It’s a little move I like to call “The Reverse Douche.”

(Japan brings us Vagina Bubbles from Hell, from Female ninjas:  The Magic Chronicles).


If there is one thing that every young radical who has the misfortune of reaching their late-twenties and discovering that non-profit work fails to pay the electricity bill will discover, it’s that her cooler friends will accuse her of selling out.  And in all likelihood, the accusation will be just, and the “victim” of said insinuation or outright accusation will find herself with only a shaky stiletto on which to stand.

To many people, it doesn’t matter how much I recycle, that I walk to work, or how much money I donate to Planned Parenthood and the Red Cross.  The fact that I listen to NPR only consolidates my place in the affluent white liberal ranks.  I am a meat-eater who feels guilt because I am too lazy to make it to the organic farmer’s market every weekend.  I have a Banksy coffee-table book.  I am friends with my housekeeper.  I yearn to be a roller derby girl but don’t have time and was rejected by Teach for America.  My best friend bought me a Kindle for Christmas.  I am an embarrassing living embodiment of Stuff White People Like.

And yet, last week, when my best friend from high school jokingly emailed me something about my job as a “corporate shill,” I about spluttered my Merlot all over my Netbook.  I am far from moneyed, after all!  My apartment doesn’t even have a dishwasher (and I will tell you, I never thought I would be practically 30 and living without basic mod-cons like central air).  I do have a classic dryer from the 1970s, and a television that, as best I can tell, was the finest model on offer in 1995.  I have a mouse for a roommate and a potentially murderous mold problem in my bathroom.

If I were a proper corporate shill, I would have a condo and a standing appointment for a weekly bikini wax.  I would fucking know how to ski.  I would not have a deep-discount wine habit and holes in the toes of all my socks.  Just because he’s living in one of the Carolinas and getting his PhD in Hippie Pot-Smoking does not mean that I suddenly know how to iron. (more…)

This video was emailed around my UK office yesterday and you could tell when someone watched it because of the audible gasp, even though we had all read the accompanying headline and knew what we were about to see.   That headline?  “Cat owners hunt for woman who put pet in wheelie bin.”  Here’s the video:

The mystery middle-aged white woman in Coventry (quickly identified as Mary Bale after the video appeared all over the web) was captured on a family’s security camera dropping their cat, Lola, into a garbage bin.  Walking by, Bale stops to pet the friendly kitty before looking around for witnesses, gripping the cat by its scruff, and dropping it into the garbage before walking away.  Darryl and Stephanie Andrews-Mann searched for the family pet for 15 hours before finding Lola, and were flummoxed as to how the accident occurred – until they reviewed the tapes from their home security camera, which they had installed two years ago after their car was repeatedly damaged by drivers-by.

Darryl, 26, said: “I’d like to know how she would feel if she was stuck in a bin for 15 hours without food or drink.

“It was really hot day outside. I searched nearby alleyways [for Lola] but suddenly heard a tiny meowing coming from the bin. I looked inside and I found her in the bin. She was terrified and covered in her own mess.”

Unsurprisingly, a large crowd was reported to gather outside Bale’s home and death threats were received as the video spread.  The Metro reports that Bale is under investigation by the RSPCA, and her mother was in the unenviable position of defending her daughter’s actions: (more…)

note to self: googling 'bad hangover' images is a really stupid idea right now.

The other day my friend LipstickLibrarian asked the question, “Tell me about the worst hangover you ever had.”  Which was fitting as I am discovering that I’m a disgrace to my Irish blood since I can no longer handle my drink.  If you’re facebook friends with me you’ve probably seen my Thursday status updates wherein I moan about what a wretched state I’m in and that an evil, evil bitch named Vodka is to blame. Like this:

Thandie Kadinsky-Papier: well, it’s Thursday so kadinsky must be hung the fuck over and wondering when she became such a sadist.  oh, and my stomach keeps trying to lurch it’s way out of my mouth so there’s that.  June 3 at 12:37pm

Thandie Kadinsky-Papier: is hungover……again……goddammit.  and I will bear this excedrin bottles’ children if it will just fucking work faster.  May 20 at 9:53am

Thandie Kadinsky-Papier:  wtf, vodka?  I was good to you all those years, we was tight, I kept you top shelf and chilled and you kept me magnanimous and slutty.  now all you do is buttfuck me with a hangover, you fuck.  you’re fired.  May 7 at 2:09pm

Pathetic, right?  I know.  But because there is fuck all to do in this town I keep going out on Wednesday nights with my co-workers and trying to strike a balance between buzzed-and-happy and dear-god-just-kill-me-and-be-done-with-it.  I have yet to succeed.  Last week I tried drinking water after every cocktail, a full glass of water even.  I had to pee every 6 minutes and still felt like ass the next day.  This week I figured if I just stuck to beer (which, okay, beer is fine and all but jesus christ the BLOAT come on) I would be fine.  Well, the problem is that it takes a lot of beer to get me to the same happy place.  According to my bar receipt it takes 14 beers.  And according to my desire to just DIE right now, 14 beers is too much.

So, all I can do today is sit here pretending to look busy and try not to let my face slide to the floor.  At lunch today I had to go heave because a motherfucking saltine looked at me wrong.  My co-worker was looking for me earlier to ask me something, when I got back to my desk he asked where I was.  I said I was in the handicapped stall taking a nap with my forehead against the cold hand railing.  He laughed at my joke.  I was not joking.  My hangovers have become a whole other state of being; they have transcended ‘hangover’ status to something more akin to being poisoned.  Clearly this is my body’s way of telling me to give it the hell up already.  Until LL asked the question and I saw some of my friends’ responses, I thought everyone went through the same kind of hangover hell that I did, but apparently not.  These are what mine are like, as told to friends and simply cut/pasted because I am lazy and HUNGOVER.

ohgod, the drinking. I wish all I had to deal with was a headache, my stomach crawls up my throat every time. I dry heaved 3 times while getting ready! there was nothing to throw up! but my stomach does not care, that bitch is merciless. she churns and churns until I puke up bile. so unpleasant. so then I think I’m in the clear and get down some water/alka seltzer and finish getting ready. I get to work, I make some tea, I’m at my desk sipping tea, thinking soothing thoughts and trying to work when who comes back to fuck me up? my goddamn vindictive stomach. I had to stop in the middle of that post up there to go ralph up the liquid I thought I was okay with. WHAT THE FUCK. eyes watering, nose running, makeup getting smeared off, jesus christ.

What about you?  How sick does drinking make you and do you continue to do it?

Also?  Weed has never done me wrong, so score one for cannabis.  And now I go to sleep behind the copier, xoxo.

I am embarrassed to say that I was once a HUGE Mel Gibson fan. I fell quite disturbingly in love with him after Gallipoli and The Year of Living Dangerously. I mean, just look at him from that era:

But if you ever needed proof that you can absolutely not judge a book by its cover, it’s this motherfucker. As if his legendary anti-Semitism wasn’t enough, now it’s emerged that he’s also an unapologetic wife-beater. He not only slugged his the Russian mother of his child twice while she was holding their child, but he told her she deserved it.

I am kind of grossed out that for many years, he was on my list of Celebrity Wanna-bangs. Shudder.

I hope he serves a lot of time in jail.

Marc Ambinder at The Atlantic is reporting on Al Qaeda’s first English-language magazine.  It’s based out of the Arabian Peninsula, called “Inspire,” and is aimed at the millions of Muslims who speak English as a first or second language.  A U.S. official has confirmed that it appears to be authentic.  And we all thought publishing was dead! (more…)

It’s only a game-deciding goal in the World Cup.  A reasonable venue for the worst call of all freakin’ time.  There are about three American players being fouled, and yet the ref somehow managed to see something no one else in the entire stadium world could.  Amazing.

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