Like white wine but red
Like bad wine
Tastes like what I had as a kid in the orphanage
Like white wine but red
Like bad wine
Tastes like what I had as a kid in the orphanage
Lose fifteen pounds from your problem areas (hips, fifth and fourteenth space-boobs, vestigial face)
Spend more time with your government-rationed .452 of a son or daughter
Take the family on a trip to www.nature.com
Volunteer at your local chapter of the White People Remembrance League (white people have been extinct since 2021, you are an exotic mixture of brown and Asian and Roomba)
Read the Bible, especially the part that is a novelization of “We Bought A Zoo 624: Zoo-n Yi Previn,” which is all the parts
Pray to the Mother Goddess Zooey Deschanel, who first displayed her omnipotent god powers at the 2014 People’s Choice Awards by renewing “19 Kids And Counting” for 998 more seasons
Watch less TV, even though “5,731,476,425,736 Kids And Counting” is SO good
Write a screenplay called “We Bought A Zoo 625: We Bought A Zoo-ey Deschanel”
Vote for “5,731,476,425,736 Kids And Counting” in the 3012 People’s Choice Awards for “Best Show Where A Human Lady is Basically A Spider’s Egg Sac With Stretch Marks”
Vote for “Zooey Deschanel” in the 3012 People’s Choice Awards as “Best Deity,” “Only Deity,” and “~*~Kewlest~*~ Bangs”
Buy a new Moon Bounce (here on the moon we just call them “Bounces”)
Get promoted from “slave to Zooey Deschanel” to “human sacrifice to Zooey Deschanel” (lateral promotion)
Organize your space-boobs by type (normal, space, brown, formal, or Chicago-style)
Be all like, “how is it the future and they STILL haven’t invented flying cars” (am I right ladies!!!!!!)
Kill Dick Clark
Do you have cancer? Find out with this fun, flirty quiz!!
1. It’s the middle of class and your crush looks over to see you:
a. Texting him!
b. Paying attention to the teacher. Come on – it’s class!
c. Picking at a large new mole that has recently developed on your forearm!
2. When you’re out with your friends, you are:
a. Gossiping about the cute new boy in 4th period bio!
b. Sharing negative cancer test results over some Frappuccinos (pumpkin fraps, come on – it’s fall, sluts)!
c. Bleeding from your tumors, you total slut! (Bleeding from tumors = getting to “second-base”!!)
3. If you could change one part of your body, it would be:
a. Your abs and/or abdominals!
b. Your c-section scar you post-natal slut!
c. The lumps you recently found in your left breast a.k.a. “Thelma” ;) (Finding a lump in your breast = getting to “first-base”!!)
4. You and your guy are curling up on a snowy night. What do you do?
a. Kiss a little, nothing further – you’re a good girl you’re no slut ;)!
b. Go all the way – you’re a naughty girl and some would say the “slut” of the night school/Hebrew School :p!
5. The pop song that most describes you is:
a. “Pumped Up Kicks” (like ANYONE can resist that great song!! Anyone who says they don’t like that song is a total slut, sexually)
b. “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” (honestly, one of the best songs by one of the best bands EVER, The Beatles! Ever heard of ‘em? ;) They don’t need to sing about sluts to be so sexy/slutty!)
c. “My Humps” (referring to the humps/lovely lady lumps in your breasts)
6. If you met a cancer doctor, you’d say:
a. “Hey, you’re a sexy doctor! Wanna listen to Foster the People and touch my Jew-nips?”
b. “Hey, I’m a good girl but that doesn’t mean I’m above being a slut, wanna touch my Jew-nips to the sounds of Foster the People, this generation’s The Beatles?”
c. “I have cancer, gllrrrrrrrrrssh” [the sound of blood gurgling out of your femur marrow]
7. When it comes to sports, you:
a. Are a sports-slut!
b. Are a sports-slut but for sex (so just a plain ol’ slut)!
c. Are dead from dying from overdosing on cancer!
8. If your life was an MTV show, it would be called:
a. “MTV’s Slut-Ass Bitch-Ass Slut”!
b. “Teen-Mom’s MTV Jew-Nips”!
c. “Sixteen and Cancerous”!
You go girl – you don’t have cancer! You are also the quintessential flirt, you slut! ;) Also, try wearing “winter” colors like blue, purple, or green. Also, you are a vampire. Also, you are a slut. Also, you’re the movie “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part II.” Also, you’re an iPad II. Also, you’re a farmhand you slut.
No cancer, but probably you are a slut! But the good kind! You’re a slutty bagel. You’re the kind of girl who wears mascara on both lashes which is fairly slutty but fool-proof to make boys want to give you the Hoobastank. You’re the kind of a girl another girl would see and be like “girls are idiots” but really she’s an idiot girl too because all girls are idiots and sluts. If you have a crush, you should try texting him a flirty message like “Hello! I am a slut!” Also, you’re a Zune you slut.
You have cancer! You big-jugged slut! You have cancer!
Donut Ask, Don’t Caramel
ChocoPie GumBall Street
Women’s Right to Chews* (*Taffys)
Troy Davis’ Capital PunishMint
Rick Santorum Is A Homosexual Assdouche Fudge Swirl
One year ago today, I got in the driver’s seat of a car that my mother paid for and gave me and drove from Portland, Oregon to Los Angeles, California to (at most) flourish and (at least) not die. Ten years ago today, some normal-sized people hijacked some normal-sized planes and flew them into the Twin Towers in New York City, two of the tallest buildings in the United States of America, and killed nearly three thousand people. They killed thousands of people, and they psychologically killed thousands of others and ushered in an age of broken America and they made the date 9/11 into something more than it ever should be. It should be some lame day in mid-September where a lame kid complains about going back to some lame school. Instead, it’s an anniversary.
How many is 3,000? I guess I know the answer to that. It’s a little more than 2,994 and much less than 2,498,670,210,952. But realistically, my brain can’t comprehend more than about 322. That’s how many kids could fit in my high school auditorium, where my twin brother and I once did an interpretative dance as Hitler for a class final (we got an A; suck it, Hitler). I can’t estimate. If I had to guess, I would say there are exactly 100 sites on the Internet. So the tragedy that is 9/11 (or the Holocaust, or Darfur, or…) is too big for my small brain. And there’s a special subset of suburban guilt reserved for the inability to comprehend a horror.
Part of the reason that I can’t make myself feel the grotesque grandeur of 9/11 is that I’ve never been in a tragedy. I’ve experienced bad, but I’ve never experienced tragic in the epic, transformative, Greek sense of the word. Tragedy is like a branding iron. Everyone who lives through it becomes a product of that tragedy. You realize you’re just a slab of meat. You might continue living your life in a fairly normal straight line, but that tragedy knows to whom you belong. You have its smoldering mark on your body.
I’ve never been disfigured by tragedy, but I have felt joy. Transformative joy. Whatever the opposite of 9/11 is, I have felt that. I have experienced the not-small miracle of being able to do what I love. I am healthy enough that I don’t think about how healthy I am. I get to live in the fun house mirror that is Los Angeles. LA is so silly, in the most benign sense of the word. Its streets are stupid and benign. Because I’m privileged and young and white, I am blessed enough to not know about the streets in LA that aren’t silly and stupid and benign.
Because of that, it’s easier for me to imagine one year ago today than it is for me to imagine ten years ago today. On September 11, 2001, I was in eighth grade and I very calmly thought to myself, “Well! I will not ever play varsity volleyball in high school, because the world is over.” On September 11, 2010, I took the first steps of what would become my pilgrimage to my dreams. For the past year, I have attempted to slowly close in on my dreams in concentric circles. For me, the world began on the same day that it ended, albeit nine years apart. (Spoiler alert: I never ended up playing varsity volleyball anyway, due to my doughy, Jewish physique.)
I can’t think of a better day to speak directly to my “demographic” – skinny 18-to-34-year-olds and spam bots. I am talking to YOU right now, Tweeters and Tumblrers and Bloggers and whatever the HECK else portmanteaus we can whip up while sitting in ironic coffee shops ironically listening to Spotify. We are coming of age in a culture not of un-enjoyment, but of anti-enjoyment. Passion is not just superfluous – passion is weakness. If you like things, you might like the wrong things, and then you’re WRONG with a capital “DOUBLE-U” with a capital “D”, and then you’re BAD and ugly and FAT and SUPER FAT. The Internet can’t figure out whether it wants to beatify things or damn them, so it just gets all sorts of contentious. Contention on the Internet is silly in the worst sense of the word. Personally, I hate confrontation. I like to think of myself as a sickly Victorian child, or a maybe a sickly geisha. Very demure and easily persuaded and sickly. If the Internet is a super highway, we all have road rage.
To participate in this chic backlash against passion is to have a small mind. In my humble, unimportant, normal-sized opinion, it is better to have a small BRAIN than a small MIND. If you have a small brain, you can still be a good, kind, hard-working, dumb person who can manage some sort of farm or daycare. If you have a small mind, however, you very well might hurt people with it. You are just getting a sliver of the delicious Bacon, Ham, & Cheese Lean Pocket that is being young in America.
Spending your youthful energy on combative, kinetic apathy is a waste. Stuff is AWESOME, GUYS. Something about everything is awesome. Because I live in LA, CA, USA and not other places in the world, I get to write things like “fuck fuck FUCK fuck fuck FUCK” on the Internet (the title of my next blog post). I can condemn Burkas while comfortably wearing a Snuggie (a gateway Burka). I can do an interpretative dance as Hitler for 322 people (suck it, Hitler). I can do whatever I want (sort of) and I can eat whatever I want (not carbs) and be the opposite of dead.
The people who, ten years ago today, flew those planes into the sides of two of the tallest buildings in America had minds that were even smaller than mine (and possibly yours, if you’re wearing a shirt from Threadless Tees). Their worldview was so closed to interpretation that they thought the only answer was a large-scale terrorist attack. I’m not saying Hipsters are Terrorists (though that is a very funny sentiment that I never thought I’d get the chance to write). I am saying that closing your mind to sincerity and praise and appreciation might be the first step in squandering the fucking awesome human condition you possess. Please do not close your mind to the not-small epiphany that epic joy exists.
Please, PLEASE feel free to completely disregard and disagree with and disJimBelushi (I made that word up, because I CAN, IN AMERICA) this essay. Why should you listen to me, when I’m forehead-deep in the disaffected goo that is my generation? I’m sitting in a hipster coffee shop in Hollywood, a living, breathing, self-important, self-hating cliché. My caveat is, I sort of wrote this for myself. I want to read this diary entry in one more year, or ten more years, or three-hundred-and-twenty-two more years, and see how wonderful and confusing it is to be happy and young in the face of slaughter.
If you are reading this, you are not dead. I myself happen to be very not dead. I’m giddy and sleepy and fighting the need to pee and listening to one of my favorite songs (“True” by Spandau Ballet) and physically not dead. I make enough money to waste it. I’m spoiled enough to be addicted to the culture of coffee. I wear rainbow sunglasses every day. I have a crush on 40% of the boys in my gchat bar. Jesus, this is awesome. I want to be not dead every day of my life.
I love LA and I love NY and I love America and I love being not dead. Happy anniversary(s). Here’s to one and ten more.
MONA LISA (LEONARDO DA VINCI)
What up what up what up!!!!!! Let’s talk about some weak-ass gay-ass art! I’m Ed EFFIN’ Hardy and I’m gonna be your M-F-in’ DOCENT! Which is just a silly fancy McGaylord way of saying “art yeller-at-er”!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I got a B.A. in ART from internet college (WebMD.com, MAYBE YOU’VE HEARD OF IT) and a Four Loko in my MAN PURSE. I’m ready to GO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So: the Mona Lisa. This is trash. TRASH. How many tigers or skulls are in this painting? THE ANSWER IS ZERO, WHICH IS THE GAYEST NUMBER OF SKULLS OR TIGERS YOU CAN HAVE IN A PAINTING. Put some tigers around the Mona Lisa’s head and then, boom, you got the HARDY LISA. Now her little smile means “yeah, I got some bomb-ass tigers around my head, what you gonna do about it? Let’s make out and then go ivory poaching at Epcot!!!!” BOOM.
THE PERSISTANCE OF MEMORY (SALVADOR DALI)
THIS IS TRASH. Which is like what I initially said about the Mona Lisa but MUCH LOUDER, AS IF IT WAS IN ALL CAPS IN A CHAT ROOM FROM 2002!!!!!
Um can someone say GAY?? I mean, I know I can, as I have proven before and will prove again: GAY GAY-GAY (sung to the tune of “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga which is DOUBLE GAY). Here we got some clocks – which rhyme with “cocks” which is urban slang for “wangs” – and some beige-ass desert shit. Only colors that should ever be in art: NEON GREEN, NEON PINK, THE COLOR OF A BOOB (MANY DIFFERENT OPTIONS), FLOURESCENT TIGER, NEON PEEN (PINK + GREEN OR THE COLOR OF A PEEN, MANY DIFFERENT OPTIONS), FOUR LOKO BARF.
THE LAST SUPPER (LEONARDO DA VINCI)
I may not know art (jk I do), but I know what I like/that if I had a Swiss Hardy Knife, here is what I would put in it: scepter, tiger, tiny gun, Lisa Frank art kit, boobs and/or tits, Guy Fieri.
OK, so, the Last Supper! It’s an unbelievably beautiful depiction of Jesus’ last moments of peace. HAHAHAHA JUST KIDDING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! More like Gay-sus’ last gayments of GAY! Did you see how I just replaced all major syllables of what I just said with “gay”?! That was in order to highlight the gay nature of the art!! NAILED THAT, ED. (He gives himself a high five, then sucks his own peen.) Now, in my humble opinion (IHOP), this painting could use some awesomeness, like a naked chick with rainbows for mush-melons. Maybe some tie-dyed roses and pizzas? OR A P’ZONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
THE GIRL WITH THE PEARL EARRING (JOHANNES VERMEER)
More like the Girl With The Pearl Necklace.* (*More like the Girl With The Lion Made Out Of Tigers*) (*Good one, Ed, lion made out of tigers, write that one down for a future design)
AMERICAN GOTHIC (GRANT WOOD)
Slap me with homing sausage and call me “Susan B. Cameltoe” because literally this painting could not be worse or gayer. Two old men holding a gay little salad fork?!?! It makes me more barfaroni than my recent meal of nine Four Lokos, a Slim Jim (no homo), a long banana (no homo), and a meat lovers P’Zone (no homo). This is gayer than Gay Gay Milne.
NUMBER FIVE (JACKSON POLLOCK)
This is a bunch of color swizzles. But some of the swizzles look like a neon skull on the crest of a tsunami made out of Blood Diamonds, so in that way this painting is great!
THE SCREAM (EDVARD MUNCH)
Oh my God an awesome joke when I was doing the Mona Lisa would have been “Mona Lisa Car,” like “Mona, lease a car.” Holy SHIT, ED, WRITE THAT DOWN!!!!!!!!!
AN ED HARDY VELOUR TRACK SUIT (ED HARDY)
This is art. This is art. This looks like stickers for a 7th grade girl who’s gotten into her dad’s speedball.
GUERNICA (PABLO PICASSO)
Guys I’m gay.
Iced Carmel Macchiato
Bosnia and Herzegovina
Carmageddon Carmageddon Carmageddon Carmageddon Carmageddon Carmageddon
How I Met Your Mother
The sun rises over a castle, a castle made of swords and pegasuses and gargoyles shaped like dongs. In the distance, 100 concubines have sex with their sisters and step-dads.
EDDARD STARK: I, Eddard Stark, am a warrior of the Dawn-Dune. I have bedded many lady-women in the dew of Beowulf’s May-Pole.
LORD PATYR “LITTLEFINGER” BAELISH: I, Lord Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish, have blood made out of dragons-blood. That’s why they call me Lord Petyr “Dragons-blood” Baelish.
TYRION LANNISTER: Jeez, it sure is tough to be incestuous and horny at the same time. I’m so incestuous and horny, I could just bone my sister!!!!!
Enter KING ROBERT BARATHEON, followed by 24,635 extras and 365,674 main characters.
EDDARD: I am Eddard. My friends call me, “Ned,” and IMBD calls me, “played by Sean Bean.”
KING ROBERT BARATHEON: Eddard, I am a king. I have forgotten my name and most plot points, as there are many plot points.
Prince Viserys Taragaryen rapes some nymphs while sharpening a sword on his sister’s demon-boob.
LORD PATYR “LITTLEFINGER” BAELISH: This is a sword, and what is a sword but a metal dragon that is shaped like a sword?
PRINCE VISERYS TARAGARYEN: I’m winning the Game Of Thrones. I have the most points and the least technical fouls in this Game. This Game of Thrones.
KING ROBERT BARATHEON: Is my name “Rick”?
He rolls a many-sided die, since this show is maybe some sort of elaborate role-playing video game, maybe.
BILBO BAGGINS: This is Lord of The Rings, right?
FRODO BAGGINS: Yes.
Enter JAIME LANNISTER, an important member of the 92,924,024-person cast. He has just finished elaborately sexing a glimmering satyr with his shimmering be-amuleted penis. P.S. There are 356,753,103 satyrs in this show. They are half-horse/half-sexy horse.
JAIME LANNISTER: The King must be fore-slain.
TYRION LANNISTER: That showed insolence. TEN POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR.
Tyrion stabs Jaime through the heart with his fist, then makes love to the heart-hole. Just kidding, it is a violent and vengeful hate-boning. In the background, a beautiful angel masturbates.
OBI WAN KENOBI: This is Star Wars, right?
KING ROBERT BARATHEON: Is my name “Rick”? Is my name “King Rick”?
HARRY POTTER: Yes.
In the background, a googolplex sex-slaves are giving birth to sons and having sex with their infant sons as soon as they are born.
PRINCE FAJHO RJETIEODF: I am character in this Game. In This Game Of Thrones.
PRINCESS UW(RJGA JFDISHJT: Me too.
PRINCE FGJYEI GJFS/SFGIJJS&FGII*JSSIJIFGSJ: Me too.
PRINCE THE REAL-LIFE SINGER: Me too.
PRINCESS CRUISES: Me too.
THOR: This is Tron, right?
CARS 2: Yes.
Hot Sad Girls With Gout
100 Recipes For Tea You Can Put Your Dick In
Where’s Waldo?: Coachella Edition
Indians Dressed Up As The Other Type Of Indians
Ronald Reagan Looking At Cameltoes
How To Quit Quitting Smoking
Girls With Bangs With Rosacea
4 Hipstamatic Pictures of Dead Stepmoms
Beardception: A Beard Within A Beard
This Is Not My Dentist
Mein Kampf And Zombies
Today I am announcing my candidacy for President of the United States. Yes, TODAY. The 12th day of May in the year 1 A.G. (After Ga’Hoole). Yes, THE UNITED STATES. You know, the one with that one state (Colorado, or maybe I am thinking of West Carolina). I believe we can return America to a country with superpower status and supermodel looks (example: add boobs to the Lincoln Memorial, add boobs to all paper money and coins). I believe that we can improve employment rates for infant firemen/Hamburglers. I believe we can replace all things that aren’t guns with guns so that America is literally made out of guns. I believe in guns. I believe in America.
I believe that, in this day and age, it’s only appropriate that I announce my candidacy over the web while sitting at home in my sexiest lounge outfit (jeans + polio crutches [jolio crutches]). I believe that, if you vote for me, I will increase the White House’s capacity for sharks from 0 to 44 sharks per room.
I believe that sharks are the poor man’s guns.
I believe that I have what it takes to lead this country. Like JFK, I have two legs. Like FDR, those two legs have polio. It was once rumored that James K. Polk had a middle initial, just like one of my gay uncles. MY middle initial is “guns.” I believe that, just like Taft’s boy-child love-slave, I can speak German. I believe that Marilyn Monroe once sang happy birthday to me in a sultry voice, though many witnesses believe that it wasn’t Marilyn Monroe at all but a homeless pregnant woman named Karenn Jungles.
I believe in Karenn Jungles.
I believe that there are naysayers. Maybe I didn’t have the traditional “presidential upbringing” (private school, bathing). However, there’s more than one way to SKIN A CAT. And FYI, when you have polio, it’s apparently CHEATING if you skin the cat using your crutches that you sharpened to a razor point. Good to know, MOM.
I believe in gun-based two-for-one matricide/cat-ricide.
I believe that America is the future. I love this country more than anyone except for maybe Uncle Sam (one of my gay uncles Samantha). For a country named after America Ferrera, America is pretty great. I bleed red, white, and blue, which is 30% due to my patriotism and 70% due to a severe polio-related blood disorder.
I believe in using guns as bullets in a larger gun.
I believe that whoever carved Mt. Rushmore is gay because how gay is it to put four dudes on one mountain. I believe that a man should be able to marry anyone he chooses, given that the person is a gun. I believe that hands are the poor man’s guns.
I believe that some people might not think I’m up for the job. “You’re too young,” they say. “Too Jewish. Too not not Jewish. Too hungry for meat-based breakfast meats. Too polio-teeming. Too redundant. Too Jewish.” To them, I say: shut up, MOM, how did you get my unlisted number stop leaving me these voicemails and hand-written sexts.
I believe that arms are the poor man’s machine guns.
I believe there is an elephant in the room: the woman-as-president issue. I believe there is another elephant in the room: the real-life elephant in the room, wow, how did it get here it’s wearing jorts and a burka (jurka). It’s true – I am a woman, and have been one for my entire life. My floor-length beard is invisible and I often pee sitting down. I believe in a country with women’s right to choose.
Whether or not she pees sitting down.
I believe in the tooth fairy, because who else would touch my gross baby teeth, that’s just gross.
I believe that bees are tiny tigers.
I believe that guns are the poor man’s bigger guns.
I believe in you, America. Believe in me. Vote Megan Amram for whatever that thing I’m running for is I forgot wait.
Oh yeah, I REMEMBERED.