SARAH PALIN

It's been a while.  But, there are a million and one reasons to truly hate on Sarah Palin--Alaska contribution to worldwide fascism.

Let's examine the issues, shall we?

Sarah Palin believes in abstinence education.  Let us not even begin to discuss the irony of her knocked-up, unmarried teenaged daughter.

Sarah Palin does not believe that human beings are responsible for global warming.  Obviously.  It is God's will that we live in a desert.  No worries, though, because the rich people will have built themselves water pods and colonized the moon by then.  Fuck everyone else, you poor, penniless bastards!

Sarah Palin believes in good-old fashioned family values.  Weeeeell, what about your Downs syndrome baby?  Doesn't staying home to raise one's family align with that stance?

Sarah Palin is under investigation for abuse of her power.  Frankly, this is page out of the Republican playbook.  

Sarah Palin left her little-ass Alaskan town with a huge debt for a money-sinking stadium.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't fiscal conservatism about not blowing your wad on stupid shit?

Sarah Palin likes to shoot things including wolves, caribou and believes that beluga whales should not be considered an endangered species.  She supports gun ownership, including handguns.  To her credit, if all of the young men growing up in the inner city manage to kill each other, we won't have to worry about that pesky prison-building/public school reform problem!

Sarah Palin opposes pro-choice.  I mean, she was able to pop five children out of that militant, barracuda vagina so WHY NOT YOU?!

Sarah Palin believes in oil-drilling in Alaska.  To curb our dependence on foreign oil, let's rape God-given American soil and stop giving money to those TERRORISTS and INFIDELS.  Oh, but exploring alternative forms of energy isn't that important...

Sarah Palin is swaying the women's vote.  Because that vagina of hers with teeth apparently is worth a couple of thousands of votes and American women have stopped thinking altogether.

This most recent post is for you, Sarah, you awful, fascist, corrupt, Republican whore.  Smooches.

Oh wait

So, I randomly ended up reading The Advocate in my doctor's waiting room...what The Advocate was doing in a stodgy midtown GP's office, I don't know...but here's a hilarious piece by Margaret Cho. Gay men and the women who love 'em. Dick o' clock, indeed.

Dick O'Clock

When out at the bars, Margaret Cho is every gay man’s best friend—that is, until last call.

By Margaret Cho

I am a big fan of going to gay bars. After a long, hard night walking all over a big stage in my new show, Beautiful, I need to be able to watch a good drag queen lip-synch perfectly to “Piece of Me” and have a very large and very strong drink, so my favorite place to go is the local gay bar with my most special gays.

Most fag hags agree that the best times they’ve ever had were at gay bars, sharing precious moments with their fags, drinking lovely pink cocktails and dancing and laughing the night away.

Until it becomes “dick o’clock.” You know what time that is, don’t you? It is when all the gay men in the club simultaneously start looking for dick. It happens all at once, usually around midnight or 1 a.m., generally earlier on the West Coast.

I am not sure how it starts. It may be that sudden realization that you are out on a weeknight, which a lot of gay men and fag hags like to do, because—let’s face it—weekends are for straight people. Since it is a weeknight, you probably need to get home and get in bed at some decent hour if you even want to pretend to try to keep your job.

So that means you need to get some dick, and get some dick fast, because procuring dick isn’t necessarily easy or quick—and we all know if we don’t pick carefully, we will wind up with dick we don’t want. Which isn’t always that bad, because dick is like pizza—even when it’s bad, it is still kind of good, unless it’s soggy.

But anyway, finding dick, good or bad, is no simple affair; it is a process, a lengthy one (Hee-hee, get it? I said “lengthy”), which may take up to an hour if you are picky and aren’t overly aggressive about it. Then you have to take that dick home—which can take anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour, depending on where you live in relation to the bar and if you are driving or taking public transportation. I think we should all be finding ways to get dick on public transportation because not only will you be saving time, you’ll be leaving behind a smaller carbon footprint.

If you do end up driving, you would still have to get that dick into your home, offer it a drink or a joint or a bump or a line or a pill, which you should be careful about because this can take a long time and be an unwelcome distraction from the next step, which is when you work that dick. Which could take between two minutes and 90 minutes, depending on how good it is and whether or not you gave them a drink or a joint or a bump or a line or a pill, if you need to do it more than once, etc. Then get rid of that dick, which should be quick, because after all you are both gay men and probably both need to work the next day.

Even if you are fairly speedy about all these steps, you still may not be able to go to bed right away because if the dick is especially good or bad, you will need to call your fag hag -- remember us? The ones you left at the bar to get some dick? And we’ll be there to dish with you about everything that happened. And then after all that come down off your “dick high,” which will mean you may not even close your eyes until 6 a.m.

I think this is all too much for you. We fag hags care about you. We don’t want to see you burn your dick candle at both ends. We think you should stay at the gay bar and just hang out with us. But we are fag hags, and we will love you even if you have big, dark dick circles under your eyes because you left us to get dick the night before and didn’t get any sleep, because we are awesome like that.

Comb Overs

Last weekend, Miss Cranky Pants found herself at her friendly neighborhood salon getting her little piggies all sexed up for summer. Sparkly and pink? Yes, please. Among the trashy magazines, the throat gripping smell of polisher remover and the low-grade roar of hairdryers, MCP spied an older man in a salon chair. He was as bald as an egg save for a muff of brown around the perimeter of his shining pate. Oh, and a handful of stringy strands just above his left ear. I couldn't help it. I tried not to stare. But, I failed.

He was regaling his poor stylist with the evils of artificial sweetener. He had sort of a honking, pedantic voice. He droned on like an autistic child and talked about how it's just deadly to eat fake sugar. No ma'am, you wouldn't ever catch him eating fake sugar. In fact, for him, it's just organic brown cane sugar, thank you very much. Anything else and you'd just about be asking for problems.

Apparently, his highly questionable style decision was not one of his current problems.

His poor stylist, choking on her giggles and making agreement-type sounds, was tasked with blowing out his fringe and carefully arranging his combover artfully over his pointy scalp. Oh, the humanity!

But, she soldiered on. She wielded her natural bristle round brush with all due gravity and curled under. Presumably to give his 'do some volume. She finished off with a smear of wax, firmly anchoring his combover down. No typhoon nor hurricane could disturb this baby. No ma'am, not at all. The only thing that was gonna get his goose in a gander was artificial sugar.

God, people are so weird.

PS: in the course of trying to find a suitable picture for this post, I ran into this little gem.

Wait--lemme quote the best line, "..the comb-over could, in a weird and not-altogether-serious sort of way, be seen as a sign of the kingdom of God. In the comb-over, we see a refusal to admit defeat, and the defiance of an evil world where men like us lose our hair. Rather than viewing it as a pathetic and unsightly act of desperation, perhaps the comb-over could be seen as one small act of protest - a proleptic signpost to that glorious eschatological day when there is enough hair to go around…"

Riiiiight...God loves you and therefore makes combovers possible. Nevermind about those poor children dying in Iraq...surely the grace of god is evident in combovers. Of course, I might argue that combovers might in fact be the work of satan, but...I'm not the one losing my hair, baldies.

Breeders

This post is not intended to be an indictment of all and sundried who decide to procreate. In fact, Miss Cranky Pants is even known to engage in cooing and baby-bouncing when the mood strikes. This post, however, is dedicated to parents of MCP's generation whose world has shrunken down to the size of a milk-splattered onesie.

Miss Cranky Pants used to know some very interesting, worldly folks. She ran with a sophisticated pack of multi-cultural, multi-lingual people who talked of culture, politics, movies and books. Over time, Miss Cranky Pants noticed that the people in her world started pairing off and disappearing. This is not unlike the scene in Never Ending Story where the world started to crumble from lack of imagination.

Her beloved friends began marrying, nesting etc. She has now noticed that her friends have started to produce issue, offspring, spawn...

What used to be discussions about European and American geo-politics has now devolved into discussions about baby's poopy schedules. They no longer go out, try new restaurants, travel to exotic foreign lands. The extent of their movie watching now involves animated figures. Their emails and blogs feature their drooling children and their latest exploits (Baby's first bong hit!) The expensive strollers, the bulky accoutrements, the baby voices...it's sort of like becoming Baby Mama Barbie with all the accessories.

Why must having children dictate The End of Everything Interesting? And to all the parents out there who are boring the rest of us with pictures of your children and their incredibly boring activities (Yeah, so your kid can walk. Guess what? So can most of us. Get over it.), know that nobody else finds your child as adorable/brilliant/fascinating/precious as you do, so please restrain yourself. Just like every generation thinks it invented sex, it seems that every parent thinks s/he created The Most Perfect Child. Well, there are 6 billion people on this planet so I guess parents of 5,999,999,999 are wrong.

So--kudos to my parents for hitting the jackpot!

Fake boobs

Miss Cranky Pants has been AWOL for a while now due to the demands of her job and busy social life (who am I kidding, here? My job is running my life.) BUT, in an effort to counteract the grievous muscular tension caused by her work, Miss Cranky Pants rallied her pals together for a day out at Inspa World (possibly the greatest place on the planet). A day of floating, naked time, kimchee eating and strategically placed high-powered jets...fabulous.

So, in the midst of my bliss in the giant hot tub, I witnessed to a woman in a very little bikini and very big fake boobs. Let it be noted that Miss Cranky Pants is not against plastic surgery. Actually, quite the contrary--she firmly believes in better living through chemistry and the scalpel...but, there was something about these boobs that were just not quite...right.

I mean, surely, this woman had every right to insert immovable faux-mammaries in her chest, if she wanted? Well, sure, but note that the name of this blog is hateration not live-and-let-live-aration...so, i gotta say that her boobs were like two halves of a grapefruit stuck on her chest...I found them repulsive and yet strangely fascinating. They didn't move at all when she moved. They didn't bounce when she bounced. They were, in essence, her anchor. I wanted to poke them to see if they were as hard as they looked. They looked concrete and utterly unbiodegradeable. How very ungreen.

It led me back to a time when a good friend of mine, C, decided to get fake boobs because she had been self-conscious about her chest her whole life. In fact, in the course of our friendship, I'd never seen her without her shirt on. What could make this otherwise out-going, smart and seemingly confident woman so neurotic about her boobs or lack thereof? Her response? "I just want to stop thinking about it."

So, she scraped her pennies together and got her boobs enhanced. Days after the surgery, I delivered arnica gel and chocolate to her door. Her boobs were high, huge and unmoving. Kind of like Kilimanjaro. She made me touch them. They felt like rocks inserted under her pectoral muscles.

But, in the end, I guess she made the best of it because she moonlighted as a stripper and made a fortune. So, the moral of the story is you reserve the right to get big fake boobs if you want and the rest of us reserve the right to gossip about how big and fake they are. Chacun a son gout, I suppose. And thank you to my genetic pool that has given me boobs that are beyond reproach.

The Evil Bourgeois Pigs who Run Financial Institutions

Miss Cranky Pants was recently on the receiving end of a series of shocking letters from Visa threatening maiming, fire-bombing of her residence and reporting to credit bureaus. And for what?! you might demand, loyal reader.

Indeed, Miss Cranky Pants has been called many things, but fiscally irresponsible she is not.

It seems that despite multiple check requests on my part to my bank to pay off portions of my latest credit card bill, Visa has not received a single one. What in God's name do they do in Florida? Do my checks get sucked into the Everglades? Are Floridians as incapable of opening and cashing checks as they are determining hanging chads? Or perhaps this is my bank's fault as they head into the financial nadir created by the most recent of economic downturns? Or maybe it's the fault of our fine postal employees who are surely known for their sterling professionalism and mental stability?

Regardless of any of these questionable variables, imagine my shock and dismay when I continued to receive threatening letters from Visa. Moi? Surely not! Me? The most anal-retentive of bill-payers? Years of timely payments and responsible fiscal behavior down the drain! Imagine my carefully guarded credit score getting flushed down the tubes because of incompetence on the part of some nameless mouth-breather. ME?! You're suspending my account privileges? Do you realize that if my credit score was an SAT score, I'd be in the IVYs?

So, short of dropping this check off in Florida, I put a stop to all pending checks and dropped the check in the damn mail myself. So much for this automated bill pay crap. Soon, I hope that that Visa will see the error of its ways and come crawling back. After some groveling, I might reconsider my scathing opinions. But, for now, I am content to stew in my bitterness and anger and not using of my Visa card.

This ain't Oprah!

The other day, in my office, I was obliged by a colleague to meet with a young woman who recently moved to New York. She met with me ostensibly to get my advice about how to get her start in the big, bad city.

Being a charitable-minded person, I cheerfully agreed.

I would then live to regret that decision.

I met this woman, who seemed nice enough in that sort of bland, hippie-girl sort of way. Appearances, however, were deceiving and I found myself backed into a corner, TRAPPED, by Too Much Information Girl.

To say that this girl had issues is an understatement. National Geographics has issues. This girl was the Library of Congress.

Within ten minutes of meeting her, she told me deeply personal things about her physical disabilities, her grandmother's death and surgical procedures on her reproductive system. She was the Endless Talker. She shared far too much in short order. My mind was reeling with all of the different ways that I could get out of the conversation quickly. I strained to look like I was paying attention by fixing my gaze on her non-lazy eye. My god, how I struggled!

Twenty excruciating minutes later, I was like a mouse caught in a trap. I was at that point willing to gnaw my leg off to save myself. It was unreal! How had this girl managed to get to this point in her life without benefit of somebody--anybody!--telling her that bombarding an innocent bystander with the inane and gruesome details of your mundane existence is just not okay?! Pouring battery acid in my ears was starting to seem like a very viable option.

Finally, there was a pause in conversation. I paused my rocking in a fetal position to find her staring at me inquisitively. Shit, I thought, she just asked me a question and I don't know the answer.

"Right!" I replied, "That's right. You are correct!"

She smiled radiantly and sallied forth. Did I answer correctly? Who knows?

Finally, as her diatribe seemed to be winding down, she said, "I've just moved to New York and I'm really just looking to make some friends." She then looked at me hopefully.

DEAR GOD, I thought, I HOPE SHE DOESN'T MEAN ME!

"Ah, well," I replied, "I'm sure that you'll make friends soon enough."

Try the self-help aisle at Barnes and Noble.

"So," she asked, brightly, "Do you have any professional advice for me?"

"Yes," I answered, equally brightly, "I would suggest that in future conversations that you let people get a word in edge-wise."

It ain't show friends, people, it's show business.

So, maybe I'm a bitch, but that chick was craaaazy.

Spring Awakening

Ah, spring time in New York--is anything lovelier? The birds are singing, the smog carries a sweeter scent of car musk and the sun warms the miles of concrete. People are happier, nicer and less apt to pepper spray you for bumping them on the subway. It's the best of times as the good citizens of Gotham shed their outer layers of black clothing to reveal their grotesquely pale limbs. There's always something a bit off-putting about seeing New Yorkers in summer wear--it's like seeing your mother at your favorite downtown bar...sort of like, "huh, never imagined you here." But I digress.

I love the warmer weather, but I do dislike one thing about it... Much like the hibernating polar bear, the Urban Pig comes out around the same time as those cute sundresses. Here are two popular varieties seen here:

























The Urban Pig usually accosts women traveling alone who are just trying to get on with their damn day without punching someone in the head because the super cute shoes they are wearing are also killing them slowly (and it's worth it!):


Anyway, there you are, most likely trying to balance a hot cup of coffee, a BlackBerry, a gym bag and a purse when, suddenly, you sense that you are being watched. You look up and, yes, you confirm that you are being watched. In fact, you are being mentally undressed in the minds of every straight male within view. You feel that extra-sort of dirty, and not in that good way.

But, then, the situation escalates. You hear men cat-calling out of car windows, taxis and scooters.

"Hey mami!"

"Hola mujer."

"Hey, girl, how you doin'?"

"Girl, you are lookin' fine today."

Oh, the humanity! The leering! The creepy staring! It's all too much to bear and all you're trying to do is get on with your life. I mean-- What. The. Fuck.

You consider a multitude of different options and responses, but it seems that coolly ignoring everyone is the best position. You're outraged and angry. "God!" you think to yourself, "The nerve! How disgusting! What PIGS! But..I did think I looked especially cute this morning."

Enjoy the spring!

Women's Magazines

I often find myself standing in front of news stands (often at airports) wondering what delicious trash I can pick up to occupy myself. In between reading about the hot mess that is Britney or scandale du jour, I often look resentfully at women's magazines.

Is it that the publishing industry is dominated by misogynists? Bitchy gay men and brittle, bone-thin hags who subsist on vodka and botox? Is it that women do not appreciate humor?

The women's magazine industry is entirely predicated on the belief that you, woman, are Not Okay. In fact, this abiding Not Okayness is so horrifying, so blatant, indeed so very OBVIOUS to everyone but you that it's quite surprising that you're able to function. No matter who you are, you definitely need to lose five-100 pounds, buy a new wardrobe, make new friends, find a new/any boyfriend, learn to live with the loser you've got because nobody else is ever going to love you, get your teeth whitened, get a tan, wear sunscreen, floss, tighten up your vaginal muscles, do leg lifts and feel inferior to most other women who supposedly Have It All.

Also, in between all of that, you should probably focus on your career for a second in between your lunchtime botox appointments and...have you considered plastic surgery for that horrendous schnoz of yours?

By contrast, consider the magazines for boys. The overriding theme there is Dude, You're Totally Awesome (and if you consider for just one second throwing away your ratty college T-shirt for this button down) Pussy Will Be Lined Up Outside Your Door. In fact, men's magazines embrace that their readers are fundamentally pretty secure with themselves and believe themselves to be kind of a catch (Editor's note: Empirical evidence suggests that this is not true for 99% of men out there).

Wanna buy a new, high-octane grill for your backyard barbecues? Dude--awesome. Your friends will be jealous and it'll be a Milf magnet. Grilling is so manly.

Wanna get that new car? Dude, go for it. Your friends will be jealous and it'll come with a pussy magnet.

Considering some sort of cosmetic waxing procedure? Dude, forget it. She'll just have to deal with your hairy manliness. Plus it'll make guys at the gym jealous (and will be a magnet for boys who like bears).

Insecure about the size of your penis? Dude, don't even worry! Most sizes are overstated anyway and it's about the motion in ocean. Don't believe us? Look, we asked this hot supermodel to confirm it...your 3 inch monster in your pants is a total model magnet.

Thinking about sex? (Editor's note: only when you're breathing, boys) Good, because everyone else is too and PEOPLE ARE DOING IT AT THE OFFICE. Dude, you're gonna have to beat away pussy with a stick on your way to the photocopier!

In short, our take away lesson here is that men's magazines are a better read because they do not make us want to purge every meal we've ever eaten, get ourselves into deep credit card debt for new threads and do make us believe that we are goddesses that every man would want to sleep with (Editor's note: duh.)

Say it with me, ladies: I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and, doggone it, women's magazines suck the big one (Editor's note: Take note, GQ--have you ever considered a coup d'etat?)

Facebook Applications

Every damn day, I get another stupid notice about another dumbass request from Facebook developers...

NO! I don't want to know what my stripper/Sex in the City/porn star/Scooby Doo alter ego would be...

I really don't care how many sheep you throw at me or how many times you've bought and sold me (plus, y'all really couldn't afford me anyway)

I don't care where I stand in the rankings and no matter what anyone says, I am the hottest friend you have.

I couldn't care LESS about who's flirting with me online or how many times you've been to Timbuktu.

I don't give a shit about your movie/pop song/Princess Bride quizzes and I really really don't think that a FB app can predict the trajectory of my life based on what I had for lunch.

And I resent being forced to suck my friends in just because I'm wasting time online and would like to know how to trade Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Just give me my damn results so I can forget I spent all of two minutes taking some stupid-ass quiz while I was supposed to be working. And don't share that with my "friends."

Also, the cutesy shit on your SuperWall just irritates the rest of us and makes us think you're retarded.

Log off. Go outside. Make some analog friends.

Your exes

No matter how secure you think you are in your relationship, there is nothing quite like mention of The Ex to bring out the Crazy Bitch in us all. Let's examine this more closely.

There are several reasons for this inexplicable behavior in us. But we're girls and we're known to be a wee unrational at times...

1) It annoys us when you speak of her fondly.

Secretly, we're thinking about ourselves...are we better or worse? Does he carry a secret torch for her? we think. So, she's an astrophysicist who volunteers with lepers in India while modeling on the side? No, but we might think of her that way. Here's an example conversation:

Boy A: So my ex and I are having lunch.

(secret thought: OMG, they're going to have sex and run off to Vegas! She's a PORN STAR who will fulfill every sexual demand that he's ever had--she's going to STEAL HIM BACK!)

Boy A: She's a really smart girl.

(secret thought: she's the president of Mensa! He thinks I'm a moron! And she's a PORN STAR. (Editor's note: this is particularly bad if she is, in fact, a porn star. Then you've got problems, friend.))

BTW: under NO circumstances WHATSOEVER is your ex-girlfriend ever ever ever hot. I don't care if you dated Gisele...if you ever want us to touch your pee-pee again, she "has a good personality." Also, saying that she's crazy might not help either. Especially since some boys are really into the crazy.

2) It annoys us when you speak of her disparagingly.

I know--you can't ever win. But when you refer to your ex as "that castrating, blood-sucking bitch" or some other such endearing terms, we wonder how you'll speak of us if we break up. We also worry about the amount of baggage that we've now inherited from somebody else. Much like the impulse buy at Forever 21, we wonder if we bought something that somebody smarter than we had the good sense to pass on. Bad form. The less said, the better.

If pressed, say something like, "Well, we were in different places and it didn't work out. She wasn't amazing like you, you hot little minx. Come here and let me worship you."

3) Frankly, it annoys us when you speak of her at all.

Why? Because we'd like to believe that much like a Cabbage Patch Doll, you hatched fully formed from a field full of butterflies and sunflowers. We don't like to think about how many other girls have hurt you or cherished you. Intellectually, we KNOW that you probably weren't a virgin when we met you (because otherwise where would you have learned that trick with you hips), but emotionally we like to pretend. We also don't like thinking about your getting naked with somebody before us.

We're not into sloppy seconds--especially from that castrating, blood-sucking bitch.

(Editor's note: we actually love Angelina and would go gay for her in two seconds, but the appeal of her as vampire was too good to pass up. Love you, Angie! Call us!)

For you political junkies

Courtesy of Guest Hater: La Reina Bitchissima!

You know what I hate? Elections. They are so restrictive. All you can say is Yes or No, or fill in an oval next to a person's name. I would vote more if I were allowed to fill in that bubble AND include a statement of protest that I was basically being forced to vote for them because they were the least-bad person on the ballot.

What I really want is another ballot form, one where you can indicate the person you hate the most, instead of the person you like the most. On the alternative hate ballot, every hate vote that a candidate gets takes away one positive vote that the candidate got. And if a person ends up with more hate votes than like votes, basically ending up with negative votes, they should never be allowed to be a candidate for that office again. The end.

Whoo Whoo girls

These are the girls whose lacquered and taloned claws have single-handedly ruined Friday and Saturday nights for the rest of us. Why are Thursdays the new Saturdays? Because of these bitches.

You know them. Probably more than you want to. They are the ones whose good looks and charm increase proportionally to how much you've been drinking. By the time you've done binging, you're either going home to pass out on one of them or to the emergency room to get your stomach pumped.

But, allow us to dwell for a second on the unique phenom that is the Whoo Whoo girl.

Observed in their natural habitat, the sorority house, they will engage in strange grooming behaviors to attract the male of the species seen here:
A subset of the species can also look like this:


Once the female species has adequately shaved her upper lip, spritzed herself with cheap perfume (most likely to obliterate the smell of fish and last night's mating ritual), blown out her overprocessed hair, strapped herself into a dress three sizes too small and applied a ritualistic war paint, she is ready for the evening's festivities.

They usually travel in herds of not less than four. They convene at watering holes where they surmise that they will obtain free alcohol. Their drink of choice is usually some hellacious version of an Long Island Ice Tea (native to their home environment) or Red Bull and vodka. Once properly intoxicated, the female of the species will often begin their unique and loud mating call, "Whooooooo! I'm am SOOO drunk!"

More often than not, this is heard by the aforementioned male of the species who respond quite enthusiastically to their calls even as most other species move away quickly and quietly, so as not to be detected.

Upon siting, the male will often engage in sort form of romantic overture at which point the female will respond.

The most threatening aspect of this creature is that she hunts over many decades. Long after her assets become droopy and the sell-by date on her milkshake is expired, she still hunts on. Interestingly, the whoo-whoo girl actually becomes a different species in her old age: the urban cougar. Knowing that this is their fate, many whoo-whoo girls indulge in animal prints so as to ease their entry into the Urban Cougar den. (Editor's note: check out the link--it's pretty amazing. Don't miss the classification of Urban Cougars!)


Spent and tired, used-up and past her prime, the whoo-whoo girl stumbles on and perseveres much like the majestic wild salmon of Alaska.


While they are a major urban annoyance, they are relatively harmless unless you decide to engage with one of them in person. In that particular and highly ill-advised instance, you risk contracting a cocktail of different STIs and your brain cells dying slow and painful deaths from the high-pitched and constant blather. Yes, in fact, your brain could liquefy upon contact. They are the Ebola of socializing. Beware.

Food Bloggers

Courtesy of Guest Hater: Hatebert

News flash to food bloggers: Nobody gives a flying fuck about what you had for breakfast. I don't care if your parents loved you and put your crappy macaroni art on the refrigerator when you were in kindergarten. Let's be honest here, your life is an empty boring farce of an existence, you have terrible taste in food and your pictures are even worse. Okay, maybe not the first but definitely the second and third.

Maybe it was cute when you got your first digital camera and took a couple pictures of what you ate but you're mistaking waning patience for praise. Now you're just holding up your former friends from eating. Remember that idea? Eating? The reason that they all came to a restaurant? Isn't the food and company enough for you? Or do you really have to be the center of attention, putting yourself in the way of everyone else's enjoyment so you can take 20 ill framed and out of focus pictures of each dish for your 6 readers? Who's life by the by is even sadder than your's if they're living vicariously though your blog. The rest of us waiting to eat are ready to shove that camera down your throat. You're not only a horrible photographer but a horrible friend too. That goes double for those of you with a dslr that costs more than your meal and triple if you're carrying a separate macro lens.

The only thing more pathetic than a food blogger taking photos in a restaurant is one doing it at home. Just because you bought the French Laundry Cookbook doesn't make you Thomas fucking Keller. Your candy ass attempt at reproducing his food with low fat no sodium I Can't Believe It's Not Butter is insulting to what he really does. Take a hint from the pros. You don't see chefs taking pictures of every splooge on a plate and subjecting the world to it in blog form. It's just food.

Here's the bottom line. You don't really care about food. What's the furthest you're willing travel for food every day? The percentage of your income you're willing to spend on it? The amount of time you're willing to spend to source an ingredient? How many sleepless nights have you spent up obsessing over the smallest detail on a dish? If you really cared about food you would quit your dead end job to tourner a case carrots for 4 hours into perfect 7 sided footballs before getting behind a hot stove for 12 hours and be grateful to be paid peanuts.

I know that with interweb deux everyone can create their own content but that doesn't mean you should. Let's show some fucking restraint folks. You're getting in my way of finding porn and we all know that's what the interweb is really for.

Remote wars

You know the tale...you're sitting there spending some "quality time" with the boy, except he can't seem to pull his eyeballs away from whatever stupid sporting event he's watching. He might as well get the remote surgically fused to his hand. The thing he's caressing so lovingly in his hands and carrying around the apartment ain't you, sweetheart. If he could, he would remote control his life.

Meanwhile, you think about all the quality TV you could be watching, like the "L Word." In fact, you sort of wonder for the millionth time if it wouldn't be easier to date a woman. At least then you wouldn't have to suffer the inane commentary and mindless enthusiasm of the hetero male sports fan.

You know that you're in trouble when entreaties of untold sexual thrills and sugary desserts are promised to no avail. Apparently, you are not as sexy or interesting as a team of sweaty men pacing up and down a court. I mean, I would take a team of sweaty men, but I think that's an entirely different scenario.

You negotiate. You bargain. It's entering the realm of UN Peace Negotiations. Finally, you capitulate. You pout. You picture how the living room might look with two TVs side by side. You resent that the sounds of cheering sports fans might be the soundtrack of your life as long as you live with this person.

The only consoling thought is that they could put "FINALLY GOT THE DAMN REMOTE!" as they lay you in the ground with the remote clenched in your cold, dead fist. Who wins now, sucka?

White Boys with Asian Fetish: me not so horny.

It's been written before, but it bears mentioning again...white boys with Asian fetish make me want to take my cute little Hello Kitty machete to their balls.

No, I don't want to hear about your semester teaching English in Japan.

No, the fact that you've dated other Asian women before makes you less desirable in our almond-shaped eyes.

No, I don't want to hear about your abiding interests in "Eastern philosophies" or your limited vocabulary (btw, "Me love you long time" does not qualify as speaking an Asian language).

No, I really don't give a shit that you think Asian women are the most beautiful.

No, we really don't do kinkier things in bed than other women. That includes any type of Oriental massage, submissive/dominatrix scenario and anything that you and your frat-boy cronies might refer to as "exotic."

Yes, we do take advantage of the fact that you think with your dick and we're filing your dumbass comments away for appropriate dissection later. Over dim sum, in fact.

So, maybe it's true that we're generally smaller and might be what you charmers call "spinners." So, it's true that many of us look younger than our chronological ages thereby allowing you to indulge in your pederast fantasies without actually being a statutory rapist. So, maybe you think that Asian girls are all gagging for your big, white-boy beef injection.

I don't care what Vivid Entertainment leads you to believe. If pneumatic sorority girls aren't lining up to blow you, neither are we. It was in the memo that got circulated earlier today in Girl World. I mean, we were all going to until Girl Central sent out the directive. Me so solly, white boy. Shop's closed and we're on to you.

By the way, they say that white boys with Asian fetish are really just on a detour to gay...Think about it.

My friend B had the following to share. Let it be noted that B is also a pig and has not been laid since he frequented a Russian hooker. “It’s because of the smallness and girlishness of Asian girls. Plus, because so many guys have a shaved fantasy, Asian girls don’t have much hair so it’s like having sex with someone much younger. And Asian women are known to love anal sex.”

Yes. Yes. Ew. Depends on my mood.

Finally, to all the boys who think that dating an Asian woman will somehow be less complicated or that Asian women are less low-maintenance than other women: clearly you have never dated an Asian woman.

I'd like to leave you with this...I love me some of my Asian sisters, but they can be crazy...and for those of you boys who like the crazy, s0 be it. Here is the Pyramid of Asian Girl Crazy complete with explanation. This is a Miss Cranky Pants exclusive...Let it be said, however, that that this craziness is YOUR FAULT, you fetishizing, colonizing asshole...So, if you dare to continue on your foolhardy mission, I offer a field guide. Consider yourself warned.

Good sex you can't have no more...

The Sex Gods giveth and they taketh away. If you are lucky, you have found yourself once in the enviable position of getting laid. I'm not talking about having sex, making love or fucking...I'm talking about getting yourself LAID good and proper.

Laid so good, in fact, that all you ever saw was sunshine and bluebirds--even in the middle of Chernobyl. Your toes didn't uncurl themselves for days. You saw god when you came. You felt like your atoms were splitting and fusing themselves together in the same moment. You wet the sheets and embarrassed the neighbors. In the words of Angelina Jolie, you just "curled up in the corner and screamed with pleasure." Kind of a compelling thought until you realize she was speaking about Billy Bob. Ew.

So, for whatever reason, you couldn't ride that love train forever. Something about it being so good was also so very bad. Or it started being bad for its own complex, myriad reasons. Whatever the case may be, the person who made you squeal like a farm animal is off limits. Gone. No more booty. They have officially packed up their handcuffs, midgets and electrodes and left the building. Or you had the good sense to leave because you realized that the sex was waaaay better than having to deal with this person in, like, real life.

And so there's you. Poor little you, tangled in the sheets and jonesing like the crack addict of good loving that you are. Now and then, you still think of it nostalgically and your face takes on this dreamy, far-away look even as you're panting away. I just hate that.

Bad Sex

Oh god yes. We've all had it and some more than others. Whoever said that sex is like pizza: it's still pretty good even when it's bad was obviously a boy. Cuz, darlin', when it's bad, I'd rather curl up with my vibrator and call it a night. Actually, when it's bad, I'd rather stick hot needles dipped in pepper spray into my eyes, but I'm just sort of extreme like that.

You know how it happens...either you're drunk, or he's drunk...you're both waaaay too sober...you've known each other for ages or you met five minutes ago...whatever...it can happen to anyone at any time. It's like the proverbial box of chocolates. It can look good, smell good, taste good...and still be godawful sex.

Allow me to set the scene.

You have just jumped into the sack when some schmuck thinking that you're gonna get some quality booty or at least kill some time before Gossip Girl. You go for the lay-up, you shoot...he scores. You lay back. He's got some punch drunk look on his dumbshit face, his eyes all glazed over like a kid after Christmas morning. Maybe he's even gone so far as to prop his head up on his hands...he's smiling at you dopily as all the blood rushes back to from wildly unimpressive places...god forbid he wants to cuddle because all you can think about is punching him in the head...Was it good for you?...Oh, I'm sorry, did something happen? I wasn't aware...all you can think about is ushering him out of your bed...quickly...before somebody should see and bear witness to this utter embarrassment...maybe you'll have time to take care of your business before the opening credits...you feel sorry for all the other girls that may have come before you (or not)...and you get on with your life--the memory seared into your mind and a tale ready to be told to your girlfriends over brunch...hoping that maybe a direct head injury might take care of your short-term memory...

Oh, well, you think, at least I may have burned off the calories from that Gummy Bear that I ate four hours ago. Or maybe not.

Other People's Effortless and Undeserved Success

Admit this to yourself: you begrudge your peers their success. Which you feel is largely undeserved, because if it was truly based on brilliance and merit then IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU. Obviously, it was the sheer stupidity, the unbelievable Beavis-and-Butthead culture, the feckless, gaping SIMIANS who failed to see YOUR particular brand of brilliance.

No. Instead, the drooling masses chose to see some sub-par product/writer/DNA-deficient moron as their false god. So be it. Let them prostrate themselves at the altar of some dilettante and pat yourself on the back for simply being above it all. This ain't sour grapes, baby. I'm the only one who's calling out the naked emperor!

And, what's worse is that there doesn't happen to be a soapbox for the demons that whisper to you in your darkest hours. Everyone else seems to think you should celebrate others' success and they say as much publicly. The liars.


Oh, sure, you may grind your teeth, swallow down your rancid bile and force your lips back into some semblance of a smile/grimace while you say things about Being So Happy for other's success. In actual fact, you are picturing Very Bad Things happening to them.

So, here's the very first Hateration Nation's post to other people's effortless, talentless and undeserved success. Such people in this general category would include (but by no means limited to) Dave Eggers, Jonathan Safran Foer and That Kid You Hated In High School.

I welcome comments.