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


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.)


Coke Talk Of The Day

I’m angry today. I need some power yoga and a steak and an orgasm. Would it be too much to attempt all three at once? Probably. That would require considerable logistics, or at the very least a dude with a clean kitchen floor. Fuck it. I’ll take ‘em as they come.




Somewhere on Hollywood Boulevard at this very moment there is a segment producer for E! Entertainment Television who I’d like to buy a drink.

Just look at this shot. It’s a tiny little work of art.

I guarantee that the only creative decision this particular producer got to make all week was which direction to point the camera, and what did he choose? A massive chain link fence separating the hypnotized, unwashed masses.

It could have been just another filler segment featuring tuxedos and fake smiles, but no. Suddenly, it’s a smirking political statement. Those two douche canoes weren’t just yammering about Gerard Butler coming out of rehab. They were posing in a visual metaphor for America’s invisible caste system.

Yes, it’s deliberate, and that subversive motherfucker got away with it because no one in the broadcast truck either noticed or cared.


Coke Talk of the Day

Where did the anonymous masses aim all their misdirected rage before the internet had a comments section? Honestly, where did all that negative energy go before we installed a digital lint trap in the zeitgeist? Was it released into our daily lives through a billion other angry and ignorant gestures?

I want to believe that the sum total of physical and emotional trauma out there in the world has somehow been softened by the fact that people get to convert all that poison into harmless threads of online afterthought.

Not by much, maybe just a notch or two.

Still, that counts for something.

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