Rationalizing the Risqué

I hated myself yesterday.

My inner feminist stabbed me in the ovaries, angry that I allowed myself to fall into the same trap I’ve fallen into ever since I switched to tampons. I let myself collapse into a dangerous abyss with every other woman in LA: I got a slutty costume for Halloween. I just wrote about how mini skirts have reached an all-time size crunch, and how disappointed I am in the vagina-baring youth of America.

And there I was deciding between a slutty maid or a promiscuous lady bug.

WHY? Why couldn’t I have just gone as a hot dog or a funny mummy? It must have been my inner hooker calling out to be noticed…my butt cheeks screaming out to be fondled by drunk men…my belly button begging to be paraded around the lonely Los Angeles bars. And I listened to them. Sadly, I did. I could not stop my hands from plucking the nose, bow tie, and bright red boy shorts from the walls of the seasonal store and into my basket, the pieces to my slutty clown costume. Yes, I managed to make a clown slutty.

At first I was sad and downright angry that I allowed myself to be ‘one of them.' But then I thought more about why we’ve turned this already pagan holiday into a lingerie parade. Maybe we do it because we have a burning desire to be lusted after by all. Or maybe we do it because most of us are forced into suits and “proper” attire in our daily lives. Or maybe Freud was right and all everyone really lives for is sex. Either way, it means we’re oppressed, unable to be our true sexy selves in today's society.

Now that I've come to such a conclusion, I say we stand against this oppression! In fact, JUST ON HALLOWEEN, I encourage everyone to be slutty. To show as much skin as possible. To give nurses cleavage and police women fishnets. To turn every single uniform into a desperate plea for sexual attention. Do it while you can, my friends. Do it while you can. REVOLT!
(Note: If you already dress like a whore, this revolution does not apply to you.)

Note #2: I wrote this 2 years ago, but updated it just for you. My thighs are smaller now. That's right. I'm gonna say my thighs are much smaller now:

Funny Human of the Week: The Plane Dresser Upper

This week's funny human is the Plane Dresser Upper. We've all seen her sporting an A-line skirt, perfect make-up, and four-inch heels in line to board with her Louis Vuitton hand tote.

But why?

I get that we all used to put on our snappy Sunday best in the days of yore when planes were mysterious and special and had ash trays and full meals and nuts and a security line that didn't require shoeless body scans.

But now we know how planes work, we don’t get pillows, and the meal is a box of cheese product and crackers for seven bucks. The plane honeymoon is over. We’ve been married for years now, so let’s act like it. Let’s wear sweatpants.

I understand Miss PDU's reasoning. I get that it’s a common fantasy to meet that special someone in 23F and and hit up the cramped john together for a lust-filled tryst that makes for a good fantasy but probably not an actual good time.


But it’s funny to me because, regardless of the mile-high possibility, I can’t fathom the idea of stuffing my thighs into tight pants and my plane-bloated feet into heels when I know I’ll probably be stuck next to a business man in a too-tight Oxford who drinks two scotches and snores and a chatty grandmother who wants to tell me about her daughter's rare eczema and her Bible study class. For five hours.

It’s cute that your unjaded brain is full of romantic possibility, Miss Plane Dresser-Upper, but let’s get real. Of all the times I’ve flown (over a hundred, probably), I’ve only once sat next to date material. And that didn’t work out because he decided to tell me he had a son on our first date to see R. Crumb’s illustration of the Old Testament. God was yelling about circumcision, and I said I wouldn’t circumcise my son and he said he already had. I feel like offspring should be announced either before the museum or over wine but not during foreskin talk. It was bad timing all around, making him not-the-one and averaging me zero for a hundred. So I’m going to say that the likelihood of meeting a quality guy on a plane is slim.

Some women would argue that they’re dressing up for themselves, that it’s a form of self-love. No. That is a lie. If you were really loving yourself, you’d come comfy, without a bra or makeup, in thick socks, and wearing a blow-up neck thing. Because that’s really the only way to sit comfortably in 23B for five hours. Or ten if you’re cool and going internationally.

But really... The main reason to not dress up on a plane is that heels are not allowed on the emergency blow-up slide. Miss Plane Dresser-Upper, you didn’t read the information provided in the seatback pocket, did you? I’m outraged.

If only I had bigger boobs and ate more pickles

We’ve been talking about the economy for so long that we’ve overlooked the largest economic tragedy of the past year.
Obama hasn’t once mentioned it.
I’ve seen nobody picketing about it.
Society is just allowing it to happen, encouraging it even.
The tragedy of 2010, and perhaps of all the years from now until 2012:

Snooki makes more money than all of us put together.

Snooki.


I know that several people in today’s society make more than all of my blog readers put together. I know my blog stats, and I’m fully aware that simply based on my numbers, we aren’t coming close to Brad Pitt or even Joan Rivers.

But this is Snooki.
Snooki-- the pudgy orange ball of a girl who truly doesn’t know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’, and in fact thinks it's simply ‘yer.’
She’s drunk all the time, has never heard of pants, and has one goal in life: to "hook up with a tan, juiced gorilla Guido.”

Ah!
It’s not fair. All she does is get wasted at clubs, have one-night stands with other equally uninspiring people, and go tanning. I spent years doing that in college, and I saw not a penny of return on investment. And there was a lot of investment into those slut costumes and bronzing lotions.

What has put me over the edge is her book deal.
Book. Deal.
Do you know how long I’ve been working on getting a book deal?
And now Snooki is getting one?
It’s a memoir about love. And it’s going to sell for twenty-four dollars. That’s more than a Harry Potter book. Snooki is more expensive than Harry Potter. Snooki. Again, Snooki. Snooki’s memoir can only really say, ‘I got drunk. I fucked a Guido. I got my nails done. The end.’ And it’s more expensive than a Harry Potter book.

You might think that I sound jealous. Oh, no. I’m not jealous. Not at all. Not a bit. Okay, maybe a bit. In honesty, I'd rather have my brain and untan skin coloring than be Snooki with a book deal. I'm mainly jealous because our society rewards drunk dumb people, and that really didn’t start happening until I had already climbed over the drunk dumb phase of my life. In 1998, I rode a mechanical bull in Mexico in a short skirt and no underwear, and all I got was a bottle of cheap tequila. No book deal.

But I have no fear. My time will come. You hear that literary agents? MY TIME WILL COME! And my book will sell for a million dollars. And only millionaires will buy it. And I will only have to sell one copy before I retire to a treehouse in Laos. And I won’t have to get a fake tan or fuck a gorilla for it. This, I must say, is a much sweeter deal.

Credit: some funny person on the Internet

Funny Human of the Week - The Ghayter

Number two in the Funny Human Visual Series is The Ghayter (gay hater).

Ghayting is quite a topic as of late. Society is up in arms because of some recent gay bashing as if it’s a new thing. I’m overjoyed it’s now in the media and that people care.

But guys, seriously, where ya been?

I took a quick gander through Google to find a good gay-bashing case to reference here, and there were simply too many from which to choose. In fact, as long as I’ve been alive, I’ve been reading news stories about ghayters. They've bashed in the car windows of those bearing rainbow flags. They've bashed in the faces of those bearing leather chaps. And then there was my ghayter godfather, who was nothing like a god or a father because he never talked to me again once my pops came out of the armoire.

Ghayters are everywhere. And they are plenty. And I’m happy that we’re now collectively talking about how despicable they are. Not that a video from Ellen would make a ghayter stop ghayting. I doubt any one of them has seen it and said, “Oh, that lesbian is actually cool. I’m going to stop throwing bricks through that faggot’s window.” The truth is that a lot of ghayters are just too far gone to listen to our arguments or care that they’re hurting people. Their bodies are too filled with hate to notice. Ghayters are haters from the core, so they also hate Muslims and liberals and people on bluetooths (ok, in some cases, the hate is justified).

The good news is there’s a funny side to all this hatred. Okay, perhaps not funny. Maybe karmically ironic, which always leads to funny.

Regular haters and ghayters alike wake up each morning and drink a cup full of hatred before their coffees. Instead of sharing meaningful conversation with loved ones, they spend time making signs to carry on the sidelines of gay parades that say things like ‘God Hates Fags.' Instead of taking their kids to the park, they make them wear tiny little Klan outfits and surely cause them future psychological issues. Instead of creating a loving family atmosphere, they spend their energy alerting the media about their plans to burn the Quran. And all this time, they’re full of hate hate hate, basking in negativity.

In truth, their lives are very sad.

There will always be gays or groups who are different. We can choose to see that as beautiful or we can choose to see that as horrible. It’s our choice. But if we choose the latter, we’re choosing a life in the negative. A sad, negative life full of hatred of everything including the Self.

Jokes on you, bitches.
Have a negative life while we go party it up in our rainbow flag underwear. Suckas.

note: I copied this ghayting sign from an actual protester [HERE]. Also, I used Rush Limbaugh's face for reference.

Let's shoot up! Or smoke up! Or however you injest meth! I actually don't know.

I went for a run last night on the Venice boardwalk in the dark, one of my favorite pastimes.
I passed a group of homeless meth heads (yes, I know they were meth heads because they looked like [THIS]), and the bald one yelled out to me:

Hey, baby! You ever see a grown white man naked before?

This sounded strange to me. I didn’t know whether to be:

1. Excited because he must have thought my supple skin to be of virgin quality.

2. Insulted because he must have thought I hadn’t been able to get anyone to undress in front of me before.

3. Insulted because he must have thought I was a pedophile and had only seen non-grown naked white men before.

4. Flattered because he must have thought I was a lesbian (I’ve always felt I’m not edgy enough to be a lesbian.).

Involuntarily, I screamed, ‘Yes! Yes, I have.’

The group burst out in meth head laughter.

But then I thought about it.
That meth head knew me so well.

Methy was almost correct in his skepticism.
Now, I’m:

5. Amazed that he could tell I have a black/brown man fetish.

I have actually only seen one grown white man naked. (If you’re reading this, yes it’s you. [see how I did that to make him feel special when I’m actually just covering my ass in case I missed one?]) Genius.

Meth heads are so brilliant. I need to get me some of that. I’ll age prematurely, but I’ll be able to see into the sexual partners of others, an invaluable talent. If this blog gets incoherent and choppy, you know why. But if my face skin starts sloughing off at dinner, can someone please get me on that intervention show so I can have a miracle recovery and then finally get a book deal?

Shit. My future just got so bright. Meth for everyone! On me!

The truth will set us free. And also make us mad for not knowing it beforehand.

“What you don’t know doesn’t hurt you.” That’s what they say. I think they should amend this to “What you don’t know doesn’t hurt you until you find out what it is that you haven’t been knowing.”
Maybe I’m not the best one to go around amending quotations.
“To err is human. And also something everyone does.”
“To be or not to be. That is the question a lot of people ask when they’re high.”

Well, whatever. The first one is in definite need of amendment even though they said it and they are always right. But they haven’t been singing Janet Jackson’s 'Rhythm Nation' on a bus full of Girl Scouts when the entire troop turns around and laughs.
What I didn’t know was that the lyrics happen to be ‘We are a part of a Rhythm Nation’ instead of ‘We are a part of a big erection.’
Oh.

I didn’t know the truth.
I’d seen the cassette cover, but my ears heard what they heard.
I’m still not sure that, at eight years old, I really understood everything about erections. All I did know was that Janet and her crew of hot ladies got into some warehouse and wore slutty costumes while they sweat and danced in order to give some mysterious guy a huge erection.
I mean, it actually does make sense.
And if that’s what you know, then it’s what you know. Until you learn something different.

Sometimes you imagine something to be a certain way. And so it is. And it’s not until you venture out that you learn what’s really ‘true.’ Like to a new school. Or a friend’s house. That’s where I had one of my other very early revelations: Melissa’s house. In my abode, I learned that it’s normal to head on to bed without underwear. I just figured it was something people did the world over. It was a truth. Just like the big erection. Just like: all kids eat frozen fish sticks, dads only visit on weekends, and being on a diet is a natural part of being a mother.

But at Melissa’s house, the truths were flipped. Her mom drank regular Coke, her dad lived in her house all week long, she had no fish sticks in sight, and when I woke up on top of the sleeping bag in the living room with my T-shirt flipped to expose my tiny vagina and her brother staring at me from the hallway, I felt like something was amiss.

That’s when I figured that some things I learned to be true just aren’t. Not everyone in the world sleeps with their crotches to the sky. And if they do, they don’t do it during slumber parties.
And there was another truth that was staring at me and I didn’t even see it. Well, I saw it. I just didn’t see it because it didn’t go along with the truth I learned. Like many people, I learned that men like women and women like men and that’s how it is. So I just thought my dad had a really good friend with whom he lived and shared a bed. Yes, they cooked together. Yes, their hands occasionally brushed over one another at the dinner table. But they were just friends because I was six and had NO idea that the truth I learned about love wasn’t the only one. This went on for years. Because if you learn something one way, it’s so so hard to convince your mind there really is another way. Not even leather vests or rainbow flags can give it away.

Nope. Seriously didn't know. Even after professional portrait time.
(I'm the one with inappropriate headband use)
(note: aren't gay dads cute?)

The truth is right in front of us, but our brains won’t allow us to see it. I think this is what M. Night Shyamalan has been trying to teach us for years. I think we got it with that one movie though. Hey Shyamalan, We’re good. We get it.

What else are we not seeing before our eyes? What about Earth? First we learned it was flat. Then we learned it was round. Really, it’s a piece of debris in a large abandoned warehouse in some universe that none of us can comprehend. Some weird alien types filmed a music video there, gave some guy a huge erection, and accidentally dropped Earth in the corner. And all we self-important humans are just flecks of dust on this neglected warehouse Earth. The sun is really a neon light that flicks on by timer in a neighboring warehouse. Since Earth is so small, our time goes by more quickly while it’s really been only a few weeks in the other realm. And there’s a sign up on the wall in this abandoned warehouse that says ‘demolition 2012.’ The Mayans saw it, and simply put it in their calendar. So in actuality, they aren’t super smart. They just have really great vision.

I'm feeling Twilight-ish series potential in this story.
Shyamalan: this could be your new thing.

The good news is that, if we try hard enough, we can control our minds to believe whatever ‘truth’ we wish, and so I’m suggesting we all decide to believe that we’re happy. And that the moment we die everything becomes super fun. Oh, and can we finally all believe that everyone is equal? Please? Let’s all just believe in those truths together, and life will be grand. Oh, and that Laurenne is really skinny and has very clear skin and is always right. Definite truths. Start believing RIGHT NOW.

Ok, off to go ride a unicorn. It’s not a Toyota Scion. I truly believe it’s a unicorn.

Funny Humans - #1 The Scarf Abuser

I really like to draw funny humans. I drew the ones on this here blog because they're particularly funny. I'd say peeling back your boob in order to shove a plastic bag filled with a watery substance under your chest and then sewing it closed again in a vain act of titty envy is pretty funny. Not to say I haven't thought about doing it myself. A lot. But it's still funny.

So is the act of stretching out your neck by forcing metal rings on it. Why the need for a long neck? And then there are hipsters. Hipsters are just funny because they're hipsters.

I'm going to draw funny humans more often. If you have an idea of a particularly funny human I should draw, hit me up.

Here's the first in the series:

People who think that wearing scarves makes them artsy and European. I am guilty of this. When I wear scarves in meetings, I tend to speak up more often in a slight accent and talk more with my hands. And I eat more croissants. All day long. I'm not wearing a scarf now, so I'm back to snacking on dog biscuits and making jokes about poo.