Queer-Eye for the Straight Girl

Miss Snarky Pants:

Meet Judy Smith. She is one of my blogging buddies who has become very dear to me because of her warmth, humor, kindness, generosity and optimism. I consider her a real, true friend, and I’m so excited that she is branching out in her writing in a wonderful, creative and sassy way that is hilarious and uplifting, without being saccharine and nauseating. I plan to follow along and find out what happens, so take this journey with me….

Originally posted on Playing for Time:

Alex, I’ll take “PARTIES” for a hundred, please.

Here we go …  Every woman’s response to “We’re having a party.”

Mashes the buzzer! …  What is “I have nothing to wear?”

Casino Night is looming on the horizon, a dress-up affair at Abe & Jake’s Landing, significant because friends are hosting and it will potentially benefit other friends.  I’m slated to give a speech but I have NOTHING TO WEAR so I’m not too pumped about the whole thing.

Enter my friends Adam and Seth, armed with knowledge from every episode of What Not to Wear, Project Runway, their own impeccable taste, et.al.   A shopping date is set for the following week, beginning with a lunch of salad and wine.  Thus fortified we hit the stores, fearless and ready to incite terror on both sides of the street.  A saleswoman whispers to me early on, “These guys are making me nervous.”

THESE guys?  You mean the ones who are giving you…

View original 570 more words

A Waist Is Born

My Waist Size...When I Was 12.

My Waist Size…When I Was Twelve.

I now have this thing called a waist. I know; I had to look it up, too. Apparently, this phenomena occurs when deposits of fat suddenly disappear like Christians before Armageddon, leaving you with two curved dents between your lower ribs and hip bones. Having only observed this waist thingie from afar, I’ve always likened it to a mythical creature captured only on blurry video. A Yeti. The Lochness Monster. J.D. Salinger.

And thanks to the miracle that are high-waisted, skinny jeans – the moment I tried on my first pair, I believed in Jesus all over again – my muffin top, if not completely gone, is tucked snugly into my waistband.

A few friends have noticed my new, slimmer figure, but many have been distracted by my hair, which is growing at an alarming rate for someone who isn’t imprisoned in a tower. Combine that with my new waist, and I now have two whole things in common with Gisele Bundchen.

Gisele

Gisele Bundchen – My Doppelganger

Yesterday, I was donning one of my standard chubby girl dresses to wear to my husband’s office cocktail party…and it was too big. Everywhere. I knew I’d lost some weight. My tees were begin to hang away from my body, rather than cling to my muffin top like cinnamon glaze. Each week, I’ve had to bore a new hole into my belt so that I don’t look like a lank-haired, wanna-be rapper, holding up my jeans with one hand as I lope down the sidewalk. That realization began what I call The Dress Frenzy. Which dresses fit me now? Which ones are too big? Which ones can I donate to Sea World? I slipped on one after the other and, at no point, did I feel like a sausage. It was like Christmas in July…mostly because it is, in fact, July.

For the past two years, my packed dress closet has been virtually ignored, with the exception of a few frocks towards the front, all of which are stretchy, Empire-waisted numbers that have each garnered me myriad versions of the question: So when are you due? When I stepped out in a coral and white, fitted, sleeveless dress last night, I felt fierce. Sasha Fierce fierce. All I needed was a wind machine and some blonde hair extensions, and I was ready to march on stage and rip Jay Z a new asshole.

At one point during the evening, one of my husband’s co-workers asked me what I was doing to lose weight. “Nothing,” I answered truthfully. Hubby and I did move ourselves – and our 17,000 books – into a new place a month ago, so I did engage in quite a bit of exercise for a few weeks, but the weight continues to creep off, pound by pound, day by day. In retrospect, I should have answered, “Cancer.” Or maybe, “Tapeworms.”

“Have you been watching what you eat?” the co-worker asked. Yes, I’ve been watching what I eat. In fact, I stare at my food quite intently as it leaves the plate, balanced on a fork, heading for my mouth. For example, this week I’ve seen beef and potatoes, macaroni and cheese, nachos, freezer pizzas, brownies and candied bacon. Last night, as I was pouring myself a glass of milk before bed, I noticed the brownies, stacked like chocolate bricks of poo in a plastic storage container in the fridge. I told myself, “I’m going to pass on that brownie,” as I closed the refrigerator door. About fifteen minutes later, I decided to make good on that promise – and I passed on that brownie. I passed it on to my stomach and it’s currently lodged somewhere in my intestinal tract.

The other night, my husband asked, “What’s that dark stuff on your face?” I figured it must have been that crappy mascara I’ve been using or maybe stray brownie crumbs.

“Where?” I asked. “Under my eyes or around my mouth?”

“Neither,” Hubby replied. “Under your cheeks.”

I rubbed both cheeks vigorously with the heels of my palms. “Is it gone?”

“Nope, it’s still there.” Hubby’s forehead furrowed with concern.

I dashed to the bathroom, curious about what could possibly cause my husband to look serious, and ogled my reflection in the mirror. After a moment, I figured out what merited Hubby’s worry. Returning to the living room, I flopped down on the sofa.

“The dark stuff is still there,” Hubby said.

“I know,” I answered. “They’re called shadows. I have cheekbones now.”

Yes, I have THREE things in common with Gisele. And one thing in common with actor, Benedict Cumberbatch, now that I think of it. No, wait. We’re all tall. FOUR things in common with the Brazilian supermodel and TWO with the best Sherlock since ever.

Benedict Cumberbatch - Those Cheekbones Will Cut A Bitch!

Benedict Cumberbatch – Those Cheekbones Will Cut A Bitch!

Granted, Gisele’s waist is tinier, her hair is lusher and longer, and her cheekbones could be used to saw all the lumber necessary to build a log cabin McMansion, but I can already see myself on the cover of Sports Illustrated. In the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Married to a football player. Smug about an effortless beauty I did nothing to earn. Smugger about all things motherhood even though I’ve only been one for five hot minutes.

Whaaaat? Wait a sec. I hate football. I dig for my lingerie in the 70% off sale bin at Macy’s; if any of it matches, it’s by coincidence, not by design. Certainly, I don’t stand around posing in it. I’m no breeder and I don’t aspire to rank just below Gwyneth Paltrow on the Most-Out-of-Touch-Celebrity-Ever Meter. I’d rather have four things in common with John Green or Elizabeth Warren or Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg or Harper Lee. C’mon, Tom Brady has got to be the most boring slice of white bread on earth. Just thinking about him makes me nod off.

Still…I have a waist, cheekbones and two things in common with Benedict Cumberbatch.

And, probably, not a tumor.

 

***

If you enjoyed this Miss Snarky Pants post, you may also like these:

Yoga Is Not A Character In Star Wars

Part Deux: Yoga Is Not A Character In Star Wars

My Mortal Enemy: The Elusive Chin Up

Plus, follow this blog (use the blue button in the right hand column) and/or share it with your blogging besties!

A Stupid Butterfly Poem

 

Monarch New York Times

 

A Stupid Butterfly Poem

 

Clipped between the window pane

and the screen,

two monarch wings

lay at wicked angles,

dusted with the world that passed

since they last beat

beat   beat   beat   beat   beat   beat   beat.

Against the scraping mesh.

Against the July-baked glass.

Against the sun.

 

I wondered how it happened,

how this fluttering wisp was trapped,

a cage on one side,

an impenetrable wall on the other.

Did its heart pound with more ferocity

than the slamming of its body –

SLAM –

its spindly, black legs as useless as dangling threads,

against its invisible warden.

Was it an unintended kidnapping,

or did some brute chortle,

watching the aching wings slam against the hot screen?

 

My disappointment in Humanity hung

about me,

thick and heavy as the humidity.

It was then that I noticed the screen

gaping away from the window.

Only inches of freedom to me, but acres to one

who fits in my palm.

 

Stupid butterfly.

 

- Miss Snarky Pants

 


If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like these:

Procrastination in the Form of a Cat Poem

Setting the Snark Aside

Big Bang Theory Haiku

The World’s Worst Sonnet About a Dead Dog Ever

 

Copyright 2014 by C.C.L. and Miss Snarky Pants.  All rights reserved. This is my poem. I wrote it. It is my property. Do not reproduce without my written consent or I will write a stupid poem about you and how you steal stupid poems. 

Bundy Protesters To Use Kittens On Front Line

"Please Don't Point That Gun At Me. I Don't Even Like Cows." - Nevada Kitten Who Asked Not To Be Named

“Please Don’t Point That Gun At Me. I Don’t Even Like Cows.” – Nevada Kitten, Fluffymuggs

First, it was women. Children. Now kittens?

Cliven Bundy, the Nevada rancher whose armed protesters recently forced U.S. Bureau of Land Management agents to withdraw during an attempt to herd and impound Bundy’s cattle, which are illegally grazing on federally-protected lands, has come up with a new tactic to deter future attempts by agents: newborn kittens.

Former Arizona sheriff, Richard Mack was, reportedly, the mastermind behind decision to put women on the front lines, in the event that a “rogue” federal agent opened fire at last weekend’s Bundy protest, which involved close to 1,000 people, including armed members of Operation Mutual Aid, a non-government sanctioned militia.

Militia Member Aiming A Gun At Federal Agents

Militia Member Aiming A Gun At Federal Agents

“We were actually strategizing to put all the women up at the front,” Mack told Fox News. “If they are going to start shooting, it’s going to be women that are going to be televised all across the world getting shot by these rogue federal officers.”*

“If they’re going to start killing people,” Mack told radio host, Ben Swann, “I’m sorry, but to show the world how ruthless these people are, women needed to be the first ones shot. I’m sorry, that sounds horrible. I would have put my own wife or daughters there, and I would have been screaming bloody murder to watch them die.”**

Apparently, “Women and Children First” Means Something Else In Nevada.

Apparently, “Women and Children First” Means Something Else In Nevada.

When Mack was asked if he thinks putting women on the front lines would deter federal agents in the future, he responded, “No, we’ve played that card. We’ve asked Bundy’s supporters to bring kittens next time.” He explained that the plan is to attach cameras – connected to live YouTube feeds –  to the newborns’ heads. The kittens will then be placed on the front lines, with the children and women behind them. “If a rogue agent takes a shot,” Mack said, “America will be watching kitten heads explode on the Internet.”

Mack further revealed that discussions originally included: playful otters in a tank, cute pandas, baby chicks and bunny rabbits.

In a related story, Richard Mack’s wife, Barbara, hastily filed for divorce this morning in Arizona, citing “irreconcilable differences.” She is seeking sole custody of the couple’s daughters.

 

*Actual quote.

**Also, an actual quote.

***

 

Miss Snarky Pants is a humor and satire blog for horrible people.

Miss Snarky Pants loves kittens. You should share this post because everyone loves kittens. Or photos of kittens. Or those really short videos of kittens that repeat over and over again. I don’t know what those are called, but, sometimes, they’re funny. Anyway, share this on FB and Twitter or on all those hipster sites I’m not cool enough to know about. If people like the post, they’ll remember that it was YOU who shared it.

And you get points for that.

***

If you enjoyed this post, you may also enjoy:

40 Reasons Why Cats Are Better Than Kids

Why I Hate Witty People

I Say Tomato; You Say, “What’s That?”

 

Snarky Threads

Fun and Contemporary Circle Pillow

Fun and Contemporary Circle Pillow

This winter, Miss Snarky Pants had a migraine for four months. Writing – and worse, editing – with a headache that lasts longer than a session of Congress is a hell reserved for someone much worse than myself (no, really, there’s this guy in Omaha), so I thought I’d spare you (but, mostly, me) the misery. Instead, I focused on my new, erm, hobby: Snarky Threads!

I know. Who gets a mega migraine and ends up with a hobby? Handwork, like cutting and embroidering, is incredibly soothing – and doesn’t require the intense constant thought that writing demands, except during the initial design process. I’d begun playing with the idea of working with wool felt and creating high-quality, but funky, fun designs – products I wanted to see in stores…but wasn’t. Day of the Dead. Steampunk. Whovian. Nerd chic.

All the work is completely hand-done – the cutting, the embroidery, the beading, the felt flowers – so it’s not a quick process, but every piece is a new adventure. I use high-quality 20% and 35% wool felt for the base pillows, which is much softer and durable than the craft felt you made ugly things out of when you were a kid. C’mon, they were ugly. The  pom pom and felt panda bear ornaments I made in Girl Scouts looked like interracial snowmen with testicular cancer.

Take a peek at some of my designs and let me know what you think.

Unless you hate them. In that case, move along. Nothing to see here. This is not the Comment Box you’re looking for.

xo

MSP

A Bear In A Birch Forest - Special Request For My Sister-In-Law

A Bear In A Birch Forest – Special Request For My Sister-In-Law

Close Up Of Birch Trees

Close Up Of Birch Trees

Sugar Skull Kitty

Sugar Skull Kitty

Flamingo!

Flamingo!

Every Feather Is Embroidered By Hand

Every Feather Is Embroidered By Hand

Loud and Proud LGBT Pillow

Loud and Proud LGBT Pillow

Muted Circle Pillow

Muted Circle Pillow

Blue Cubes

Blue Cubes

Aye! Pirate Sugar Skull Pillow

Aye! Pirate Sugar Skull Pillow

Steampunk Skull

Steampunk Skull

Traditional Sugar Skull

Traditional Sugar Skull

sugar skull cat 6

Another Sugar Skull Kitty – For My Niece

Desert Sugar Skull Pillow

Desert Sugar Skull Pillow

Blue Cat Keychain

Blue Cat Keychain

Traditional Sugar Skull

Traditional Sugar Skull

My New Reading Glasses (Aargh!) Case

My New Reading Glasses (Aargh!) Case

Bloomin' Keychain

Bloomin’ Keychain

Steampunk Dragon Pouch/Purse

Steampunk Dragon Pouch/Purse

 

P.S. All photos are the exclusive  property of Miss Snarky Pants. :)

P.S.S. Now comment away. I can’t wait to hear what you guys think of my little endeavor.

 

Christie’s Bridgegate Target Revealed To Be Ft. Lee Child

Protesters Demand Christie's Resignation After Bridgegate Target Determined To Be A Child

Protesters Demand Christie’s Resignation After Emails Identify Nate Hoffman As Intended Bridgegate Target.

FT. LEE, NJ – Copies of personal emails between Chris Christie and his former Deputy Chief of Staff, Bridget Anne Kelly, were released to several media outlets today, in which the Governor directs Kelly to “f*ck [sic] with that black kid, the one from the rally,” now identified as Ft. Lee second grader, Nate Hoffman. “Plant some pot in his locker or something,” Christie directed Kelly.

Kelly’s immediate email response: “Governor, he’s eight. He doesn’t have a locker.”

“I don’t care. No calls me Christie Pisstie, anymore, and gets away with it,” Christie replied minutes later. “Aren’t his parents those D-word, organic farmers who refused to let us put a billboard on their property? F*ckin’ hippies.”

“I’m not going to stash marijuana in his [Nate Hoffman's] desk,” Kelly wrote back, explaining that buying pot would be “illegal, and I’m just not willing to do that.”

After Christie asked Kelly what she proposed, Kelly replied that their investigation into the Hoffman family indicated that Nate is “autistic and attends a private, special needs school in the city. He can become agitated when trapped in a car or any small, enclosed space for long periods of time.”

After Kelly rejected Christie’s suggestion that “someone rig the elevator at Hoffman’s school” as too dangerous to other students, she proposed, via email, “Why don’t we just conduct a traffic study and close a few lanes of the George Washington Bridge all next week?”

Christie responded, “During the first week of school? On 9/11? I love it when you talk dirty like that. Make it happen.”

The boy’s mother, Diane Hoffman, confirmed that “some Christie thug” visited their farm and questioned her about an incident that had occurred a week prior at a Barbara Buono rally. “I explained that my son is autistic. He wasn’t shouting, Christie Pisstie; he was hollering, Kristy Pisstie, because his little sister is named Kristy and she had just wet her pants.” When the man asked if her son had a vendetta against Governor Christie, Hoffman said, ” I told him that my son thinks the President is DJ Lance Rock. Unless Chris Christie is on Yo Gabba Gabba!, he’s not on my son’s radar.”

Hoffman’s father, Marcus, who drives his son to school every morning,  is “infuriated” that the Governor would exact this kind of revenge upon a young, innocent child – all because of perceived name-calling. “Nate screamed for nearly three hours straight that morning,” he said. “Three hours in a Prius. My right ear has been ringing non-stop since September 11th.”

In an ironic twist, the Hoffmans decided to keep their son home until the lane closures ended, so Christie’s target “got the week off of school, and spent most of his free time watching Nickelodeon and playing  games on his Xbox,” while thousands of drivers were forced to sit in traffic for hours each day, and local emergency services were severely impacted.

In response to the release of these emails,  Governor Christie issued a statement, which reads, in part, “I’m thrilled that the Hoffmans have confirmed what I’ve been saying all along: Mayor Sokolich wasn’t on my radar screen.”

While the Ft. Lee family haven’t, yet, contemplated legal action, when asked how he thought Governor Christie should be punished for his actions, Marcus Hoffman said, “I think Christie should have to spend a weekend with Nate. In a Smart car. In bumper-to-bumper traffic. Windows up, motherf*cker!”

***

Miss Snarky Pants is a humor and satire blog. Enjoyed this post? Share it with your friends.

Lose Weight By Taking A Sh*t. Seriously?

xxx

Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo, is that you?

This is a real ad that appeared on my Facebook page today. Yes, that appears to be a turd. Specifically, the turd of someone who likes peanuts.

Upon seeing it, I immediately thought to myself, “I have to share this with my readers.” You’re probably wondering what that says about you, right about now.

Don’t say I never did anything for you.

Happy Sunday!

Miss Snarky Pants

***

Miss Snarky Pants is uber generous – and wants you to be benevolent, too – so SHARE this with your friends. Stop being selfish; do it now!

Putin, Sochi, Rainbows and Unicorn Sh*t

Sochi - Share A Lightbulb. Share A Toilet. Unless You're Gay.

Sochi – Share A Lightbulb. Share A Toilet Stall. Unless You’re Gay.

Thanks to the across-the-board nightmare the Sochi 2014 Winter Olympics have been thus far, I realized there was a secondary irony in the rainbow-colored Olympic rings – one that didn’t exist until the games were held in a country that has recently restricted some of the most important aspects of the Russian LGBT people’s lives. In 2012, Russia passed legislation banning “propaganda of non-traditional sexual relations” to minors. Last year, another law forbidding homosexuality in literature and the rainbow flag symbol were passed.

What’s next? Adios, Crayolas. Ciao, prisms. Do svidaniya, unicorn shit. Sayonara, Skittles. Putin doesn’t want anyone to taste your rainbow.

More recently, the country has enacted a law prohibiting the LGBT community from holding parades in the capital city of Moscow for the next 100 years. Hold up, President Putin. Stalin called; he wants his homophobic laws back…along with the title of “Manliest Man in Moscow.”

GQ Cover Or Joseph Stalin  At Age 23? Hellloooo, comrade.

GQ Cover Or Joseph Stalin At Age 23? Hellloooo, Comrade.

By criminalizing the dissemination of LBGT information to minors, Putin has officially stigmatized members of the LGBT community – not just in Russia, but across the world. Moreover, this law makes it nearly impossible for gays and transgender people to hold protests on behalf of restoring these basic, human rights – because children are everywhere. The shirtless, dickless, cowboy president has, in one swift move, set human rights in Russia back at least 60 years. Pull out your crinolines and penny loafers, comrades; it’s about to get Iron-ic Curtain, in here.

While I observed the Sochi facade crumble – along with its hotels – over the last few weeks, I also realized that its failure is merely a sign of a sturdier, steel shade that has been pulled across Russia’s windows to the world. Enacted in a country notorious for its propaganda, this legislation is nothing more than a manner in which to legitimize the beliefs and acts of every homophobic hate group within Russia’s boundaries.

Hmmmm. Why does this sound so familiar? A country systematically stigmatizing a particular minority, enacting laws meant to separate that minority from the majority, blaming that minority for the country’s economic downturn, and gradually eliminating that minority’s rights – to live – altogether. I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Hitler? Putin? Hittin?

Hitler? Putin? Hittin?

Oh, that’s it! Danka schoen.

Here we have the Russian President still in the dawn of his third term. Let’s face it – the dawn of his third and fourth, 12-year long term. When you’re a former KGB agent and sociopath, you don’t accept the legitimacy of silly things like laws that prevent you from being in charge. No, before you complete your first 8-year reign, you restructure the government so that Russian governors report to the Prime Minister, select and endorse your successor, step down, and immediately accept the title of, wait for it, Prime Minister –  from your tag team member, the new President Dmitry Medvedev, who looks like what would happen if Colin Firth and James Bond made it. And enjoyed it.

Dmitry "The Invisible President" Medvedev: "I'd like to tell you the unusual story of my parents, but your children are in the room and I'm already on Putin's shit list. Sorry, Dads!"

Dmitry “The Invisible President” Medvedev: “I’d like to tell you the unusual story of my parents, but your children are in the room and I’m already on Putin’s shit list. Sorry, Dads!”

Except you probably didn’t know that. Why? Because no one ever talks about former President Medvedev, who is, currently, Prime Minister Medvedev (seeing a pattern here?), unless they’re explaining Putin’s rise to power. Or how much taller he is than Medvedev. Or how Medvedev was a pawn and his presidency was a tiny, 4-year bone thrown to Russian liberals that accomplished nothing. Simply put, Dmitry Medvedev was to Russia what President John Tyler was to the United States.

Never heard of him either, have you? All you need to know is that Tyler’s opponents reportedly didn’t take him or his presidency seriously, and referred to him as “His Accidency” or “The Acting President.” He’s widely considered one of the United States’ worst Presidents. So don’t expect to see Firth onscreen, wearing one of Medvedev’s characteristic, fat Windsor knots, and stuttering his way through one of the invisible, former president’s speeches anytime soon.

But back to Putin’s rise to power. After ensuring that the presidential term length law is extended from four to six years, Medvedev conveniently declines to run again so that Putin is elected President of Mother Russia in 2012 for a third, non-consecutive term. Russia’s revolving political door circulates just one leader, a cycle seemingly limited only by Putin’s lifespan. Or is it? I’d bet my Stoli-packed linen closet* that Putin had himself cloned long ago, and, somewhere in a remote, Siberian laboratory, miniature Vlads are chasing one another around a playroom. With their shirts off.

So, while I appreciated and respected President Obama’s bold decision to not send any Cabinet members to Sochi  and to, instead, appoint several openly gay athletes as U.S. Delegates to the Olympics, I think a brighter, louder message representing our antipathy for Russia’s homophobic stance would have been a change of costume – you know, rainbow-colored uniforms. We could ask Calvin Klein to design them. They could be partially-striped like a rainbow flag and –

Germany - Comeback of the Year!

The German Olympic Team – Showing their LGBT Pride!

What the f**k?

Wait, GERMANY beat us to it? The Germany? The Germany that nearly exterminated the Jews and, likely would have succeeded, had they not tried to beat the Soviet Union on its own turf. In winter. The Germany that allowed Hitler, possibly the most widely-despised man of the last century, to lead them into the heart of cruelty and evil, then abandon them – a scorched and scorned country – to pick up the pieces and apologize. To everyone.

You know, Germany. Junior. He’s that kid you picked on in school – the one who overcompensated  for his father being a despised, homicidal dictator, by throwing keg parties, which everyone promptly vacated, as soon as the beer ran out and the house was trashed. Even though it wasn’t Junior’s fault that his dad murdered your grandparents, you’ve never really forgiven him. Sure, at reunions, you dismiss any ill will. “It’s all good,” you say, but, deep down, you’re not gonna have anything to do with Junior again unless free beer is involved. Craft beer. American craft beer.

Sure, President Obama gave Putin the finger with his LGBT-loaded U.S. Delegation. And, don’t get me wrong, I felt good about that. It was like a shot of testosterone surged through my estrogen-loaded body. I walked like I had balls. Buffalo balls. I was proud of my president. Proud to be an American. Shame those balls turned out to be hemorrhoids.

His Picture's Here Because It Love My President. But Germany's Pretty Kick Ass, Too.

His Picture’s Here Because I Love My President. But Germany’s Pretty Kick Ass, Too.

But then Junior comes along and, not only shoots the Russian President a huge, colorful BIRD at the internationally-aired, opening ceremonies of the most important event of his presidency, he then sticks that rainbow-wrapped middle finger up Putin’s ass – an act not yet illegal in Russia – and demonstrates that Germany has huden so big, they make Putin’s look like a mosquito’s eyeballs.

Holy comeback, Batman!

By the way, I feel it’s only appropriate that I share with you that I am one quarter German. Both my mother and grandmother were born there.

Until today, I’ve never been really proud of that fact.

Danke schoen, Germany.

Miss Snarky Pants

*As if I’d drink Stoli. Ketel One, please…

***

If you enjoyed this post, subscribe. It’s free. Not in a free, mint candy kind of way, but in a free, unlimited  bar tab for a year kind of way. So drink up. The Follow button is over there on the right. Go on.

Unless you’re a member of the Tea Party, in which case, “Move along. Nothing to see here, folks.”

***

And don’t be a Selfish Shellie or Sam – Share this post with the people who are most likely to get the joke and will not send me hate mail in the form of public comments.  I’m more sensitive than I write.

Sob.

Off with you. Off to share on FB. Off to tweet. Off to Reddit and Stumble Upon great things. Off to see that crazy ex of yours. Bad decision. The latter, I mean. Do all the other stuff. Okay?

Justin Bieber Secretly Drops New Single, “Cry for Help”

Justin Bieber's "Cry for Help" Dropped Today

Justin Bieber’s “Cry for Help” Dropped Today

NEW YORK CITY (The Snarky Pants Press) – A second pop star in as many months has secretly dropped a single on iTunes today. Cry for Help, is the first single to be released from Justin Bieber’s forthcoming album, Someone Reign Me In Before I Turn Into Leif Garrett.

When asked if Def Jam decided to covertly drop Cry for Help, in part, because of the label’s recent success secretly releasing Beyonce’s album, XO, which sold nearly a half million copies within the first twenty-four hours, Bieber’s publicist responded, “No, no. The song wasn’t ready. Justin was coming off of Xanax, and – between that and all the weed he smokes – his impulse control is pretty much non-existent. We just roll with it.” In fact, a source close to the Bieber camp, confirmed that, shortly after he surrendered to Toronto authorities, after being charged with criminally assaulting a limousine driver last month, Bieber used his sole phone call to contact his label – not his lawyer – to demand that Cry for Help be released the day after the Super Bowl, or he would take “drastic action.”

When pressed as to what Bieber meant by drastic action, a source close to the Bieber camp revealed that Bieber specifically threatened to “drag race a Lamborghini with bald tires on an Atlanta highway during an ice storm – while tweaking and having sex with a Brazilian prostitute” as soon as he was released from jail, if the record label refused to comply. “Naturally, Def Jam hung up on him,” the source said. “But then they thought about it and realized they should get a single out there before Biebs really f**ks up. You know, like tattoos a swastika on his forehead. Or tweets that he’s gay. Or gets married. He could lose his entire female fan base. That marriage shit is serious.”

On condition of anonymity, another source at Def Jam further confirmed that Bieber’s label tried to convince him that no one would hear his Cry for Help if he dropped it on Monday, as most news outlets would be reporting on the Super Bowl, the depth of the hole Chris Christie has dug for himself and, now, the sad passing of theatrical genius, Philip Seymour Hoffman. Unless Bieber were to get arrested or overdose on some hard drugs, the label insisted, his Cry for Help would be heard by no one. Def Jam’s decision to release the single on Tuesday prompted Bieber to tweet: “Do I have to DIE to get DEF JAM to HEAR me?” #Beliebers.”

It is noteworthy that Bieber paid tribute to Hoffman’s life by later tweeting: “Hope #PhilipSeymourHoffman was a #Belieber so he will get 2 Heaven. RIP Luv my fans.”

Bieber Tweeted: Hope #PhilipSeymourHoffman was a #Belieber so he gets 2 Heaven. RIP Luv my fans.

Yes, drugs kill good people. Brilliant people. Geniuses.

Music critics haven’t been kind when it comes to Bieber’s Cry for Help. “Raw, in a way that only Lorde can pull off, and partially-slurred…,” blogged Rolling Stone’s Mark Wonder, who further described it as “[a] whining diatribe about how Bieber wants to die because no one loves him enough to say no to him. Wah, wah, wah, Justin. Suddenly, you’re the exhaustingly maudlin Bella Swan of the music industry, but you were hired to be this generation’s Britney Spears. Now snort some cocaine and practice your high notes.” 

Moreover, some critics have warned listeners not to read too much into Bieber’s morose lyrics in Cry for Help. Lyrics like: I wake and bake/naked girl at my side/Dad serves breakfast in bed/A blunt three inches wide, and This is a cry for help/Do I have to scream/I am so effed up/Better switch to Beam have drawn criticism from some in the rap community who believe that Bieber is in no real danger. “He’s smoking pot, man, ” Snoop Lion told an MTV reporter. “Do you think I’d smoke 81 blunts a day if the shit could kill you? I’ll worry when he starts hanging out with Keith Richards.”

One popular, Los Angeles-based DJ, JazzyJeff261, feels that if becoming a rapper is Bieber’s goal, he should consider referring to Selena Gomez as his “bitch” or “cock pocket,” in case recent photos of him canoodling a stripper’s breast weren’t enough to make the young actress and singer feel cheap and used. “If he was truly gangsta,” JazzyJeff261 said, “he woulda tweeted that pic himself. But he ain’t no playa.”

Randy Thurman with Entertainment Weekly panned Bieber’s Cry for Help as “predictable and stale.” Singling out some of the song’s most disturbing lyrics: Sometimes I think it’s not enough/The high lasts only hours/Sometimes I wish they’d just say no/Before I’m buried beneath flowers, Thurman blogged, “We’ve seen this desperate wail for attention before, but from artists like Kurt Cobain, who experienced genuine, personal pain in order to create his music. Bieber only experiences pain if his acne shows up in a selfie.”

“Bieber’s Cry for Help proves that he’s no Leif Garrett or Andy Gibb,” wrote Vibe blogger, Hannah Creed. “Perhaps The Bieb should consider acting; with any luck, he might end up like Corey Haim.”

Stars have reached out with advice. Miley Cyrus, who recently lit up a joint while accepting a music award in Amsterdam, suggested to People’s Cara Thandry that “Biebs should shoot the video for Cry for Help totally naked on top of, like, a wrecked train. And totally f**king high. Soaring, man. Just shoot it in, like, Denver, right?” She then stuck out her tongue and offered to French kiss Thandry, who declined.

Who knows where that tongue's been?

Miley Cyrus – Bastion of Good Advice

While a guest on the TODAY show this morning, Kelly Osbourne suggested that Bieber, “Lose the bloody backwards caps. Makes him look like douchebag.”

Snoop Lion was similarly disappointed in Bieber, who rose to fame as a YouTube sensation. “I told him, ‘You don’t touch anyone. That’s why you got a posse. It’s the posse’s job to rough up f**king, limousine-driving, non-Beliebers. Not you, man. You’re the golden duck, you know?” When asked what he thought of Biebers’s alleged drug problem, Lion replied, “Is he out of drugs? Oh, man, I can hook him up.”

When asked what he thought of the 19-year old Bieber testing positive for Xanax, cannabis and alcohol while operating a motor vehicle, legendary musician, Keith Richards, laughed aloud and said, “Amateur. Let me know when he uses some real f**king drugs. Tell Bieber’s dad to call Snoop Dogg or Snoop Lion or whatever the f**k he calls himself now. He can hook him up.”

"Biebs, this is what a rock star looks like; you look like a Georgia  O'Keefe painting." -  Keith Richards

“Biebs, this is what a rock star looks like. You look like a Georgia O’Keefe painting.” – Keith Richards

Though Bieber could not be reached for comment, his father, Jeremy, who assisted in blocking the Miami street his son was later arrested on for drag-racing while under the influence, has his own theories about his son’s recent escalating, erratic behavior. “It’s all about street cred. My son’s, well…you know, he’s a pretty boy. And he wants to be Eminem. But you gotta earn street cred. If you don’t go to jail, it’s because you’re a pussy. You don’t kiss a stripper’s titty while being photographed and, suddenly, you’re gay. You don’t do drugs and you’re a Jonas Brother. I’m just lettin’ him be Da Man, you know.” Asked if he thought his son had a drug problem, Jeremy Bieber laughed and said, “He was only driving 65 m.p.h. – in a Lamborghini – when he was pulled over. Hell, the pot and Xanax slowed him way down. He doesn’t have a drug problem; he has a drug solution.”

What about studies that suggest that heavy marijuana usage before the age of 23 can permanently damage the brain’s frontal lobe, affecting the user’s ability to control impulses and make well-considered decisions? “Whatever. Justin’s frontal lobe is unBeliebable, you know what I’m sayin’?” Jeremy said. “He’s more popular than Jesus Christ. How many 13-year old girls want to lose their virginity to Jesus? Not enough to afford Christ a Lamborghini, I’ll tell you that. He’s obviously making good decisions.”

Justin Bieber Posing For An Arrest Selfie

Justin “Leif Garrett” Bieber

Critics are complaining that Bieber’s Cry for Help lacks the distinctive boppiness that the singer is known for; however, his management team is more concerned that his recent antics are serious enough to get him banned from tween’s playlists by parents, but not serious enough to garner him the artistic respect he needs if he’s going to successfully transition from bubble gum to Big League Chew, ostensibly a better, badder bubble gum. However, if early numbers are determinative, Bieber’s Cry for Help fell on deaf ears todays – particularly with his most revered audience: tween girls, gay boys, the tone deaf, and pedophiles – selling only a few thousand copies this morning.

While a few celebrities have already suggested that Justin Bieber’s Cry for Help might be the real deal, his father dismisses these comments as “rumors and jealousy. Justin’s fine. I travel with him, everywhere. He’s 19. What do you want me to do? I buy his pot for him to make sure it’s the good stuff. Hell, I got a call in to Snoop Lion, as we speak.”

Three years ago, Justin Bieber, himself, reassured The Mirror that “I’m not worried about a Lindsay Lohan situation. You know, getting into drugs because there’s no one to ground you. I have good people around me.”

***

Miss Snarky Pants is a humor and satire blog. MSP does not endorse the use of marijuana – or any drugs – by minors (except as medically-prescribed), but supports decriminalizing marijuana for adult usage.

***

If you enjoyed this post, please share it with your friends and, if you haven’t already, subscribe to Miss Snarky Pants so that you don’t miss her next post. I’ve heard it cures cancer. And hemorrhoids.

Be sure to check her out on Twitter and FB!

And You Thought Aaron Alexis Was Crazy

Washington Navy Yard Shooter, Aaron Alexis.

Washington Navy Yard Shooter, Aaron Alexis.

Two weeks ago, another senseless mass shooting occurred in the U.S. The perpetrator, Aaron Alexis, stole twelve American lives (in addition to his own), injured another eight, and decimated most of what remained of the fragile hope I carried in my heart. The hope that this attack would be the one that removes semi-automatic and automatic weapons out of the hands of anyone but the police, security personnel, and the military. The hope that this attack would be the one to convince anyone suffering from a mental illness to seek help – without the threat of societal judgement. The hope that this attack would be the last. For a long time, anyway.

Perhaps I was naive.

The worst part is that when I write about this attack, I don’t mean the shooting committed by Aaron Alexis. No, I’m still reeling from Aurora. James Holmes’ hang dog face was burned into my eyelids the moment I glimpsed his cartoonish red hair and sly, but vacant – maybe too vacant – expression. Most serial killers don’t stand out because they’re too busy blending in. They live lives that don’t draw attention. Or suspicion.  (Yes, I’ve been watching a lot of Dexter recently, so I’ve got mad criminal profiling skills.)

Similarly, many who’ve known mass murderers – defined as a person who kills four or more people in a single incident – will confirm that they were shocked to discover that their friend, family member, neighbor or colleague was arrested for the first-degree murder of, not one, or even two people, but a dozen. All at once. When interviewed by the press, they nearly always say: “He seemed like a nice guy.” “He was always friendly to me.” “He kept to himself, but was really pleasant.” No one ever says, “I saw this coming from a mile away. That dude was a burnt sienna short of a box of Crayolas.”

Mass murderers are almost never biker-types with tat sleeves, shaved heads and a long, deep facial scars. They don’t typically look like Walter White; they more closely resemble your next door neighbor with the expensive landscaping and the Lexus…or his shy, college-educated son. Aaron Alexis could have passed for my friend’s husband. But James Holmes remains an enigma. On the surface, he makes Charles Manson look like your favorite babysitter, albeit one with a swastika carved into his forehead. James Holmes looks utterly cray cray, but he’s almost textbook – and that’s where the problem lies. After all, he was enrolled in a prestigious, neuroscience doctoral program. He had access to thousands of scholarly tomes about mental disorders, and made a classroom presentation entitled,”Biological Basis of Psychiatric and Neurological Disorders.” Certainly, we’re all hoping that he is mentally ill, because if he’s not, it’s terrifying to conceive that a sane person could mow down a dozen innocent moviegoers, and injure another 58, with such cold precision.

Koo Koo for Cocoa Puffs Or Master Manipulator?

Koo Koo for Cocoa Puffs Or Master Manipulator?

So when I read that Aaron Alexis had been hearing voices in the weeks prior to the shooting, I felt a sense of relief. The monster who terrorized the employees of the Washington Navy Yard was mentally ill. He wasn’t a bad person; he was a sick person who did a badbad thing. One whom believed his insomnia was caused by people “using some kind of microwave machine” that made his body vibrate and prevented him from sleeping – a fact that only cemented my resolve that Alexis was as much of a victim as the innocent people whom he killed. A victim who had notified authorities about his paranoid hallucinations, and, yet, nothing was done to prevent the heinous crime Alexis was to commit mere weeks later.

Last night, I was reading an article about the politicians responsible for the federal government shutdown. When I came across the following statement, my heart lodged in my throat:

And I am concerned. They are shipping all the, I’m concerned about the microchips. That they are in many, many of the things that we own. And some of those are embedded, I believe, with, with detection and, uh, capabilities or tracking capabilities.

If You Ate Your Daily Allowance Of Fruit Every Day, I Wouldn't Have To Spy On You, Vicky San.

How About A Little Fiber In That Smoothie To Ease Your Constipation, Vicky-San?

That’s no mass murderer; it’s Congresswoman Vicky Hartzler of Missouri (R), who apparently believes that her Chinese-manufactured blender is listening in as she makes her morning smoothie. What’s her solution to this dilemma?  “We need to have a new 007 James Bond movie with China as the bad guys.” Erm, didn’t we do that already in Tomorrow Never Dies? I would think if China actually feared Hollywood, they wouldn’t illegally manufacture and sell bootleg copies of every major motion picture released, without paying a yuan in royalties.

Not surprisingly, she’s also a birther who has publicly said, “I have doubts that it is really his [President Obama's] birth certificate…” Funny, she hasn’t questioned Sen. Ted Cruz’s citizenship – and he admits that he was hatched in Canada. (Yes, Canada, you owe us big time for that one. I don’t care if you gave us Ryan Gosling and William Shatner; you’re also responsible for Justin Bieber, so this is strike deux.)

More alarming is the fact that she also appears to be hearing voices. Just yesterday, she was quoted as saying, “The American people have spoken already on this. They do not want Obamacare.” Really? According to RealClearPolitics.com, five times as many people have already visited the Obamacare website than have ever visited Medicare.gov. In fact, it’s been reported that 4.7 million people dropped by Healthcare.gov within the first twenty-four hours of the site being launched, despite the fact that the federal government had just been shutdown by a handful of Tea Party zealots attempting to hold it hostage. So, who are the faces behind these “American people” Hartzler speaks of? Maybe this one:

As Supreme Ruler of the Universe, I Say That The American People Don't Want Obamacare

As Supreme Ruler of the Universe, I Say That The American People Don’t Want Obamacare! Yeah, I Elected Myself. Wanna Fight About It?

Rep. Hartzler credits God with inspiring her decision to become a politician. At the age of nine. Did it occur to her that God may have only been encouraging her to run for Playground Committee Chairwoman, not Congress? What does God’s inspiration sound like, anyway? My vote would go to Morgan Freeman, but I suspect Hartzler’s God sounds more like Charleston Heston: “Run for Congress, Vicky, or I’ll pry this gun out of my cold, dead hands and show you how I parted the Red Sea.” The poster child for the anti-choice movement, she supports charging women who have abortions with first degree murder, and the physicians who perform said abortions with second degree murder. Climate change? She’s not buying it. She’s not even certain it exists…but if it does, she doubts “that man has a very significant role in that.”

I’d bet that Rep. Hartzler believes unicorns shit rainbows, but considering that she is a rabid, anti-LGBT activist, I doubt she recognizes the existence of rainbows at all. Kinda like gay marriage. Evolution. Gravity. On the upside, Hartzler supports increasing the size of the Navy in her land-locked Missouri. Erm, okay. You never know when North Korea is going to invade Mark Twain Lake.

Kim Jong-Un: "I'm Coming For You, Rep. Hartzler!

” Kim Jong-Un: “I’m Coming For You, Missouri. Prepare yourself!”

While I’m relieved that it appears that Rep. Hartzler is suffering from a mental illness – much like Aaron Alexis – I’m concerned that she, along with a small Tea Party minority, seems to possess the power to shut down the federal government. When did we decide to hand the keys to the asylum over to the inmates? Why is John Boehner listening to a vapid, former home economics teacher whose greatest, single accomplishment so far is her contribution to passing a Missouri constitutional amendment banning gay marriage…in a state in which gay marriage was already illegal. Nothing like killing a fly with a jackhammer, huh, Hartzler?

If we continue to allow politicians who hear voices and hold conference calls with God, yet speak in whispers when within sight of a household appliance, to make decisions about the future of the United States, we could end up with much worse than 800,000 federal government staffers being furloughed indefinitely and Panda Cam going dark. In some ways, political terrorism is no different than a mass shooting, and the perpetrators no different than Aaron Alexis. Both wield power through fear. Both directly and indirectly impact the lives of thousands of people through intimidation, through terror. Both control the majority through the acts of the minority. Both hurt people.

For her sake, I hope Rep. Vicky Hartzler is mentally ill. Because if she’s not, that would make her a monster.

***

If you enjoyed this post, please subscribe to Miss Snarky Pants’ blog by clicking on the blue Follow button in the right hand column. She’s usually a lot funnier, but this is serious shit.

***

Note: This post was not written, in any way, to trivialize or capitalize upon the victims of both the Aurora movie theater or Washington Navy Yard shootings. Please know that I offer my deepest condolences to both the victims and their families. Nor is this post intended to poke fun at those who bravely suffer from mental illness. Except for Vicky Hartzler. I was totally making fun of her.

***

Update: As per The Huffington Post, a Government Accountability Office analysis of Drug Enforcement Administration data has named Missouri the “methiest” state with 1,825 meth lab busts and seizures in 2012. One of only three states with over 1,000 incidents, Missouri beat out West Virginia, which ranks second with 1,585 arrests and seizures.  Mother Jones reports that the most common victim of meth burn, often caused by the “shake and bake” manufacturing method, is under 4 years of age. Way to go, Rep. Hartzler! Maybe you should focus less on your anti-LGBT, anti-choice, anti-Chinese appliances, and anti-Affordable Healthcare Act platform, and focus on something that’s a genuine problem in your state.