Prescription Pill Backpack



Prescription Pill Backpack

The Olsen twins collaborated with Damien Hirst to come up with a limited edition crocodile backpack adorned with prescription pills.

It’s priced at $55,000. Yes, that’s fifty-five thousand dollars.

Twelve of these tacky obscenities will be made, proving there are at least a dozen super-rich art-tards who will buy anything with Hirst’s name on it.

I just finished reading Lena Dunham’s $3,700,000 book proposal.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but when publishers start throwing around Hillary Clinton money for a book proposal by a “rare literary talent,” I certainly expect more than this.

It’s not funny. It’s not insightful. It’s not the least bit entertaining. It’s just a tepid exercise in neurotic navel gazing by a privileged white girl from New York who just happens to have her own show on HBO.

That’s fine, I suppose. The folks at Random House can squander their millions however they see fit, and kudos to Lena for cashing in on her Woody Allen meets Candace Bushnell schtick.

Still, in a book that purports to be about advice, you’d think the voice of a generation might have something to say about the world that exists beyond the end of her nose.

Then again, maybe not, and maybe that’s the larger point about a generation.

Dear Royal Highness, Fetus of Middleton

Dear Royal Highness, Fetus of Middleton,

Congratulations on your recent conception! On behalf of all Americans who are inappropriately fascinated with the monarchy, I’d like to say how excited we are to hear you’ll be making your way into the world sometime next Summer.

Kudos to you for being the lucky zygote with the legal claim to the British throne. It doesn’t matter whether you eventually become a girl or a boy, as it seems the Realms of the Commonwealth have recently done away with the centuries old law of primogeniture. How very progressive of them to spice up the divine right of kings with a dash of postmodern gender politics!

I do so hope you’ll turn out to be a princess. Word on the street is that if you’re a girl, your parents might name you Diana. You’re much too young to appreciate the irony, but I know your grandfather and great-grandmother will be keeping a stiff upper lip about the possibility of England eventually being ruled by a Queen Diana.

Speaking of princesses, I was terribly sorry to hear that your mother was recently hospitalized. It seems she was suffering from Hyperemesis Gravidarum, which apparently is a spell they teach at Hogwarts to make muggle-born princesses vomit for two straight days. I hear she’s feeling much better now, so that’s good news.

Have a wonderful time being groomed for the throne. Never forget that it’s all just an elaborate game, and try not take any of it too seriously. If your head ever gets heavy from the crown, just do a little neck yoga, and remember to stop and smell the rose petals beneath your feet.

The entire world looks forward to meeting you in a few months, but for now, just enjoy being in the womb. It’s the most privacy you’re ever going to get.

Yours in a tiara,

The Coquette

Oh, Chuck




When I found out that CokeTalk, a.k.a. Coquette, had some new handbags, I went out and bought several. They are perfect for a sassy night out on the town, or sassy everyday use.

Oh, Chuck, you magnificent bearded lunatic. You know how to make me smile.


Coke Talk Of The Day



Someone wrote in asking how things were going in my life. They noticed I hadn’t posted any fresh shenanigans, and that these days I seemed like more of an icon than a person.

Icon. That made me laugh. Honestly, the world has been beating the shit out of me lately. I haven’t been posting about my personal life because I’d rather not bitch and moan on the internet.

On the bright side, Americans are stockpiling Twinkies while Israel gears up for another fucking holy war. Good times.

I just want to curl up in bed until 2013.


Dear Red States

Dear Red States,

There’s been a lot of post-election talk about unifying the country, so I’m writing to you on behalf of the blue states, in the hopes of chipping away at some of the bitter divisiveness.

You see, I’ve lived on both sides of the great American political divide. I was born and raised in a God-fearing, gun-toting, Fox-News-watching red state, a place that refers to itself as the Heartland. My family members are all conservative, church-going Republicans. They are good, honest, self-made people — the very job creators that guys like Mitt Romney are always talking about.

Of course, as soon as I was old enough to drive, I made my way to the other side of the country, all the way to California, the bluest of blue states filled with godless Hollywood liberals, pro-choice homosexual union members and other assorted socialist heathens that filled the nightmares of my right-wing parents.

I am intimately familiar with the rift in America’s socio-political landscape. I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to bridge the divide between red state and blue state, and it’s never been more difficult than during this past election year.

Politics have polarized this country to such a degree that the two sides don’t even represent the same realities. I watched time and again as cold hard facts were debated as if they were political opinions. I’ve bitten my tongue as tempers flared, because everything has become so deeply personal. Respectful disagreement doesn’t even seem possible anymore, because both sides aren’t just defending their politics — they’re defending their identities.

Thankfully, the election has come and gone. The worst is over for now, and we can all go back to our regular lives. The Democrats happened to win the day, but under slightly different circumstances, it could have been the Republicans. It might as well have been a coin toss for all the stress and anger it’s caused us, and perhaps that’s the most glaring irony of this process. Half of this country votes red, and half of this country votes blue. We’re two sides of the same coin that gets flipped every four years so that a tiny sliver of undecided swing staters can call it in the air.

I for one am tired of all the divisiveness. We have our differences of opinion, and that’s okay. We shouldn’t let our politics come between us. Now how about we all sit down for an election-free Thanksgiving dinner, and finally talk about something else?

Yours in America,

The Coquette

A Short List of Honest Reality Show Titles:

Real Gargoyles of the One Percent


America’s Next Entry Level Piece of Runway Meat


Keeping Up with A Family of Narcissistic Fame Whores


Dancing with D-List Celebrities Clinging to Cultural Relevance


Here Comes A Child With Type II Diabetes


Jersey Shore


Cloud Atlas


Oh, this movie. This beautiful, beautiful movie. It’s a shame that the word “breathtaking” has been so fucked out by hack movie critics, because it actually applies to Cloud Atlas. Sure, it was three hours long, and I probably shouldn’t have seen it for the first time stoned out of my gourd, but damn — this movie rocked my fucking world.

Structurally, Cloud Atlas is a challenge. There is no way to absorb everything in one viewing. The film’s layers aren’t just stacked on top of one another — they extend outward and through time in an exploding fractal of visual, textual, and cultural motifs. It’s fun when you catch one of the echoing references, but don’t get greedy and try to catch them all. You will only frustrate yourself. Just sit back, let it flow over you, and trust that more will be revealed when you see it again.

It’s not all work, though. Emotionally, Cloud Atlas is as easy as it gets. The narrative may be complicated, but it is still very traditional. People who compare this film to Malick’s Tree of Life are off the mark. Both films are deeply philosophical, but the Wachowskis aren’t writing a poem. They’re telling a story, and they’re damn good at telling stories. You may not know what to think at any given moment, but you’ll know exactly how to feel in every scene.

Intellectually, Cloud Atlas is a fucking masterpiece. Anyone who says otherwise is either incapable or unwilling to deconstruct a film with so many moving parts, the sum of which aren’t meant to be as great as the whole. If you didn’t enjoy it, that’s fine. If you didn’t connect with it, that’s fine too. You don’t have to love it, but you sure as hell have to respect it. It reaches further and achieves more than the very best films from any of the genres it encompasses.

If you haven’t already, go see it. If you have, by all means, go see it again.


Dear Sesame Street,

All politics aside, I wanted to take a moment out of this ridiculous election cycle to say thank you. You have entertained and instructed four generations of children in over 140 countries. You have revolutionized the way we think about education and childhood development. You are an American institution, and you have made the world a better place.

Wall Street gets all the money, and Main Street gets all the love, but Sesame Street has steadfastly been going about its fundamental purpose of preparing kids for school since 1969. It is without a doubt the most important children’s program in the history of television, and all of its denizens — be they Muppet or human — deserve a certain measure of respect.

Big Bird, you certainly deserve better than to be made a political symbol. The last two weeks have marked a low point in the national discourse as pundits and political operatives on both sides have played a big, yellow, feathery game of tug-of-war. It would be silly if it weren’t so degrading, and all because the tiniest fraction of our tax dollars account for a small percentage of Sesame Street’s budget.

It’s fine if the grown-ups want to squabble over whether federal funds should be used to subsidize public television, but let’s not forget where we learned our 1-2-3’s. Sesame Street is one of the single greatest cultural achievements in American history, and there’s not another instance where we’ve gotten so much educational impact for so little money. (If the Count helped us do the math, no doubt he would laugh at how good a deal we’ve all gotten. You can almost hear him now, “AH! AH! AH!”)

On behalf of everyone who understands the importance of early childhood education (and everyone who loves the Muppets), thank you for doing your job, and for doing it so well.

Yours where the air is sweet,

The Coquette

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