Dear Voters in Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Mississippi, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, and Virginia,

Hey y’all. Now that the Supreme Court rendered Section 4(b) of the Voting Rights Act unconstitutional, all of you will now be required by state law to present a photo ID at the polls.

I know you’re too busy planning what side dishes to bring to your 4th of July barbecues to give much of a shit about fair and free elections, but these new voter ID requirements cooked up by your Republican state legislators are a blatant and transparent attempt to disenfranchise underprivileged voters.

That’s a super shitty thing to do, but I’ll tell you what, in the spirit of compromise, how about we make ourselves little deal?

If you guys agree to enact new laws that demand the exact same registration and photo ID requirements for every firearm transaction in your freedom-loving, gun-worshipping redneck of a state, we’ll let you keep those shady-ass photo ID requirements at the polls.

Think y’all can handle that? Jesus would want it that way, I promise.

Bless your hearts,

The Coquette

Tales From Whole Foods

I screamed and spit simultaneously. “Ugh! I can’t believe you just made me swallow. Fuck you, asshole!”

“Ha! I thought you liked it raw,” said the resealable bag of Kool Ranch Organic Kale Chips.

“I feel violated. You’re horrible. I’ll never get the taste of you out of my mouth.” The gluten-free vegan superfood pretended to ignore me, fully expecting that I would eventually take another bite, but there was no way I would ever make that mistake again.

“Whatever, bitch,” sneered the kale. “I’m too good for you anyway.”

“Get the fuck out of my face, you revolting pile of pretentious hipster cabbage!”

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone!”

“No. I will not miss you, kale chips. You’re just another disgusting health snack fad. In a few years, no one will even remember that you existed!”

On Thoughtless Cunts

If you are amongst the people who, while in the audience of a live music event, insist on holding up your camera phone to record extended amounts of video, please know that you are horrible.

It’s true. You’re all a bunch of thoughtless cunts incapable of living in the present moment, spoiling the view for the fans behind you with giant glowing rectangles of narcissism.

Speaking on behalf of everyone else at the show, I fucking hate you. Really. You’re awful, and I hope that all of your mobile devices short circuit in the front pockets of those skinny jeans and melt into your hairy genitalia.

Still, as much as I hate you, you are officially no longer the worst people in the room. No, that title belongs to a new breed of gum-smacking, teenage centers-of-the-universe who, instead of holding up their camera phones to record extended portions of the live show, are now holding up their camera phones to record THEMSELVES as audience members watching extended portions of the live show.

My jaw still hits the floor every time I see it. Honestly, that level of complete and total self-absorption is something I wouldn’t have even thought was possible a few years ago. It boggles the fucking mind.

To the grown-ass man who just tried to high five me while saying, “YOLO!”

There are a few things you should know about the crime you just committed. First of all, who taught you that word? Did you learn it at Coachella? Are you secretly dating teenagers from Santa Monica College? Dude, you wear fucking cufflinks during the day. You have absolutely no business knowing what YOLO means, much less using it in polite company.

For the record, YOLO is something you say in the bathroom of a Daytona Beach strip club to spring breakers who decided to smoke meth for the first time. It is not something you say while drinking Pellegrino in a conference room to an adult who just bought tickets to Peru.

Attempting to high five me was bad enough, but the YOLO technically made that shit an aggravated assault. Please note, if you say that word again in my presence, I am legally allowed to punch you in the jaw with my fist, and I don’t have to take my rings off beforehand.

You think you shit glitter, but you’re nothing but a fish-lipped dirt squirrel living in a gated community of idiots. You are an emotional vampire with an eating disorder and an adderall addiction. You subsist on celery and chaos. If you ever had a conscience, you got rid of it like a prom night dumpster baby. The botox injection sites on your forehead connect to form the shape of a pentagram. I feel sorry for your hair extensions. May your death involve duct tape.

If you have burned a single calorie analyzing the teenage misdeeds or minor character flaws of Trayvon Martin in an effort to justify the homicide committed by George Zimmerman, then you are a small-minded, racist asshole guilty of the worst kind of victim blaming.

Les Baricades Misterieuses

The Tree Of Life

 

Les Baricades Mistérieuses
François Couperin

My last month at work has been a fresh hell. A key person exited the company, leaving behind an ever-so-predictable power vacuum. I had no choice but to strap in and let it suck. Unfortunately, I’ve found myself engaged in a battle of wills with a woman who is superior in rank, but inferior in character.

She is well positioned because of her relationship with the owner, but the only thing she lacks more than integrity is competence. I never gave her the time of day until this past week when the cunt started fucking with my livelihood. She flat out stole from me. Took money out of my pocket. It was both flagrant and malicious. It’s open war now, and she has no idea what she’s gotten herself into. I’ll cut a bitch.

Anyway, this is the music I listen to at my desk while I’m sharpening my knives.

It calms me.

 

Tasting Freedom

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So, the African hotel maid who was sexually assaulted by the former head of the International Monetary Fund turned out not to be the blessed virgin Mary, and so now they’re gonna drop all the charges so he can go run for the presidency of France. Of course, this was to be expected.

Wealthy men have been raping the help since time immemorial. Hell, our founding fathers did it, and for Dominique Strauss-Kahn, it’s practically a resume builder that he forced a women to blow him in a luxury hotel. The French love that shit. He’s like a Dick Cheney who can still get it up.

For those of you who’ve followed this case and are now concerned with all the unflattering details that are being leaked about the victim, please don’t act surprised. This is how it’s done. Rich creepy fuckers like DSK have access to the best character assassins in the world, and trust me, they get away with shit that would make Charlie Sheen blush.

It’s easy to make fun of an American sensibility that creates bimbo presidential candidates like Sarah Palin, but it’s a much more insidious mindset that allows rapists like this any chance at being a head of state.

 

Mrs. Fields

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Dear Mrs. Fields,

When it comes to girly clichés, I’m down to light a few candles and enjoy a nice long bath, but when I can’t tell the difference between parody and reality, a line has been crossed.

Cookie scented bath salts? Hey, I’m all for aggressive brand expansion tailored to your demographic, but someone should tap your marketing department on the shoulder with the friendly message to back the fuck up out of my bathroom.

We get it. You’re all about the smell. Don’t think we didn’t notice. We’ve all been to the mall and caught a whiff of your shit on our way to Macy’s. It’s the best advertising you’ll ever do, but come on, bitch. There’s a time and a place.

Nobody needs to be walking around with their nether regions reeking of baked goods, least of all the kind of women who get excited when shit like this winds up in their gift basket.

You make a damn good cookie, but I don’t want mine to smell like yours.

Enjoy your millions,

Coke Talk

How many sexual partners have you had?

This is one of those rude and ridiculous questions vanilla people repeatedly ask one another as they fuck their way through their early twenties.

While the answer means next to nothing, the question itself speaks volumes about a middle-minded American sexuality built on little more than thinly veiled puritanical moralism and quantity-over-quality Costco consumerism.

Retail or wholesale, do you fuck in bulk? How many, indeed.

It used to piss me off. There was a time when being asked a question this tacky would start some shit. Nowadays, I regard it with mild amusement.

Sure, it’s a vulgar question, but if it’s coming from a place of emotional virginity rather than general douchebaggery, I try not to be mean about it. After all, the lifetime average for women in this country is only six sexual partners. I’ve had weekends bigger than that.

The honest truth is I have no idea how many sexual partners I’ve had. Even if you gave me an objective definition of what constituted a sexual partner, I still wouldn’t have the slightest clue, and really, what’s the point of some vague approximation?

Once you’re outside the realm of easily remembered single digits, keeping a running tally of sexual statistics is more than just a little bit creepy. It’s also a red flag that says you’ve got something rather unhealthy to prove.

Besides, if you listen closely, no one is ever really asking for a number. At best, someone wants to know if they’re special. At worst, someone wants to know if you’re a whore. Either way, fuck the numbers, I can answer honestly.

No, you’re not special, and no, I’m not a whore.

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