One of my fans just sent me a pic of her freshly inked “Stay Wild” tattoo. I fuckin’ love it!
80’s-era Axl Rose in handcuffs? Check. Back seat of a police car? Check. Voyeuristic photographer with a perfect shot? Check.
Looks like today’s blowjob fantasy is complete.
This video smells like herpes and bong resin.
Is it wrong that I wanna blame Lena Dunham for this greasy hipster aesthetic? Probably. I blame Lena Dunham for a lot of things that aren’t really her fault, like cronuts and internalized misogyny.
Plus, I really can’t stand this rancid flavor of stringy haired indie-bro.
These scraggly douche mops are always lounging by the hotel pools in skinny jeans and leather jewelry. They’re the ones in town from some crusty fuck corner of London or New York who talk endless shit about LA while picking their toenails right in front of you. Then they wanna hit on you by aggressively trying to trade sunglasses. No thanks, dude. I don’t wanna catch head lice from your neon wayfarers, and if you don’t like it here, you can fuck off back to the gloomy pale underbelly of whatever urban jungle you find most authentic.
Whatever. If you ignore the band, I guess this is a decent little tune. I don’t suppose anyone minds a bunch of gap-toothed dirt squirrels flopping around with their tits out. If rug burned knees and cheap lingerie are your thing, then hey, who am I to hate on a good time?
Nobody else is being honest about it, but the real reason folks are manufacturing outrage over this Rolling Stone cover is because Tsarnaev is looking kinda fuckable.
According to the traditional narratives, we’re supposed to be dehumanizing this swarthy foreign terrorist. Monsters are meant to be grotesque, and here he is looking like some sensitive singer/songwriter. How dare Rolling Stone allow him into a cultural space reserved exclusively for rock stars?
Please. It’s no accident they used a photo of the kid where he vaguely resembles that one-night-stand every sorority girl fucked on a foam mattress in some youth hostel that summer she backpacked through Europe.
The editors knew exactly what they were doing. It’s deliberately provocative. It was intended to elicit an uncomfortable reaction, and it seems to be working.
This is mainstream media trolling at its finest.
I want so badly to show up at the Texas Capitol with a .50 caliber revolver loaded with tampons and be all like, “Your move, Tex.”
Every time you start one of your spoon-fed, middle-brow opinions with the phrase, “as a mother,” all I hear is a mooing sound that reminds me you’re a fear-based consumer with stretch marks.
Motherhood is not a badge that validates your dumb fuck arguments. Your world view has not suddenly become more sophisticated now that you’ve squeezed a tiny shrieking version of yourself out of your vagina.
“As a mother” doesn’t score any points with me. You were an idiot before you gave birth, and you’re still an idiot now.
A conspicuous number of the married couples in my life are starting to get divorced. This isn’t a surprise. It’s right on schedule.
I called it years ago. I knew this shit would happen at a ridiculously high rate to all my idiot friends who got married between 2008 and 2010, especially the ones coasting on the fumes of their extended adolescence right as the economy took a shit all over their dreams. You know, the clueless souls who didn’t have anything better to do with their lives, so they figured they’d solve all their problems with a bunch of big dumb weddings.
I spent three years biting my tongue in a bridesmaid dress, letting everyone have their temporary high, hoping against hope that none of my friends got knocked up before the novelty wore off and they finally woke up one morning horrified at the thought of spending the next half century with the first one-night-stand who bought them breakfast.
Well, that morning has long since past, and the forces of matrimonial inevitability have brought forth the great crumbling of 2013. It’s ugly out there, and if I danced to that godforsaken Jason Mraz song at your wedding, it’s safe to assume your marriage is fucked.
It’s the kind of thing that would be funny if it weren’t so sad, because these days when a marriage implodes that shit turns into an interactive social media soap opera. I’ve spent hours looking over my BFF’s shoulder witnessing the intimate, gory details of divorce splayed out on public timelines that read like a Nora Ephron screenplay in reverse.
Not to sound terribly voyeuristic, but this is the first time I’ve ever really been tempted to sign myself back up for Facebook.
Horrible, I know, but I’m a sucker for tragic comedies.
Yeah, Robert Pattinson really did give me his electronic cigarette at the Beyonce concert tonight. When I asked him for a lighter, he thought I was fucking with him. Honestly though, I assumed it was a one hitter until he showed me how to use the damn thing. Bizarre little moment, and of course, he’s a total sweetie.