Noa attempts to follow Pinterest beauty tutorials, and well…you’ll see…
It’s long been thought that either people can or can’t cook. Either you have a natural flair for the culinary arts and know exactly what spices to use, or you burn everything in sight.
There’s no in-between in this logic, and I defy that by existing today and not having wasted away into starvation long ago.
In fact, that grey cooking area is vast and full of questionable food, because some people are just too lazy to cook things properly. It’s not that you don’t know how to cook well or eat every meal out—it’s that you don’t care enough to make a huge meal every day for…yourself.
I am that woman. Share in my apathy, won’t you?
- Get out an egg
- Put that bitch in a bowl, shell and all
- Nuke it for 2 minutes.
- DONE. [Read more...]
10. Pickles wrapped in soft pretzels dipped in potato salad is all I ever want to eat, and that’s apparently not okay.
9. Guy Fieri is associated with cooking, and he’s just…he’s just the worst. Shirt Flames are for punks. [Read more...]
I look back on the ‘80s with deep-seated nostalgia, remembering a childhood where my sister and I were all of the cartoon icons all at once. Where my sister was Jem (Jerrica too, that bitch), I was all of The Misfits. Where she was a Carebear, I was the Ninja Turtle that slayed her. Where she was a Little Pony, I was A Master of The Universe.
It’s kind of a bummer that these characters we loved so much ended when tying the side of your t-shirt was cool. With a little hard work and some really good casting, we could bring them back in the most totally radical way possible. Characters keep their integrity, and their now-grown fans are entertained: we need to re-cast reality shows with 1980’s cartoons. [Read more...]
If you learn nothing else from me and my box wine, learn this.
Nobody gets to call you a whore.
Apparently, these days using birth control for medicinal purposes makes you a whore. Apparently wanting no double standard about rights makes you a whore. Apparently, being in possession of a vagina makes you a whore.
In my day, we called you a whore when a man paid you for sex, because that is what you were. The title comes with the territory.
If you used a hose on flames, we called you a firefighter.
If you drug a squeegee down a window, you called you a window washer.
If you got nasty with a pervert for monetary exchange, we called you a whore.
We didn’t call you a prostitute because you took aspirin or got treatment for cancer. That’s just mean as hell; women are catty about fashion, not medical treatments. [Read more...]
Sit down, dear—we need to have a talk.
My grandchildren are insufferably boring, and Nana can’t take it anymore.
It’s not for lack of trying on your part, Lord knows. They’re in baseball, watercolors, boy scouts, wreck diving, creative weavery, and yet they’re still so pale and whiny and afraid of being awesome like Grandma.
For Christmas this year, Nana wants her sweet muffin-faced angels to be the most inglorious badasses that ever walked the Earth.
Reintegration Camp Adventure
Replaces: All learning activities.
Class: They sit in rickety wooden chairs in the haunted part of my basement while I shout facts through a bullhorn 2 feet from him. Each time they forget a fact, another stuffed animal disappears. [Read more...]
No, no, not Tuesday afternoon, you insolent Jezebel.
I’m talking about Satan’s Day, dear. Something you’re probably too damn familiar with: Halloween. Pass Nana the tequila; she’s going to need something stronger than rosé to set your generation straight. [Read more...]