When Celebrities Complain.

I love me some Ricki Lake, so don’t get me wrong. She’s always been an adorable thang, and when she lost half of her body weight, she evolved into a beautiful thang. But she said something so incredibly retarded that I can’t let it go. She claims that after her participation on last season’s Dancing with the Stars, that she suffered a sort of “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.” Really? Really? 

Okay, I understand that she was under enormous, enormous pressure from all the attention and the extra weight loss and having to perform before real, live audiences twice a week. And all the dancing, for God’s sake. Because fun things like dancing, and national fame and being an entertainer are so fucking, fucking stressful. 

They are way worse than cowering between the toilet and wall of a locked bathroom because your high-as-a-kite husband is trying to kick in the door and finish beating you to death. Way worse than going into mortal combat where you are terrified 86,400 seconds a day that the enemy will blow your ass up or capture and torture you for years in some dirt-and-feces-floored cell that only has a bucket to catch all your bloody diarrhea and pee caused by the multiple beatings to your kidney-area every night while you are just trying to get some sleep without the rats chewing off your face. Yeah. Having the grueling learn-two-complete-dance-routines-in-under-a-week schedule and having to look svelte for magazine covers. Way worse.

And then she compounded her fucktardedness by mentioning that she could not handle the expectation of keeping off the weight resulting from her six hours of dancing per day, which she could no longer maintain since the show ended. So she was really glad she had time to decompress in Paris, thank God, where she wasn’t well-known, and she could have some goddamned peace.

Ricki. People are starving. Men are committing suicide more than ever because they’ve lost their jobs and the means to support their families. And then their homes and their dignity. Our economy is literally killing us. And you bitch because you have to escape to Paris for some fucking rest and relaxation? Awwwwww. Poor you.

Original Photo Credit: Adam Taylor, ABC.

The Dentist = Satan's Hemorrhoid

This is a picture of right AFTER Billy finished his dental appointment, and RIGHT BEFORE he kicked the dentist in the nuts.

So I go to the dentist today after several years of oral-hygienelessness caused by the extraction of my dental insurance by a cruel, one-percenter of an ex-employer. Did you understand that, O loyal reader? If so, I commend you. For you other pretards, that says, “I lost my insurance when I got sort-of canned by an asshole boss, who happens to be richer than the Queen of England and who doesn’t give a shit whether all of my teeth rot out of my head and my kidneys fail due to the ensuing infection because God knows he has more important things to do, like worry about the quality of his Dom Perignon and fucking caviar, you knave.”  

Anyway. The dentist. Oh, yeah. Really, really nice looking guy. Really. Reminds me of my childhood dentist who was too good looking to be leaning over my prone, adolescent body and putting things in my mouth. What is different about this guy is that he does all of the work himself. Except for the rinsing with that little squirt gun, which he delegates to his young and nubile assistant. Now, I don’t know exactly what is going on, but maybe the dentist has some PTSD or some repressed anger against women’s gums. Who knows what women’s gums did to him in the past? But why take it out on mine? Jesus. It’s like we’re filming a sequel to Marathon Man, and if you don’t know that little Dustin Hoffman gem, damn. You fail. Watch it as soon as possible and get back to me with your comments.

Anyway. The dentist. So he explains that he is going to take this surgical steel implement of Medieval torture and shove it up my gums in several hundred places, and am I okay with that? Now, what am I supposed to say? “No, let me fucking shove that multiple times up your fucking urethra, you fucking sadist?” My new insurance is paying for this, so I feel a little obligated to go along with the program. He gleefully jams his tool of torment into the teeninsy space between my gums and the teeth they are supposed to be holding in—over and over and over— while hollering out numbers representing the depth of each impalement. And, yes, I realize that “jams his tool of torment” sounds vaguely pornographic. But just stay with me here. The dentist’s song of suffering sounds something like this:

TwotwotwothreetwotwothreethreetwotwoFOURtwotwothreetwothreeFOURthreethreethreethreetwotwotwotwoFOURthreetwothreethreetwoFOUR.

The threes are somewhat uncomfortable, but those fours. Oh, those fours. Son of a buttfucking bitch. My mouth goes to a pain party to which I clearly declined the invitation, but there was apparently some mix-up. The fours are the pre-indicators that some major gum problems might be on the way, and I can’t even fathom a fucking five.

But the dentist is not finished with his persecution. He then whips out this electric device that has a tiny, little, sharp-as-shit head, which vibrates back-and-forth 20,000 times per second. Per second. “Take that, you fucking sloth,” says the vibrating tool to the humming bird.

Anyway. The dentist. He shoves the little head of the tool underneath my miles and miles of gumline and turns it on and off with his magic foot-pedal, and if the intensity of the gadget is any indication, his foot is made out of, like, I don’t know, elephant? It feels like he’s shooting pure electricity right into the nerves of every tooth. And he keeps asking, “How you doin’?” Like I can answer him with my mouth full of hands, and besides I would say words of acid that would peel back his pretty face skin.

Even after THAT humiliation and misery, the dentist has not yet accomplished as much distress as possible in the space of a thirty-minute appointment, so he then snatches another metal excruciation utensil and starts probing for soft spots, AKA cavities. What I just love is when he finds a suspected spot for which he could charge several hundred dollars to fill at a later appointment, he doesn’t just poke it a little to see if it is, indeed, a money-maker. No. He PROBES. He picks. He jabs the weapon into the delicate dental area as far as it will go just to be absolutely sure that, yes, it IS a cavity. I smell money, and my mouth tastes like a pocketful of change.

The dentist does “polish” my teeth after all of the bleeding finally subsides, but unfortunately he uses some kind of raspberry-flavored rock particles for the job. Everyone who knows me knows how much I despise raspberry flavor. I work extra, extra to avoid raspberry, and I must dig deep here not to gag and choke on my own bloody, raspberry-smelling vomit. And at one point, the dental hygienist squirts the soul-cleansing water into my mouth to rinse out the foul chemical, but no water actually comes out. I can’t really say anything, so I just pretend, and swish around nothing while the two pretty people hover expectantly over my face. It is very difficult to fake swishing liquid around one’s mouth while trying to keep tiny remnants of raspberry from falling down one’s throat. Go ahead and try it. I’ll wait.

See? Not fucking easy, is it?

Anyway. The dentist. Yeah. His proposed treatment plan requires an outlay of approximately $1800 from my pocket, so I’m guessing some meth mouth is in my future. And if you don’t know what meth mouth is, Jesus. What the hell have you been doing for the last decade? See Lindsay Lohan for photos. Allegedly. Nothing has been proved.*

*Thank you, Ricky-Gervais-at-the-Golden-Globes.

Doomsday is for Dumbshits.

Despite all credible evidence to the contrary and all the promised but failed Armageddons, far too many fuck-ups still hang on to the idea that the world as we know it will end on December 21, 2012, because the Mayan calendar ends on that date. The kind of people who buy that logic also believe that they have money in the bank as long as they still have checks left.

It’s true that doomsday happens every day for some people because they fail to run fast enough across the train tracks when a locomotive is coming, or they drown in their own alcohol-induced vomit puddle, or they fall into a wood chipper. Or they happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, which I guess would definitely include the wood chipper. Accidents happen. Disease happens. Murder happens. Natural disasters happen. Immortality was never part of our package, no matter how convincing Betty White is. (Happy 90^th, Betty! Mwah.) But just because we are all going to die at some point does NOT mean that it’s going to be in some cosmic cataclysm.

Any large heavenly body hurtling towards Earth would be obscenely visible by now. And global warming will take decades to destroy our planet, but it probably won’t ever even happen because so many of you have switched to green products to clean your kitchen and bath. And even if China does take over America after we go bankrupt any day now, the Commies will only kill us. The planet will still be intact. Just a lot redder. And pfffttt. Just plain forget about aliens wiping us out. What would be the incentive? If they annihilate Earth, they won’t have anywhere to land their fucking saucers.

Do you know how many times people have believed certain events spelled the end of our great run here, but the shit amounted to zip? At least two that I can name right off the top of my head. First, despite the fact that most pretarded racist fucksniffers took time out of impregnating their offspring to proclaim otherwise, the world did not end when Obama moved into the White House. Suh-nap, Nazis! And, for God’s sake, that motherfucking Charlie Sheen has a new show coming out, and still no Apocalypse. So I am pretty sure we’re safe.

Why do people hang on to such crazy notions? Do they secretly wish for something earth-shattering to change the trajectory of mankind? Do they really believe we humans have so injured our home that we don’t deserve to be here anymore? Do they look at newborns and puppies and sunrises and Ryan Gosling and STILL imagine a wrathful God who would create such beauty and then wipe it out? What the fuck is wrong with people?

There is no more likelihood that this world is going to end on December 21 than there is that Trump will be elected president in November. There is no more of a chance that suddenly “good” people will vanish into Heaven, and bodies will rise from their graves toward the sky than there is that Charlie Sheen’s new show will be a hit. I mean, come on! The only way that doomsday is ever going to occur is if the trees start whispering suicidal ideologies through the air that infect us all, one-by-one, until we all lie down in front of running riding mowers. And motherfucking trees can’t even fucking talk. So, yeah. Again, I’m pretty sure we’re safe. If history and Hollywood summer blockbusters are any indicator, we will know in advance if something truly threatens our existence lonnnnnng befo

Give us Some Goddamned Balance.

Oh. I see how it is. So you CAN compare apples and oranges after all.

What have we got to do to get things a little evened-out, here? Now, I staunchly believe in competition, so let’s make no mistake about that. Competition keeps shit healthy, keeps prices down, keeps folks on their toes because they will lose if they snooze. (Shit. I think I might suddenly be onto why I’m such a fucking loser. Damn.) But competition works best when I win, bitches. That’s rule #1. (All other rules? See rule 1.) What bugs me about competition is that there is often NOT a level playing field, and that little circumstance needs some freaking tweaking.

Take for example the recent news report about this middle-aged dude whose wife was terminally ill and set up in one of those living-room-with-a-hospital-bed-for-a-centerpiece scenarios. The sick woman’s two older sisters apparently pissed him off because they fed her some applesauce instead of the orange. That. He. Had. Peeled. For. Her.

So he shot everyone dead, including himself…but…wait for it…left his terminally ill wife to go ahead and die her agonizingly slow and painful death without any family left to take care of her at all. Way to go, superfuck! Way to go!

And in that same news report, I saw the horrifible story about this yard guy who slipped and fell head-first into one of those industrial-sized wood chippers. Holy mother. That guy wasn’t molesting toddlers or soliciting hookers or going on a bender that left his family destitute. Nooo. He was just cutting back some fucking branches. Why couldn’t it have been that sumbitch who killed his wife’s family over a goddamned orange? He belongs in the wood chipper, for God’s sake. That would have been nice and balanced.

And yesterday, a Texas mother, and by mother I mean motherfucker here, was sentenced to 45 years in prison for kneeling on her 6-year-old son until he suffocated. She said she was really sorry and that he didn’t deserve what she did. Really? She came to that conclusion a little too late. For her? The fucking wood chipper. That would be balanced.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on Joran-I-suck-Satan’s-dick-van-Der-Sloot, who killed a girl in Peru on the exact anniversary of Natalie Holloway’s death, and then blamed it on the “extreme psychological trauma” he has suffered by being accused of killing Natalie. Awwwww. Poor him. Fucking wood chipper. And for proper balance, he should go in penis-first.

One of the worst lacks of balance belongs to this story: This woman whom I can’t even call fucking stupid because it would be an insult to stupid, got pissed off for some ridiculous reason about which no one even cares anymore, so she posted on FaceBook a couple of doctored pictures of a seven-year-old girl who was dying of the same terminal illness that killed the little girl’s mother. The pictures showed the girl’s mother in the Grim Reaper’s arms, and the little girl’s face over a skull-and-crossbones. Classssss-say. And the bat-shit crazy bitch, who’s still awaiting a trial for trying to run over one of her other neighbors, got a whole 18 months in prison for harassment. What the?? FUCKING WOOD CHIPPER, GODDAMMIT. Wood chipper.

I just don’t understand a world in which people who are cruel to dying children get wrist-slapped, and people named Kardashian get obscenely, filthy rich. For NOTHING. The only way to level this shit up is the wood chipper. And that Kim bitch should go first.*

*No actual Kardashians were harmed in the making of this blog. Dammit. 

Why I Curse So Much

Last night I was contemplating the reason I love swearing. Swear words just spill from my mouth like little poos out of the ass of an incontinent septuagenarian. I’ve heard all of the shlame-brained opposing arguments: You sound uneducated and uncouth. You only swear because you are too lazy/stupid to choose a better word. Swearing is hurtful. So I decided to address each of those little ditties to see if my challengers are right. (The fact that I know and use the word “uncouth” proves I’m not uneducated, bitches.)

Let’s begin by examining whether swearing is hurtful. Seriously? How is “Fuck you!” any worse than “My, you are looking quite bovine today!”? That last one sounds so elegant, yet it’s a deceptive little mo-fo. If you utter those words, you are using a prettied-up version of calling someone a cow. FU is so overused that it has the bite of a denture-less senior citizen on life support. And if your skin is so goddamned thin that words like asswipe, fucktard, and son-of-a-bitch actually  get to you, then fuck you, you fucking fuck. (Thank you, Lisbeth Salander’s t-shirt in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Again. So sue me. I like it.) 

You know, I don’t love everything Ricky Gervais says, but I do have to say that I agree with his recent comment that’s something like, “If I offend you, I don’t care.” I have many, many friends (a group growing smaller by the minute) who never read a word of anything I write because they are offended by my potty mouth. And that’s okay. I still love those folks, and I hope they still love me. One’s vocabulary should not be a condition of friendship. Plus, there are gazillions of readers who don’t find my swearing objectionable, and I am banking on the fact that one day they will also not find the price of my books objectionable. Meh. We’ll see. But the point is that if you are injured or insulted by my writing, don’t read it.

Moving on. Another argument against a colorful vocab is the old you-sound-uneducated-if-you-swear tack. Yeah. I earned a Masters of Fine Arts with DISTINCTION because I am a dumbass. I consistently score in the expert range on those Reader’s Digest “Word Power” things, so there. Mensa wants me. I’ve got a little thesaurusness going on. And I can be as erudite as many of my favorite wordsmiths. When I want to. And of course, that is the point. I know when to curb my language so as not to cause mass cardiac arrest at church. And I don’t tell my students that they have to be fucking kidding me with some of the shit they use for excuses sometimes (although I’d love to). But I love me some swear words, people. Sometimes only a shit or a fuck will do. And last time I checked, America still allows freedom of speech even if it is in Spanish.

Finally, my favorite argument is remarkably similar to the one above: You are too lazy to select a better word when you swear. But really, “You jerk,” doesn’t carry the venomous heft of, say, “You smeared-asshole smacking, dick-cheese eater.” The first one says, “I am a chaste choirboy.” The latter says, “I was repeatedly butt-fucked by my priest after choir practice, and you should see my therapy bills.” Now. I’m probably never going to be in a situation that requires the use of that hurled insult, but am I ashamed for having thought of and written down those words?! Yes. Yes, I am. In general, though, pretty anything that spools out of this brain of mine is fair game.

Look. Obscenities are the cayenne of our language. Some of us like more sprinkle than others. But does that make it wrong? Spiciness can actually be measured in Scoville units, but there is no way to measure whether more or less spice is right or wrong. And if you are still bitching about my salt-lick lexicon, I have this for you:

Twat you say? I cunt hear you. I must have an ear infucktion. (Thank you to my brother for teaching me that in elementary school. Is it any wonder I have a mouth like the sewers of New York City? No, it is not.)

Math + Slavery = Are you Fucking Kidding Me?

Are you fucking kidding me? Hasn’t Georgia done enough to cement its reputation as the ignorant, in-bred bastard child of the nation? I used to love Georgia. But that was in the gilded fantasies of my youth. Then I moved back there and found cretinous cock roaches bigger than my dog and sweltering summer days that felt like my body was submerged in just-this-side-of-scalding water all day and night with no relief. Plus summer lasts from mid-March until late November. Oh. And apparently Georgia has still not gotten over its Dixie-days.

How in God’s name could school teachers think it was permissible to include questions about slavery on a fucking math test? What? They claimed it was to integrate history into the lesson? Well, perhaps that’s the wrong word for me to use. But the incredible fucktards wrote "Each tree had 56 oranges. If eight slaves pick them equally, then how much would each slave pick?" and "If Frederick got two beatings per day, how many beatings did he get in one week?" Ex-fucking-cuse me?? Where did this school system find these genius educators? Satan’s condo??

I suspect many of us would laugh heartily at the moronic questions if they were included in some ironic collection intended to draw attention to the evil and outmoded racism that still inexplicably exists not just in the Deep South. We’d be all “Can you believe some idiot wrote that?!” But it would be an uncomfortable titter at the fact that some of our not-so-distant forebears truly believed it was ever acceptable to enslave anyone. Instead of laughing, though, we should be roaring with outrage.

As I type, there are groups of people on this planet who still have the audacity to believe that they are somehow BETTER than another group. When is this shit going to stop? We are all just flesh and blood, skin and bones, clusters of cells, specifically fat cells if you're me. So don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that the freakasauruses who put slavery questions on a math quiz are any less than I am. They just happen to be the dumbshits of the day, and they need to get the fuck out of the classroom.

Die Painfully, Bullies, Die.

And one day the redheaded kid grew up to be a billionaire who paid the illegal immigrants who usually did the yard a wad of cash to track down the bully and make him this spring's fertilizer.

So today, a FaceBook friend of mine posted one of those repost-this-if-you-are-truly-my-friend thingies. Here. I’ll share:

Dear bullies,
The boy you punched in the hall today committed suicide a few minutes ago. That girl you called a slut in class today? She's a virgin. The boy you called lame? He has to work every night to support his family. That girl you pushed down the other day is already being abused at home. You think you know them. Guess what? You don't! Re-post if you are against bullying.

Now, first let me say that, like the good grammar tyrant I am, I always have to correct the spelling and mechanics in those repost-it fuckers; and today’s was no exception. I will never, ever, ever repost shit that has grammatical errors lest someone think I actually wrote it incorrectly. GAWD. That would be a fatal error.

But, second, once I cleaned up the little gem above, it sparkled like one of those gigantic rings in the jewelry case at Wal Mart. You know, the ones with the adjustable bands? Completely real stones too. Ah. I digress. The point is that the repost didn’t just hit a raw nerve of mine. No. It grabbed that nerve with some super-pinchy, locking pliers and then zapped it with a million volts of pure electricity. And then dipped it in salt.

Of course, I wanted to scream. I am so fucking sick and tired of the lame excuses for bullying and the even lamer excuses for humans that bullies are. But because I was on FaceBook, I couldn’t really say what I felt. So I just reposted like the good buddy that I am unless I hate you. (And you know who you are, you less-than-a-handful-of-fuckers who have betrayed me.)

However. Blu-hoo offers me the perfect venue to vent my proper rage against those slime-filled individuals who patronize, victimize, antagonize, tyrannize, badgerize, tormentorize, harasserize and any-other-ize anyone they view with their little snake-slits for eyes as somehow less.

This is what bullies truly deserve to hear:

Dear anal-plug-licking bullies,

The boy you punched in the hall today committed suicide a few minutes ago. And you suck your granddad’s wrinkled, nasty nuts and like it. That girl you called a slut in class today? She's a virgin. And you will never, ever lose your virginity to anything other than your hand or something with batteries. The boy you called lame? He has to work every night to support his family. Of course, the only job for which you are fit is laundry duty in the prison where you will inevitably reside someday soon. That girl you pushed down the other day is already being abused at home. Probably like you are, but that’s no excuse, you sick bag of discarded and rotten maggots. You don’t see every abused person out there hating on other people just to feel better. You go get some help if you are being abused by your daddy who comes around three times a year and smells like Boone’s Farm, you mother-fucking defective dildo. You. Don’t. Take. It. Out. On. Others.

And if you bully just for the sake of bullying, we all know it is because your pee-pee (boys) or your brain (boys and/or girls) is so teensy-eensy-microscopic that Guinness has been tracking you for years. You need a heaping helping of crow-bar-to-the-shins and small-sharp-implements-to-the-nail-beds. You think you know the people you bully. Guess what? You don't. You don’t know anything. You care only about yourself. Everyone sees the truth that you try to cover up by attracting attention in your twisted, diseased way. And when you are being fucked up the ass by some equally hideous thug in the cell you will ultimately call home, just remember that it could be worse. I could have gotten ahold of you first.

Love,

Bloggurl  

Yeah. Okay. I’m all “*Fuck you, you fucking fuck” and no action. I know. But I mean it when I say that I have a wicked-sick imagination concerning the things I really want to do to the bullies I’ve encountered so far. I've dreamed up way more heinous things than that wuss Jigsaw ever did.

The obscenely rich and physically beautiful pustules in the digestive track of the universe who populated the schools my older daughter attended made my soul bleed with their flippant cruelty towards her because she is different. What difference did it make to them that she has more creativity and wit and smarts than all of them lumped together? What difference did it make that she was clearly already injured enough?

I wanted to track down all of the asswipes’ parents and let them in on the personality secrets of their offspring. But I figured the bullies had to have learned it somewhere and that the parents were probably just as shit-from-Satan’s-ass-smelling as their mini-morons.

There is a fantabulous anti-bullying campaign going on called “It Gets Better.” I sure hope so. But I’m doubtful. Bullying has been perpetrated since forever, and while training a spotlight on the practice WILL force more scrutiny, the scumbags with enough bile in their veins to act out their bullying fantasies will always find a way to launch their sneak attacks. And that damned Glee does not help either. It showcases bullies so that we can feel a collective distaste, but it doesn’t advocate punishment and STOPPAGE. But that’s another post altogether.

What can we do besides round up all the offenders and ship them off to Nebraska where they will flat-out die from boredom? (See “Good Ol’ Nebraska,” July 25 for proof.) I don’t know. I don’t know. But sometimes I wish this were all a movie or at the very least an episode of ABC’s Afterschool Specials. Then some cool ass could rid the world of bullies in a painful yet socially conscious way. And all in less than 2 hours.

*Thank you, Lisbeth Salander's t-shirt from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

Old as Hell in the New Year

Oh. Em. Gee. My thighs look exactly like that.

Okay. I know I said I was going to dish on that YouTube-welfare-mom-of-fifteen, Angel Adams, but I’m such a fucking procrastinator that now that story is so last year. And all I was going to say anyway is that Michelle Duggar (i.e., not black and poor) can shit out 19 goddamned babies, and she gets a reality show and a 7,000 square-foot house courtesy of Discovery Networks, while her husband, whose dick is apparently a permanent fixture in Michelle, claims that the family lives “debt free” based on some financial freedom seminar. Or based on the proceeds from the sale of their souls to the Discovery Networks. Mmm hmmm.  

Huh. I wonder what the difference between those two super-similar stories really is. Race? Class? Intelligence? Education? Luck? Looks?

Meh. That last one brings me to a much more important subject: me. I mean, I am pushing fifty here, and I am still puh-ritty damned hot if you don’t count things like looks, weight, skin, hair, nails and teeth-whiteness. And if you concentrate primarily on temperature, especially in the middle of the night when I wake up drenched in menopause. Hell. I bought my husband one of those sleep masks, ostensibly to block out all the ambient light in the room. But it was really so that he doesn’t have to look too long and hard on the forty-two-car-pile-up he married.

I also recently purchased some “beauty” products that I’d read about in Glamour and Vogue. Yeah. Because none of the photos of stick-women with luxurious locks and nuclear smiles and skin as tight as a condom on an 18-year-old virgin are touched up or anything. I believe that all I have to do is slather on expensive creams, and I, too, will notice a 74% improvement in the overall texture, tone and appearance of my face in a mere 12 weeks like 86% of the women in clinical studies.

I drove all the way across town to Macy’s, for Christ’s sake, for the privilege of trading my many, many dollars for youth and happiness. The receipts indicated that the serums I snagged must have fucking gold or endangered species sperm as a main ingredient. Unfortunately, precious metals and/or ejaculate do not a youthful glow make. No. Acne is what they make. On me anyway. Yes, not only did I not notice a 74% improvement, I now have new and angry acne marks. And I’m sallow. Plus, still old. Thanks, lying-ass bitches.

At least I was able to get my money back for the offending products after they failed. Thank God for liberal return policies. Then I was able to buy much more down-to-earth goods and services that have guaranteed mood-brighteners. Candy. Shit from McDonald’s drive through. Popcorn-shaped Styrofoam ® coated with buttery-flavored petroleum and a viewing of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

Now, that flick, I must say, was the best damned thing I’ve seen in years. Lisbeth Salander is my personal heroine even if she did let some misogynist impale one of her nips. Ouch. Some dude coming at my boob with a sharp implement would have to have some massive cojones. But then he would have none quickly thereafter. So. Yeah.

But seriously, Rooney Mara’s Oscarlicious performance and the cooler-than-any-Quentin-Tarantino-character just as she was written have burrowed nicely into my cells. She kicks ass literally and figuratively. I can only dream of being so cool. Especially now that I’m about to go to bed, where my nightly appointment with sweat is imminent.