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.