Holy Shit. A 7-Year-Old Girl on a DIET? What is WRONG with this Picture?

See? THIS is when you need to intervene in a child's diet, douche bag. 

Oh. My. Holy. Mother. I see that I’m not the ONLY one who’s discussing this crazy mother I read about in my recent issue of Vogue, the one with Jennifer Lopez on the cover, looking fetching in her best boob-peekage red dress. That Jennifer. She has the most famous ass on the planet, and she’s always showcasing the twins. Go figure.

But back to the more important matter: In April’s issue of Vogue, I was purttttty disturbed to find an article by Dara-Lynn Weiss, who claims that she had to take drastic measures to get her “fat” 7-year-old to slim down. Yeah. Slim down. Because everyone knows how important it is to be svelte when one is SEVEN. Goddamn. I know that somewhere in the hardened little heart of that mother, she feels that she must save her daughter from the taunts of cruel playmates and the ugliness of a world in which heavy people still receive heaps of discrimination. But, c’mon! Making this kid’s DIET an obsession for a year and then WRITING about it in a major publication is not the way to go about the task.

Mrs. Weiss has become as cruel as any playground fiend; she’s turned into a manipulating tyrant who’s focused so much attention on every morsel that passed the lips of her child, that there’s no way the kid can come out of this unscathed. How would you like it if everyone in the world suddenly knows that your mother calls you “fat” and tricks you into a diet by pushing the “clinical obesity” angle, so you’ll be afraid of dying of an early heart attack? Fucking GREAT idea, Dara-Lynn. Not only will your little Bea think of herself in terms of appearance for the rest of her twisted life, but she’ll forever wonder if she’s one corn-salad side dish away from a stroke.

This kid is 8, but her self-image is already destroyed. At the end of the article, Bea says that just because she lost 16 pounds (which is A LOT when you weigh 93 pounds to start), she’s still the same. And then her mother says, “That fat girl is a thing of the past.” Jesus. She really said that. As if her 16-pounds heavier daughter is some thing, and THANK GOD we got rid of it.

I see years and years of therapy coming, and God help Bea when she gets out from under the Dara-Lynn dictatorship. I know mags like Vogue just have to hop on any controversial topic to get those sales up! But, damn. This woman got PAID to annihilate her own child.

Okay. Maybe the World IS Coming to an End.

What the fuck is going on!? First Dick Cheney gets a new heart, which seems a little wrong since there are people much younger who are waiting and waiting and waiting for some innocent person to die so that they can have a new ticker. I know he was out of options, but couldn’t he have just shot another hunting buddy? Or used a deer heart? I don’t know. I am all for saving lives, but what is the prognosis here? The government just spent a shitload of money putting a living organ inside a dying man. But this isn’t the most outrageous bullshit of the week.

Here it is. Trayvon Martin. If you don’t know who Trayvon is, you are one braindead mother fucker. Or a Kardashian, which is, admittedly, kind of redundant. Trayvon was walking home at night from a convenience store last month when a neighborhood watch VOLUNTEER, George Zimmerman, shot him dead. For what?! WHY did this son of a bitch even have a goddamned gun? And if he thought that something was amiss, he should have called the real law instead of getting his Barney Fife on. Why the hell did he even get out of his car!?

I’ve read that he is extremely distraught over the killing (as he ought to damned well be) and that he is in hiding because some dumb fucking nutjob New Black Panter Party has put a $10,000 bounty on Zimmerman’s head. That’s as whacked as the stupid idiot’s decision that started this nightmare. What the fucking good is it going to do to KILL Zimmerman, you dogshit-filled Twinkies? I get that people are upset that he hasn’t been arrested, and the lack of charges baffles me. How is it possible that there might be a law that shields this neighborhood watch dude from prosecution for KILLING some kid?

And then get this: Some creepy fame-seeker “flour-bombed” Kim “Dumber than the Contents of my Lint Trap” Kardashian the other day, and the flour child…wait for it… was arrested. WHAT THE?!? Besides the fact that YAY, that Kardashian-waste-of-time-and-energy got floured, and it was FUNNY, why is THAT assault worthy of charges while Trayvon Martin is fucking DEAD for buying some damned candy, and Zimmerman gets nothing?!  What the fuck is going on here? Somebody better come up with some creative way to charge this man before the riots start. No good ever comes from reactionary riots, but that never stopped the mob mentality from infecting the clueless hordes before.

And on a sickeningly serious side note: 20^th Century Fox is about to release an unfortunately titled movie, Neighborhood Watch, which—although it is a sci-fi comedy— has a cringe-worthy clip playing in theatres right now. Jonah Hill points his finger gun-styled out of the security vehicle’s window at some young folks walking the neighborhood streets at night. And then he pulls his fake trigger. OH, boy. I sure hope there is an intelligent soul who can snip that clip before anyone else notices the hideous timing and incredibly unfunny irony.

Yeah. I'm BITCHING. What?!

What the fuck? Can someone please tell me how to share the Blu hoo? There are plenty of lame excuses for writing out there on the WWW over which folks are just laughing their asses off. And freaking BOOKS too. But the only thing remotely funny about much of the shit is that dumbass people paid for it. Like, real money. Case in point: Aisha Tyler's Swerve: Reckless Observations of a Postmodern Girl. Who the hell gave that woman a book contract? You know what her painfully unfunny writing reminds me of besides the fact that I am a dumbass for buying it? This can of soft drink sitting right here, spent, on the table next to me. ZERO. That's right Coke Zero ®. There is zero anything funny in the whole goddamned 247 pages. I want my money back. For the book. Not the Coke®. Damn. Focus here.

You know, fucktard book publishers, not everyflippingbody who has a career in front of the cameras is an AUTHOR. Oh, my God, a penny can be made! Hurry, write a book! Oh. Oh. Here's another GREAT example, which I know is going to piss off lots of folks, but only the lemming-kind who believe that just because someone else says so-and-so is hilarious that it must be so: Chelsea Handler's Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang. Plug me in both eyes point blank right now with a combination of hollow-point bullets and buck shot. I felt my brain atrophy when I read that stupid shit. I had a "I smell som'um" look on my face for the entire experience, and it took days before people stopped sniffing their armpits and cupping their breath around me. Look. Chelsea may be funny on television, but being able to nimbly riff off some hapless dork of a Mexican dude-- whose real name, by the way, is Jesus for Christ's sake, NOT Chuy--does not a brilliantly funny author make. Just because Ellen and Tina can do it--and GOD knows they CAN DO IT-- does not mean everyone can do it. Stop it, stupid Mindy Kaling from The Office. Not only is it impossible to read your crap, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (Yes. Yes they are.), without hearing your whiny, vocal-fry voice, but the prose is like something out of a junior high bathroom stall. In fact, the pages of the book should be in a junior high bathroom stall for wiping purposes. 

WHY are these women making good, solid spending money for churning out banal pukisms and Blu hoo has 22 followers? (And NOT that I don't LOVE and ADORE and appreciate my 22 followers, whose devotion I will mention in print if I ever get there.) Where is the outrage? Where is the justice? Bloggurl would like to share her sludge-of-the-sewer-laced-rantings with the universe. Any suggestions?

Snot Suxxxx.

Why am I up at 4:fucking-thirty in the morning writing this when I could be totally enjoying the insides of my eyelids or some dream where I’m cooking various chicken dishes with Kristen Wiig? And, yes, I had that dream a few nights ago, and I was very unhappy to be awakened before I discovered why my favorite comedienne did not care for chicken #2. Was it overcooked? Too spicy? Too much sauce? I’ll never know. But the point is never, ever, ever to eat fried food right before bed.

Crazy culinary dreams, alas, are not my insomnia’s raison d′être this early, fucking morning. No. This time the blame goes to my cilia for not doing their goddamned job. All I ask of my tiny body hairs is that they effectively carry out their intended occupations. My eyelashes should not only keep shit out of my eyes, but they should also look long and lush and sexy, and they should not allow their Maybelline ® Great Lash mascara in Royal Blue to flake into my contacts. The cilia in my lungs should kindly sweep away any nasty-ass cigarette cancer chemicals before they taint my airways. And my nasal cilia should capture and detain any and all allergens, bacteria and viruses, allowing me to deposit them in a Kleenex ® tissue where they belong. And while I’m on the subject of tissues, let me just say that I practically keep the Kimberly-Clark Corporation afloat in the cold and flu season alone. Bitches should give me an endorsement.

But back to the catalyst for my late-night mucus-musing: my nasal passages, which are currently as swollen as Lindsay Lohan’s lips. I tried—oh, how I tried—to drift off to a peaceful slumber where Ryan Gosling in his natty, navy blue silk pajama top and cream-colored, seven-hundred-dollar slacks scrambles eggs with goat cheese in my kitchen. But every time I settled back into my memory foam pillow, this mother-fucking elephant would sit her ginormous ass right on top of my sinuses. The only upside to this mammalian suffocation is that it is impossible for one to smell elephant ass when one is being smothered. I have banished this gentle-but-perverse giant repeatedly, but apparently the shit about an elephant’s memory is all lies. She keeps coming back no matter how many decongestants and allergy tabs I throw at her. My Mount Everest of tissues doesn’t faze her a bit. She wants me to suffer, and I have no idea why since I was kind enough to save her from that brutal beating by Christoph Waltz in Water for Elephants and let that fucking vampire, Edward Cullen, take the credit. Whatever.

I am freaking sick of all of this chartreuse snot plugging my entire head and puffing up my mucus membranes and making it impossible for me to cook in my sleep with a quality celebrity. Fuck you, snot and the common cold and germy people who don’t wash their hands and then touch all the public surfaces that I must hold onto so that I won’t fall down as much. I could be having five variations of crème brûlée with Clooney right this second, dammit, and that is NOT too much to ask.