Ugh, Put Some Clothes On!

Posted: January 25, 2016 in feminism, fuckery
Tags: , , ,

Today in “Holy Shit, Hypocrisy”, kick ass Twitter user @CardsAgstHrsmt has been posting Tweets from dudebros which say one thing…and then some pictures of them that say something else:



Yup. Women who pose half-naked lose the respect of dudes who happily post pictures of themselves…half-naked?!?  Really?

Just look at them, shameless and proud of their near nakedness, posting pictures and showing off.  Would you want your kid to bring such hussies home all like, “I want to marry him!”.  Nay, I say, nay! Just look at how little respect these men have for themselves!

Wait, what was that? I shouldn’t hold these men to the same standards as they’re holding women?  Why, I wonder? It’s not like there’s a double standard at play OH WAIT YES THERE IS!

See, boys (may I call you boys? Tough, I’m calling you boys), what you’re doing is what most mature adults would call “Being a hypocritical jackwagon”.  I’m going to assume that you probably are very aware of it, and are exploiting the fact that it’s a-okay for you to pose half-naked and get no shit for it, while a woman doing the same thing would be buried under the weight of the shit she would receive: creepy comments, harassment, calls of “slut” and “whore”, etc.  And heaven forbid if a woman held the same standards as you do.

“It’s just the way it is!” some folks will argue. “It’s a double standard, but there’s nothing we can do about it! It’s natural/human nature/*insert other evo psych bullshit here*!”

The only ones holding up that double standard are you, while the rest of us are trying to get past that sort of nonsense.  How many of these assholes (or those who nod right along in agreement) might have Tumblrs full of half naked women to wank to? Are any of them fans of upskirt/downshirt pics? Then it takes some damn nerve to judge anyone who volunteers to show off their bodies with the same pride these guys show off their pecs, abs, and chest?

My flabber is gasted.  Or it would be if I wasn’t oh so painfully aware of sexism. Do better boys.

Or at least cover up.  I can see your nipples.*


*Obvious Disclaimer is Obvious: Yes, I know the answer isn’t for everyone to actually put clothes on, but for everyone to be free enough to wear whatever amount of clothing they want, snap photos, and post them on any social media site they have access to.  Duh. Now you don’t have to argue for/against it in the comments.  Cheers!


Entitled Employers

Posted: January 22, 2016 in memes, rage, WAT

Ugh, so there’s a meme going around whining yet again about how this generation is lazy and entitled and don’t want to work the high stress job of chef’s assistant and blah blah blah.

And of course the Millennial Hate Amen Choir starts up to agree and my eyes roll out of my head.

I read the requirement and immediately stopped at “comes to work when sick” and then stopped again at “comes to work when sick to prove that they are sick”. Call me germaphobic, but I’d rather not have anyone from front staff to kitchen staff to the folks who wash the dishes coming into a dining establishment sick. If that’s a definition of “hard work”, treating your employees like lying children, then give me lazy. My immune system will thank you.

And you know what? I’m done with being told that this generation is ‘lazy’ when it comes to jobs. Growing up, we were told that we had to get an education because working a McJob was the worst thing ever. And now we’re told that we’re too entitled because maybe we want to either work a job that pays more or that we want the McJob we already have to pay us more.

The entitlement is with the companies. They’re the ones who try to get double the work with half the staff. They’re ones who fire their employees and then rehire them as contractors. They’re the ones cheaping out on the hours so they don’t have to give their employees health insurance. They’re the ones who hire temps for 2,3,4,5 years, add on to their responsibilities, and don’t even bother giving them a raise, ever mind an upgrade to full time employment.

They’re the ones who feel entitled to their employee’s time outside of working hours. They’re the ones who feel entitled to their employee’s labor, but not enough to pay them well for it. They’re the ones with no loyalty to labor.

And they got the damn nerve to get all pissy when workers demand to be treated as human. Yes, we want our breaks, yes we want our lunches, yes we want a space to pump breast milk, yes we want more vacation hours, yes we want sick days and be treated like adults when we take one, yes we want insurance, yes we want a better work/life balance, yes we want an actual work/life balance. Yes we want a better deal than the previous generation before us got because I’ll be damned if shit ain’t all that great for us now.

So, like, fuck that.

Thinking about Disability More

Posted: January 22, 2016 in Just stuff



As you can see in this picture, I use a cane.  It’s pretty and shiny and it’s name is Draco. Let me let you in on a little secret; I don’t need it at all times.  So why do I carry it?

When most people think about disability, they think of people bed bound.  They think of 100% blindness, deafness, muteness.  They think of wheelchairs and walkers and crutches all day long.  They think of missing limbs and catastrophic brain injuries, but only the ones that leaves one capable of only drooling in the corner.  They think of that sweet bagger at the grocery store, trying their best.

And then, they stop thinking.

That’s where we get the heartless claims like,

“Most people on disability are lying and cheating the system.”

“Oh, poor you, have a bad back? Take some aspirin and get back to work.”

“I know she’s on Social Security, but I saw her walk to the mail box without her wheelchair yesterday!  She’s a cheat!”

You know, shit like that.

If they bothered to keep thinking, they might discover a few things.  They might discover the concept of “good days” and “bad days”. They might realize that disabilities come in different levels and flavors and severity.  They might realize that not all disabilities are in the legs.  They might get what ‘chronic’ means. They might even realize that mental illnesses can actually be disabling.

See, for me, a good day is getting up without using the headboard to lift myself.  It’s getting up and down the stairs slowly, actually getting shit done around the house.  It’s not needing to sit in my chair to put on pants and socks. It’s feeling up for dialing a number and speaking to someone. It’s standing or sitting in front of people and talking to them without feeling like fleeing (too much) It’s not needing my cane to get around to say, the corner store.  It’s feeling like going to the corner store.

It’s feeling that I don’t want to die today.

A bad day is, well, turn all that on it’s head.  It’s being so tired that my day turns into a series of naps. It’s sliding against the wall going down the stairs, or just not bothering with them at all. It’s crying in bed or in front of my computer for no discernible reason and ignoring PMs and sending phone calls to voicemail. It’s going 3-4 days in the same pajamas without showering because who the fuck cares, right? It’s being so anxious that I don’t even want to exchange greetings with anyone who lives with me.  It’s beating up on myself for being worthless.  It’s considering my options for suicide.

And yeah, those are cane days.  I lean on the fucker when I know I’ll be standing for a long period of time (like waiting for a bus) or around people for a while (the grip is nice and steady).  I use it to get in and out of the car. On the bus, I sit in the preferential seating.

When someone asks me why I use a cane, I give a short answer.  “Oh, I have fibro.”

What I want to say is “Because we live in a society that values our ability to labor over quality of life, I worry about being judged on my ‘good days’, so I carry it with me at all times whenever I leave the house.”

But those are longer words.  And they require people to think.  It’s a bit much to think about for others.

I really wish they would, though. The disabled need those thoughts.

Boy oh boy, that’s gonna pop up on someone’s search, and they’re gonna haaaaate reading this.

Oh well.

Alright, I realized I though I’d said something, when I actually didn’t so here goes:
For my allies and friends, yes, showing clips or pictures of black people dead by police hands might get someone you know to wake up and smell the racism, but for me, given how often it’s happened, it’s like sharing bits of snuff porn, like Faces of Black Death, except they’re all real.
“Here’s this large black woman slumped over on the ground, dead or dying due to police neglect”
“Here’s the body of that kid with the Skittles and Iced Tea”
“Watch this cop shoot this black man to death!”
What I’m asking for here is for people to keep in mind that for some of us, this is tiresome and (yup, gonna say it. Hold on to you hats) TRIGGERING. Gasp, I know, I used the terrible word that shows that I’m fragile snowflake that cannot handled Real Life.

You know, like I haven’t been bombarded with this photos for fucking YEARS already.  I’ve had enough Real Life.  I’ve had enough of our dead being used to “prove” that we’re being slain unfairly. Can you, just for a moment, try to empathize that maybe I…or we…have had enough Real Life, plxthanks.  Too many people, too many thoughts of brothers and mothers and fathers and grandparents and sisters pop in my own mind.  Too much Real Life will traumatize a motherfucker.  Like college students who have had Real Life thrown into their faces before they step one foot onto campus, lives of poverty, assault, rape, physical abuse, raising siblings, holding down jobs of their own.

Have some fucking empathy.

At the very least, put the article or picture in a comment. Find an article that has a picture of the victim alive, so we can see them as a person, and not a hunk of dead dark flesh to gawk at. 
Please? Please?

(And yes, I do make use of my “Hide Post” button. That’s not the fucking point.)

Kim, What is This?

Posted: January 15, 2016 in WAT

Now, a lot of people are wagging tongues and fingers to talk about Obama’s last SOTU. Did they like it, did they hate it, here are the parts that are cool, here are parts that aren’t, look at Michelle’s dress, could Paul Ryan frown any harder, I want someone to look at me like Biden looks at Obama, and so on.

This post isn’t about any of that.  I leave it to others.

This post is about the saddest damn sight next to Paul Ryan’s struggle-frown that night.

And it’s this:


Who allowed this disaster to walk into that chamber? And no, I don’t mean her very presence, whatever, she got invited.

I mean, what the hell did she wear?  What is that?

Now look, I tend to keep my judgement about what people wear when I’m walking down the street.  Usually because I’m trying not to look at other people because of a mix of anxiety and misanthropy. Sure, I think sagging pants are silly and wearing heels in the winter is asking for broken ankles, but I keep it to myself.  Whatever people wanna wear outside, fine.  Whatever.

That goes straight out the fucking window when we’re talking about an event as big as the State of the Union address. Look to the left of this woman.  Lady in huge pearls and make up.  Look to the right.  Dude in military dress.  And in the middle, a women who managed to find a fuck during her 15 minutes of fame and then promptly lost that fuck while packing for this trip to D.C.

She couldn’t be bothered to at least put a dress, suit jacket, or suit, whatever floats her boat, on?  Come on lady, you’re a guest at the White House for the SOTU speech. Don’t you have SOMETHING nice, like a modest church outfit or something, you could have put on? Fuck, those sister-wives in prairie dresses look more put together than this. You don’t have to get made up or change your hair or whatever, just…wow…holy shit. What is this?

Look around you. Other people were dressed appropriately for the event.  Men in suits, women in dresses/pantsuits/whatever.  Michelle Obama was up on the balcony looking like a bag of money in a simple dress.  Ms. Davis, Mrs. Davis, can I call you Kim, I’m calling you Kim, you look like someone stuffed you into a bag of donations for the Salvation Army, dumped you out in D.C., and all you had to wear was whatever you could hang on to.

Kim, you make enough money. We all know that.  You didn’t have to grab something from Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s or some other fancy place (can you tell I’m poor? Those were the richest places I can think of).  Wal-Mart, KMart, Target will sell you a nice modest dress for nothing.  Fuck, I could walk into a thrift shop and pick out something more appropriate for this event blindfolded. What the hell?

Just what the hell?

CN: suicide attempt mention


I read a blog post attack the concept of “wanting attention is bad” and it made me think about when I was a kid.

Last year was the 20 year anniversary of my first suicide attempt. I was 14, miserable, didn’t see any escape from the life I had except for death.  I would lay in my bed and cry out of misery.

And no, I really didn’t have anyone at home to talk about it. Well, no one would actually help.

Two years after that event, my stepmother threw into my face that the doctor treating me during my mental hospital stay told my dad that I was “doing this for attention”.

(she also told me during that conversation that if I tried to kill myself, she’d help me take the pills.  I almost took her up on it, if I didn’t have plans of my own)


“Stop typing and pet me more, you’ll feel better!”

Annnnyway, it took years for me to process that, and a few visits to a shrink to make me realize something about kids seeking attention.

So what?
I was a kid who thought death was preferable to living. As a KID. Even if I failed at it, how wasn’t that a cry for attention? I sure as fuck wasn’t getting it at home, hence the hard hit of depression, hence the attempt. Granted, I had been depressed for years prior, but it was two years building up of lacking the attention that would help me figure out my sense of self or security.
You’re damn right I wanted attention. And there was nothing wrong with that. Kids need attention, even when their ages start up in the double digits.  Preteens still need to know that they matter, that they are loved, that their needs are important too. They’re not tiny adults you can start shoving adult responsibilities onto and ignoring their needs.

And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be noticed.   This is very different from wanting to be in the center of everything. Why do we treat the former like the latter? We all desire to be noticed and acknowledged by our peers and families. Yes, even you Mr./Ms./Mx. “I don’t need society’s approval, I’m my own person”. A few days without acknowledgement of those around you, and you’d feel awful.  That’s why social media is a thing.  That’s why I’ve written so many words on this thing over like a year.

We’re kinda human like that.

So attention me, people! 🙂


I’m Tired.

Posted: January 8, 2016 in fuckery, race, rage
Tags: ,

…but I’m gonna try to make it through this post without passing out or having too many typos, because I needed something up here that was actually based on a true story and totally wasn’t me not checking my facts before coughing out a rant post.

Nope.  Not me.

Anyway, today in “White People”, Maine’s governor is a racist shitbag. He’s the sort of racist shitbag who tries to hide their racism under the blanket of “concern”.  As usual, like a puppy or a toddler trying to hide under said blanket, their ass is usually showing.

And they’re not nearly as cute as a toddler or a puppy.

So, this is the money quote:

“The traffickers — these aren’t people who take drugs. These are guys by the name D-Money, Smoothie, Shifty,” he said. “These type of guys that come from Connecticut and New York. They come up here, they sell their heroin, then they go back home.”

He continued: “Incidentally, half the time they impregnate a young, white girl before they leave. Which is the real sad thing, because then we have another issue that we have to deal with down the road.”

Wow, there’s so much to unpack, but since we all know (hopefully) how shitty this is, and I’ve got a headache, bad sleep, and a load of laundry to fold, let’s just make fun of the fucking thing, kay?

First, there’s this bit:

“The traffickers — these aren’t people who take drugs. These are guys by the name D-Money, Smoothie, Shifty,”

Whoa there, partner, I’m gonna have  to throw a flag on this play. “Foul, white person attempt to pull ‘urban’ terms out of ass”.  Penalty, five yards or a free throw or a free kick or something.  Look, I don’t do sports, okay?

D-Money.  Okay, makes vague sense.  Like he might have seen one of those 90s urban gangsta movies…back in the 90s.

“Smoothie”?  Say what? Is he mistaking a trafficker for what he had for breakfast?

“Shifty” Oh yeah, you know ol’ Shifty from down the block, right? Everyone gets their stuff from ol’ Shifty.

Now, seriously, dude. This is sounding like YOU took heroin, watched Snow White, and coughed up the worst version you could think of.  What is this, D-Money and the Seven Drug Traffickers? You got Smoothie, there’s Shifty, who’s next? Drugee, Layzie, Krayzie, Bizzy, Easy-E, and their homeboy/source, Dopey?



You know he’s hiding some kilos in those baggy ass clothes.

Pro-tip: Just leave the examples to the professionals, okay? You’d sound like ridiculous that way.

Next part!

“These type of guys that come from Connecticut and New York. They come up here, they sell their heroin, then they go back home.”

Now I’ll admit I’m talking out of my ass here, because last time I checked, heroin is fucking everywhere. At least he had the brain to mention one state where it could well likely ‘come from’, good ol’ dogwhistle New York.  But come on, dude.  I’ve been to Maine.  Met some lovely people. Ate a bunch of lobster.  Rode on a boat. Sure, the only thing darker than me was the beer I was drinking, but lovely people.

And even I know the two things Maine is known for are A) Delicious lobster and B) WEED.  If you’re gonna try to sniff out drugs in your state, sir, the bong smoke is coming from inside the house.  How about you work on that first, hmm?

But oh and lo! the piece of resistance, or whatever. It’s supposed to be French, and I said I was tired, folks.  Chronic nightmares.  Chronic. Nightmares. Splitting headache. Feeling like death.

He continued: “Incidentally, half the time they impregnate a young, white girl before they leave. Which is the real sad thing, because then we have another issue that we have to deal with down the road.”

Now, if he wasn’t talking about race, as I’m sure someone’s right wing relative or that one ‘friend’ you just can’t let go will insist up to this point, why bother mentioning race here.

Also, seriously?  I know I’ve said that already, but damnit, it’s the name of the blog.  Not only are these oddly named drug traffickers bring heroin to the fine state of Maine, but they’re leaving behind knocked up young white women! Gasp! Le horror!

So pretty much, it’s Trump’s “Them damn Mexicans are drug dealers and rapists” rant narrowed down and aimed at another minority.  Great job, man. Will you be running for president next cycle? Because you’re already leaps and bounds ready for the Republican xenophobia ticket.

Okay, meds and bed and shit.  The laundry can wait another hour or two, right?

Have a good weekend.  Don’t get sick. Also, lobster.  Delicious, delicious lobster.

Y’all, it was fresh off the boat.  Like Low Country Boils of my childhood memories, except with lobster.