End The War On Drugs

Supreme Court orders California to release tens of thousands of prison inmates

Here’s an idea. Just release everyone convicted of a non-violent drug offense. Boom. Done. No more prison overcrowding.

While we’re at it, how about we just end the war on drugs? We could take all those billions we were wasting and re-build our infrastructure and education systems.

Oh, wait. I forgot. Without the drug war and the prison industrial complex, we won’t have a way to institutionally enslave all those scary dark skinned people.




Canadian parents refuse to reveal baby’s gender

I love this news item, mainly because I have a tendency to call babies “it,” as in “What’s its name?” That doesn’t tend to go over very well at high school reunions. Some bitch I haven’t seen since cheerleading camp gets all huffy and replies, “She’s a girl, and her name is Madison.” And I’m all like, “Whatever. It’s a human larva strapped to a sack of its own shit.” And she’s all like, “Excuse me? Would you mind putting out that cigarette around my baby?” And I’m all like, “Would you mind not bringing your baby to a fucking bar?” And she’s all like, “It’s a restaurant.” And I’m all like, “I’ll bet you this Jack and Coke I’m drinking that it’s a goddamned bar.” And then the bartender says, “M’am, I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in the bar.” And I’m all like, “Why, because of the baby?” And he’s all like, “No, the city passed a law banning smoking in establishments that also serve food.” And the bitch is like, “I told you it’s a restaurant.” And I’m all like, “Mark Twain would have something clever to say about this.”

So yeah, I have a tendency to call babies “it.”


Who’s Ordie?

Tonight I caught the wife of a guy from my distant past drunkenly squinting at the back of a coin that turned out to be a New Hampshire quarter.

“Live free, Ordie?” she asked. “Who’s Ordie?”

I took a deep breath and said, “It’s live free or die.”

Everyone laughed, but for some reason, it made me incredibly sad. Later I drove home with all the windows down while blasting this song.




“Thought I’d send you this picture I snapped yesterday before my college graduation. I proudly rocked my CT bracelet — and some flair to the traditional cap and gown— while walking across the stage to snag my diploma.

Thinking about it now, it’s quite fitting I chose yesterday to wear my CT bracelet because consciously or not, I’ve lived the last four years doing what I assume you’d do. I’ve made some bad choices, some good choices and some REALLY good choices. I’ve expanded my brain educationally and psychotropic-ally. But most importantly I’ve done it all with a shit ton of style and class. And I did it damn well.

If there’s any day to be immodest, I think today’s my free pass.

Thanks for everything, CT. I’ve enjoyed the trip and look forward to many more xx”


Fucking hell, I love my fans.


Coke Talk of the Day

Last week was fashion week. This week is market week. Naturally, this is the time I pick to open my online boutique. I’m frazzled bananas over here, but fuck it. I’m having a blast.

I stayed up late last night prepping the first round of whore talk orders when I probably should have been doing other work. Whatever. I was having way too much fun adding little treats to everyone’s envelope.

I’m gonna go to the post office for the first round of shipments tomorrow, so if you wanna potentially get your stuff this week, today is the day to order some shit. Oh, and to all you crazy fuckers who ordered entire sets of jewelry, you’re amazing. I’m sending you along a special thank you.

Dead Hooker



Look at this ridiculousness.

A crazy bitch just showed me this pic she snapped on her recent trip to San Francisco. She was headed back to her hotel room when she stumbled across this scene straight out of a Jersey Shore remake of The Shining.

Apparently, you can always count on finding dead hookers in the hallway on the night of a Kesha concert. Hilarious. This unfortunate whore was shoeless, dress hiked up past her snatch, with the contents of her purse dumped on top of her.

I post this picture as a warning to all you tacky-as-fuck Kesha loving amateurs who think you can rage past your bedtime. Seriously, bitches. Do us all a favor and leave the hardcore shit to the professionals.

* Oh my god, you fucking morons. “Dead hooker” is just a figure of speech
for trashy whores who pass out in inappropriate places because they can’t handle their liquor. She’s not really dead, although the next morning I’m sure she wished she was. Please stop writing in so I can stop facepalming myself.





“It’s not plastic surgery. I had corrective jaw surgery. Yes, it improved the way I look, but this surgery was necessary for medical reasons…so my jaw and teeth could properly realign…I don’t obsess over my face. I am absolutely thrilled with the results. I look older, more mature and don’t have as much of a chubby little baby face. I wouldn’t get plastic surgery unless I got in an accident or something terrible and got disfigured.”

— Bristol Palin

Bitch, please. You had some work done. Fine, whatever. I wouldn’t give two fucks if you weren’t denying the blatantly obvious, but you’re pissing all over me and telling me it’s raining.

Chipmunk cheeks do not count as a medical reason, and last time I checked, an elective procedure to correct your jaw alignment pretty much fits the textbook definition of plastic fucking surgery.

Good for you. You’re starting to brush up against Heidi Montag territory, but hey, whatever makes you happy. Just spare us the bullshit next time you go under the knife and ignore the post-surgery talking points from your cunt mother’s public relations team.


Coke Talk of the Day

Remember when I told everyone to deactivate their Facebook accounts? Fuck, that was a wonderful idea. Lemme tell you, that turned out to be one of the best decisions I’ve made since moving to LA.

Toward the end of my days dancing with Zuckerberg’s blue and white monster, my account was a vast collection of exes, one night stands, and random people from my distant past with whom I shared nothing but a hometown or an alma mater. Sure, my inner circle was there too, but I never needed Facebook to keep up with them. In fact, when it came to my actual friends, I only needed to check in occasionally to untag myself from otherwise compromising photos.

It was all a big chore, really — a gigantic time-suck that required constant scandal pruning once family members and potential employers joined up and started poking around. It’s been a few months now, and I can’t tell you how much better I feel with Facebook out of my life. It is downright fucking glorious to not have a clue what’s going on in the worlds of several hundred people who are not and never were anything close to “friends.”

Right now, I have no idea whether some girl I went to high school with is pregnant again. I have no idea what some random dude I fucked at Coachella did for Mother’s Day. Best of all, I have no idea whether my batshit ex-boyfriend ever made partner at that law firm. I love not knowing.

Trust me, people. Ignorance really is bliss.

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