I am not myself a Bernie Sanders supporter, but I thought of these slogans for him while dozing in the backseat of a car the other day. I offer them without charge, and look forward to seeing the bumper stickers.
Big Gulp Weevil
As I was walking home from the gym this afternoon, a pair of women walking just ahead was having an animated, angry conversation. Quoth woman-on-the-left:
“I got her the fucking golf balls; I don’t know what else she wants.”
Which led me to wonder: what more does she want? Some ideas:
The thing about Dove is, Dove does not exist to boost your self esteem. Dove exists to get you to spend money on smelly, slimy bars and bottles of soap — oh, excuse me, “beauty bars.” You can watch their “Real Beauty” shit until the triple-action moisturizers come home to nourish the deepest layers of your skin, but you’re still stuck in a paradigm where “beauty” is your defining factor, and not, say, power. Or confidence. Or autonomy. Or intelligence. Beauty, and your ability to spend money on soap.
Bow your heads and pretend to be serious.
This past weekend, I attended a gathering of several hundred computer-oriented college-age young men (and a few women) wearing novelty sweatpants, otherwise known as a “hackathon.”
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.
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?
- A paper coffee filter filled with spent coffee grounds
- My favorite spatula
- A handful of Ricola cough drops (original flavor)
- His own foot
I guess I should just be happy that he unwrapped the cough drops first. I expect that when I wake up tomorrow, he’ll have opened the fridge and re-heated the leftover General Tso’s chicken.
- Frequently overhead holding conversations with imaginary persons.
- Terrible impulse control.
- Has dissociative episodes where s/he thinks s/he is someone else.*
- Requires that all foods be smothered in ketchup.**
- Enters fugue states where no communication from others penetrates.***
- Rapid mood swings.
- Garbled speech.
- Irrational insistence on self-imposed rules that are inscrutable to others.****
- Limited understanding of cause-and-effect, spatial relations, and the concept of the “indoor voice.”
- Poops in pants.
Answer to all of the above: toddler. (See fig. A)
*For example, Grandma.
**Including but not limited to cucumbers and salami.
*** Particularly during a new episode of “Dr. McStuffins.”
****E.g., imaginary soup can only be consumed while seated.
Other options rejected by Obama speechwriters:
- America’s Drunk Uncle
- Scranton’s Slightly-Above-Average Son
- The Grinner
- Delaware’s Deliverer
- America’s Shittiest Ninja
- Not Hillary Clinton
- America’s Man-Child