You know how some guy famous for being on a reality television because his family got rich off of duck callers made shitty comments about gay people, received some blowback for it from the network that airs the show, and then everyone got their Freedom Panties in a bunch because OMG FIRST AMENDMENT?! And how that doesn’t have half a good goddamn to do with the First Amendment?
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):
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
TL,DR: I’m grumpy.
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.