June 26, 2014   175 notes
That’s right ladies, it’s all about positive thinking. Dream it, envision it, chant it over a fire where you burn fistfuls of his pubic hair- you have to manifest it! Seize that day, give it a shoulder length hair cut and outfit it with a new attitude!

We here at “Let’s Make Money Off the Fact that You’re Single and Feeling Adventurous” want to capitalize on your thinly veiled loneliness. We make posters that encourage single girls to get out there and really shake things up, make some moves, do things that, in a sequel to Under the Tuscan Sun would totally be plausible but, in reality, are really expensive and unsafe.  Move to another country! Take up a new language! Sleep with an uncircumcised European!
We have a variety of posters for the average girl who just needs that special pick me up after, being cheated on, broken up with or had to deal with the annoyance of an unreturned text. 
Stop Waiting For Friday: That’s right girls, you’re stressed and depressed, which means work obligations and other people’s expectations from you can wait. It’s Tuesday at 11am and you’re taking a staycation. You’re gonna cut out of work early, screw all those insensitive coworkers at Air Traffic Control, they can land those 500 planes themselves, you need some me time! Head home, give yourself a pedicure and enjoy a yogurt that regulates your digestive track. Then you’re gonna eat some Special K: CHOCOLATE THUNDER FUCK, watch Failure to Launch then take a massive dump. Sometimes a girl has just got to get away.

Stop Waiting For Summer: We are all about empowering women to make their own decisions and march to the beat of their own drum. You don’t need to wait for summer to break out that bathing suit. Go ahead girl, throw on that bikini and head outside in a Michigan November. Freeze your tits off, you don’t need a man!  ICE NIPPLES, FUCK YEAH!

For Someone To Fall In Love With You:
You don’t have to wait for someone to fall in love with you in order to love them! That’s stalker rule #1. Don’t worry if he doesn’t love you now, or even knows you exist, he will. Once he sees how much you love him, once he sees your devotion to him, once he sees how you broke in and rearranged his furniture while he was out of town! He will love you! All you have to do is get his attention! All you have to do is flirt with him! All you have to do is kill his wife!
 It’s gonna be so easy. You’ll take the night shift at your side hustle, Winchell’s. You’ll cut out of work a little early, telling them you’re gong to the bank to deposit the evenings’ cash, you’ve done this before, Houman won’t suspect a thing. You’ll speed to the bank, earning yourself as much free time as possible. It will be 5:30am when you leave the donut shop, so you can make it to the bank and be done by 5:45, you’re normally home at 6:30, so you only have 45 minutes to get to Garry’s house and kill his wife in her sleep. Ugh, time crunch!
You’ll take Fountain, even though there’s no traffic, it’ll save you a little time and you’re gonna need every extra second in case she puts up a fight. What’s her name again? Shondra? Ugh, she so would put up a fight for her life with a name like that, right?
She left the back door open, perfect. You sneak in. You’re wearing gloves because, remember, you don’t wait for summer and you sure as hell don’t wait for winter, so, even in August, you were already wearing them. They live in a one level house, thank God because you did cardio at the gym this morning and Carrie really worked you guys, your quads are killing you, thank GOD you don’t have to climb stairs. You navigate your way to the master bedroom. There she is, sleeping, ugh, in what should be your bed. What’s that on the arm chair? Stuffed animals? Ugh, Gary married a child, he needs a woman, he needs you. “HE NEEDS MEEEH!” you bleat out like a rabid sheep into the night. “HE NEEDS MEEEEEHHHHHH!” you shriek as you throw yourself atop of Shondra’s sleeping body. She startles awake, ready for action. Little Miss perfect, always prepared, typical Shondra. You wrestle, it’s super awkward for Shondra because she is only in a t shirt so her vagina is like, all over the place. Super gross, have some respect for yourself, Shondra.
You’ve surprise attacked her so you have the immediate advantage as you wrap your gloved hands around her neck. If this were a movie, she’d feel for a blunt object on a nearby nigh stand and bludgeon you with it. But this isn’t a movie, this is real life and in real life, no one keeps dense objects by the bed. I mean, maybe an alarm clock but like, for example, I have like a water bottle and some glasses for TV watching, that’s it. Shondra reaches for anything but all she comes in contact with are a stack of papers, she bats at you with them, you remain undeterred in your murderous endeavors. You press your fingers deeper and deeper into her throat, you can feel your palms pressing up against her larynx, each sound, each breath, vibrating against your skin. It’s not enough to cut off Shondra’s air supply, you want to expedite the killing by simultaneously crushing her wind pipe as you cut off the oxygen.  She claws at your hands, your fleece protected, Gortex covered hands. She makes every attempt to move, flailing her legs wildly, her vagina flapping in the night air. As you choke her, you can’t help but start to smile. With every breath she selfishly gasps for, you can feel yourself growing closer to Garry. Just a few… More… Gasps. It’s as if Garry is behind you, caressing you, urging you to finish. You must kill her, it’s the only way you and Garry can be together. Even in dying Shondra is trying to keep you from him. You bear down, putting all of your weight on her throat. You lower your face to hers, eye to eye because nothing would make Garry happier than to know you watched the life slip out of her annoying brown eyes. You open your mouth and let out a slow and noxious puff of guttural coffee breath, right in her face. Why? Because it’s… Super gross.
You look down, there are red finger marks speckling Shondra’s neck as she lies there, dead. Her eyes glazed over staring out at nothing. Nothing behind them, no intentions, no thoughts, not even the dimmest flicker of light. You’ve killed her. Garry will be so proud when he discovers her body and truly feels your love for him. Then he will know. Then everyone will know. You check the clock, 6:23. It’s perfect. 2 times 3 is 6. 6 times 6 is 36. 6 divided by 3 is 2. 2. Like a couple. You and Garry. The math is clearly written in the stars. You crawl off of Shondra’s lifeless body, her vagina is still out, you cover it up, you don’t need to be reminded of Garry’s ex. Today’s monday. Garry won’t be back from his business trip till friday. You could have done it later in the week but you’ve stopped waiting for friday.

That’s right ladies, it’s all about positive thinking. Dream it, envision it, chant it over a fire where you burn fistfuls of his pubic hair- you have to manifest it! Seize that day, give it a shoulder length hair cut and outfit it with a new attitude!

We here at “Let’s Make Money Off the Fact that You’re Single and Feeling Adventurous” want to capitalize on your thinly veiled loneliness. We make posters that encourage single girls to get out there and really shake things up, make some moves, do things that, in a sequel to Under the Tuscan Sun would totally be plausible but, in reality, are really expensive and unsafe.  Move to another country! Take up a new language! Sleep with an uncircumcised European!
We have a variety of posters for the average girl who just needs that special pick me up after, being cheated on, broken up with or had to deal with the annoyance of an unreturned text. 
Stop Waiting For Friday: That’s right girls, you’re stressed and depressed, which means work obligations and other people’s expectations from you can wait. It’s Tuesday at 11am and you’re taking a staycation. You’re gonna cut out of work early, screw all those insensitive coworkers at Air Traffic Control, they can land those 500 planes themselves, you need some me time! Head home, give yourself a pedicure and enjoy a yogurt that regulates your digestive track. Then you’re gonna eat some Special K: CHOCOLATE THUNDER FUCK, watch Failure to Launch then take a massive dump. Sometimes a girl has just got to get away.
Stop Waiting For Summer: We are all about empowering women to make their own decisions and march to the beat of their own drum. You don’t need to wait for summer to break out that bathing suit. Go ahead girl, throw on that bikini and head outside in a Michigan November. Freeze your tits off, you don’t need a man!  ICE NIPPLES, FUCK YEAH!
For Someone To Fall In Love With You:
You don’t have to wait for someone to fall in love with you in order to love them! That’s stalker rule #1. Don’t worry if he doesn’t love you now, or even knows you exist, he will. Once he sees how much you love him, once he sees your devotion to him, once he sees how you broke in and rearranged his furniture while he was out of town! He will love you! All you have to do is get his attention! All you have to do is flirt with him! All you have to do is kill his wife!
 It’s gonna be so easy. You’ll take the night shift at your side hustle, Winchell’s. You’ll cut out of work a little early, telling them you’re gong to the bank to deposit the evenings’ cash, you’ve done this before, Houman won’t suspect a thing. You’ll speed to the bank, earning yourself as much free time as possible. It will be 5:30am when you leave the donut shop, so you can make it to the bank and be done by 5:45, you’re normally home at 6:30, so you only have 45 minutes to get to Garry’s house and kill his wife in her sleep. Ugh, time crunch!
You’ll take Fountain, even though there’s no traffic, it’ll save you a little time and you’re gonna need every extra second in case she puts up a fight. What’s her name again? Shondra? Ugh, she so would put up a fight for her life with a name like that, right?
She left the back door open, perfect. You sneak in. You’re wearing gloves because, remember, you don’t wait for summer and you sure as hell don’t wait for winter, so, even in August, you were already wearing them. They live in a one level house, thank God because you did cardio at the gym this morning and Carrie really worked you guys, your quads are killing you, thank GOD you don’t have to climb stairs. You navigate your way to the master bedroom. There she is, sleeping, ugh, in what should be your bed. What’s that on the arm chair? Stuffed animals? Ugh, Gary married a child, he needs a woman, he needs you. “HE NEEDS MEEEH!” you bleat out like a rabid sheep into the night. “HE NEEDS MEEEEEHHHHHH!” you shriek as you throw yourself atop of Shondra’s sleeping body. She startles awake, ready for action. Little Miss perfect, always prepared, typical Shondra. You wrestle, it’s super awkward for Shondra because she is only in a t shirt so her vagina is like, all over the place. Super gross, have some respect for yourself, Shondra.
You’ve surprise attacked her so you have the immediate advantage as you wrap your gloved hands around her neck. If this were a movie, she’d feel for a blunt object on a nearby nigh stand and bludgeon you with it. But this isn’t a movie, this is real life and in real life, no one keeps dense objects by the bed. I mean, maybe an alarm clock but like, for example, I have like a water bottle and some glasses for TV watching, that’s it. Shondra reaches for anything but all she comes in contact with are a stack of papers, she bats at you with them, you remain undeterred in your murderous endeavors. You press your fingers deeper and deeper into her throat, you can feel your palms pressing up against her larynx, each sound, each breath, vibrating against your skin. It’s not enough to cut off Shondra’s air supply, you want to expedite the killing by simultaneously crushing her wind pipe as you cut off the oxygen.  She claws at your hands, your fleece protected, Gortex covered hands. She makes every attempt to move, flailing her legs wildly, her vagina flapping in the night air. As you choke her, you can’t help but start to smile. With every breath she selfishly gasps for, you can feel yourself growing closer to Garry. Just a few… More… Gasps. It’s as if Garry is behind you, caressing you, urging you to finish. You must kill her, it’s the only way you and Garry can be together. Even in dying Shondra is trying to keep you from him. You bear down, putting all of your weight on her throat. You lower your face to hers, eye to eye because nothing would make Garry happier than to know you watched the life slip out of her annoying brown eyes. You open your mouth and let out a slow and noxious puff of guttural coffee breath, right in her face. Why? Because it’s… Super gross.
You look down, there are red finger marks speckling Shondra’s neck as she lies there, dead. Her eyes glazed over staring out at nothing. Nothing behind them, no intentions, no thoughts, not even the dimmest flicker of light. You’ve killed her. Garry will be so proud when he discovers her body and truly feels your love for him. Then he will know. Then everyone will know. You check the clock, 6:23. It’s perfect. 2 times 3 is 6. 6 times 6 is 36. 6 divided by 3 is 2. 2. Like a couple. You and Garry. The math is clearly written in the stars. You crawl off of Shondra’s lifeless body, her vagina is still out, you cover it up, you don’t need to be reminded of Garry’s ex. Today’s monday. Garry won’t be back from his business trip till friday. You could have done it later in the week but you’ve stopped waiting for friday.

April 11, 2014   22 notes
WANTED: MALES 18-24 FOR MODELING SHOOT

So when your boy CizzCa$sh (he’s white) called and said they wanted to do a shoot about Baltimore’s emerging hipster scene for Slizz  (a tastemaker glossy art/lifestyle mag that describes itself as “If Vice had a younger illiterate sister who worked at a gas station and had a Money ova Errythang tattoo un ironically…yet costed 14 euros an issue.”)- it wasn’t hard to get some “emerging” artists to pose.

Somewhere between the flavor of local neighborhood degenerates and the perfect white trash bone structure that enables total garbage to be actual models lies these guys. 
High school graduates posing in $200 hoodies. 
5 men with one ambition “to make dope beats” that is, if life doesn’t get in the way. And by life I mean accidentally getting their girlfriends pregnant, getting a DUI or getting beaten up by Mac Miller’s body guard. Finally, the late 90’s born youth of America has something financial to substantiate their cries of “See, told ya hanging’ around at the skate park would lead to something.”

This is the crew! Together they are “Aphaluphagus” but, of course, they each have their side projects and deals.
Starting on the left “SideAfx” he came up through the Tulsa EDM scene. Haven’t heard of the Tulsa EDM scene? That’s because he WAS the Tulsa EDM scene. Just him…and an 808.

In the Jesus jersey we have… “Jesus Jersey”- his whole schtick is that he wears shirts with Jesus on them, because Jesus is hilarious, right guys? That well hasn’t run dry AT ALL. 
In the blue we have “Juan Ton” the half Chinese half Mexican mixing board master  who is trying DESPERATELY to mix in Reggaeton with ambient forrest noises and make it a thing. 
Far right we have “I’m Fucking Horrible” with his punk ass Jason Mews doppleganger look. This guy fell out of casting call for Welcome to the Dollhouse II: The Rape Scenes and if not for his marginal abilities to promote his local trance scene through the illegal purchasing and distributing of Xanax, he would 100% work in a warehouse or be in jail. Buuuut through the power of music and his generation’s desire to reject anything decent and go above and beyond to recruit and accept all things mediocre, he has a career and a side project with “A$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$” an all clarinet Ghost House jazz quartet who does’t play music, they just phonetically write the sounds down on paper and then fax them to a local Wendy’s. 
Sitting down is Tyler who stole the top half of my Aunt Shirley’s warm up suit from 1992. He’s the last one to come up through this crew and signed a record deal with Kendrick Lamar’s…half black half Yiddish cousin, Schmendrick Lamar. 
Every single one of these guys reeks of pot and B.O.


I just wanna come out and say, like, my generation? Is the worst. I’m so sorry. You could look at our parents and say “well they looked just as goofy in bell bottoms and hippie clothes with long hair”- the difference is our parents stood for something substantial… Eventually. Yeah, maybe at first it was about pot and drugs and free love, but eventually your dad packed up his VW wagon, moved to San Francisco, got a job writing for a paper, met your mom, had you and then he was normal. That’s not happening for most of my generation who will be 19 until their 90 and still won’t have signed up for Obamacare (It’s FREE you idiots, you voted for the guy because of it! Oh, you didn’t vote at all? You just wore a $300 t shirt with his name on it? Word.)

Silly rap names are a part of societal reparations. Because we haven’t made things right in our society and there is still a huge socio economic difference between black and white, part of what rappers get to do is get super stoned and come up with ridiculous names for themselves and then demand they be addressed as such. Gucci…Mane? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re first name is Gucci. Because you want people to know that you’ve made so much money that you can afford nice leather bags. (You’re black from Alabama. No one is thinking you have Mafia ties. Remember the last black guy to work with the Mob? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBEZaGyExBU)
But who’s gonna challenge it? Challenge it and what? Look racist? No way. Wocka Flocka Flame. You are a grown man and you want a name that rhymes? As it is you’re gonna get made fun of if your name is Ronald McDonald, but Wocka fucking Flocka Flame? That’s a name to be revered and feared. “Here’s your table, Mr. Flocka Flame.”
Before Two Chainz was Two Chainz, he went by Tity Boi (Titty isn’t even spelled right! And I’m positive it was unintentional) because the theme in hip hop is getting white people to say your silly name and respect you for it. Even the smart rappers, the businessmen, the smart ones dip into it. Diddy? You’re a father and you want people calling you Diddy. 
Two Chainz is a fucking joke. He’s horrible. But it’s our young society’s  bleeding heart and unrecognized white guilt that prompts us to accept him. The more ghetto, the more ridiculous the more fucking stupid, the more we yearn, neigh, CRAVE, to connect with it in an attempt to show everyone that we are color blind and are so fucking down with whatever because “we’re all the same” but we aren’t. There are two types of people in our society, dumb and smart- they come in all colors.  And I don’t wanna hear “Well, you’re talking about him, so he must be smart if you’re talking about him” fuck you, people still talk about Lizzy Borden but I don’t think part of her plan was to be a public figure 200 years later. He isn’t smart, it’s the team around him who are gonna make money loooong after he’s gone to jail for tax evasion, debt, drug possession or any of the other crimes no rapper ever has committed, that are smart. 
Any fleeting fame a non intelligent rapper attains is a calculated moment on behalf of their team and didn’t happen just through straight hustlin’.
People blow up from mistakes all the time. Just like Kim Kardashian’s fame, it was a lightning never strikes twice crazy moment where someone outside of her was like “I bet we could run with this” and if you expect me to believe she’s sitting at home reading Atlas Shrugged playing Risk with media outlet pieces, then you’re part of the problem. She had a humiliating sex tape that leaked and her blood sucking mother made something of it. If you think that kind fame that can be duplicated, show me another sex tape that came after hers that anyone gave a shit about. You can’t. Lightning only strikes once. Wish it would strike her. BUT I DIGRESS!

We’ve come up with this over saturated homogenous blend of misguided  hip hop runoff. You wanna like Lil Wayne? Good. The guy’s a fucking genius. And he gets a pass for “Tunchi” because his grandma used to call him that.  I can’t take your art seriously if you deliberately or unconsciously don’t take yourself seriously, as reflected in stupid sounding names.  This isn’t black or white- remember the Butthole Surfers? Fuck them too. Jokes on us because we have to say “Butthole” every time we talk about them. Two Chainz isn’t the first rapper to rap about big booty bitches and jewelry… he’s so fucking unoriginal it pains me. 
Donald Glover didn’t need to call himself “Donald Shmonald” to put out a great album. Childish Gambino was done tongue in cheek, I’m sure of it.  Future didn’t have to call himself “Time Traveling Space Man” to have a good album. 
Two Chainz won’t be around in 5 years. Belie-dat. Most rap songs, in general, are absolutely terrible but hey, someone smart put together a good beat behind the brilliant lyrics of “She got a big booty so I call her big booty” so if you need a song to burn calories to while you’re drunk dancing, then perfect. 
Yo, there are plenty of good rappers with silly names, I mean, Eminem isn’t exactly the coolest name ever, but he’s talented. As fuck. He grew up just as poor as any other rapper and I’ve never heard him once rap about designer clothes or jets. 50 Cent? Eh, it’s okay- but he gets by. Jay Z and Kanye West. Normal names (Well, Kanye isn’t a normal name but it’s his given name so it’s okay) and they are two of the most prolific rappers in the game. Just an opinion. Thanks for scrolling down and reading, unless you’re computer mouse is configured weird. then you didn’t scroll down. You scrolled up. Started from the bottom, now we’re here. 


All hoodies are like $400 and silk screened in the back of the store onto American Apparel material. 

WANTED: MALES 18-24 FOR MODELING SHOOT

So when your boy CizzCa$sh (he’s white) called and said they wanted to do a shoot about Baltimore’s emerging hipster scene for Slizz  (a tastemaker glossy art/lifestyle mag that describes itself as “If Vice had a younger illiterate sister who worked at a gas station and had a Money ova Errythang tattoo un ironically…yet costed 14 euros an issue.”)- it wasn’t hard to get some “emerging” artists to pose.

Somewhere between the flavor of local neighborhood degenerates and the perfect white trash bone structure that enables total garbage to be actual models lies these guys. 

High school graduates posing in $200 hoodies. 

5 men with one ambition “to make dope beats” that is, if life doesn’t get in the way. And by life I mean accidentally getting their girlfriends pregnant, getting a DUI or getting beaten up by Mac Miller’s body guard. Finally, the late 90’s born youth of America has something financial to substantiate their cries of “See, told ya hanging’ around at the skate park would lead to something.”

This is the crew! Together they are “Aphaluphagus” but, of course, they each have their side projects and deals.

Starting on the left “SideAfx” he came up through the Tulsa EDM scene. Haven’t heard of the Tulsa EDM scene? That’s because he WAS the Tulsa EDM scene. Just him…and an 808.

In the Jesus jersey we have… “Jesus Jersey”- his whole schtick is that he wears shirts with Jesus on them, because Jesus is hilarious, right guys? That well hasn’t run dry AT ALL. 

In the blue we have “Juan Ton” the half Chinese half Mexican mixing board master  who is trying DESPERATELY to mix in Reggaeton with ambient forrest noises and make it a thing. 

Far right we have “I’m Fucking Horrible” with his punk ass Jason Mews doppleganger look. This guy fell out of casting call for Welcome to the Dollhouse II: The Rape Scenes and if not for his marginal abilities to promote his local trance scene through the illegal purchasing and distributing of Xanax, he would 100% work in a warehouse or be in jail. Buuuut through the power of music and his generation’s desire to reject anything decent and go above and beyond to recruit and accept all things mediocre, he has a career and a side project with “A$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$” an all clarinet Ghost House jazz quartet who does’t play music, they just phonetically write the sounds down on paper and then fax them to a local Wendy’s. 

Sitting down is Tyler who stole the top half of my Aunt Shirley’s warm up suit from 1992. He’s the last one to come up through this crew and signed a record deal with Kendrick Lamar’s…half black half Yiddish cousin, Schmendrick Lamar. 

Every single one of these guys reeks of pot and B.O.

I just wanna come out and say, like, my generation? Is the worst. I’m so sorry. You could look at our parents and say “well they looked just as goofy in bell bottoms and hippie clothes with long hair”- the difference is our parents stood for something substantial… Eventually. Yeah, maybe at first it was about pot and drugs and free love, but eventually your dad packed up his VW wagon, moved to San Francisco, got a job writing for a paper, met your mom, had you and then he was normal. That’s not happening for most of my generation who will be 19 until their 90 and still won’t have signed up for Obamacare (It’s FREE you idiots, you voted for the guy because of it! Oh, you didn’t vote at all? You just wore a $300 t shirt with his name on it? Word.)

Silly rap names are a part of societal reparations. Because we haven’t made things right in our society and there is still a huge socio economic difference between black and white, part of what rappers get to do is get super stoned and come up with ridiculous names for themselves and then demand they be addressed as such. Gucci…Mane? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re first name is Gucci. Because you want people to know that you’ve made so much money that you can afford nice leather bags. (You’re black from Alabama. No one is thinking you have Mafia ties. Remember the last black guy to work with the Mob? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBEZaGyExBU)

But who’s gonna challenge it? Challenge it and what? Look racist? No way. Wocka Flocka Flame. You are a grown man and you want a name that rhymes? As it is you’re gonna get made fun of if your name is Ronald McDonald, but Wocka fucking Flocka Flame? That’s a name to be revered and feared. “Here’s your table, Mr. Flocka Flame.”

Before Two Chainz was Two Chainz, he went by Tity Boi (Titty isn’t even spelled right! And I’m positive it was unintentional) because the theme in hip hop is getting white people to say your silly name and respect you for it. Even the smart rappers, the businessmen, the smart ones dip into it. Diddy? You’re a father and you want people calling you Diddy. 

Two Chainz is a fucking joke. He’s horrible. But it’s our young society’s  bleeding heart and unrecognized white guilt that prompts us to accept him. The more ghetto, the more ridiculous the more fucking stupid, the more we yearn, neigh, CRAVE, to connect with it in an attempt to show everyone that we are color blind and are so fucking down with whatever because “we’re all the same” but we aren’t. There are two types of people in our society, dumb and smart- they come in all colors.  And I don’t wanna hear “Well, you’re talking about him, so he must be smart if you’re talking about him” fuck you, people still talk about Lizzy Borden but I don’t think part of her plan was to be a public figure 200 years later. He isn’t smart, it’s the team around him who are gonna make money loooong after he’s gone to jail for tax evasion, debt, drug possession or any of the other crimes no rapper ever has committed, that are smart. 

Any fleeting fame a non intelligent rapper attains is a calculated moment on behalf of their team and didn’t happen just through straight hustlin’.

People blow up from mistakes all the time. Just like Kim Kardashian’s fame, it was a lightning never strikes twice crazy moment where someone outside of her was like “I bet we could run with this” and if you expect me to believe she’s sitting at home reading Atlas Shrugged playing Risk with media outlet pieces, then you’re part of the problem. She had a humiliating sex tape that leaked and her blood sucking mother made something of it. If you think that kind fame that can be duplicated, show me another sex tape that came after hers that anyone gave a shit about. You can’t. Lightning only strikes once. Wish it would strike her. BUT I DIGRESS!

We’ve come up with this over saturated homogenous blend of misguided  hip hop runoff. You wanna like Lil Wayne? Good. The guy’s a fucking genius. And he gets a pass for “Tunchi” because his grandma used to call him that.  I can’t take your art seriously if you deliberately or unconsciously don’t take yourself seriously, as reflected in stupid sounding names.  This isn’t black or white- remember the Butthole Surfers? Fuck them too. Jokes on us because we have to say “Butthole” every time we talk about them. Two Chainz isn’t the first rapper to rap about big booty bitches and jewelry… he’s so fucking unoriginal it pains me. 

Donald Glover didn’t need to call himself “Donald Shmonald” to put out a great album. Childish Gambino was done tongue in cheek, I’m sure of it.  Future didn’t have to call himself “Time Traveling Space Man” to have a good album. 

Two Chainz won’t be around in 5 years. Belie-dat. Most rap songs, in general, are absolutely terrible but hey, someone smart put together a good beat behind the brilliant lyrics of “She got a big booty so I call her big booty” so if you need a song to burn calories to while you’re drunk dancing, then perfect. 

Yo, there are plenty of good rappers with silly names, I mean, Eminem isn’t exactly the coolest name ever, but he’s talented. As fuck. He grew up just as poor as any other rapper and I’ve never heard him once rap about designer clothes or jets. 50 Cent? Eh, it’s okay- but he gets by. Jay Z and Kanye West. Normal names (Well, Kanye isn’t a normal name but it’s his given name so it’s okay) and they are two of the most prolific rappers in the game. Just an opinion. Thanks for scrolling down and reading, unless you’re computer mouse is configured weird. then you didn’t scroll down. You scrolled up. Started from the bottom, now we’re here. 

All hoodies are like $400 and silk screened in the back of the store onto American Apparel material. 

April 1, 2014   15 notes
People don’t like Toms because they are ugly. 
Ugly and a juuuuust a little self congratulatory. They’re for snobby hippies and hipsters. Sorry. They are. Make a difference in a child’s life, you don’t need to advertise that you did that every time you step out to get a French press. 
There is nothing wrong with a company on a mission, just no idea why we have to wear the ugliest shoes EVER to participate in this mission. They have people’s feet looking like they’re in ninja bandages. 
Kids in Africa need shoes, for sure. But that’s the point, kids in Africa NEED shoes. People in America HAVE shoes and shouldn’t  have to be shoe twins with those kids to show that they’ve contributed to the cause. 
That would be like every time you donated canned goods to the homeless you too had to eat green beans and pumpkin pie filling for dinner that night. What? Don’t tell me you don’t donate the cans in the back of your cupboard.
What should happen is shoe companies like Nike should say “you buy a pair of our made in a 3rd world country already, 5X mark up shoes and we will donate a pair of Nikes to the kids who made your Nikes. Given a choice between Nikes and Toms, the kids would take Nikes. Why? Because Tom’s are ugly. Would you rather a Hershey Bar or Dr. Naturefart’s Carob Chews? Hmmmm….
We get it Toms, it’s about the mission- you can dress up your shoes with fun prints and glitter all you want. Neon fabric? Sure. Fact is, most of your shoes are made of hemp and no one is excited about hemp except hippies and 6th graders when they discover it’s related to pot.
There’s never been a sexy dress made of hemp. Never been a sought after couture gown made of hemp. Nothing made of hemp has ever garnered the response  ”wow, gorgeous.” No,  it’s always “wow, that’s made of hemp? Crazy. It’s how much?! $90? For a tank top? NO way, sorry.”

Let’s talk about who’s gonna buy these. 
YOU! Who are you? 
You’re vegan. That’s a given. To your credit you aren’t vegan because you’re a model, no way. You aren’t pretty. You’re 38 and look about 50 because you won’t color your hair and insist on eating all organic and everything being natural and, despite your efforts to be healthy, you look horrible. One too many charcoal pills? Maybe. Or not enough Vitamin Quar. Could be that or the Phyto-Ultra B-liquid capsules. Or too much Yam extract? Or not enough Liptar 7 in your diet. Or the Red Algea or the Fish oil or the Bunny poop.
You rail against societal standards placed on modern women. You haven’t worn a bra in years so, even though you’re only an A cup… it’s more of a snow cone cone than a “cup”, you wear no make up and your house is stocked exclusively with Dr. Bronner’s soap products. Maybe for a special occasion you’ll use Aveeno.
You have curly hair which you insist on wearing scrunched and natural. Your friends have begged you to let them straighten it JUST ONCE but no, you insist on wearing it like a God damned research assistant in 1987; half up half down with a, ugh, barrett. All of your clothes come from a store on Main St. in Santa Monica called “Mountain Womb-an” (it’s a play on the word womb and woman). Basically all the clothes are flowy, breatheable and made for female anthropology professors over 60, but you enjoy the wide legged pants and broom skirts… Ooo and chunky African art necklaces!
You drive a ‘95 Volvo. It’s filthy. It’s weird because you live in an expensive area and buy expensive things like shea butter and soy thoughts but your house is kinda dirty and “hippy”- you brush it off by saying “the dust is natural” but it’s super gross. There are used tea bags EVERYWHERE. (You also have one or two Gazing Globes in your yard.)

You’re a vegan because you believe that MonSanto and their edible army of GMOs is taking over our country one bite at a time. You wrote about it in your thesis. No, not your grad school one, the one you wrote after grad school, the second grad school, when you were getting your Phd, after your masters…You’ve never had a real job. 
You married older. Elvin, a 65 year old Swedish expat professor. He loves you. You talk a lot about “theory” whether it be political, social or environmental- whatever, as long as you get to check out of the immediate world around you (that being Los Angeles) then you’re fine. You spend your time attending openings of small banana republics’ cultural centers in odd cities (You and Elvin gave $500 to the Guatamalan Arts Center of Whittier, it’s not tax deductible because… It’s stupid), your friends from the co-op’s self published book readings and NOT WATCHING TV BECAUSE YOU DON’T OWN A TV (“Does Oprah still have that show?”) At 45 you home birthed your one and only son, Thorn (you wanted him to have a traditional Swedish (sounding) name). He’s 3 and way to adorable to have been water birthed in a tub but, he’s yours. 
And you own these sandals. 

If ever there were a series of words that didn’t belong together, they’re showcased here in the naming of this shoe. 

TOM’S Neon Trim Burlap Vegan Women’s Sandal.

$55 

People don’t like Toms because they are ugly. 

Ugly and a juuuuust a little self congratulatory. They’re for snobby hippies and hipsters. Sorry. They are. Make a difference in a child’s life, you don’t need to advertise that you did that every time you step out to get a French press. 
There is nothing wrong with a company on a mission, just no idea why we have to wear the ugliest shoes EVER to participate in this mission. They have people’s feet looking like they’re in ninja bandages. 
Kids in Africa need shoes, for sure. But that’s the point, kids in Africa NEED shoes. People in America HAVE shoes and shouldn’t  have to be shoe twins with those kids to show that they’ve contributed to the cause. 
That would be like every time you donated canned goods to the homeless you too had to eat green beans and pumpkin pie filling for dinner that night. What? Don’t tell me you don’t donate the cans in the back of your cupboard.
What should happen is shoe companies like Nike should say “you buy a pair of our made in a 3rd world country already, 5X mark up shoes and we will donate a pair of Nikes to the kids who made your Nikes. Given a choice between Nikes and Toms, the kids would take Nikes. Why? Because Tom’s are ugly. Would you rather a Hershey Bar or Dr. Naturefart’s Carob Chews? Hmmmm….
We get it Toms, it’s about the mission- you can dress up your shoes with fun prints and glitter all you want. Neon fabric? Sure. Fact is, most of your shoes are made of hemp and no one is excited about hemp except hippies and 6th graders when they discover it’s related to pot.
There’s never been a sexy dress made of hemp. Never been a sought after couture gown made of hemp. Nothing made of hemp has ever garnered the response  ”wow, gorgeous.” No,  it’s always “wow, that’s made of hemp? Crazy. It’s how much?! $90? For a tank top? NO way, sorry.”
Let’s talk about who’s gonna buy these. 
YOU! Who are you? 
You’re vegan. That’s a given. To your credit you aren’t vegan because you’re a model, no way. You aren’t pretty. You’re 38 and look about 50 because you won’t color your hair and insist on eating all organic and everything being natural and, despite your efforts to be healthy, you look horrible. One too many charcoal pills? Maybe. Or not enough Vitamin Quar. Could be that or the Phyto-Ultra B-liquid capsules. Or too much Yam extract? Or not enough Liptar 7 in your diet. Or the Red Algea or the Fish oil or the Bunny poop.
You rail against societal standards placed on modern women. You haven’t worn a bra in years so, even though you’re only an A cup… it’s more of a snow cone cone than a “cup”, you wear no make up and your house is stocked exclusively with Dr. Bronner’s soap products. Maybe for a special occasion you’ll use Aveeno.
You have curly hair which you insist on wearing scrunched and natural. Your friends have begged you to let them straighten it JUST ONCE but no, you insist on wearing it like a God damned research assistant in 1987; half up half down with a, ugh, barrett. All of your clothes come from a store on Main St. in Santa Monica called “Mountain Womb-an” (it’s a play on the word womb and woman). Basically all the clothes are flowy, breatheable and made for female anthropology professors over 60, but you enjoy the wide legged pants and broom skirts… Ooo and chunky African art necklaces!
You drive a ‘95 Volvo. It’s filthy. It’s weird because you live in an expensive area and buy expensive things like shea butter and soy thoughts but your house is kinda dirty and “hippy”- you brush it off by saying “the dust is natural” but it’s super gross. There are used tea bags EVERYWHERE. (You also have one or two Gazing Globes in your yard.)
You’re a vegan because you believe that MonSanto and their edible army of GMOs is taking over our country one bite at a time. You wrote about it in your thesis. No, not your grad school one, the one you wrote after grad school, the second grad school, when you were getting your Phd, after your masters…You’ve never had a real job. 
You married older. Elvin, a 65 year old Swedish expat professor. He loves you. You talk a lot about “theory” whether it be political, social or environmental- whatever, as long as you get to check out of the immediate world around you (that being Los Angeles) then you’re fine. You spend your time attending openings of small banana republics’ cultural centers in odd cities (You and Elvin gave $500 to the Guatamalan Arts Center of Whittier, it’s not tax deductible because… It’s stupid), your friends from the co-op’s self published book readings and NOT WATCHING TV BECAUSE YOU DON’T OWN A TV (“Does Oprah still have that show?”) At 45 you home birthed your one and only son, Thorn (you wanted him to have a traditional Swedish (sounding) name). He’s 3 and way to adorable to have been water birthed in a tub but, he’s yours. 
And you own these sandals. 
If ever there were a series of words that didn’t belong together, they’re showcased here in the naming of this shoe. 
TOM’S Neon Trim Burlap Vegan Women’s Sandal.
$55 

April 1, 2014   54 notes
Yes, let everyone know that your vagina is akin to that of a bat home.
Ignoring the implied conclusion set forth by this trademark infringing onesie, you are telling us that your vagina is a cavernous and dark place where winged rodents sleep and bugs live.
$12 on Etsy

Yes, let everyone know that your vagina is akin to that of a bat home.

Ignoring the implied conclusion set forth by this trademark infringing onesie, you are telling us that your vagina is a cavernous and dark place where winged rodents sleep and bugs live.

$12 on Etsy

March 23, 2014   21 notes
Want to plan the perfect murder but lack the constitution to physically kill someone?
Let Aqua Glide help you plan the mass aquatic murder of up to 7 of your closest gay male friends. Simply inflate Aqua Glide in the water, off shore enough that if a witness claimed she heard a scream, it could be chalked up to “ambient marine noise, like a seagull…who speaks English.”
Anyway, inflate Aqua Glide, pile your friends on and let them enjoy. Let them climb to the top, climb inside- really get ensconced in it. Then, when the time is right and the voices say so, create a small puncture on the underbelly of the Aqua Glide. 
Aqua Glide will then collapse, trapping your victims in its weighty vinyl tentacles. Whoever’s inside the pyramid will immediately be weighed down by the deflated walls. Aqua Glide is also designed to, upon deflation, implode, taking anyone attached down with it. The whole process lasts about 90 seconds and then, just to make sure there will be no survivors, Aqua Glide will explode. Nothing will be left but human hair and bits of our patented pending VinylDeathCloth.
Hey kids! Hey parents with Munchausen by Proxy! Get your Exploding Aqua Glide today!
$ 800 Rental Fee, $800 deposit fee. Deposit non refundable. 

Want to plan the perfect murder but lack the constitution to physically kill someone?

Let Aqua Glide help you plan the mass aquatic murder of up to 7 of your closest gay male friends. Simply inflate Aqua Glide in the water, off shore enough that if a witness claimed she heard a scream, it could be chalked up to “ambient marine noise, like a seagull…who speaks English.”

Anyway, inflate Aqua Glide, pile your friends on and let them enjoy. Let them climb to the top, climb inside- really get ensconced in it. Then, when the time is right and the voices say so, create a small puncture on the underbelly of the Aqua Glide. 

Aqua Glide will then collapse, trapping your victims in its weighty vinyl tentacles. Whoever’s inside the pyramid will immediately be weighed down by the deflated walls. Aqua Glide is also designed to, upon deflation, implode, taking anyone attached down with it. The whole process lasts about 90 seconds and then, just to make sure there will be no survivors, Aqua Glide will explode. Nothing will be left but human hair and bits of our patented pending VinylDeathCloth.

Hey kids! Hey parents with Munchausen by Proxy! Get your Exploding Aqua Glide today!

$ 800 Rental Fee, $800 deposit fee. Deposit non refundable. 

March 19, 2014   93 notes
So, what do we know about you?
You have a blog about pseudo-grunge fashion and you’re probably obsessed with Paris, Chanel and champagne.
Your Instragram bio just says “Wanderlust.”
You have a small Mini Bijon named Dulce.
You have no issue with any part of your A cup bra showing at any moment. It’s your personal theme every year at Coachella.
You love telling people that you’re a dreamer.
You’re “obsessed” with coconut water.
You tried collecting vinyl records for a bit but ultimately realized that an iPod was easier- regardless, you only listen to music through gigantic headphones. But not Beats. THESE.
In your lifetime you will %100 get an inner wrist/forearm tattoo. It will be in french. It will say something like “To Err is human…” and you will have no idea where that half quote came from. You were gonna get “Live and Let Die” but then you found out the song was from Wings Paul McCartney and not Beatles Paul McCartney and were all like “ew, my parents listened to Wings” so you passed.
So of course you want to be a mermaid. This from the girl who swears she was “the first to be obsessed with unicorns, like, I started that shit in ‘99.” If it’s escapist and ethereal and wholly impractical (see “bathing in Moet)  or physically impossible (see “ingesting a diet of glitter and stars”) or just really naive and annoying (see “Marilyn Monroe is my idol), then it’s all you want. 
But let’s take a second and think about what being a mermaid would entail.
First of all, you will smell. Like fish. 100% of the time. If you ever sun yourself on a rock, your skin will crack from the the salt water baking in the heat and you will stink well, like fish left in the sun. For the rest of your life you will be surrounded by fish poop, whale pee, oil, cruise liner septic dumpings, dead bodies, machinery wreckage - this is all, of course depending on which ocean you’re in. If you’re in the Atlantic your odds of being gross increase exponentially. 
Assuming you’re somewhere at the top of the maritime food chain, you will have to hunt, with your bare hands, for live food. You will have to physically grab passing fish and immediately kill them. They will bite you, sting you, poison you- whatever they have to do to get away.  You’re going to have to gnaw through, chew and swallow fish scales, bones and eyes like, on a regular basis. Literally anytime you want a snack, unless you wanna be a hippie and just eat kelp or a loser like a whale and sift through plankton, you’re gonna have to turn off the human part of your brain and just mercilessly kill. 
 You will only speak Mermaid, which I’m assuming is similar language to that of a dolphin, so your communication will primarily rely on echolocation- basically just a lot of clicking and squeaking. But, even if you master this practice, it only limits you to communication with other mermaids. You can’t communicate or, more importantly, reason with predators. Predators like the Porbeagle Shark who will attack you. The Porbeagle Shark will attack you, on sight, and absolutely eat you alive. You can echolocate all you want but no one in your mer family is gonna swim to your rescue. You have people hands and he has teeth capable of inflicting up to 1000 lbs of pressure per square inch. Sorry, you don’t use imperial measurements because you’re a fish. Not square inch, “square guppy.”
You won’t have a jacket. I guess you’ll be cold blooded so that will help. 
You will probably never have a pet. Fish aren’t really loyal and anything that’s a mammal will probably want to be with its own family. Most seals are mean and having a pet manatee (sea cow) would be like having a cow on land, not thrilling. I guess you could swim around with a drowned cat. No one is gonna want to be friends with you though. 
Your days will pretty much be spent endlessly swimming. Swimming. Eating and trying not to be eaten. That’s what animals do. I don’t even think you’ll sleep. I think fish just always swim, pretty sure they die if they don’t. Ugh, you’re gonna be so stressed. 
You will have no phone. You can find a conch shell and pretend to have a phone? You won’t even be able to put it to your ear to listen to the ocean because that “trick” relies on resonation of ambient noise within the shell and, well, your ears will be filled with water, so will the shell. So no calls for you. 
No calls. No warm food (save the still beating heart of whatever Tuna you capture). No bed. No sleep. 
Only fear, cold water and dead fish. This will be your mer-reality.
Still want to be a mermaid? I didn’t think so. You’re lunch break is up, get back inside Brandy Melville. 
It’s like $80. And you’ll pay it. Why? Because you loooooove mermaids!

So, what do we know about you?

You have a blog about pseudo-grunge fashion and you’re probably obsessed with Paris, Chanel and champagne.

Your Instragram bio just says “Wanderlust.”

You have a small Mini Bijon named Dulce.

You have no issue with any part of your A cup bra showing at any moment. It’s your personal theme every year at Coachella.

You love telling people that you’re a dreamer.

You’re “obsessed” with coconut water.

You tried collecting vinyl records for a bit but ultimately realized that an iPod was easier- regardless, you only listen to music through gigantic headphones. But not Beats. THESE.

In your lifetime you will %100 get an inner wrist/forearm tattoo. It will be in french. It will say something like “To Err is human…” and you will have no idea where that half quote came from. You were gonna get “Live and Let Die” but then you found out the song was from Wings Paul McCartney and not Beatles Paul McCartney and were all like “ew, my parents listened to Wings” so you passed.

So of course you want to be a mermaid. This from the girl who swears she was “the first to be obsessed with unicorns, like, I started that shit in ‘99.” If it’s escapist and ethereal and wholly impractical (see “bathing in Moet)  or physically impossible (see “ingesting a diet of glitter and stars”) or just really naive and annoying (see “Marilyn Monroe is my idol), then it’s all you want. 

But let’s take a second and think about what being a mermaid would entail.

First of all, you will smell. Like fish. 100% of the time. If you ever sun yourself on a rock, your skin will crack from the the salt water baking in the heat and you will stink well, like fish left in the sun. For the rest of your life you will be surrounded by fish poop, whale pee, oil, cruise liner septic dumpings, dead bodies, machinery wreckage - this is all, of course depending on which ocean you’re in. If you’re in the Atlantic your odds of being gross increase exponentially. 

Assuming you’re somewhere at the top of the maritime food chain, you will have to hunt, with your bare hands, for live food. You will have to physically grab passing fish and immediately kill them. They will bite you, sting you, poison you- whatever they have to do to get away.  You’re going to have to gnaw through, chew and swallow fish scales, bones and eyes like, on a regular basis. Literally anytime you want a snack, unless you wanna be a hippie and just eat kelp or a loser like a whale and sift through plankton, you’re gonna have to turn off the human part of your brain and just mercilessly kill. 

 You will only speak Mermaid, which I’m assuming is similar language to that of a dolphin, so your communication will primarily rely on echolocation- basically just a lot of clicking and squeaking. But, even if you master this practice, it only limits you to communication with other mermaids. You can’t communicate or, more importantly, reason with predators. Predators like the Porbeagle Shark who will attack you. The Porbeagle Shark will attack you, on sight, and absolutely eat you alive. You can echolocate all you want but no one in your mer family is gonna swim to your rescue. You have people hands and he has teeth capable of inflicting up to 1000 lbs of pressure per square inch. Sorry, you don’t use imperial measurements because you’re a fish. Not square inch, “square guppy.”

You won’t have a jacket. I guess you’ll be cold blooded so that will help. 

You will probably never have a pet. Fish aren’t really loyal and anything that’s a mammal will probably want to be with its own family. Most seals are mean and having a pet manatee (sea cow) would be like having a cow on land, not thrilling. I guess you could swim around with a drowned cat. No one is gonna want to be friends with you though. 

Your days will pretty much be spent endlessly swimming. Swimming. Eating and trying not to be eaten. That’s what animals do. I don’t even think you’ll sleep. I think fish just always swim, pretty sure they die if they don’t. Ugh, you’re gonna be so stressed. 

You will have no phone. You can find a conch shell and pretend to have a phone? You won’t even be able to put it to your ear to listen to the ocean because that “trick” relies on resonation of ambient noise within the shell and, well, your ears will be filled with water, so will the shell. So no calls for you. 

No calls. No warm food (save the still beating heart of whatever Tuna you capture). No bed. No sleep. 

Only fear, cold water and dead fish. This will be your mer-reality.

Still want to be a mermaid? I didn’t think so. You’re lunch break is up, get back inside Brandy Melville

It’s like $80. And you’ll pay it. Why? Because you loooooove mermaids!

March 19, 2014   13 notes

It’s a story told time and time again. A rich and handsome man meets a beautiful but poor girl who’s down on her luck and who isn’t particularly intelligent, some might say she hasn’t  ”found her voice” yet. Perhaps she’s a waitress? A shop girl? A mermaid recently turned biped?  He marries her and they live happily ever after… Until the girl decides she is more than a housewife has something to offer the world and wants to use her husbands money to start a fashion line. 

If you’re that girl, this fashion line represents more than just a passion for fashion, it represents you! You’re going to show the other ladies who lunch that you’re eternally young, haven’t had any work done despite your ever-inflamed upper lip, and that you’re a fierce business woman who wants to “make her own money”… With her husbands start up capital. Before you married Eric you were gonna be somebody, right? A model? Maybe dance in music videos? Sure you got pregnant at 19 with your first child and had to quit partying and get a job in real estate to provide for your kid. Then you started moving in the right circles, hanging around the right beach clubs and you met Eric. Two boob jobs and a 3 Series later, you were married with two more kids and a mortgage that you didn’t have to pay for. But now the kids are grown (not really, they’re 5 and 7, you’re a horrible mother) and it’s time for you to reclaim your life! Time for you to get outta the house and start an online fashion design business. For inspiration, you’re going back to your roots. You want your first look to be inspired by, well, the first piece of human clothing you ever wore after that giant Octopus lady stole your voice. Yes, you also did some meth in the early 90s, that’s where that part of the story came from, it’s also why your, now grown, son is a little weird in the head. He’s an “entrepreneur” and Eric tolerates him. It’s a source of tension in your marriage. 

It’s couture.

$900

She wants to be in boutiques first so, the mark up is like 300%.

March 18, 2014   25 notes
When the wife died, your kids told you to get a hobby. 

You coulda gone fishing or taken up golf but no, you wanted to go full creep-in-the-woods and take up the age old art, made only for weird white men, taxidermy. 
You started small, stuffing warblings and wrens. But when Sheila at the diner told you to please stop giving her “gifts”- you took the hint. You needed to move on to bigger and better animals. It isn’t the frequency of the taxidermy gifts that people were responding uncomfortably towards, it was the size of the animals. Good thinkin’ Hank. 
So this year, when the kids decided to do Christmas at their house, you came with a surprise. Boy oh boy are the grandkids gonna be excited to meet “Henry”- the 7 year old twins will surely delight in the craftsmanship of this taxidermic marvel.
KIDS: GRANDPA!!!
GRANDPA HANK: Hey kiddos! How are my favorite grandkids?
SHANE: Wadja bring us?
SUZANE: Shane! That’s not polite.
SHANE: Sorry, Mom.
GRANPA: Oh, that’s all right- the boy’s excited-
SHANE: I’m a girl-
GRANPA: What? Uh, sorry kiddo, grandpa’s eyes aren’t…
SUZANE: Why don’t you set your bags down and come in?
GRANDPA: Drive wasn’t bad, took I-20 till I hit the 15-
TOM: HEY, DAD!
GRANDPA: THERE HE IS!
(Tom and Grandpa embrace)
TOM: Much trouble getting down here?
GRANDPA: No, no trouble, took I-20 all the way to the 15. Smooth sailing.
JESS: Grandpa, what’s under that sheet?
TOM: Jess, it’s not polite to ask-
GRANDPA: Oh, that’s alright, grandpa brought his favorite granddaughter a treat!
JESS: I’m a boy-
GRANDPA: Jesus Christ-
SUZANE: I know, hard to keep the twins straight.
TOM: Wouldn’t be hard if you hadn’t given them those weird haircuts.
SUZANE: We’ve been through this and at this age, for twins, it’s important we treat them exactly the same-
TOM: But the girl should have longer hair than the boy, that should clear most of the confusion up. And I don’t know why you insist on them both always wearing matching leotards, what is that?
GRANDPA: Yeah, I was gonna ask-
SUZANE: I told you, Doctor Skarn said-
TOM: Again with Doctor Skarn, he’s a pediatric dentist, Suzane. He isn’t a real doctor-
SUZANE: DR. SKARN SAID it’s important to let them discover who they are without forcing societal pre assigned gender roles on them.
TOM: I just think brown leotards are weird. They don’t serve a purpose except for making our children look strange.
SUZANE: Are you criticizing my parenting? Mr. “Everyone has to be in bed my 3pm on Sundays”
TOM: It’s important to establish a routine!
SUZANE: No one goest to bed at 3pm!
TOM: I WORK NIGHTS!
SUZANE: You work one night a month!
TOM: I got used to going to bed early!
SUZANE: YOU’RE NOT A BAT! You can go to sleep at a normal time!
SHANE: …Merry Christmas Grandpa.
(The sentiment of the innocent child’s greeting to his grandpa brings the petty argument to a screeching halt. It was so sweet.)
GRANDPA: Merry Christmas! And guess what grandpa has for you and your sister. Brother. For you and your brother?
(Grandpa Hank pulls the sheet off the gift to reveal the stuffed fox)
FAMILY: AHHHHH!!! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT/OH MY GOD!
GRANDPA: What’s wrong? What’s wrong?
(Shane and Jess are crying hysterically)
GRANDPA: It’s just Henry! Henry the friendly fox!
(With that, one of Henry’s eyes falls out of his head and rolls across the floor)
SHANE: AAAAHHH!!!!
TOM: Dad, what were you thinking? It’s horrific!
GRANDPA: What are you talkin’ about, it’s just a little stuffed fox. Took me two weeks to finish him.
(The children are wailing)
SUZANE: Oh my God, it’s horrible-
GRANDPA: Horrible? Now, everyone calm down, I don’t think you’re appreciating the lifelike detail of-
TOM: Detail? What detail? The way you stitched his mouth shut from the OUTSIDE? The kids can’t look at that. This is will give them nightmares!
SUZANE: Dad, what were you thinking?
GRANDPA: Well I’m sorry, you don’t appreciate my lifelike interpretation.
TOM: Likelike? It’s paws are limp! Are you telling me this fox didn’t have wrist bones?
GRANDPA: Well I’m sorry it’s not perfect, it was my first big animal.
TOM: We hate it. Get it out of here.
GRANDPA: I thought you’d be a little more open minded and not judge me. Just like I didn’t judge you when you decided to marry your sister.

$150 he’s lettin’ it go for cheap!

When the wife died, your kids told you to get a hobby. 

You coulda gone fishing or taken up golf but no, you wanted to go full creep-in-the-woods and take up the age old art, made only for weird white men, taxidermy. 

You started small, stuffing warblings and wrens. But when Sheila at the diner told you to please stop giving her “gifts”- you took the hint. You needed to move on to bigger and better animals. It isn’t the frequency of the taxidermy gifts that people were responding uncomfortably towards, it was the size of the animals. Good thinkin’ Hank. 

So this year, when the kids decided to do Christmas at their house, you came with a surprise. Boy oh boy are the grandkids gonna be excited to meet “Henry”- the 7 year old twins will surely delight in the craftsmanship of this taxidermic marvel.

KIDS: GRANDPA!!!

GRANDPA HANK: Hey kiddos! How are my favorite grandkids?

SHANE: Wadja bring us?

SUZANE: Shane! That’s not polite.

SHANE: Sorry, Mom.

GRANPA: Oh, that’s all right- the boy’s excited-

SHANE: I’m a girl-

GRANPA: What? Uh, sorry kiddo, grandpa’s eyes aren’t…

SUZANE: Why don’t you set your bags down and come in?

GRANDPA: Drive wasn’t bad, took I-20 till I hit the 15-

TOM: HEY, DAD!

GRANDPA: THERE HE IS!

(Tom and Grandpa embrace)

TOM: Much trouble getting down here?

GRANDPA: No, no trouble, took I-20 all the way to the 15. Smooth sailing.

JESS: Grandpa, what’s under that sheet?

TOM: Jess, it’s not polite to ask-

GRANDPA: Oh, that’s alright, grandpa brought his favorite granddaughter a treat!

JESS: I’m a boy-

GRANDPA: Jesus Christ-

SUZANE: I know, hard to keep the twins straight.

TOM: Wouldn’t be hard if you hadn’t given them those weird haircuts.

SUZANE: We’ve been through this and at this age, for twins, it’s important we treat them exactly the same-

TOM: But the girl should have longer hair than the boy, that should clear most of the confusion up. And I don’t know why you insist on them both always wearing matching leotards, what is that?

GRANDPA: Yeah, I was gonna ask-

SUZANE: I told you, Doctor Skarn said-

TOM: Again with Doctor Skarn, he’s a pediatric dentist, Suzane. He isn’t a real doctor-

SUZANE: DR. SKARN SAID it’s important to let them discover who they are without forcing societal pre assigned gender roles on them.

TOM: I just think brown leotards are weird. They don’t serve a purpose except for making our children look strange.

SUZANE: Are you criticizing my parenting? Mr. “Everyone has to be in bed my 3pm on Sundays”

TOM: It’s important to establish a routine!

SUZANE: No one goest to bed at 3pm!

TOM: I WORK NIGHTS!

SUZANE: You work one night a month!

TOM: I got used to going to bed early!

SUZANE: YOU’RE NOT A BAT! You can go to sleep at a normal time!

SHANE: …Merry Christmas Grandpa.

(The sentiment of the innocent child’s greeting to his grandpa brings the petty argument to a screeching halt. It was so sweet.)

GRANDPA: Merry Christmas! And guess what grandpa has for you and your sister. Brother. For you and your brother?

(Grandpa Hank pulls the sheet off the gift to reveal the stuffed fox)

FAMILY: AHHHHH!!! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT/OH MY GOD!

GRANDPA: What’s wrong? What’s wrong?

(Shane and Jess are crying hysterically)

GRANDPA: It’s just Henry! Henry the friendly fox!

(With that, one of Henry’s eyes falls out of his head and rolls across the floor)

SHANE: AAAAHHH!!!!

TOM: Dad, what were you thinking? It’s horrific!

GRANDPA: What are you talkin’ about, it’s just a little stuffed fox. Took me two weeks to finish him.

(The children are wailing)

SUZANE: Oh my God, it’s horrible-

GRANDPA: Horrible? Now, everyone calm down, I don’t think you’re appreciating the lifelike detail of-

TOM: Detail? What detail? The way you stitched his mouth shut from the OUTSIDE? The kids can’t look at that. This is will give them nightmares!

SUZANE: Dad, what were you thinking?

GRANDPA: Well I’m sorry, you don’t appreciate my lifelike interpretation.

TOM: Likelike? It’s paws are limp! Are you telling me this fox didn’t have wrist bones?

GRANDPA: Well I’m sorry it’s not perfect, it was my first big animal.

TOM: We hate it. Get it out of here.

GRANDPA: I thought you’d be a little more open minded and not judge me. Just like I didn’t judge you when you decided to marry your sister.

$150 he’s lettin’ it go for cheap!

February 28, 2014   11 notes
Alright, Frankie, time to let your other lesbian coworkers at Breckenridge know that you’re hot shit. 
Everybody knows you’re the best senior ski instructor on the mountain. Sure you come from a wealthy New England family who doesn’t discuss your sexual “choice” and yeah, you pretty much walked on the women’s LAX team at Maryland (GO TERRAPINS! You got a Terrapin turtle tattooed on your ankle the year you got your shoulder injury, the injury you love to tell girls about at the lesbian mountain resort bar “Caves”) and according to your mother “you could have done something with your life had you just married Paul” but Paul’s a prick, and a dude and this is what makes you happy. 
You love working at the resort, you love skiing double blacks nude once a year for the employee field day at the end of the season and you love Tara, the bi curious desk clerk who you are bet Scott in the gift shop you could nail before him. 
These glasses tell your tale.
$200, totally worth it.

Alright, Frankie, time to let your other lesbian coworkers at Breckenridge know that you’re hot shit. 

Everybody knows you’re the best senior ski instructor on the mountain. Sure you come from a wealthy New England family who doesn’t discuss your sexual “choice” and yeah, you pretty much walked on the women’s LAX team at Maryland (GO TERRAPINS! You got a Terrapin turtle tattooed on your ankle the year you got your shoulder injury, the injury you love to tell girls about at the lesbian mountain resort bar “Caves”) and according to your mother “you could have done something with your life had you just married Paul” but Paul’s a prick, and a dude and this is what makes you happy. 

You love working at the resort, you love skiing double blacks nude once a year for the employee field day at the end of the season and you love Tara, the bi curious desk clerk who you are bet Scott in the gift shop you could nail before him. 

These glasses tell your tale.

$200, totally worth it.

February 13, 2014   10 notes
You’re Mormon. You aren’t Church of LDS straight up, you’re a more modern branch that accepts lesbians…And Jews. And squirrels. Really, you’ll take anyone. You need to have at least 15 people in your congregation at all times for the state to recognize your aluminum sided building as a “place of worship” and not an “abandoned Self Storage” unit. You want to live a polygamous life style in the open and show people that you’re a cool family. Sure you insist on wearing long sleeved shirts under tank tops and yes your hair will always look a little 1992ish, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t changing with the times. It also doesn’t mean you can’t poke a little bit of fun at your dogma to let everyone know you aren’t taking yourself too seriously. Like when you and your husband Jonah took your kids Jackson, Greyson and Chayson to the Mormon Family Paintball Range “Splatter Day Saints” and you brought along 2nd wife, Shantall and her kids Madison, Addison and Radisson and 3rd wife Chambre with her children Alexis, Nexus and Solar Plexus, and 4th wife Camisole with her children Riptar, Piptar and *Cliptar, you also invited 4th wife, Duvet Cover with her new baby, King Size Mattress and new 5th wife Charlemagne, who’s barren and manages to bring it up at literally every family Book of Mormon themed Pictionary night (and no, not the musical).

Anyway, yeah, you went out with the whole family and wore an “I’m With Stupid” shirt and it had like 5 arrows, get it? Because you’re with 5 spouses.
So you had this shirt made. Really, subliminally, the shirt is about you, because anyone reading it, not noticing your ankle length jean skirt, wouldn’t know you’re mormon and just think you’re a super confident wife. But, when you wear it around your Sister Wives, or, as you like to call them when you’re out being sassy on a saturday night grabbing ice cream “Sistah Wives” they will think it’s about them, and that keeps the peace. Until Charlemagne sees a baby carriage, and starts crying in the Baskin Robbins women’s room. Then you gotta call Jonah who has to talk her out and spend the night with her, which isn’t fair because it isn’t her night. 

*In an effort to give her children the most modern names she ended up going quasi-futuristic and giving them almost, alien-like robot names. By the time she was ready to admit she had given her children cyborg names, they had already begun responding to them, so, too late.

Rose-Beth from home makes them and ships them, it’s her mormon side hustle. She also makes LDS themed "Bumpits" - $25 “donation”

You’re Mormon. You aren’t Church of LDS straight up, you’re a more modern branch that accepts lesbians…And Jews. And squirrels. Really, you’ll take anyone. You need to have at least 15 people in your congregation at all times for the state to recognize your aluminum sided building as a “place of worship” and not an “abandoned Self Storage” unit. You want to live a polygamous life style in the open and show people that you’re a cool family. Sure you insist on wearing long sleeved shirts under tank tops and yes your hair will always look a little 1992ish, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t changing with the times. It also doesn’t mean you can’t poke a little bit of fun at your dogma to let everyone know you aren’t taking yourself too seriously. Like when you and your husband Jonah took your kids Jackson, Greyson and Chayson to the Mormon Family Paintball Range “Splatter Day Saints” and you brought along 2nd wife, Shantall and her kids Madison, Addison and Radisson and 3rd wife Chambre with her children Alexis, Nexus and Solar Plexus, and 4th wife Camisole with her children Riptar, Piptar and *Cliptar, you also invited 4th wife, Duvet Cover with her new baby, King Size Mattress and new 5th wife Charlemagne, who’s barren and manages to bring it up at literally every family Book of Mormon themed Pictionary night (and no, not the musical).
Anyway, yeah, you went out with the whole family and wore an “I’m With Stupid” shirt and it had like 5 arrows, get it? Because you’re with 5 spouses.
So you had this shirt made. Really, subliminally, the shirt is about you, because anyone reading it, not noticing your ankle length jean skirt, wouldn’t know you’re mormon and just think you’re a super confident wife. But, when you wear it around your Sister Wives, or, as you like to call them when you’re out being sassy on a saturday night grabbing ice cream “Sistah Wives” they will think it’s about them, and that keeps the peace. Until Charlemagne sees a baby carriage, and starts crying in the Baskin Robbins women’s room. Then you gotta call Jonah who has to talk her out and spend the night with her, which isn’t fair because it isn’t her night. 
*In an effort to give her children the most modern names she ended up going quasi-futuristic and giving them almost, alien-like robot names. By the time she was ready to admit she had given her children cyborg names, they had already begun responding to them, so, too late.
Rose-Beth from home makes them and ships them, it’s her mormon side hustle. She also makes LDS themed "Bumpits" - $25 “donation”