Effed-Up Shit, To Hell In a Handbasket, You've Built a Crawl Space Under Your All-Time Low

Sorry, Humanity, we’re breaking up.

We all know, by now, that you should never read the comments.

Apparently, we can’t read the internet at all anymore, because this is an actual, non-satire, not-in-the-comments thing I just read. (Warning: will probably cause instant head explosion):

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Effed-Up Shit, New Jersey, To Hell In a Handbasket

It’s a little sting-y, and a little itchy, but mostly just dull and throbbing.

I just found out that Richie Sambora is no longer in Bon Jovi.

(I know, it happened several days ago. I’m not good at keeping up.)

I guess this it what it’s like to feel your childhood shrivel up and die.

If I find out that Little Steven had a fall-out with Bruce, I’m moving to Canada.

An Open Letter, Effed-Up Shit, To Hell In a Handbasket

To the Asshole on 3rd Between Folsom and Howard, Thank You

Hi there! I hope you got home safely last night. By which I mean, “I hope someone sidled up to you as you walked down the street, high on friendship and Thai food, then grabbed your genitalia, followed you down the street, and lurked outside your building.” This glorious nightcap to an otherwise lovely day shouldn’t be available only to women, am I right? Let’s spread the love!

Actually, I don’t hope that at all, because unlike you, I’m not an asshole.

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My Uterus Will Cut You, To Hell In a Handbasket

I think we need to clarify basic definitions before we continue this conversation.

Let’s leave aside the terrifying image of hordes of babies with assault rifles, shooting up the joint every time they don’t feel like taking a nap or are not allowed to have another cookie.

If they are babies? They have ALREADY BEEN BORN, and thus, were not aborted. I mean, I guess the armed babies could form some kind of vigilante group to terrorize abortion clinics and attempt to stop future abortions, but that’s a whole separate issue.

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Effed-Up Shit, My Uterus Will Cut You, To Hell In a Handbasket, You've Built a Crawl Space Under Your All-Time Low

Life Lessons and Gendered Observations

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.

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An Open Letter, Effed-Up Shit, To Hell In a Handbasket


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.


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


TL,DR: I’m grumpy.

To Hell In a Handbasket

Someone Should Alert Mayor Bloomberg

I ran into a drug store earlier today to procure some flesh-colored* adhesive bandages, new passport photos, and a bottle of Arnold Palmer. While walking down the Halloween candy aisle, I saw the newest offering from Snickers, the “Slice and Share Snickers.” It costs $12 and weighs a full pound.

Next to it was the world’s largest Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, also weighing in at a full pound. I note with interest that the Reese’s packaging did not indicate that the megacup was to be sliced and shared. Thus, I can only assume it is meant to be consumed by one person in a single sitting, probably while sitting in a dark room and crying.

They might want to list that serving suggestion on the wrapper, to make sure purchasers understand that it is NOT APPROPRIATE to eat a one-pound peanut butter cup (1) in public or (2) without hating yourself.

For Christ’s sake, candy people: yes, we all have free will, but YOU ARE NOT HELPING.