Tuesday, January 25, 2011


Being a woman tends to negatively affect my life. This is because most women do stupid shit and seeing as I am a woman, I suffer the consequences.

I tend to hate the majority of things that women, as a whole, do. Some examples include dieting, shopping and waiting three dates to sleep with a man. You may argue that this makes me a poorly-dressed, overweight slut but I see myself more as a sexually evolved, regular-sized person who has a propensity to wear leggings at all social gatherings.

I also find women to be rather judgmental whereas I am gracious, open-minded and understanding. For instance, when I went to Hooters last night, I did not judge our overly made-up waitress when she pointed to the shrimp I was eating and asked how my chicken wings were. I didn’t point out that perhaps she should save some of the money she’s spending on flesh-colored pantyhose to purchase a book that includes names and pictures of farm animals in an attempt to get her finger on the pulse of what exactly it is that she does for a living.

And today, when I was watching football, I didn’t judge the girls who rolled in wearing mini-skirts and false eyelashes. Hey, if your idea of a good time is coming to a sports bar on a Sunday morning to give H.J.s to a guy in an Ed Hardy t-shirt over in the corner booth, more power to you. I love scantily-clad women and feel their presence is required at all sporting events. But please don’t pretend that you know anything about a football other than the fact that you can fit one in your mouth.

I guess the thing I hate most about women is the crying. Why are they always crying? I want to bond with my fellow females but it’s hard. They love cats and they constantly demand that I decipher cryptic texts from the men they’re dating like, “don’t call me anymore.” Overall, I find that I have nothing in common with them.

All of this was racing through my head this afternoon while I was masculinely watching football….until my team lost…and the worst thing that could ever happen to me in public happened…I started bawling. And while the rest of the men in the bar rolled their eyes and pounded drinks, the tallest, blondest girl I had ever seen walked over to me, batted her eyelashes and gave me a hug. And for just a minute, I was glad to be a broad.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011


Are you familiar with Gluten? This is typically the first question I ask people when they want to know what it’s like to live in LA. Gluten is a mysterious substance that anorexic women everywhere are crazy about. No one knows what it is yet thin women contend it’s in everything making it easier for them to refuse all forms of food. Brilliant. What’s more, they don’t merely claim that it’s bad for you. They assert that upon eating supposed Gluten, they suffer a severe allergic reaction. When prodded about the symptoms of this alleged allergy, most women will tell you that it, “makes their belly hurt.”

Now, I’m not a doctor, but I have a cousin with a shellfish allergy and once, after eating half a shrimp, that kid shit his brains out, yakked everywhere and had to be rushed to the hospital. I highly doubt that leggy blonde women are carrying EpiPens around in case they have a run-in with a piece of pizza.

Furthermore, there seems to be a new trend sweeping the nation in which skeletal women refuse dairy. All the waifish women in Hollywood have banded together and declared dairy an absolute no-no. Really ladies? You’ve decided that an ENTIRE FOOD GROUP just isn’t cutting it for you? I’m sure the Got Milk campaign isn’t real thrilled with your antics.

No but seriously, what the fuck is Gluten? You could contend that this is all a ruse by a chubby, Midwestern girl to get her finger on the pulse of a dietary breakthrough but at the end of the day I just want to know what it is! Is it bigger than a breadbox? Can I not say the word bread around you because of your life-threatening allergy?

In an unprecedented move, I’m proclaiming that Gluten doesn’t exist and I’m no longer going to tolerate its terrorist threats. From what I understand it can be found in pasta, cake, cookies and all forms of sandwiches. If I could get my pudgy little hands on this purported Gluten I would…and then I would eat the shit out of it.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

The Dildo Theory

Living in Los Angeles is a real dick up the ass. I say this as a woman who does not enjoy a dick up her ass. At least I don't think I do. I've never had one up there but it sounds wretched. So wretched in fact that I've built an entire survival approach around this potential happening. I like to call it The Dildo Theory.

As I wake up each day in sunny California, I feel rejuvenated and refreshed. This is likely because, like a goldfish, I have a pea sized brain and short term memory loss. If only I could remember the pain from the day before. Whether it be a 9 month pregnant woman bashing into my car (that happened), my agent sending me a breakdown looking for fat people and concluding that I'm perfect for it (happened) or some new man who’s refusing to sleep with me (this one’s a constant) I always find myself in some horrid altercation that is painful, uncomfortable, and embarrassing.

I'm a solution oriented person so I began to conjure up ways to feel slightly better as each day passes. There's nothing worse than brimming over with positivity only to be jacked around by the human race. I started to believe that there had to be a way to ease the horrifying pain which is my life.

Much like a man who beats his brow against a wall to alleviate a headache, I’ve concluded that if I start each day by ramming a dildo up my ass, things won't be so unbearably painful later on. Just hear me out. Each day in Los Angeles, I am attacked by people, places and things who are seemingly trying to kill me. Los Angeles is a torture chamber and positive thinking has gotten me nowhere. As a matter of fact, I believe its positive thinking that is making it worse. I firmly believe that if I start each day by jamming a dildo up my asshole I won’t be so angry, hurt or surprised later, since I had already begun my day in a manner that insisted things could only get better. So tomorrow morning, when I go to the dentist and find out I have 8 cavities (happened), or I’m diagnosed with a bacterial infection (gross but yes) or I find out my apartment is swarming with bed bugs (I don’t want to talk about it) I’ll find solace in the fact that nothing could be as excruciating as the giant dildo that I drove into my anal cavity that morning, right before I got a burn hole in my skirt on the way to work.