller, and Greg Louganis. It was rumored that Donald Trump unsuccessfully organized The High Rollers, a group of wealthy CEOs interested in roller derby. The team disbanded after LEZZIE (The League of Embittered GirlZ Zipping around In Eye-makeup ) ruled that players with a history of more than one heart attack or two metal knee replacements were too much of a liability to the league. The High Rollers disbanded, only to form the GOP.

Trump declined to comment on his roller derby failure, but was rumored to adorn the rink names “The Whig Party” and “Never Tuopee it Forward.”

But as roller derby teams pop up all over the heftier states, not everyone is enthused with the sport’s increasing popularity. Long-time member of the Young Tea Party Patriots, Rick Roll, says that the sport not only threatens traditional gender roles, but also the status quo, “Young women are finding pleasure outside of the domestic and work sphere. This is dangerous to maintaining gender and economic inequality. I blame Obama Care.” Earlier this fall, TMZ reported that Roll’s ex-girlfriend left him, shunned her upper class roots, adorned the rink name “Percy Slayer,” and  joined The Maple Sizzurps, a straight-edge roller derby team based out of Vermont. TMZ aired footage of the couple arguing over how much time Slayer was spending at practice instead of with Rick Roll. TMZ insiders recorded a brunch date between Roll and boyhood friend, Mark Zuckerberg, which during Roll whined to Zuckerberg: “Before ObamaCare, the only thing that I had to offer to women was a health insurance policy. Now what do I have to offer to them?!”

After the health care law passed, Lil’ Wayne publicly endorsed Vermont derby team The Sizzurps. Roll immediately defriended him on Facebook.

But tea party men aren’t the only ones threatened by women’s increasing desire to act like men. Stay-at-home mom, Freda Felcher, shares Roll’s sentiment, “Call me conventional, but wouldn’t these women rather be at home with their families, scrolling Pinterest and making cake pops?” Last week, Felcher organized a group of “domestic engineers” to protest outside of popular Joliet derby rink “Rink Wormz.” Officials were called to the scene when derby girl PM Essence spiked Felcher’s pumpkin latte to the ground. Bystanders reported that Felcher shouted at Essence, “I paid four dollars for that!”

Many roller derby girls feel that the game’s controversy is part of the sport’s allure. AnitaWaxJob said that she grew up playing “boring soccer,” in which the most exciting event of the season would be “the team lesbian wearing a thong under her uniform shorts.” Players cite several league policies that contribute to the sport’s controversy, including rules that ban players who don’t listen to the Misfits and who haven’t had at least one abnormal pap smear. During pre-season deliberations, the league’s lowest ranking team from Mendocino County (coincidentally also named “The High Rollers”) petitioned league commissioners to lessen the number of required team practices.

Mendocino’s High Rollers’ team captain Lady Dreadfull unsuccessfully petitioned LEZZIE to reduce the amount of required team practices. According to commissioners, Dreadfull was 25 minutes late to deliberations.

When asked how her boyfriend handles her grueling practice schedule, TwoInTheStink from Madison’s 3 time regional champion team The Slambers says “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Perhaps a more significant controversial aspect of the sport is the small legion of derby girls interested in racially diversifying the league. Ravin’ Samoan and Scar TissueLanda of Trenton, New Jersey’s derby team “Sistas with the Parts of Mistas” consider their participation in roller derby as advocating racial equality in the sport. TissueLanda says the sport was once dominated by “skinny white bitches with hipster glasses.” The two have been actively recruiting players at apparel stores Maurice’s and Dots across the country.

Scar TissueLanda’s game face.

Like it or not, Roller Derby participation has skyrocketed. And the jury is still out as to whether a wealthy black man is the reason why women across America are dressing up like gutter skanks and jammin’ one another.

Whitney Houston’s Comforter and a Blogging Award

Facelikeafryingpan nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award. She is awesome and the only reason that I would ever visit Canada. I used to think that Nickelback was the only cool thing outta our Northern neighbor, until I read her blog. She is also the only person who I think is more random and/or has a worse case of ADHD than I do. She describes herself as a female Danny DeVito. Reading her blog, The Embiggens Project, is boss, especially with post titles like “A Petrified Hot Dog, A Lesbian Horse, and a Foot Named Mildred.” Thanks, Daniella DeVito. Muah. http://theembiggensproject.wordpress.com/

A female Danny DeVito

When you get nominated for an award, protocol is to nominate some other bada$$ blogs and to tell 7 rando things about yourself. Since my whole blog is a spewing of random things about myself, I really had to scrape off the resin from my brain for this one. Under each random fact is a link to a blog that I’m nominating. There may or may not be a correlation between the fact and the nominated blog–see for yourself.

1. I used to want to be a rapper. My rap name was “The D child.” I remember asking my mom if I could swear in one of my raps–if I could say “shit.” She said no, so I smacked the ho. As a kid, I wanted to be black. In 3^rd grade, my 3 best friends were black girls. One was named Banika and everyday at recess I tried to learn double dutch from them. In fact, for Halloween that year, I was a fly girl.

That’s me with the red hat.

http://paltrymeanderings.com/

2. I don’t use spoons to stir my coffee. I used to drink a pot of black coffee a day. And then I started getting heartburn so bad, that the flames would rise just from the scent of coffee beans. When I was in Salt Lake City last summer, I stopped at Alchemy Coffee, the only neat thing in that creepy city. I got whole fat cream in my pressed coffee. I became a convert in Mormon town. A month later, in Chicago at a training convention for the AmeriCorps job that I quit, I sat across from an old army vet at the breakfast table. We were the only new “volunteers” over 23 years-old and not trustafarians. I saw him put cream in his coffee first without stirring. He said that he’s been doing it for years and it saves on dishes. I became a convert in Chi town.

Gingersnap Trusta only drinks fair-trade coffee, organic cream.

http://sparkymac.wordpress.com/

3. I fly like paper, get high like planes. If you catch me at the border I got VISAs in my name. If you come around here, I make ’em all day. I get one done in a second if you wait. I really don’t, but this song is stuck in my head right now. But, seriously, no one on the corner has swagger like me, and that’s the truth.

http://merchesico.wordpress.com/

4. I think that Reese Witherspoon looks like a fetus. And Qdoba burritos are the size of them. When I was 8, after watching the scene in the Bodyguard where the detective goes into Whitney Houston’s bedroom and says that the perp “masturbated on her comforter,” I asked the neighbor boy, Pablo, what masturbating was. He told me that it was another word for pooping. I turned around, went home, ate a lot of watermelon, and masturbated for the rest of the day.

“Not on my comforter…It’s all in me. Chaka Khan!”

http://keychangesblog.com/

5. I like to call strollers “buggies” or “carriages” and shoveling snow “vacuuming snow.” I blame it on my dad’s broken English. My mom doesn’t talk much and my dad never stops. My mom also knows a lot about cars and my dad cooks more than she does. It’s safe to say that I didn’t grow up around traditional gender roles.

http://mikereverb.wordpress.com/

6. In another life, I’m a dancer and a choreographer. In another time, I’m a silent film actress. In another country, I’m a Brazilian dancer at Carnival. In another world, I don’t have to use words to communicate; I don’t ever have to enter the cerebral realm to make my money.

I love green.

http://snakehair.wordpress.com/

7. Pirates skulls and bones…

 

Depression, Affluence, and Boredom: 10 Reasons Why January is the Bluest Month

My biggest beef with my ma, aside from cutting my curls into a mullet at age 5, is her expelling me in the month of January. As a kindergartener at Mount Carmel parish, I wondered why so many of my mulleted Italian counterparts had birthdays in January. When I premaritally lost my virginity at 12, I realized that it was because all of the smart Catholic ladies gave up sex for lent. And when the 40 days of bliss ended for women, it gave way to 40 seconds of bliss for the men. And so I and a slew of fellow Catholics were born in the middle of the world’s most god-awful month–during the bluest 31 days of the year. The bible says that January is the month of Janus, the Roman god of gates and doorways. Halfway through this bitter month, here’s why I’ve decided to shut the door on January:

Janus. The guy on the left is walking away from the curly-mulleted guy on the right.

1. There are lots of jiggly people jogging in plain sight. As a recovering bulimic and binge-drinker, I have a hard time keeping down solid food. All it takes for me to yak is a really bad fart and poor ventilation. Lots of people resolve to get healthy at the new year, and they do this by chasing each other around the block in track suits. In my neighborhood, the only difference in January is, they leave their guns at home.

“Crushed velvet track suit: check. Resolution to get fit: check. Gun: Nah, I can’t sneak up on no one with all this swish.”

2. Martin Luther King day. I like the idea of MLK day, but I’d prefer Malcolm X day. Partly because I’m pro-violence, but mostly because I’m anti-bible names. And whenever mid-January comes around, I’m always like, “Do I have to work on MLK day; do I have off?” I never know. As far as holidays, MLK day is the biggest peacefully protesting tease.

“I have a dream- to have a holiday named after me in which the racial composition of those staying home from work is actually diverse.”

3. The Super Bowl. See #1.

“While the rest of America can’t, it’s totally okay for us to be fat, to run around in tight pants, and to slap each other’s asses because we’re rich and they’ll respect us for that.”

4. Lack of flavor. During January, America as a nation is coming down from a holiday sugar and caffeine high. The Starbuck’s drive-thru line was so long on Christmas Eve in a small Nebraska town, that a worker inside, overwhelmed with stress, erotically asphyxiated on cake pops. In response, the Barista Union (BU) declared January the month to be void of overwhelmingly delicious artificial flavors. The BU stated that since November has pumpkin, December has peppermint mocha, February has chocolate-covered strawberry, and March has shamrock, that January should have none as to avoid a total mass freakout. Starbucks Gold Club members across America have protested in favor of a new January flavor, including Post-Holiday Acid Reflux, Heartburn, and Salt and Slush.

The Nebraska Starbucks worker got 4 cake pops in before fellow employees found him slumped against the freezer door.

5. Highest rate of divorce. Normally I would say that this is a good thing, but have you ever had a friend who got a divorce? Nothing will desensitize you faster to the sight of people crying in coffee shops. Half of the coffee shop charm is that 80% of the people inside are having dilemmas and/or are writing bad poetry. Women and gay men crying over 5 dollar mochas can’t be the best accompaniment to a heartburn latte when they’re occupying every table in January. What then– turn to the poetry jams for entertainment? Def not.

“Everybody snap your fingers for poetry night. This week’s feature is divorcees and heartburn mochas.”

6. Ice-related injuries. My sweet little sober dad recently slipped in a liquor-store parking lot and fell on top of his gallon jug of wine. Instead of agreeing to pay for any medical bills, the store graciously gave my dad a new jug. And now who’s paying for that free jug? You and me. Icy January parking lots= higher liquor prices.

Much harder to hold your liquor when slipping on ice.

7. It’s 4 a.m., I must be in limbo. January is like 4 a.m.- no one is up for work yet and no one is still out partying. The first 3 days of the month don’t even count. People are resolving to be new people and claiming that they “weren’t themselves” last week when they ate a whole cheese tray and told grandma that they were a lesbian. It’s mortal limbo- nothing counts and everyone is overwhelmed with apathy after their resolutions fail.

“I swear, once I cross this stick, I’ll be a whole new, less douchey person.”

8. Inauguration Balls. Again, see #1; change “jogging” to “shuffling,” add the elderly and garish displays.

9. My Birthday: I don’t mind aging. It won’t surprise me when the only thing between my bewbs is my belly button- I’m halfway there. But my birthday reminds me of how ungrateful I can be. And this is Evan McNutt’s fault. For my 10th birthday, he walked to my house in a snow storm to deliver me a stuffed puppy in a corduroy box. No gift will ever be able to live up to that display of 10 year-old friendship. So now I’m stuck grimacing and saying things like, “Windshield wiper fluid and zebra-stripe galoshes- just what I wanted.”

“I traveled 2 miles in a corduroy box during a blizzard to say happy birthday and to set you up for a lifetime of disappointment.”

10. The Darkness. At the depths of my 16 year-old depression, I stared into the eyes of a pixel-y Brian Austin Green on my parents’ Dell computer in their basement. I planned to write the 90210 DJ and convince him that we were soul mates because of how similar our eyes were. January can get dark. Later in the year, I tend to look back on my behavior and thoughts that I had during January. And I think, wow, who was that lady shrouded in yellow wallpaper and prozac nation. How did I get so depressed?

My ma after she read my diary in January.

The only part that I remember from Jack Kerouac’s On the Road (aside from thinking, “This is overrated”) is the scene in which Sal is watching a children’s baseball game. Envious of their happiness, Sal wishes he was anything but white, because it’s oftentimes paired with depression– what he thinks is a symptom of affluence and boredom. Wow, not only do I feel depressed, but now I  feel guilty as hell. Similarly, in Catcher in The Rye by J.D. Salinger (born and died in January so he gets it), Holden Caulfield thinks “Goddamn money. It always ends up making you blue as hell.” Notorious B.I.G. revived a similar sentiment in 1997 with “Mo Money Mo Problems.”

Clearly, Kerouac, Salinger, and B.I.G. didn’t see Indecent Proposal.

Obviously, one of the few problems that mo’ money will cause is no longer having something to strive for. Even if it’s not for money, in January, we resolve to begin striving for better things and “new selves”–to be fitter, to be kinder, to become whatever we’re not. A month of deciding to change our behavior with the hope that we’ll be happier, less bored, or just different than we are now. January is about newness, specifically a new self. Like Gatsby’s green light, we badly want January to be a beacon of the hope, wealth, and just overall difference that the future may hold. Most of us can appreciate what we have; but the prospect of the unknown is just too alluring. So this January, two weeks late, I resolve to not be deceived by the allure of the unknown. Instead of turning to face the strange, I’ll open my arms to the familiar.

Me, not being deceived by the allure of the unknown.

In the meantime, that was you last year- that was you who hoovered the gorgonzola and told grandma that your boyfriend’s name is “Linda.” And who cares? I say “Goddamn January and its concept of ‘not now, but later’–it’ll make you bluer than hell.” That poop colored crayon in the 120 box, it should be called “January.” I’m so over you.

January isn’t blue. It’s this color.

T.G.I. (t.e.o.) G.: Thank God It’s the End of Growvember: What I’d Do If I Had a Prostate

Like the majority of Americans, I had no idea why men across the country were growing hideous mustaches this month. And when I found out, I had no idea what a prostate was or if I had one. After asking the neighbor kids to do some research for me, I discovered that the prostate is a little sac of magic jewels that sits between the rectum and bladder. I should’ve known this- when I was 8, I would tell people that I wanted to be a proctologist. How would anyone take me seriously if I didn’t know what the prostate was? And I also found out that, like the majority of wondrous things in this world, I was excluded from having one because I didn’t have a penis.

Me after my mom told me that I couldn’t be a proctologist./Me after the neighbor kids told me that I didn’t have a prostate.

So sometime in between crying in bed and eating marzipan cookies on the couch, I thought of all the things that I’d do if I had a prostate. I’ve often wished that I had a penis and all of the magical things that come with it- a sense of entitlement, big hands, a mom who actually loves me, and the ability to pee laying down (my dad used to do this at soccer fields by pulling his foot-long out of his shorts’ crotch flaps). And once when I was 14 years-old, my evil friend (a ginger) convinced me that my long labia was a miniature penis. And I believed her for a week- it made sense: my quickness to develop muscle, my athleticism, my tendency to leave the toilet seat up (after barfing up dinner).

I just looked at my labia with a hand mirror and it’s, aaaaarrrgggghhhh, disgusting!

But the hard fact of life is, no matter how oblivious I am to others’ feelings or how many times I explode chili in the microwave, I will never grow a wiener. But as we begin to celebrate the birth of a dude who walked on water and resurrected himself (his prostate was probably spotless), I can imagine what I’d do if I had a prostate. Or a penis. But, first, there’s a couple of things that I would definitely NOT do if I had this magic sac of marbles:

1. Grow a dumb fuc*king mustache: It’s really long nose hair. Gross. And it’s not funny or ironic anymore. Sure, Growvember is the only time that I‘m excused from having lip hair, but other people shouldn’t be. Plus, I have small lips, and a really big chin; think Leno with a ‘stache. Aaron Rodgers grew one and look what happened: his di*k temporarily disappeared and he led the Packers to a 10-38 loss to a team of cleanly-shaven black guys.

“Oh shit, what’s that? Oh yeah, it’s just the temporary loss of my dexterity, my manhood, and my pride.”

2. Drunkenly reveal my wiener-size to a group of sober babes: A friend recently got frat boy wasted and revealed to a group of college girls that his wang is wider than it is long- a genuine chode, like a wheel of cheese. My 30 year-old frat boy friend’s revelation was so shocking, I had to take a week off of laying on the couch to wrap my hand mind around it. Even though I don’t like sex and am a total asexual eunuch, if I were to actually desire human contact, it wouldn’t be with someone who reveals half the magic. And even though I don’t really care about wiener size (or having sex with humans for that matter), this really grossed me out.

My duh-yic is, aaaarrrrggghhhhh, this big!

Okay, now what I would do if I had a hairy sac of jewels:

1. Break sh*t with my bare hands. My arms are so thin and frail, they make my ass look huge. I recently made a profile on a nannying website and I had to disclaim “cannot hold baby for longer than 10 minutes. No breastfed monsters, please.” I wish that just for one day I had the upper body strength of a man. There’s so many things that I could do with it– smash cans on my forehead, throw garbage bins into the alley, enter arm wrestling contests. I’d also scare the shit out of people with my temper tantrums. Without a prostate, when I stomp on the ground and weakly toss pumpkins at people’s heads, everyone just laughs and tells me that I’m cute. If I had this magical marble sac, I wouldn’t have to be on my period to scare people.

“Ima break this breast-fed monster with my bare hands.”

2. Roofie Women: I have no idea what it’s  like to actually have to work for the human contact that I don’t want, so I’m sure that I wouldn’t have the patience for it. Some think that drugging women for sex is morally reprehensible, but so is using womanly titty charms to lead a guy into marriage and fatherhood. Men’s brains are 85% mushier than women’s; it’s not fair that we take advantage of these child-like nymphs like we do. I’ve even considered roofy-ing myself and have oftentimes left my drink unattended for long periods of time in seedy bars. Who knows- I might wake up midway through, fascinated, and think, Hey, it’s like a hairy wheel of cheese! This isn’t so bad!

“Oh no, don’t roofie my Apple-tini!…I’ll just puke it up in an hour. Put it in my beer. It’ll stay down that way.”

3. Never Shave My Genitals: I know that guys do this to create the illusion of a really long dong, but that seems like a lot of work for little payoff. I don’t know how many times that I clipped the labe or short-circuited Greg’s beard trimmer when taming the wild shrew. I look for every excuse possible to not shave my pubis: Growvember, too busy blogging, feminism. Having family jewels that extend beyond the bush (well more than an inch beyond) is the perfect reason to throw away the clippers.

“I’ll pay you extra to de-clog the pool drains.” Score!

4. Shave My Head Bald: I’ve thought about doing this, but it’d only make my ass look even huger. If I had a prostate, it’d make sense.

5. Reach really high things: Growing up, my dad never let me cut the grass. There was a lot of things that I couldn’t do because I didn’t have a prostate as a kid: clean the gutters, carve turkeys, use the snow-blower. If I had a prostate now, I would do this sh*t all day. I’d be a Mexican wielding a leaf-blower like a torch of gold, like an extension of my spicy churro. I’d take a power tool with me everywhere I went. Here’s your Apple-tini, now let me snake your drains. Here’s your Schlitz, now let me power-drill your mind. And, with a hammer in my belt-loop, my flannels would finally make sense.

“Now, you just go lie under that Oak tree. It’s tool time baby…Don’t mind these guys. They’re making us martinis.”

6. Collect Unemployment: I haven’t checked the books on this one, but I’m pretty sure that it’s exclusive to people with prostates. C’mon, ACLU and feminist Ryan Gosling, get on this shit.

7. Play high-stakes Poker: Poker has been explained to me over 25 times. And I have still no idea. Statistics suggest that men are much better than women at math and other god-awful topics that don’t require critical thinking and emotions. Statistics also suggest that men who suck at a lot of things are much more intrigued by gambling because of the chance of luck. If I had a prostate, I’d carry around a portable Poker set in a suitcase. And I’d walk on my tip-toes just to throw people off. People never think much of tip-toe walkers. I’d hustle people too and back it up with my bare knuckles, my pool stick, and my hairy genitals. If I had a prostate, I’d be bad-ass like Tom Selleck.

“You’re gonna want to double down on the queen of spades and fold on the suicide king. Whatever you do, throw down some more chips and don’t ever call me again on my beach phone.”

8. Know What’s Actually Going on Under My Hood: I’ve never actually opened my car hood. I don’t even know how to or know what’s under it. If I were to figure out how to unlatch it, I’d expect rainbows and unicorns to pop out. Once I drove for 20 minutes with my hood on fire and couldn’t stop raving about how good burning Autumn leaves smelled. I swear I wasn’t high. And I learned just this past summer that you can’t idle on the top of a hill in San Francisco. If I had a prostate, I would know how to operate and fix that thing dripping oil in the neighbor’s driveway. Until I get one, I’ll have to rely on my dad’s to send him powerful messages as to when to change the oil and refill the wiper fluid.

“So you’re telling me that this thing doesn’t run on birth control pills and mixed tapes?!?! And how did I get on the passenger side!?!?”

9. Fart Without Shame: I do now, but I’m pretty sure that every time I do, a boner inverts somewhere around the world.

10. Play golf. Kidding with this one. It’s such a stupid fuc*king sport.

11. Be flamingly gay. Finally, if I had a prostate, I’d be flamingly gay. It’s been hip for like 10 years. And that’d be two people in the house who can reach really high things, who can cut the grass, and who can play Poker. Plus, if I was a flamingly gay person with a wiener, I’d get more prostate checks than straight guys do.

“Not only do we never have problems reaching things, we never have to work hard for ass.” Team Prostate.

Pot Brownies for Thanksgiving: An Ode to Party Animals/Toasts for the Holidays

As I near 30 and my prospects of having a family are dramatically dwindling, I’m beginning to see who I really am. After quitting my teaching job (I really miss the fat gay boy who’d sit in my class even though he wasn’t in it), I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on the trajectory of my life. And that shit is depressing. I mean who quits 3 jobs in one year? My friend summed it up when he told me I was non-committal and asked if I have a fill-in-the-blank resignation letter. Dick. After a solid week of laying in bed crying and mustering up the courage to visit the Red Box, I’ve resigned myself to my true essence: a spinster who’s more irresponsible than her teenage nephews. And what to do with it but embrace it.

I could let my single and childless status really depress me on the holidays, but I’d rather own that shit. And what a better time to do it than on one of the biggest party nights of the year: the night before Thanksgiving. In honor of all the single, irresponsible, high-functioning potheads and borderline alcoholics out there, let’s make today the real holiday of thanksgiving. Tonight, let’s give thanks to the party animals, losers, and dropouts who came before us and paved the way for the food, pot, and beer comas that we’re all about to get into. Let’s serve pot brownies for Thanksgiving and pray to the gods of partying. Let’s raise our Pabst cans and cheers to the guys who really understood that responsibility is overrated and that there’s no better time than now:

The Dude (The Big Lebowski)

“Here’s to White Russians, parachute pants, and abiding.”

Wooderson (Dazed and Confused)

“Here’s to high school girls staying the same age as we get older. Alright, alright, alright.”

Adam Demamp (Workaholics)

“Here’s to getting weird and swole with it.”

Spiccoli (Fast Times at Ridgemont High)

“Here’s to bringing pizza to a class that isn’t your own.”

Kramer (Seinfeld)

“Here’s to feeling good all of the time.”

Ferris (Ferris Bueller’s Day Off)

“Here’s to looking around and not missing life when it moves too fast.”

Tommy Callahan (Tommy Boy)

“Here’s to chocolate melting inside the dash and a brain with a thick candy shell.”

Droz (PCU)

“Here’s to being the guy who wears the shirt of the band he’s going to see.”

Thornton Melon (Back to School)

“Here’s to being the old Jewish guy in the hot tub.”

Leslie Chow (The Hangover)

“Here’s to doing so much coke that you’re heart temporarily stops beating.”

Beanie (Old School)

“Here’s to earmuffs and Styx.”

Tom (200 Cigarettes)

“Here’s to Casey Affleck looking like a total fag and acting like shit.”

Dean (License to Drive)

“Here’s to being a Corey Feldman instead of a Corey Haim”

Mitch Hedberg

“Here’s to not wearing green pants if you have a pear-shaped body.”

Reed Rothchild (Boogie Nights)

“Here’s to making margaritas in a Speedo and having curly hair.”

Joel Goodsen (Risky Business)

“Here’s to dancing to Seger and starting a call girl business.”

Penny Lane (Almost Famous)

“Here’s to OD-ing on Qualuudes and making pre-pubescent boys fall in love with you.”

*Party responsibly and call me if you need a really good drunk, designated driver.*

Louis C.K.: Looks Back at Crowd but Not at Foibles (My Love Letter to A Ginge)

15 minutes into seeing Louis C.K.’s stand-up at Milwaukee’s Riverside Theatre last night, a warm rush filled my body and reminded what it was like to fall in love. I never thought that I’d crush on a slovenly ginger, until I sat front and center for one of the best shows that someone paid for me to see.

Red hot.

According to the fictional Vegas-club-owner in Louie’s critically acclaimed FX show, Louis C.K. is a “comic’s comic.” His show and stand-up are full of observational humor regarding the mundane and the mishaps. Self-deprecation in the vain of Rodney Dangerfield, but the comparisons end there. With quips about life being cool just because you can “just show up and watch shit,” Louis C.K. proves that being a detached observer isn’t always synonymous with apathy and depression.

Imagining hypothetical situations like what it’s like to be a conscious being in a food chain or if sharks knew that their fins were visible, Louie reminded me, like any good comedian does, that hardship is for laughing at. And, in the essence of comedy, that life is good. And fun. But not before you make shitty choices, get fat, get a divorce, and regret having kids.

Louie getting fat and regretting having kids.

Having been in the stand-up business for 25 years, Louie didn’t have a hard time getting the Milwaukee audience to laugh at conventionally un-fun topics: death, racism, human folly, and social hypocrisy. This seemingly awkward New Yorker who celebrates divorce because you “can’t f*ck it up like you can a marriage” is the embodiment of my lifelong ethos- when you step back far enough and see the grand scheme, nothing (not one damn thing) is everything.

But when you’re back that far,  you see everything, including each face in the crowd and all of your and life’s quirks.

What interested me the most about last night’s show is how Louie looked back at the audience as he walked offstage, most likely to see if there was a standing O. Self-surveillance. Self-scrutiny. A need for approval. Approval in the form of laughter and happiness. I’m pretty certain that Louie’s look back at the audience along with his best fodder (his “failures”) inspired Smokey Robinson’s “Tears of a Clown.”

It was cool to see such a star (because he is- a bright red one) act on his uncertainty in front of a crowd of 2,000. He became so accessible, so real, so personal. And that was the beauty in both last night’s show and many shows at the Riverside theatre- the intimacy. Not exactly a small venue, the intricacy and darkness of the Riverside theatre nicely accompanied Louie’s material and style- a style that is both misanthropic but hopeful and material that is based on both grand observations and petty annoyances.

With my perpetual diagnosis that humor, jokes, and sarcasm are the greatest defense mechanisms for many, I realized that my greatest D-D-D-fense is projection. Because when you’re that far back, you think that you’re different from the ones you’re looking in on. So you just assume. You assume that everyone needs to laugh as much as you need to. And the audience at last night’s show was indeed laughing. And swooning.

Louie, I am not assuming. We are akin. My fellow recovering Catholic, Jew/Italian, and earth sign, I love you. If you ever come back to Milwaukee, you have a place to stay on the East Side. And I promise you, you will never look back.

Louie, this can be us.

Well, 2 of the 7: I’m a ‘Tard and Have Poor Netiquette

So like 17 days ago, facelikeafryingpan nominated me for the “One Lovely Blog Award.” I remember this day fondly: I was strolling through the fields of the Racine, WI countryside, sipping Sanka in a moo moo, reassuring myself that I was past the age of having to shave the 3 hairs on my big toe. In the time in between then and now, I’ve become a jaded, substance-abusing, lazy “teacher” and haven’t had time to shave my chrotchal despite chronic UTIs and yeasties because of my huge labia majora (shaving should be a necessity). So obvi, I haven’t had the time to properly respond to this wonderful nomination until now.

The protocol response to receiving this award is first a shout-out to the giver: Fracelikeafryingpan at http://theembiggensproject.wordpress.com/. Seriously hilare. There have been about 7 people in my life who make me laugh and this self-professed “Danny DeVito look-alike” seriously does. Bit*ch. Secondly, I have to tell you lame-brains seven random things about myself. So it’s time to get weird:

1. I got my period in Mr. Meier’s 7th grade science class. Like the true pu*sy that I am, I decided to go home, telling curious classmates that I was sick. As I was walking to the front of the class to leave, Brian Banas said, “Maybe you just gotta take a shit.” To this day, anytime I get my period, I think maybe I just gotta take a shit. Thanks Banas.

2. I think that Chevy Chase is tits. Maybe it’s the chin dimple or that whole funny thing. But I’m sure that he’s packing at least 7 inches and one of my lifetime goals is to find this out.

3. Boyfriends date me for my dad. I understand fetishizing foreigners, especially Italian men- the accent, the love of food and pleasure, the corpulence, the baldness. But all of my suitors seemed to have been much more into my pops than into popping my old ding dong. I get it- he’s funny, free-spirited, and likes to cook, but seriously, he is everything that he is because of me. Now stop eating his meatballs and let me treat you to some tacos. With extra cheese…

4. Someone stole my flute in 7th grade. I’m pretty sure that it was the second chair. Yes, 7th grade was traumatic.

5. At one point, I shared a room and bunk beds with my brother. Hey, Italians don’t move out until they’re married. So the house can get like a Mexican’s. My older bro played a lot of Mortal Combat and talked in his sleep. One night, he sat straight up in bed and said, “Finish him.” So  I pressed, F F F HP and green-bolted his ass.

6. I believe in “2012.” Clearly- the name of my blog. I’m banking on Armageddon come December. If not, I’ll have a lot of explaining to do to JPMorgan, SallieMae, Great Lakes, and ACS.

7. I still think that I’m going to move to L.A. and become a blockbuster actress. I just gotta drop 25 lbs. first.

Now that we’ve gotten a little weird, it’s time to get weirder. Because I’m so good at following protocol and not being insubordinate (as we type this, I’m “sick” and had to stay home from work) I have to nominate 15 other blogs that I follow. And because I have good taste like a MFer, you should check some of these out:

1. http://paltrymeanderings.com/

One of the few wenches who may be funnier than me.

2. http://vainsworld.wordpress.com/

See #1. Her tagline: “I was the fastest and cutest sperm.” Genius, right?

3. http://merchesico.wordpress.com/

Groovy illustrations from a Londoner.

4. http://snakehair.wordpress.com/

This dread-head has some seriously cynically funny posts. And she’s only like 19.

5. http://mikereverb.wordpress.com/

The reason why I haven’t quit blogging. A Brooklyner who blogs about almost everything but mostly about TV, his novel excerpts, and zombies. He’s also as supportive as a jock strap. I’m trying to convince him to start a humor blog. Join me in this fight.

6. http://pickyniki.wordpress.com/

She’s on a crusade to become a less picky eater. Join her.

7. http://oneweektocrazy.com/

She has like a master’s in creative writing. So yeah. And her blog is pink and green. ‘Nuff said.

8. http://bunburology.wordpress.com/

Okay, I know this queer personally. And he’s funny and smart and wonderful as sh*t. But he’s also a FT teacher…So he needs a kick in the ass to write more! Don’t be dissuaded by his post on my blog…

9. http://deidraalexander.com/

See #1 and #2.

10. http://sparkymac.wordpress.com/

If Rodney Dangerfield and a flamboyant theatre director had a blog, this is it. Warning: no pics.

11. http://overexposedandunderdeveloped.com/

These snatches are funny. And they like bourbon.

12. http://betanerd.wordpress.com/

I don’t like vid games and I f*n hate nerds. But this geek is funny.

13. http://keychangesblog.wordpress.com/

Um, his tag line mentions dating debacles and carb binges. Yeah.

I think that I’m going to leave it at 13- it being a lucky number and all. I might add more later, but now I have to poo and run.

Bottoming Out in Front of My Principal: Ununsual Side Effects From Full-Time Teaching

Someone once said that teachers are the guiding light for the future. Or some shit like that. If being a guiding light for the future entails forgetting to wash your hair and being the Midwest’s best drunk driver, then, children of the world and of America, look to me as your guiding light, your shore in rough seas, your whore with tough knees, your aging skank in loafers and unhemmed capris. I, yes, one of the world’s most irresponsible, non-committal femaliens, have taken a full-time teaching position in a large urban Milwaukee high school. Please, serve me my hemlock in a sifter.

For all of you unlearned chodes, the wise philosopher Socrates died from drinking hemlock. I have that same robe.

Aside from bouts of serious self-doubt, depression, and insomnia, I have endured unusual side effects from the first two weeks of teaching. Being the aged scientist that I am, after conducting several double-blind experiments, I have ruled out chronic peyote use and Lucky Charm-ingestion as the cause of the following maladies:

1. Rancid Pee. Sure, teachers drink a lot of coffee. My jr. high social studies teacher drank coffee all day AND had braces. She was in her 60s. Of course. The only thing more foul-smelling than her breath had to have been her urine. But I’ve actually cut back. SO when my morning pee smelled like poo, I referred to the ol’ scientific method. Hypothesis: apparently when you’re working 12 hours a day for ungrateful sh*ts, you’re too busy to bust a sweat. Conclusion: a third foul smell coming from the ol’ devil’s trio.

“We’re not exactly sure where the stench is coming from. But we think that someone might’ve taken a shit in the urinal.”

2. New Fondness of Anything Country, Alternative, or “White.” Let me preface this by mentioning that I am as racist as Jesse Jackson. I voted for Obama. I still liked R. Kelly after he sang for 8 minutes about being trapped in a closet. But when your one-race student population only listens to one kind of music, you begin to dread that music- even if it makes you want to bump and grind and ride dirrty. Every time you hear a song with a little rhythm and with lyrics about love-making and paper-making, you change the channel because it reminds you of work. And you hate your job. So much that it feels good to blare Smashing Pumpkins during the commute,  even though you hate them. It feels good because you know that your students hate them too, and, like a true educator, you hate your students as well.

He may not see anything wrong with a little bump and grind or with foul-smelling urine, but I do.

3. Sore throat. In addition to starting a new full-time job, I moved into a new flat. Because the owner is too fabulous to worry about things like central air, exposed wires, front doors, and asbestos, I’m most likely dealing with the early signs of mesothelioma. It’s not enough that the old building that I slave in is probably infested with mold and that 15 year-olds like to breath on your water bottle and to sneeze with their arms flailing everywhere but over their mouths, but I get to come home to an old, falling-apart mold-trap. My sore throat may also be from screaming at kids to stop choking each other (or more likely to tighten their grip and to simultaneously swing with the other fist) or from all of the bong rips needed to get through the day. And night.

“Now kids, remember that you’re going to want to spread out all 5 fingers to get the best choke.”

4. Nightmares that trees are chasing me with gats. Yes, literacy coach, please send me yet another 50-page power point print-out of a lecture on Eco-friendly publishing presses. F*ck, are schools solely responsible for deforestation? I like to sit in the staff/printer room (to which I don’t yet have a key and have to pound on the door until some disgruntled tech teacher who doesn’t know his ABCs lets me in) and watch “educators” make thousands of copies of pictures of animated fuck-tards conjugating a verb. Because conjugation demands a visual. It is in my subconscious that redwoods and maples seek their revenge. And it is in that printer room where I printed out copies of my thesis-one for each loved one who can read. Thank you, tech teacher, for not logging out of your printer code.

Apparently, the buyers for garden stores that sell mean tree faces are laid-off teachers.

5. Resemblances to Mussolini.  Before this job, time was optional- just a mere suggestion. I’d get there when I got there. Usually via bike and powered by rum and cokes. But in a century-long battle to resemble prisons, those who work in schools cannot be laissez-faire about this subjective thing called “time.” Everything must run by it. Every student must be reminded that they have four minutes to get to their next class, one minute to finish the test, eight to run a mile, and ten years before their lives really start to suck. I’ve acclimated so well to such structure and time-keeping, that I expect the same promptness from others outside of school. So when the pizza guy delivered in 22 and not 20 minutes, of course I told him to come back for a lunch detention. A sister can learn to make them trains run. And believe me, this honkey can. I also like to grade everyone based on their performance. Apparently, screaming out “B minus for effort, C for execution” isn’t conducive to boners.

“Everyone works 8 hours. Except teachers- they work 12 hours. Because they have no sense of self. Starting Now. Go.”

6. Sci-Fi and Aliens are making much more sense. That movie where they sterilize people after having one kid. Totally makes sense now. So does China’s one-child law. And so does Mao Zedong for that matter. And Mitt Romney. Kidding with that one. Kinda.

Yes teachers, them trees that you’ve been slaying are the perfect size. You want slave wages?

7. Car Problems. Sure, flying down pot-holed side streets and alleys to avoid rush hour traffic and side-swiping garbage bins may not be the greatest for my detached muffler, but smoking a joint and texting on the main strip is way too risky. It doesn’t help my 96 Camry that I commute everyday for 40 minutes, blasting heat in the a.m. and AC in the p.m. and that I, forgetting to fill up, oftentimes run on fumes. According to staff members, it’s been “by the grace of god” that I haven’t gotten into an accident making two illegal U-turns and entering the parking lot via an exit-only to get to hell/school. Even worse, you can bet your lazy ass that when that bell rings, I will be the first outta that student parking lot (thanks, admins., for the staff lot permit, fuc*wads), weaving in and out of and cutting off new drivers who invested 5 hunnie in their Impalas’ sound systems. If getting home before 5 means having to bottom out in your Toyota with leopard print seat covers  in front of your administrators who are running around in three-piece, pin-striped suits shouting “Baby Baby” into megaphones like they’re in a music video that’s Biggie’s “Juicy” meets Too Live Crew, then a student casualty is worth it.

Coming to an urban school near you.

This work is not for me. The side effects do not match the pay-off. Even if I get to work with cool-ass chics like the one below, when people say that teaching is God’s work, I like to tell them that Jebus must’ve been a cold-ass mother fuc*ker. I’m currently and desperately scanning the help wanted ads, looking for another out. Wait for my memoir: Done Before I Started: A Quitter’s Guide to Running Through Life or Done Before I Started: A Runner’s Guide to Quitting Life.

Cool, but not enough to make me like my job.

What To Do When You Shart In Berkeley: A Road Tripper’s Guide to Bodily Fluids and Other Mishaps

August is National Road Trip Month. Actually, it’s not. But it’d be cool if it was. What August is, for me anyways, is the beginning of autumnal reflection. Yeah it’s a little premature to reflect on summer fun while it’s still summer, but I’m pretty sure that I was conceived from premature ejaculation. So it’s kinda in my blood- being premature that is, not the ejaculation. That’s on my stomach.

While on the subject of all things ejaculatory, the beau and I went on an orgasmic 3-week road trip this past June. Like all road trips, it didn’t go without mishaps. And a lot of these snafus dealt with bodily fluids. There’s something about eating fruit in cars that keeps me regular. I composed this “what to do list” for any future road-trippers or people who have frequent bodily fluid mishaps. Here’s what to do…

1. When you shart in Berkeley:

There’s this place called People’s Park. I guess that it was a hotbed for civil rights action in the 60s or some shit, but now it’s a garden of and for homeless shape-shifters. When we were there, this rad 60 year-old chic was circling it without any pants on. My hero. Walk here, the habitants don’t care if you have shit in your drawers. Because half of them do already. And they’ll probably offer you weed. Which always softens the blow of dookying in your pants. Or, if you’re like the beau, press your water bottle tightly to your ass so shit doesn’t run down your leg. Waddle shamelessly into UC-Berkeley’s book store bathroom, discard your unders, and use all of your girlfriend’s expensive individually-wrapped vadge wipes to clean your hinder. Both will work.

Apparently, being shirtless and eating seeds isn’t trashy enough for this guy. He has to shit his pants too.

2. When you get your period in your host’s bed in North Portland.

You know those tags on mattresses that you’re not suppose to rip off. Now’s the time to do it. Locate that enigmatic tag and rip the fu*ker off. Your host will be so mortified that you did this that she won’t notice or care about the head-sized blood stain on her mattress. Then leave within an hour to cover all bases. And buy more vadge wipes.

I had to get wasted at Rogue Brewery Farms in Independence, OR to forget about the period snafu.

3. When that same host (the one whose shower, bed, and house you’ve been sharing) complains about the wicked foot fungus that she picked up in Nicaragua that she can’t get rid off.

You shut your fu**ing mouth because she’s letting you stay for free. And introducing you to some really cool lesbians and crazy inventive food. And then you invest in Clotrimazole when you get home.

This lady knows more than two cool lesbians.

4. When the San Francisco rapid transit stalls for an hour and a half in a tunnel and shuts of all power because some douche outside of Oakland doesn’t know how to kill himself proper-style.

Start to panic. And then get mad at your significant other, the 3-week old baby, the elderly, the pre-conditioners, the Giants fans who are missing their game, and the gun-supporter from Texas for not panicking. WTF people, is there anything that panicking has not solved? You can trace “SOS” into the window’s thick condensation or dramatically seize on the floor. Either way, you’re going to want to avoid your fellow passengers’ dripping sweat because it’s f**king gross. And because you’re not going to make it to Little Italy in time for the EuroCup final between Spain and Italy, you’re going to want to walk into the first downtown bar that’s playing the last 15 minutes of the game. It doesn’t matter if it happens to be a f**king Spanish bar and you’re wearing an Italy shirt and your team’s losing 4-0. True f**king story.

When I finally got to Little Italy.

Italy fans, Little Italy, San Francisco. Still celebrating despite the loss. They look suspiciously Spaniard…

5. When there’s a traffic jam in the Badlands (yeah, WTF) and it’s hotter than sh*t. 

You walk around with open intoxicants. And shoot a rap video.

“It was all a dream, I used to read Word Up magazine.”

I don’t look nearly as cool with my open intoxicants. I guess I was doing an indie video.

6. When you don’t want to spend $120 for a hotel in Oacoma, South Dakota.

Sleep in your car. And then trace SOS in the window’s condensation during the middle of the night because you realize it’s impossible to sleep in a compact car. But you will continue to do this in Auburn, California; in Grants Pass, Oregon; and in Omaha, Nebraska because no one wants to pay to stay in these places.

Not bad for sleeping in a rented Nissan Sentra.

Clearly Greg doesn’t know how to look good sleeping in a car, like I do. At least there’s no shit in his pants this time.

7. When you don’t have enough money to go to the zoo.

You find someone who has a backyard petting zoo in Portland, Oregon. Duh

Billy Goat says: “Fu*k a zoo.”

8. When you buy fake scalped tickets to a Giants game.

You encourage your boyfriend to go beat the scalper’s ass. When your beau approaches him with “excuse me sir,” you scoff until the scalper very apologetically and sincerely refunds you fully and directs you to a legit pair. And then you thank Shiva that you don’t have a penis and the testosterone that comes with it because if you did, you’d be in jail for the majority of your life.

Scalped tix: $40, garlic fries: $7, the view: priceless.

9. When there’s forest fires.

Put them out with your urine.

Watering the Redwoods.

10. When you have B.O. from infrequently showering because you’re staying in a college dorm with a big uni-shower full of hair and STDs.

Go to the rose gardens. It’s like potpourri for the decaying body and soul.

Portland Rose Gardens. Better than patchouli.

11. When you go to an all-ages show at 924 Gilman and see two kinds of bodily fluids within 15 minutes.

Go across the street to Pyramid Brewery and wait for your partner to get his fill of loud music. Take it as a sign that the people who are in line behind you are from your home city that it’s time to head home. The West Coast is bomb, but the midwest is best. Represent.

Apparently, these guys don’t mind seeing a 15-year-old covered in puke. Ready for home.

Chigger Bites on Office Etiquette

The same week that I started my new office job, I got my first chigger bites. A chigger is:

A.) a wigger from Chicago

B.) a trigger-happy chicken

C.) a mite that lives in dry grass.

Because of the recent “drought” and “global warming,” driving through Southeastern Wisconsin is like going through Nevada. But with better music stations. So there’s a lot of chiggers, all A-C kinds.

Anxious to stretch my legs after our 3 week road trip, I started running again. On trails. But running is never enough to maintain my iron thighs and buns of steel. I wanted to lunge, knees in grass, and to do push-ups, palms in dirt. Apparently, I wanted to go in to my first day of office work looking like I slept in a trough of bed bugs.

Professionally trashy.

And more important than productivity in an office is appearance. At least in the one that I’m in. Because nothing dulls the pain of realizing that you’re a glorified administrative assistant than a feminized “power suit” that U-turns the women’s liberation movement. Because in order to look professional and to appear competent, you must fool people that instead of a hairy beaver beneath your double-seamed crotch, there’s a well-coifed wiener that goes from 6 to midnight for working 9 to 5.

I walked in an hour late on the first day of my new job. Because when someone tells me “regular office hours,” I assume 9-5 not 8-4:30. But thankfully, the office manager was the first to greet my late arrival and to inform me about the real start time. But only after assessing me up and down several lengths. Because we’re in the enlightened age and appearance is still equated with competency. Because we’ve made strides to debunk superficial attire standards. Because despite my legs appearing to be white trash, the purple dress allowed direct crotchal ventilation on a 95-degree day. And that’s smart.

The extent of my office productivity has been creating a guide of what office attire signifies. I intend to save this in the office’s shared computer file and to send a department-wide memo for all employees to read it in preparation for a 2-hour long briefing. Because all 2-hour long office meetings are “brief” and absolutely necessary:

1.) A mock turtleneck: You apparently haven’t seen Dinner for Schmucks, you probably still wear a diaphragm, and you’re worried that layers will add heft to your already hefty frame.

Whatever, Uncle Eddie was cool as shit. And he could rock a dickey.

2.) Square one-inch heels: You’re still in limbo regarding professional attire. Not Omarosa or Spiccoli, you find safety somewhere in the middle. And you usually end up with the left-over garlic bagel when someone gets Panera for the office. Your favorite movie is Reality Bites and your CD player constantly shifts from the Black Crows to the Cranberries. You’re not nearly as square as your heels.

3.) A power suit: You’d rather total your Mercury Sable than be seen as incompetent. The most intimacy that you’ve had in the past two years has been with your massage buddy that you cover with silk soccer shorts. Your idea of a wild night is drinking Miller 64 and listening to Steely Dan’s greatest hits. Alone. One time you were so sure that someone popped your office ball/seat that you filed a report, only to remember that you took it to the gym for your “Pilates for office workers” class.

It’s sad but true, sister: our IQs go up when we dress like dudes.

4.) Pencil skirts: You watch way too much Mad Men and believe that you can still sleep your way to the top. There’s gays at the top now. Check your memos.

“Ugh, why aren’t my tits working…”

5.) Vests: Your favorite holiday is Thanksgiving and you steal AARP magazines from waiting rooms. You call home everyday at lunch to remind your husband to take his blood pressure medication. You don’t understand power-suits. I like you.

“I’ve seen your stapler. I stole it.”

6.) Short hair and big earrings: I don’t know why you’re working here. And you don’t either. You graduated with an art history degree and your student loan payments pucker your ass. Even though you park your VW beetle in the same spot directly in view of the supervisor’s office and get a ticket every week for not having a $150 parking permit, you’re still waiting for her to give you the free pass that everyone else got. I’m the one who’s been eating your Activia.

“Ugh, is that another parking ticket. Maybe I’ll ask for the permit next week…”

7.) Simple brand shoes: On the office webpage, you list Adult Swim, indie music, and organic gardening as hobbies. You’re really looking forward to the Radiohead concert. Thanks for fixing my computer.

The dirt on these are organic. And grass-fed.

8.) Thick-shouldered tank tops. Every day. You’re going through a mid-life crisis and/or a divorce, but your boot camp classes have really helped. You know, to just like clear your mind. You haven’t talked to your 18 year-old daughter in a month and you wonder how she’s been away at college. And if she knows if it’s still cool to drink martinis. I’m jealous of the muscle tone in your arms.

“Here’s your f**king office ball.”

9.) Jeans: You don’t give no fuck. Let’s be friends.

If jeans aren’t direct enough.

I give credit to the office workers. The competent ones anyway. The ones who actually serve a purpose. I truly don’t know how you do it every day.

And it makes me a little sad, to see you in front of the computer screen for 8 hours at a time, to see the empty frozen lunch trays spill over in the office recycling, and to watch everyone walking to their cars in the parking lot every morning and evening- the jingling of their keys louder than the birds.

Janet, Miss Jackson because I am nasty, said it: “Joni Mitchell never lies.” And  that bitch didn’t lie: they did pave paradise to put up a parking lot. The one that my car is getting ticketed in right now. Thankfully I wore my Simple shoes and can run out in time to stop the parking nazi. Briefing to come.