So, this is a person with a blog. Judging from her many sponsors — the main one is BlogHer — and commenters, her blog is fairly popular.
She would like a “bikini body” in time for summer here in the Northern Hemisphere. If the magazines that assault me when I’m at Duane Reade stocking up on jelly beans and popcorn are any indication, this desire is shared by many.
Okay, yes, you want to exercise your not-at-all-made-in-the-context-of-patriarchy choice to wear stiletto heels because they make you feel powerful and you like the way your ass looks? Fine, I’m not going to stop you, although I will help you pick out a nice pair of Birkenstocks if you decide to come to the dark side. But you’ve gotta throw me a fucking bone, y’know?
1. I’m pretty sure dudes pass out drunk at parties all the time, and no one interprets this as a license to jam shit up their asses.
2. If I’m passed out drunk in the middle of the road and am unable to communicate and am wearing no pants and a t-shirt that says “Yes, Please!” and you stick anything in my vagina, you just raped me.
The United States now has more self-serve frozen yogurt and topping bars with punny names than it does schools.
The rest of the world must face down the massive fro-yo gap we’ve created. Deal with that, China.
If you’re feeling sorry for yourself because you’re not at South By Southwest and you didn’t get to see Quentin Tarantino sitting alone, writing in his journal at the Omni Hotel bar*, let me see if I can’t give you a feel for what it’s like.
In the exhibition hall, a few booths down from my employer’s booth, there is a booth for company called Yam Trader. Their sign attempts to convince you that “everybody’s jumping on the yamwagon!” In order to entice you to hop on said yamwagon, they’ve spent two entire days erecting and painting a 20-foot-tall styrofoam yam.
I keep reading these unbelievably crappy things — “physician-assisted bulimia” for the obese, Steubenville, the growth of publicly-funded crisis pregnancy centers — and I know I should have something to say about them. But it’s like a critical mass of shit (which, really, is just the definition of “patriarchy,” I know), and I’ve only been able to respond by drinking heavily and harshly judging people on public transportation.
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Dear Sean, the 36-year-old man who tried SO HARD to impress those stupid, entitled, dickweedy prep school seniors on the 12:03 Acela out of Penn Station,
You realize that just makes you the King Dickweed, right? I’m sure your girlfriend would be thrilled to know how you compared her hotness level to the high school senior’s string of hookup buddies.
Hope you reclaimed your youth!
Stay classy,
Glaring Woman
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TL,DR: I’m grumpy.
Here is a selection of my grievances. I encourage you all to leave a comment with one or more grievances, so that we may all pile on those who have wronged you, internet-style.
Doctor who laughed at me when I suggested my back pain might be a sign of something more serious than a muscle spasm and ejected me from the ER, having done no tests, with some prescription Aleve: you are a crappy doctor. I have herniated discs. Fuck you.
People in my neighborhood who think that it’s not necessary to pick up their dog’s poop when it’s rainy: the gentle rain will not wash away your Great Dane’s shit. It’s disgusting. Fuck you.
People who extorted thousands of dollars from us while buying our condo:
(a) I’m secretly a teeny bit glad that it ended up being decimated by Hurricane Sandy a month after you moved in.
(b) I hate you even more for forcing me to having that totally uncharitable, assholish thought.
Fuck you.
Person who invented Fireball cinnamon-flavored whiskey: It is far too easy to shoot, and I cannot deal with a hangover the way I could 10 years ago. Fuck you. (Honorable mention: the person who introduced me to Fireball. You know who you are.)
People who “poke” their friends on Facebook: OH MY GOD, EVERYBODY HATES YOU. Stop it. Also, fuck you.
I feel better! You?
We take every parent of a child who has been the victim of gun violence in the past 20 years, put them in a room together, and they get to decide what America’s gun control laws should be. Parents from Connecticut get two votes. And whatever they come up with, we just fucking DO IT.
We would call it the Federal Department of Enough With This “Guns Don’t Kill People” Bullshit. Once a law is enacted, I volunteer to personally travel the country prying the guns from the cold, dead hands of NRA members.
So, this is an actual thing that Bloomberg’s Businessweek felt it necessary to publish:
Which business school has the most attractive female students?
It’s in a part of Businessweek called “Face/Off,” which is described as:
…our new social voting game where we channel your opinions about the biggest news stories of the day. Each day, we’ll post a series of simple choices: which is more likely? Which is better? Who’s up, Who’s down, and Who won the day? We’ll ask you, our readers, to cast your vote and tell us which stories matter and which don’t.
Coming up tomorrow: How many gin and tonics would it take before you’d sleep with Sandra, the feminazi bitch from Mergers & Acquisitions who always wears those awful pantsuits?
In other breaking news, Businessweek can bite my ass.
ETA: They wised up an took it down after some well-deserved blowback, but the proof still exists on Twitter. Here’s hoping that someone got seriously spanked over the decision to run this, although that’s probably wishful thinking.
A man with Down’s Syndrome wrote this incredible response to National Disgrace Ann Coulter, who does not deserve this gentleman’s time of day.
He was far more diplomatic than Ann Coulter deserves, and is dissuading me from publishing the open letter I’d been planning on:
Dear Ann,
Eat shit and die.
Best,
Me
I realize that my letter is not very effective as a riposte, so I’m just going to go with “What he said.”
Ann Coulter: Making People Embarrassed To Be Human Since 1961
