Welcome, Whiners!

Welcome, Whiners!
Are you tired of hearing, "Quit yer bitchin'?" Goood. You've come to the right place. Whiners, moaners, complainers, venters, and crybabies are all welcome and invited. No matter how petty and immature and insignificant your rant, you now have a place to post it. Or you can just enjoy my daily grousing. Yay. Let the bitching begin.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Miley Cyrus: Nekkid and WINNING

This does not seem like a safe place to sit while naked.

Oh, good GOD. Is there any surprise at all that Miley Cyrus’s twerking routine at the VMA’s got so much freaking press? An overtly sexy girl, scantily clad, gyrating and fake-sexing herself on television?! Quelle horreur! “We’ve never seen such a thing,” said fucking no one.

Robin Thicke’s recent video featured nekkid models fawning all over him—and I wonder who thought THAT up—so how is what Miley Cyrus did to him at the show that celebrates music videos any worse? Psssshhh. The incident is getting so much air because all the horny, old bastards in the television and news media industries just want a reason to watch the clip multiple times so they can “use the old foam finger” (if you get my drift) for work.

Miss Cyrus made the statement that she was “making history,” and she’s right. Everyone remembers the obnoxious Madonna-VMA- incident and the obnoxious Lady Gaga-VMA incident and all the obnoxious Britney-VMA-incidents; and now we just have a complete obnoxious set. The hype helped to propel Miley’s new video for the song, “Wrecking Ball,” to #1. She absolutely knows how to play the game.

The “Wrecking Ball” video begins with an extreme close-up of Miley, with her insanely pearly-whites gleaming behind some crying-jag spittle, framed by lips redder than a fox's ass in poke-berry season, and topped off with massive blue eyes that would make Red Riding Hood explode. She is honest-to-God gorgeous. She writhes around a demolition zone in some tighty whities and a teeny tank top, and then rides a wrecking ball in Lady Godiva-fashion.

Holy crap! If I were 20 years old and looked as fabulous as she does, I’d want to preserve the evidence for posterity too. It’s not like she offers up any money shots, for God’s sake. She is quite demure while being sensual and unabashedly sexy. Marilyn Monroe in 2013. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do it too if you had the goods!

I know. I know. Some men-folk master-minded the whole production. Objectification of women and all that. But I can’t imagine that Miss Cyrus batted her baby-blues and innocently went along for the ride. She is a smart one, that Hannah Montana. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and she’s tittering all the way to the bank with our money. If she’s being objectified, it’s on her own terms, and she sure as hell isn’t pretending that she’s not being naughty.

I understand that she makes some parents uncomfortable because she used to be Hannah Freaking Montana, and now she’s probably having sex, for God’s sake, and that means that our cherubic little girls will grow up and do God-knows-what in the bedroom one day. And that’s where the logic throws me because the women who belong to the Parents’ Television Council were all young once and then grew up and had children, which—wait for it—requires sex. It’s not like no teenagers have ever thought about sex until Miley Cyrus twerked off on television.

Miley does look a little dorky sometimes. Note to Miley: We get it that you’ve got an extra-long tongue, okay? We’re awfully happy for your boyfriend. Please. Can you just put that thing away in public? Stick to singing and provoking and flauting because you are young, beautiful, talented and lucky. Use it or lose it.  

Sunday, September 8, 2013

I Have Figured Out WHY I am Unsuccessful!

A flat head belongs ONLY on a screwdriver.

You know what sucks worse than Tara Reid’s performance in Sharknado (or anything, really) and her botchy, liposuctioned stomach put together? Having a flat head. Apparently, when I was a baby, my mother never turned my ass over, so practically my whole pre-ambulatory life I lay on my back in my crib or in this crank-up baby swing that had a seat made of turquoise canvas.

According to a news report I recently read, I’m not the only one whose caretakers just left them endlessly lying there while their heads flattened out. The article, entitled, “Nearly half of babies have flat spots, study finds,” does not make me feel any fucking better to know that I’m not alone. 50% of the population don’t have flat heads, and those are the successful people.  You don’t see any runway models who spin around and make the crowd gasp because the backs of their heads align perfectly with their necks. Like mine.

And although mega-gazillionaire, Donald Trump, has gasp-worthy hair and it SEEMS like part of his brains have been shot out, when he turns to the side, he doesn’t look like a gunshot victim who had poor reconstructive surgery. Like me.

I can’t wear a hat because I look like a deck-post. I can’t rock a high ponytail like Jennifer-fucking-Aniston. And when I lie on one of those rounded, neck-supporting pillows, it’s like I’m being positioned for CPR.

Even though the study in the article I’ve mentioned was conducted on two-month-old Canadian babies—and who the hell knows what kind of babies they have in a place where there is no “ow” sound—there is at least one American company that manufactures orthotic helmets to reshape a baby’s head before it hardens permanently into the shape of the capital letter D. Like mine.

Unfortunately, the helmets cost thousands of bucks and make your family look like child abusers or hockey freaks, which are equally bad.

The cheaper option is just to turn the damn baby. I mean, what are you doing that you can’t rotate the baby every hour or so? Even the laziest sumbitches can get up off the couch at the end of every episode of Duck Dynasty or Teen Mom 6 and turn. The. Baby.

The Canadian study showed that when their flat heads were not caught in time, the babies’ facial features were also affected. Great! You lazy assholes are creating children who are all chainsaw accident in the back and Quasimodo in the front. I hope you are proud. Your children will suffer a lifetime of mediocrity, a hand-to-mouth existence, the failure of all of their hopes and dreams, no cute hats in their futures.

I now know exactly why I have had limited success and why I have a face that incited my grandmother to say things like, “You’re pretty to me.” Flat head. Thanks. When my grandmother was teaching her own daughter—my mother—all those parenting skills, she might have spent a little less time on left-handed compliments and more time on turning the flat-headed baby.

Friday, July 12, 2013

Willow Smith's Kideo Porn

I am Willow, and I am wearing a mop on my head. I am weeping all the way to the bank.

Years ago, I ditched my old mop for a Swiffer ®, and I’ve always wondered what happened to it. I thought maybe it hooked up with that rake I swear I used to own.  But yesterday, I found that scary-assed mop. Willow Smith, the young spawn of Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith, has it on her head. Either that girl has been letting Amanda Bynes do her hair, or she’s wearing my fucking mop. Why she’s wearing my mop, I don’t know. What I do know is that her parents must be so busy licking their wounds over their recent failures, After Earth and HawthoRNe,  that they are oblivious to the horror show going on in their midst.

Willow just released her new song, “Summer Fling,” which is getting all kinds of play because of the adult-themed lyrics and a just-plain-wrong video. In the vid, Willow hangs with a group of clearly older freaks…I mean teens, especially her “boyfriend,” a cradle-robber at whom she shoots never-ending sultry and suggestive looks. They fiddle with each other’s hands, and cuddle under the trees, and he scoops her up like a young bride, and they cavort and shit while she sings, “…we got tonight, oh, baby...” and “…it’s just a couple of months, but we do it anyway.” What the?!

Yeah. She’s TWELVE.

The last video this scuzzy was shown as evidence in the R. Kelly trial. What the fucking fuck are her parents thinking? If I found my 12-year-old daughter dancing around in some barely disguised kiddie muck like this, I’d slap her ass into last Tuesday, and whoever produced that crap would never be able to find his severed penis again. Somebody needs to slow that ride down before Willow finds herself featured on Teen Mom 4. I don’t want to see my mop humiliated like that.

Friday, June 14, 2013


Yep. For 766 miles, this is pretty much Utah. Notice the buttes in the distance, which is a lot more fun if you pronounce them “butts.”

So we left Arizona (License plate motto: The Blister State) on our way to Utah, and as we always do, hubby and I anxiously anticipated the signs that say good-bye from one state and hello from the next. We were treated to an exit sign as we cruised on out of AZ that said, “Thank you for visiting Arizona, Home of the Heat Stroke!” Bless their baked, little hearts for embracing the ovenness.

Oddly, there was never a “Welcome to Utah” sign. It’s like the state doesn’t really want anyone to know it’s there. I suppose that’s okay since Utah’s resident majority consistently shoots out enough offspring that there is no need for any incoming.

Gosh. What is there to say about Utah, which is Mormon for “All you other religions are going to hell, which is conveniently one state below us”? Utah has three well-known items in significant quantities: Salt, Mormons and Osmonds. When I was a kid, there were five famous Osmond brothers—plus two older ones, but they didn’t count because they just happened to be deaf and were, therefore, of no entertainment value—and then Marie and the ugly little brother, Jimmy, came along. While Marie and the little, round, troll brother were being groomed for future musical and/or QVC greatness, the Osmonds were my reason for living.

Every day after school, my best friends and I pretended to be the Osmonds. I was always Merrill, the middle brother and owner of the lushest, dreamiest, creamiest voice on vinyl. Sure, Donny was adorable—and would still be if he didn’t have that damned increasingly looming forehead—but Merrill was the man. I had our entire wedding planned, so imagine my heartache when in 1973, I saw his marriage announcement in The Daily Sun. I cried my nine-year-old heart out. I still don’t understand why he couldn’t wait for me.

And THAT brings us to Mormonism. Merrill would never have taken me for one of his sister-wives because I would rather stick my head in a bag of hungry rats that convert to his religion. (No offense.) Mormons are just one letter off from morons though, so yeah. (SPECIAL NOTE: Two of the kindest and most angelic people I’ve ever had the pleasure to call my friends are members of the Church of Latter Day Saints. Boy, are they going to be surprised when they die and find out they missed out on McDonald’s sweet tea and Starbucks for fucking nothing.)

Everywhere we went in Salt Lake, there were hordes of Mormons milling about like ants, doing good, using their secret Mormon antennae to ferret out any interlopers. They all wore professional name tags with their country of origin just to let you to know that they are ALL OVER. One super helpful Mormonette slinked up to us in the lobby of what used to be the Hotel Utah. (It is one of the many downtown buildings that have been refurbished with Mormon Bucks.) I felt the woman’s evil…I mean, spiritual presence before she got within smelling range. “Have you seen our wonderful movie?” she purred. “Not yet,” my clever friend, Sharon, replied, hurrying us away. She’s an expert at LDS-cape.

I know how that Mormon movie shit works. It starts with as innocuous Osmond musical number and then segues into a story about a gentle mother of twelve who dies young from cancer. But her children aren’t sad! Hell, no! They are all going to see her again real soon in one of the astral planes where people shit gold bullion and pee liquid silver. For eternity.

Before you know it, an hour-and-a-half of movie has passed, your brain has been washed, you’ve been full-body-baptized by Elders Smith and Young, and your uterus has been measured for output capacity. Ladies, if you value your control over your bladder, do NOT go see a Mormon movie. After your seventh child, you will never again sneeze, cough, stand up, laugh, cook, garden, clean house or lie awake another sleepless night wondering if it’s your turn on the screwing schedule without peeing in your panties. Sexy!

Speaking of sex, do you know that on top of the Hotel Utah, a famous pair of falcons live in a nest in which the Mormons have installed video cameras to capture the birds’ 24/7 activities? So be warned. Your viewing choices in Salt Lake City are either a LDS indoctrination film or a live stream of falcons fucking. And you thought they only had that in Atlanta.