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We now take a break in the imminent destruction of the earth to celebrate pretty people wearing pretty clothes getting awards for having done pretty things at the Golden Globes. So brave. So. Brave.

Let’s just pour another glass of wine or crack open a new beer. I’m going zip up my Old Navy hoodie and judge some people! I’m on a New Year’s Ryan Seacrest cleanse so I am checking out NBC, and it’s my favorite kind of disaster.

The Golden Globes Red Carpet pre-show was banal as usual, notable exceptions were Jenna Bush-Hagar petting everyone she interviewed as if she was rolling. Baby Bush provided several of the red carpets best? worst? moments. On a shallow note, I totally dug her hair and dress. Whoever styled her did well, and I wish they would have helped a few others out. Nicole Kidman? I am looking at you, and so is everyone else. Ms. Kidman of the world’s smoothest forehead was dressed like Moulin Rouge 2- Miss Kitty’s Gunsmoke Revenge, Baby Bush asked Kidman’s husband Keith Urban, while batting her eyes at him “do you have final say on what she wears?” This Question was brought to you by the letters I and M, for Ingrained Misogyny. However, looking at Nic’s gown for the evening, perhaps Keith should be asked to weigh in.

Baby Bush also introduced to us, one the of the repeated low points of the evening. When she congratulated Pharrell, in his faboo Mr. Peanut ensemble on his nomination for Hidden Fences.

White People. We are the worst. Two amazing movies starring black people? MY BRAIN CAN’T HANDLE IT! TOO COMPLEX! Though to be fair, I bet she can’t keep Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling straight. Canada, stop sending us cute blond Ryans! (Scratch that, reverse it. More cute blond Ryans, we beg of you.)

Jenna was the first to make this gaff, but not the last.

After Al, Natalie, and Jenna perform the weirdest Law & Order walk and pose ever, we finally get to roll the opening video. It’s reassuring there were only three of them, add Matt and I’m questioning if they’re the Four Horsemen and the Apocalypse is nigh.

Finally! The show begins! Meh opening except for two major things: Eleven (Millie Bobbie Brown) raps and BARB IS ALIVE!!! Also, she can synchro swim!


Jimmy Fallon takes the stage and immediate tragedy, you guys, the teleprompter doesn’t work. But he overcomes. So brave. So. Brave.

Emma Stone looking like a Goddess gave the first award to someone I’ve barely heard of for a movie I’ve barely heard of. But whatever. My Netflix queue is basically kid’s shows, Black Mirror and Hart of Dixie. So I am uber current.

Atlanta wins for best TV comedy musical or comedy and later Donald Glover, wearing a tux he most certainly stole from my 8th grade show choir wins for acting. Atlanta seemed to fly under the radar but it is really worth seeking out. It’s great. (I feel a little better about confessing my Netflix line up to you now)

Quick question, are we entirely sure that Annette Benning isn’t a cyborg? If, per chance Westworld tech were real, she would be the first one I would suspect. Actually, that technology is much more natural than Annette.


All in all it was a pleasant show, not too mean, not rolling in the aisles, but cute. Not too mean spirted. And y’all? Brad and Billy Bob be getting their drink on at the after party for sure and damn I’d like to listen in on that convo.

Highlights: Tracee Ellis Ross winning for Blackish, Steve Carrell and Kristen Wiig’s hilarious heartbreaking comedy bit, Meryl –just Meryl – and Emma Stone winning for LaLa Land and proving once again why she should really be America’s Sweetheart. I mean JLaw can suck it. Stone is the real deal.


Lows: Mel Gibson (although his reaction to Meryl’s speech was, well, expected) how awful do you have to be to be irredeemable to Hollywood? I guess we will be kept in suspense Sugar Tits, the bar keeps getting lowered. And constantly combining two of the best movies of the year, Hidden Figures and Fences. Hidden Fences. Listen. Guys. Hidden Figures. Fences. Two different movies. Come one now.

Two things are certain; if you wear a toupee on the west coast you are out of luck my friends, last night’s deep cut dresses and perky breasts set both new (ahem) lows and highs. those babies were taped ten ways to Sunday and nary a roll of toupee tape can be found west of the Rockies today.

And sure enough we woke to a Twitter frenzy from He Was Not Named But Everyone Knew Who Streep Was Talking About. Ah, good times.

And Chris Rock was right. All those people won for People V. OJ Simpson and no one thanked OJ.

You can read the entire list of 2017 Golden Globe winners here.


Donald Trump as Seen by Google’s Deep Dream




Last Summer, Google unleashed Deep Dream, their neural network that takes pictures and tries to identify patterns and overwrite them, on an unsuspecting public. When you put an image into Deep Dream, what you get when it “wakes up” is often nightmarish. Dogs, birds, insects, pagodas are inserted at random places in the image, giving it a surreal and sometimes beautiful–if terrifying–aspect.

So, since this election season is already off-the-charts surreal, I thought to myself, “What would it look like if we ran some candidates through Deep Dream?” Well, now I know.  I started with Donald Trump, who is already deeply weird and unsettling. The results are spectacular.

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From the MRA Evidence Archives: The Journal of a Normal, Average Feminist

Awoke and whispered to my boobs, Bea Arthur and Jackie O, “It’s Tuesday. You know what that means, ladies? Time to oppress some dudes.”



barbie doll head being gripped by dirty hands

 Tuesday July 5, 2016

Awoke and whispered to my boobs, Bea Arthur and Jackie O, “It’s Tuesday. You know what that means, ladies? Time to oppress some dudes.”

Walked to work wearing my plunging crop top that says, “This is what a feminist looks like,” hot pants, and six-inch heels. Tossed my hair a lot and sexily chewed my lower lip. Dropped change so I could slowly bend over and pick it up. It took me about an hour to walk five blocks, which is standard.

Exceeded my catcall goal by seven, a personal best. Super flattering, of course, but will pretend to be terrified and make men feel bad about it with a bunch of tweets. That’ll show them.

Some dowdy librarian tried to help me with the change I kept dropping, and she got catcalled too! No one invades my catcalling turf. Slapped the books right out of her hands. Mostly by Hemingway, whom I both hate and would totally do if he were alive.

Arrived late per usual, but the boss didn’t say anything, just stared at my tits and gave me a pass. I had buttressed Bea Arthur and Jackie O in a push-up bra stuffed with the hard-earned cash of some beta male I cheated on. Good thinking.

By Friday I hope to a) screw my way to executive assistant, b) replace some poor slob who works really hard, or c) file a sexual harassment lawsuit. We’ll just see what the week brings, like whether or not the boss is a lesbian. Fingers crossed!

Spent the rest of the workday playing Candy Crush and convincing Dale from accounting to do everything for me. Stringing Dale along is why I keep coming in. It makes all the pretending to work worth it. I might boink him someday, but I want to see how low he’ll stoop for a bit of action.

I don’t get off on it per se, in so much that I don’t get off. Ever. At all. But I pretend that I could, just to make all the guys I’ve ever been with feel like losers. Watching them fumble and feel emasculated without pants is like Christmas – if I were to sleep with Santa and watch him fumble and feel emasculated without pants.


Went to happy hour after work and didn’t pay a dime. Cosmos just appeared in front of me. Dumb guys just handed me cash for being hot, and I filled my bra until Bea Arthur and Jackie O ballooned up like the boobs of evil women on TV. My role models, natch.

Some dude wearing a huge, purple hat came up to me and said I looked like an uglier Angelina Jolie. He lifted his shirt to show that his torso was hard, rippling, and embroidered with diamonds so he had every right to tell me that. I hooked up with him in the men’s room. That’ll show him.

Went home and let loose a series of drunken, liar tweets about how hard my life is and how I want equality. Even inebriated, it’s important to keep my stilettoed foot on the neck of men everywhere. Those tweets and opinion pieces just skewer them. More powerful than the laws of God or man are the messages I hastily type with my thumbs.

A good Tuesday over all, but did not receive free coffee by sexily slow jamming my order. The barista must’ve taken the red pill.

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Woman begs city council to bring back McRib

The McRib Shortage of ’15. It was the single greatest tragedy this country has ever endured. But one woman, one brave voice, said, “No. This will not do.” #mcrib #sheslovinit




Well over a year ago a tragic event occurred: In the fall of 2015, the executives of McDonald’s made a grave decision, the consequences of which are still felt to this day. They decided that when the McRib was released that year it would… it would allow the regional managers to decide whether or not they would offer the McRib. As a result, a staggering 45 percent of McDonald’s locations elected not to offer the McRib. It was the single greatest tragedy this country has ever endured. But one woman, one brave voice, said, “No. This will not do.”

First off, shout out to Reader James from Lake Elsinore, CA for alerting us to the tale of hardship and heroism. You see, when Xanthe Pajarillo, a “McRib activist,” realized that none of the ten McDonald’s locations in her hometown of Santa Clarita would be offering the McRib, she did what any reasonable red-blooded American citizen would do. She brought the issue before the city council.

Now it is no secret that the McRib Shortage of ’15 nearly brought the nation to a standstill. In fact, if it weren’t for the release of a special McRib locator app, experts speculate that America would have ceased to exist as it does today. But amidst all of the rolling blackouts, the deaths, and the riots, we overlooked all of the smaller, personal tragedies that took place because of the cruel decision made by nearly half of McDonald’s regional managers.

In her impassioned plea to the Santa Clarita city council, Pajarillo explained just why the McRib meant so much to her and her family, and why the city council had to act in order to bring it back.

“The removal of the McRib from the menu has affected my family, because every Thanksgiving, my family would, like, order a 50-piece chicken McNugget and like, 10 McRibs. It was like, a tradition in our family, and now it’s like—well, like my family’s holiday spirit is kind of messed up and broken.”

Recently Pajarillo heroic speech before the city council has gone viral, gaining attention at the national stage across social media. Since that dramatic event, Pajarillo has continued to fight for the return of the McRib, even going so far as to release a song dubbed “The McRib Blues.” In it, she lays bare her soul and the souls of those like her to whom the McRib is more than just a barbecue pork sandwich, but is instead, a way of life.

There are those out there, deplorables who hardly deserve mention, that call her bravery nothing more than a stunt. Performance art holding up a mirror to America’s consumerism and obsession. However, others stand by the truth. Pajarillo is a hero, fighting for both a sandwich, but also for something more. Something ephemeral. That little piece of Americana that brings us all together. The McRib.

Fight on, brave warrior, fight on.

♪ Cause we have right to eat what we like, McRib is worth the fight ♪

Still can’t get enough of the McRib? Learn how a McRib is made, courtesy of BuzzFeed.

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