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 were spectacular.
I figured, why stop? So I uploaded a bunch of pictures of former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, and those results are even better. So, the only thing left to do is run photos of everyone’s favorite Canadian, the man who is probably not the Zodiac Killer and may or may not enjoy the company of ladies other than Mrs. Cruz (but not if they get naked in movies), but who definitely makes people want to punch him in the face.
Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, let’s see what horrors Deep Dream has in store for us with Ted Cruz.
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.”
THIS CONTENT WAS REPUBLISHED FROM AN EARLIER DATE.
Tuesday July 5, 2016
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.
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.
Raddest Things of the Week: Dabbing on Paul Ryan and Jack in the Box tacos
Welcome back, Men’s Traitors. Happy New Year! For the first time in 2017 we’re kicking off our weekly Menstration, our highly subjective weekly roundup of the BAD and RAD from this week.
Welcome back, Men’s Traitors. Happy New Year! For the first time in 2017 we’re kicking off our weekly Menstration, our highly subjective weekly roundup of the BAD and RAD from this week…It’s the Men’s Trait’s Raddest Things of the Week award.
Before I get into the nominees, how about a breakdown of our process? We get hundreds of nominees per week from readers. If you want to nominate someone, there are about 3 ways to reach us:
- You can submit nominees to our Facebook page.
- You can tweet us your nonimations at @MensTraitOnline or @johnpsousa using the hashtag #MTRaddestPersonOftheWeek or #MTDBagOfTheWeek.
- You can email us at “editorial at 301digitalmedia dot com” with “MT D-Bag Of The Week Nominee” or “MT Raddest Things of the Week” in the subject line.
Depending on the nominee, we’ll publish a post, and then we’ll keep track of them all week. Our staff then votes (sometimes after a vigorous Slack debate). So, you can submit items on people/things that were RAD or people/things that are BAD and we will break them down.
Raddest Thing of the Week #1: NFL Playoffs
That’s right Jim, Playoffs! This is bittersweet for me, because I’m a Raiders fan. We haven’t been in the playoffs since we lost Super Bowl XXXVII to the Buccaneers. And here comes this year, we’re 12-4 but I’m miserable, because our best player, Derek Carr, who I may or may not want to leave my family and get an apartment with, broke his leg. I miss his leadership. I miss his musk. Anyway, tomorrow afternoon we play Houston in the Wild Card round, and our starting quarterback is a rookie starting his first ever game. Luckily, the Texans quarterback is Brock Osweiler, AKA Broke Assweiler. Khalil Mack is gonna sack the shit out of him and we might just survive to get run by the Patriots next week. Good times.
Raddest Dog of the Week: Scarface
Originally we’d planned to make his owner, Florida Woman Brenda Guerrero, our first D-bag of the Week of 2017, and she was obviously our first nominee. But we decided to honor Scarface the Pit Bull, the dog upon whom Brenda and her dipshit husband tried to put a stupid sweater. Scarface reacted accordingly and mauled the shit out of them. Good dog, Scarface.
D-bag of the Week Nominee #1: Baynard Woods
Baynard Woods wrote an essay for Vox in their “First Person” section, which, according to the description, is “Vox’s home for compelling, provocative narrative essays.” You may recognize “First Person” as the place where you read about the assholes who live like Victorians. Woods fires up his trusty Selectra and wrote a long essay about getting a vasectomy.
You’d think a dude getting a vasectomy wouldn’t be that big of a deal. Hundreds of thousands of men get them every year. And there’s only one reason for a dude to get a vasectomy, and that’s because he doesn’t want any kids. Or any more kids. But either way, the whole point of a vasectomy is to prevent getting someone pregnant.
So obviously, we know why Baynard Woods wanted a vasectomy, he doesn’t want any kids. But Baynard Woods and his wife don’t have any kids yet, and don’t ever want kids. So he got a vasectomy. I’m still trying to figure out why this couldn’t have been communicated via Tweet instead of a 4000 word essay about a hipsters nuts getting snipped.
Let’s take a look at some choice excerpts, shall we?
In the section, “How my wife and I knew we didn’t want to have children,” we get our first clue about what kind of people we are dealing with:
We have family meetings and hash out all the pros and cons and then make a decision and do not waver from it. We used to start the meetings playing instruments and singing “Boil the Cabbage Down” and end them with “I Shall Not Be Moved.”
My wife, who is marked as “President” of the family on the cover of the red notebook, did not like playing music — my first big husbandly mistake was buying her the mandolin that I wanted her to play — and soon nixed the musical ritual.
I wish she was writing this essay. She probably could have explained it in a tweet. Like, “Baynard got a vasectomy because we don’t want kids kthanksbai.”
Neither of us are particularly attached to our own genes. We don’t need to see ourselves or each other reflected in some small face.
Every essay by people who don’t want kids includes some condescending shit like this. Like parents are narcissists who only reproduce to live vicariously through their spawn. Okay, some parents are like that, but most of the time they’re too busy cleaning that small face, or arguing with that small face about which goddam spoon they want to use at dinner to see anything reflected in that face but deep, soul-crushing regret.
We don’t own a car, we rent an apartment in downtown Baltimore (with no interest in owning), and not having a kid seems like another way to reduce our carbon footprint.
If that “Boil the Cabbage Down” shit wasn’t enough to convince you that this was hipster solipsism, then this shit about not having a car and renting should convince you.
He then goes through some boilerplate people trying to convince him he’s wrong and then we get to my favorite part.
To make it worse, I have a deeply pessimistic view of the long-term future. I suspect that within the next couple of generations, some catastrophe will wipe out millions, if not billions, of people. If not my children, then my grandchildren will either be cannibals or be eaten by cannibals.
My wife disagreed with me on this point. She believed in the goodness of people and the idea of progress, that there is a moral arc to the universe. Her desire not to have children was not as motivated by fear as mine — at least until after the election of Donald Trump.
Oh God. Now this is turning into my Facebook feed of the last 8 weeks or so, all the people who live in “Blue States” (I love you all!) who see people in flyover country as cannibals. Jesus Christ.
(Another friend, a woman, texted me to say, “I remember u telling me once about not wanting to have kids because our world is gonna be like a Cormac McCarthy book. I agree. And that makes me sad.”)
Texting! Also Cormac McCarthy is unreadable.
The essay then gets into the only really compelling and important point, which is that the burden of birth control falls disproportionately on women, and he wanted to give his wife a break from a lifetime of hormonal birth control. This is good and admirable, and if the essay had been a blog post about this part I would not be spending so much time giving Baynard Woods so much shit.
Anyway you get the point, read it if you like.
D-bag of the Week: Facebook Live Torture Porn
Oh man Wednesday. You may have seen it live or read about it sense, but Jesus Christ was this awful. A group of 4 African Americans kidnapped and tortured a mentally disabled white guy while screaming “Fuck white people” and “Fuck Donald Trump.”
The four have been charged with hate crimes in addition to kidnapping and torture, as they should have been. But now the usual subjects can claim that white people and Trump supporters are in danger from Black Lives Matter thugs.
Good job, good effort, gang.
Anyway back to the Rad Stuff.
Raddest Thing of the Week Nominee #2: Jack in the Box Tacos
Reader Brendan from Santa Monica brought this Wall Street Journal article about Jack in the Box tacos, “Americans Eat 554 Million Jack in the Box Tacos a Year, and No One Knows Why.” I’ll tell you why: they are cheap and delicious.
The filling is also of controversial provenance. My brother once asked the woman behind the counter of a Salinas Jack in the Box what kind of meat was in the tacos, and she said, “Carne de soy.” And it’s a widely held belief that the tacos are vegetarian, although there does appear to at least some beef in the mixture (also, guy, is it possible the employee didn’t purposely “mislead” you? Maybe fast food workers have shitty pay and training and she just didn’t know.).
Anyway in addition to the celebrity fans listed in the article, we also get news that hipster foodies are planning to create versions of the tacos with fancy ingredients that sell for $18 for 3. That misses the entire fucking point of Jack in the Box tacos, which is that they are 2 for $.99 (in Franklin, TN yesterday, they were actually 2 for $1.19).
Don’t fuck up a good thing.
Raddest Thing of the Week: The Cool Teen Dabbing on Paul Ryan
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