Tag Archives: stupid

The Female Perspective

If you have to ask for a woman’s opinion because you need a “female perspective,” know that the only thing that’s different from my standpoint is that I can look down and see my tits whenever I feel like it.

When compared with John’s view of the world, what makes my position more interesting/special/important than Charles’s?* Nothing. Sure, I’ve birthed humans, and yeah, I’ve been forced by society to wear makeup every day, cross my legs when I sit, wear a bra no matter what, deal with subtle and blatant sexism, wear pantyhose, thank men for holding doors open (even though they only did it so they could check out my rack as well as my ass), curb my sexual appetite so as not to appear unladylike, and be heartily accepting of the “boys will be boys” mentality… 

Hold on. If I had a penis, I wouldn’t have to deal with all of that? People wouldn’t tell me that I was good at something for a girl? Maybe there IS something that separates my life experiences from those of men. …Maybe.

But I can stare at my tits all day if I want to. 🙂

Your move, gents.

* Yes, it’s Charles’s (with an apostrophe followed by an s). Don’t try to cross me on this.


If you have to be vegan, well… there’s really no excuse for it. Just stfu about it. We (and I’m speaking for the entire world here) do not care. Quit trying to sell us your bullshit vegan propaganda.

You can call it vegan leather all you want to, but it’s plastic. And that vegan burger? Honey, that’s a black bean patty. And since we’re being honest, that whole “vegan” thing you’re clinging to so desperately? Yeah, you’re just a vegetarian with weird entitlement issues. And we all know you’re quietly hoping someone will give you some ground chuck in place of that slimy bean situation you’ve got going on over there.

Soy Awesome

If you have to talk about soy, you can’t just say “soy.”

Soybeans, soy sauce, soy milk, soy nuts… All of these things need qualifiers. Why? Soy is a little bitch who isn’t taken seriously. “Soy” means “I am” in Spanish. Soy stuff just whines “but I AM beans” and “I AM milk,” even though we know that shit ain’t legit.

Soy mimics estrogen in the body, so it’s like taking a big ol’ dose of female hormones. Extensive research that I’m pretending actually happened supports the idea that consuming soy will make you a whiny little bitch, too.

Eat real food. Meat is meat, but soy burgers are sitting around trying to Stuart Smalley themselves so you’ll be fooled into thinking they’re actual food.

Badly Breaking Plans

If you have to cancel plans with me, just be honest. And I mean, like, if you wake up on Monday morning and decide you don’t want to do happy hour with me on Thursday night, nut up and tell me that ON MONDAY. “Hey… I decided I don’t feel like getting martinis Thursday. I just don’t want to.” I’m not mad. Hell, I find your honesty refreshing.

When I will get mad, though, is when you take all damn day on Thursday to come up with something that you seem to think is a reasonable excuse for not following through on plans (my cat is sick, I stubbed my toe, I have a headache)–and then cancel at the last minute.

If you can’t bring yourself to be honest and you really wanna pull this shit with me, at least be creative…

  • “I just got an email from a Nigerian prince, and get this… Dude wants to come to the US, and he’s going to send me 5 million bucks for helping him, and the only thing I have to do is wire him like $50k so he can get the process started! I’ve got to head to the bank…”
  • “My in-laws are coming to town tonight, so I am going to literally jump off of a bridge here in a sec. You’ll pick up my car later, right? You can have it. I left the keys on the front seat. Sorry I won’t be able to make it for dinner.”
  • “I accidentally slept with my boyfriend’s twin brother last night and now they’re both here and it’s kind of a situation because I legit can’t tell which one is which, soooo… that’s a no on the beers.”

Dieting Disquisitions

If you have to lose some weight or whatever and you decide to go to the gym and diet, you should probably tell everyone about it.

You should:

  • post #runbrags on Twitter (e.g., “OMG I just totally runned five miles and I’m all sweaty and awesome.”)
  • write long-winded narratives on Facebook about your struggle and how you’re clearly better than everyone else
  • post paleo recipes on Instagram, even though you don’t have a damn clue what “paleo” means
  • go gluten-free because obviously gluten makes your glutes big, and who wants flabby glutes, amirite?!
  • buy shirts with idiotic sayings like “Try to Keep Up ❤ omg wtf lol”
  • wear those stupid shirts with yoga pants to the grocery store so everyone can see that you’re a super-duper athlete

Or you could just shut the fuck up, stop eating an entire pizza at one sitting, and go to the gym.

Yeah. Do that.

Sorry About My Face

If you have to comment on my facial expression when I’m not smiling, don’t make the mistake of assuming anything about my current mood/attitude/level of health.

It has come to my attention that when I’m working/thinking/busy, I don’t always have an ear-to-ear grin plastered on my face. When this occurs and you can’t keep from opening your damn mouth and offering commentary, do us both a favor by not saying any of the following:

  • “What’s wrong?”
  • “You look terrible.”
  • “Are you sick?”
  • “Uh oh… What happened?”
  • “Wake up!”

Hey Janice, I’m relatively certain that you can walk by my office without words dribbling out of your mouth, so why don’t you give it a shot? Thanks.

Alpha Beta Apathy

If you have to yammer on and on about your college experience, maybe try to go light on the bro-ness and your keg stands and brotherhood and reciting the Greek alphabet and your brothers and your stupid-ass nicknames for each other… 

Newsflash:  You are the only one who gives a shit about your fucking Greek letters.

Seriously? You’re a Beta? A Sigma Nu? The fuck is that supposed to mean? You can get the ladies? Last time I checked (right now, actually), you were a 300 lb divorcée with a drinking problem.

So brag on, Brantley Rutherford Doucheville and Hamilton Blarfenburger III… We all stopped listening before you opened your mouth.


If you have to be a fan of something, at least have a reason. Any reason.

You can be a fan of Taylor Swift because you enjoy her music. You can say you appreciate that she writes her own songs. You can simply be a fan of toothpick-shaped, bobbleheaded blonde singers who overuse red lipstick, and that’s okay! That’s a reason!

By the same token, if you’re a fan of a university or a sports team or a sports team at a university, I expect you to have a reason.

So you’re a Notre Dame fan, huh? Yeah! Go Irish! Did you go there? No. Did, like, a good friend or relative of yours go there? Nope. Have you ever been to a football game there? No. Have you ever been to any sporting event there? Um…no. Are you even Catholic? No…at least I don’t think so. What are the symptoms of being Catholic? Would I have, like, a rash or something? Did you grow up, like, right across the street* from the campus? No. …Soooo why are you a fan, then? Derp de derp! Go Irish! Do you want people to think you went to school there, or are you really just a big fan of sparkly helmets, shamrocks, leprechauns, and rapists? Wait… So you’re a fan because you think it makes you look cool or something? Um… Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Growing up, my dad told me that we (the family) are Republicans. …Why, Dad? [Are you sitting down for this? You should really be sitting down for this.] We are Republicans so people won’t think we’re poor. What?!

Don’t be a sign-toting, t-shirt-wearing, fight song-singing, chant-shouting fan of something if you can’t back it up.

*The townie exception applies only if a person grew up less than a mile from campus. If your backyard is practically attached to the football field, you’re allowed to be a fan by proximity.

Just Take the Whole Donut

If you have to cut the donut in half, or only take half of the bagel, or break off half the cookie, or cut a fucking sandwich in half in the company kitchen, please know that no one else is going to take the other half (and if they do, they’re as disgusting as you are). We ALL know you want the other half, fatty–and we know that you think you’re fooling us into thinking that you’re a conscientious calorie counter. Sorry to break it to you, but it’s not working. We all watched you touch the donut with your sweaty, fat fingers.

Just take the whole donut (cookie, bagel, sandwich, slice of cake, whatever), because you’ll only be judged if you’re being absolutely, incredibly disgusting by taking half. And we all know you’re going to come back and get more when no one’s watching.

Revenge of the Avocado Fondler

If you have to work at a self-service checkout at a grocery store, realize that people go to those lanes because they want to do it themselves.

A few months ago, I was buying a bunch of produce at the self-checkout lane (like one of the big ones with the conveyor belt). And don’t get all worked up; there was no one behind me. …Tomatoes, check. Cilantro, check. Avocados, check… When my poor, defenseless avocados got to the end of the conveyor belt, the self-checkout attendant COMES OVER AND STARTS SQUEEZING MY AVOCADOS (not a euphemism). Holy mother trucking what the effing oh my goodness. She puts my bag of avocados in a grocery bag and then starts reaching for my tomatoes. “I’ve got it, thanks,” I say, firmly (like how my avocados were before she started screwing with them). She laughs (wtf?) and puts my tomatoes in the bag as well. I rush through scanning and/or weighing the rest of my groceries, and this dumb hooker has all of my stuff in bags at the end of the belt. I’m so angry, I almost punch her. She reaches for one of the bags to put it in my cart (shouldn’t she be harassing someone else by this point?!), and I say, “No, thank you. Please don’t do that.” I load my cart and gtfo as quickly as possible.

That was a few months ago. I had forgotten what this bitch looked like.

Saturday morning around 7:30 AM, I’m back at the same store. I start scanning cans of Chef Boyardee. THIS DUMB EFFING FOOD MOLESTER STARTS GRABBING MY CANS (again, not a euphemism). I am SO FAR BEYOND pissed, I just say, “No. Don’t.” And then? …And then I walk down there and just start bagging stuff myself. It literally took five times as long to get my groceries… Scan, scan, scan, bag. Scan, scan, scan, bag. The stupid b didn’t get near my avocados this time. Score.

Lesson learned:  only buy 12 items or less and use the tiny self-checkout stand instead of the lane.