Santorum Girls

 

“Santorum Girls” Haley And Camille Harris Sing Song For GOP Candidate Rick Santorum

I remember girls like this. They were the perky ones from Sunday School you had to hang out with because your moms knew each other.

They’d tell on you for smoking cigarettes and feel righteous about it, even after you covered for them while they were getting fingerblasted through Jordache jeans in the church basement during the youth group sleepover.

It’s okay, though. Jesus forgave them. They were true believers, the kind of candy-headed twits who would shed genuine tears whenever some tie-dyed youth minister told that insufferably retarded story about footprints in the sand.

I never knew quite what to say around them, because every conversation led back to Jesus, praise the lord and hallelujah! It was awkward. They weren’t bad people, just blindly earnest and completely full of shit.

I learned quickly that their ignorance really was bliss. There was no saving them from being saved. It was better just to nod and smile and dream of the day I could finally move the fuck out to Los Angeles.

That’s all well and good, because I get to watch this ridiculous YouTube clip from a thousand miles away, safely ensconced in the land of godless liberals. I’m so glad I escaped that kind of life. What a holy nightmare.

No hard feelings, though. I wish the all Haleys and Camilles of the world continued bliss, and short of that, I hope the abortion that statistically one of them will end up getting is safe, legal, and covered by insurance.

 

Sprinkles ATM

 

Maybe I’m reading too much into The Sprinkles 24-Hour Cupcake Dispenser, but this thing is piece of subversive installation art.

I can’t get over the visual metaphor of a Malibu Barbie Dream ATM that shits out fancy-fuck cupcakes to Beverly Hills B-team hookers at three A.M. after they strike out at the Four Seasons hotel bar. It’s so ridiculous.

When I think about what this pink monstrosity really says about my culture, my city, and (who are we kidding) my gender, it occurs to me that Banksy couldn’t have designed it better himself.

On the bright side, this is definitely a tipping point for the most cloying artisanal hipster trend of the last few years.

Ugh. I really am tired of all this endless fucking cupcakery.

 

Coke Talk of the Night

I got the heads-up from my BFF not to drop by the party. Fucking hell, I’m glad I looked at my phone. Mortal fucking enemy alert.

The back-stabber was in the room tonight. It’s been a couple years since I’ve seen or heard from this soulless cunt, but she still makes my blood boil.

A while back, this sociopathic dumpster fire sent an email to my ex-boyfriend asking him to fuck her. Mind you, this was one week after my relationship of three years had just ended.

This was a friend, not an acquaintance, a close fucking friend trying to jump on my ex’s dick before my tears were even dry from the break-up.

If I’d walked into that room, it would have turned into an unholy tornado of psychobitch drama. I’d have chunks of cheap weave underneath my fingernails right now.

Fuck that shit. I turned the car around. I’m home drinking wine straight from the bottle and watching Neil deGrasse Tyson destroy some orange republican on Real Time.

I can’t decide if I’m gonna go back out. We’ll see if this Sauvignon Blanc turns me brave or stupid.

Nothing counts on leap day.

What are you gonna do?

Deconstruction Of The Image

vag

This may be a campaign about HIV/AIDS awareness, but that’s no excuse. This is blatant misogyny, really sinister stuff that conveys a much more profound message about the female body.

Take another look at it. She’s got a killer smile, but still, you can’t see her eyes. The model is cropped so that she’s essentially headless. What makes her human is gone. What makes her a woman is on display. That’s a very deliberate creative choice.

She is an object to be fucked without a brain or an identity. Worse still, her vagina is a fully indexed destination on a Google map. The visual metaphor is so potent (and porn is so ubiquitous) that this image is more jarring than one in which she shows us her actual pussy.

It’s not about the fact that she’s had sex with Bill Johnson and 19 others. Who gives a fuck? What’s toxic is the idea that they checked into her vagina on Foursquare. What it’s saying is that her private parts aren’t private at all. They’re public. That’s the implicit message in this image, and it’s degrading.

It’s not slut-shaming so much as it’s female-shaming, and it reinforces the age-old cultural narrative that women’s bodies aren’t their own.

(Now, having said all that, I should add that I’m not the least bit offended by this image. My sensibilities aren’t that fucking delicate. I’m not over here clutching my pearls or burning my bra. Like I said, who gives a fuck?

The point here is the deconstruction of the image itself. Agree. Disagree. It doesn’t matter. In a media driven culture, what’s important is making the implicit message explicit.)

 

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