Monday, June 27, 2011

I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

And but so here's another thing: Do you ever wonder whether somewhere in all that Duggary Duggarness, there's a Duggar kid who's like, "This fucking SUCKS. I hate sharing a bathroom with forty fuckin other kids, I don't even know if that one over there is ours or not, my mom is just a vagina with a face, I called Jinger 'Jorgia' and she didn't even notice, if I hear one more Biblical math lesson or Biblical history lesson or Biblical fucking chemistry lesson I'm going to burn this house down with everybody in it, my dad is a goddamn lunatic trying to replenish the earth all by himself, I only ever just saw a black person in real life LAST WEEK, there's no way I'm marrying that freaky twerp from that other Christing overpopulating homeschool family we hang with, and I'm sick to fucking death of that beshitted taco pie thing we eat by the 55-gallon drum every fucking Wednesday. The very MINUTE I turn eighteen I am changing my name to Terry Smith, getting my entire reproductive system removed, and FLEEING TO BOLIVIA and they will never ever find me. They won't even know I'm gone till it's time to do the publicity shoot for the next time they have to change the name of our show on Discovery -- 'Thirty-Nine and Counting!' Feets don't fail me now."

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Killed a spider with a dollar cause I didn't have a tissue

Dear Mean, Pissed-Off-Looking Republican Women Driving SUVs In The Far South of the Silicon Valley, Harshing My Mellow:

What is y'all's deal? Why do y'all always look so pissed off taking the curves on a 40-MPH-speed-limit street at 65 MPH? Is it cause somewhere deep inside, you know your stupid fat behemoth of a car seats the exact same number of people and hauls the same amount or less cargo my Prius does, but costs fifteen grand more to buy and a lot more to fill with gas, thus leaving you less money to get a good haircut? (Cause seriously, y'all all have bad Suburban Mom Hair. Honestly.) You don't wipe that mean look off your face, it could set permanently like that.

I Could've Seen and Judged This Human Vista Every Day in Texass for About One-Quarter the Money, GOD.


PS, in honor of one of my favorite tags, via one of my favorite blogs on the entire Internets: the First-World Problems rap.

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Sunday, June 19, 2011

I'm'a stick to Holmes Magazine. All he cares about is you do the job right.

Hey SHAPE magazine: I had this whole thing all written in my head, all thoughtful and philosophical and a little bit deep, but you know what? It all really boils down to this:

Nobody would ever tell a man to BYO saltless butterless air-popped popcorn to a fucking movie with his friends so he doesn't pork out on movie popcorn, least of all as part of a bigger strategy composed of other sad, depressing little "tricks" (put seltzer in your "faux-mosa" at brunch with the gals! don't meet up in Starbucks for a scone -- go for a brisk walk!) to keep from porking out in general all weekend long thus ruining the effects of a week of "Spartan lunches" and "rigorous workouts."

Nobody. Would EVER. Tell a man that.

Fuck all y'all.

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Friday, June 10, 2011

Dot says these're gettin too big to cuddle.

Teen Mom, 16 and Pregnant, who needs all that.

They oughtta make a show called 37 and Pregnant. It'd just be old lady Gleemonex shufflin around the house, findin reasons to do without whatever it was she left upstairs instead of going up to get it, deciding on impulse to go to a Red Lobster for the first time in at least 15 years because OMG CHEESY BISCUITS, falling asleep on the couch in front of Treme at like 8:40 p.m., diggin through the plastic bin of stuff from four years ago and wondering why every item is black (daaaamn girl where's the colors? did you think you could hide it last time or what?), "running" three hilarious/pathetic 12:30 miles around the neighborhood. Hot stuff, I tellya. Where's my teevee money?

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Wednesday, June 08, 2011

Also: No, I didn't actually know what "bourgeoisie" meant, but y'all believed me because I was generally such an incessant know-it-all.

Confession: In seventh grade? When we were supposed to dissect those frogs, and I went all PETA on it and said it was animal cruelty and blah blah blah and made a fucking federal case of it and got them to give me a model frog instead because of my high-minded crusading morals? Really, it was because I just din't wanna do it. It was grody.

The end.

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