Monday, December 8, 2014

Jesus Christ & This Fatso: Birthday Thieves

I'll say this, no one ever worries about getting a Christmas present wrapped in birthday paper.

Like many December babies I worry that my birthday is marginalized by Christ's birthday. I put on a brave face, but for a guy who was all about humility, he sure makes a big deal about his birthday.

That is, his followers do, all 2 billion plus of them who claim Jesus is "The Reason for the Season." I know they claim this because their status updates and bumper stickers say so. You know, those bumper stickers you see on cars parked at the mall while their drivers are inside doing God's work: shopping for a $10-or-less ornament for the office exchange.

Holier-than-thou, "Reason for the Season" folks proclaim it righteously during passive-aggressive cookie exchanges. "Well, people best remember that Jesus is the reason for the season. Just like Sue Jones best remember that she's not the only person with an old family recipe for peppermint melt-aways. We'll just see whose cookies get the most takers, now won't we?"

I'm a Christian. I get it. December belongs to a very special person. A person whose entire mythology resonates with themes like joy, selfless giving, maintaining a kind nature, supernatural powers, and cookies with milk. It's also about Jesus.

I dig Christ. His unwavering dedication to shaking up the old mores and up-ending the establishment is, like, totally awesome. However, in a month where I have to share my birthday with a morbidly obese man who can perform magic, it would be nice if the world's most famous hippie could celebrate his birthday somewhere in the vicinity of his factual birth.

It's only fair. I stick with my original birthday as verified by the state of Florida on my birth certificate. I don't have a multi-national religious machine who is able to move my celebration day around so it can subsume pagan festivals with Christian doctrine.  December 19, 1976, for better or worse, that's my day.

Jesus, according to biblical scholars like this cat, was more likely born in September than December, making him "The Reason for the Labor Season."  In other words, thanks for ruining my birthday, Jesus Christ.

Except, I can't say my birthday has ever been ruined by it's proximity to Christmas or the celebration of the Savior's birth. I've never gotten a gift intended to cover both events. A Chrismirthday gift. Nor has anyone confused me with the coming of the Lord incarnate and brought me myrrh.

I sometimes wonder if my December birthday is the reason I've never had blowout parties, a fact I've always attributed to everyone's being too busy with holiday obligations to attend my pinata-centric fete. (We have Chex Mix! Still no?) Then again, I don't know that anyone has a major social event every time it's her birthday. In fact, I have no idea what goes on during the other months. Are July babies full of school's-out-for-summer angst? Do October babies compete with masked children more interested in the next opportunity for costumed beggary than singing the birthday song?

I'll never know. I'm a December baby. I often accept my birthday gifts at the same time that I'm handing over a Christmas present. It's probably not so different than having a birthday during any other month. Except that during my month, when people see me coming, they are reminded of one more damn present they need to buy during the most spendiest time of the year.


While you're here: BUY SOME FUNNY STUFF. 
It doesn't have to be for my birthday, but it doesn't not have to be, either.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

What to do if your turkey is jacked up on Thanksgiving

I give you this advice under duress. I, like so many patriots, want to perfect the one thing that will make me, without contest, the Greatest American. I want to make a juicy and flavorful Thanksgiving turkey that also has a uniformly crispy skin. It's how the pilgrims would have wanted us to celebrate their bounty and survival in a new world (and their future genocide of a native people). They'd want us to make a turkey that would show everyone at the table that we win Thanksgiving. God bless 'Murica. 

So, I'm loathe to help you survive a Turkey Day disaster lest you usurp my reign as bad-ass turkey cooker and most excellent citizen. I'm still living with the pain of Thanksgiving 2002, when I served a turkey that was still raw in the mid—you know what? I'm not ready to talk about it. 

But help I will. Because the Spirit of Thanksgiving, who visits all good Americans (and a smattering of Canadians), demands it. I must help you to avoid the worst. 

Here's a surefire list of turkey remedies.

  • Buy a new turkey. Once you have the turkey, get it in the oven real quick, because it's 2 pm and you need 23 hours to cook the salmonella out of this thing. Distract hungry adults with booze. Distract hunger children with candy. When the turkey comes out, they will be too drunk or too high on sugar to care that you bought it at the convenience store attached to the gas station. 
  • Fashion a "turkey" from chicken nuggets. Better yet, shred the nuggets and sprinkle them around the carcass of your original, failed turkey. Then turn on the electric carving knife and yell things like "The electric carving knife it out of control! Call a priest, we need an exorcism! I think the tip of my pink fell into the gravy!" Tell everyone that the chunks of nuggets are turkey meat that was the unfortunate recipient of a carving knife smackdown. Go ahead and let Grandma and Cousin Joan judge you. They don't' know your life. 
  • Tell everyone that you forgot to mention you're vegan now. Enjoy the leafy greens, ingrates! And blame Joan for not bringing vegan cheeses to go with the crackers. She was in charge of cheeses.
  • Order Chinese takeout and serve it without a word. When someone asks about the turkey, tell them, "I guess you didn't read my email, did you Joan? I was wondering why you hadn't brought the lo mein." Be an active participant in the feast, Joan. Would it kill you to contribute?
  • Feign piety. You didn't ruin the turkey, it never existed because, surprize!, you donated it to charity. There are people—wait, you don't have to explain yourself to Joan.  Everyone can eat the deviled eggs and be happy with that. 
  • Throw out all of the food and serve dessert. Try to convince everyone that they already ate the meal and it's dessert time. This goes off better if you surreptitiously set all of your clocks ahead two hours and load  the sink and dishwasher with dirty plates. Faking a crime scene is all about the trail of evidence, and not letting that nosy parker Joan see what you're up to. 
Better yet, don't volunteer to host Thanksgiving in the first place. Teaching you to avoid Thanksgiving responsibility is my next installment of ruining the holidays for everyone because you're a selfish sonofagun. 

In the meantime, here's hoping your turkey isn't dried out, and if it is, here's hoping you made lots of gravy. 



Mom Jeans and the women who will ruin them for you for all eternity. I collaborated with the greatest living internet writer, Bethany of Bad Parenting Moments, to bring you the best of mom jeans, just in time for your Thanksgiving feast. Don't thank me until you've put your jeggings on.

More fashion atrocity here!

Friday, November 21, 2014

Random Reviews (No One Can Use): Cracked iPhone Screen

Now for something you don't need!

This week I'm reviewing my cracked iPhone 5C screen. This review will be of no use to you at all. Except that maybe you will laugh. Mind you, I'm not guaranteeing that. Let's not get contractual about this. 

SPOILER: Not great. It's not really great at all.

Want to share this utterly pointless review with your friends and loved ones? Pin it!

Friday, November 14, 2014

Emojigami: The Art of Making Emoji Sentences

Emojis, everyone's doin' it. But not everyone's doin' it right. 

For example, this is appropriate, if boring. 

And this is appropriate, if over the top (and borderline over-medicated).

And this is what happens when a small child plays with your phone. 

But in this rich emojiverse, your communication options can go beyond the written word. Why, you can communicate entirely with these small icons, forgoing mundane human speech, officially marking the decline of humanity as we know it. Surely Shigetaka Kurita, who created the first emoji some time in the late 90s, would be proud that today we can express our sorrow in as many as a baker's dozen (or more!) of dreary pictographs. 

Or can we take it to the mountain? Let technology be the winky-faced wind beneath our wings? Turn our incomprehensible Autocorrect typos into incomprehensible strings of emoji?

Consider the possibilities . . .

Questions about paternity in two simple emoji strokes.

Plans for a hostile takeover of a fast food giant.

Simple reminders to keep up on personal hygeine.

Illustrate the importance of punctuation.

Ponder the mechanism of clean fuel alternatives.


Dessert slasher fiction.

Pet care requests.

Urgent messages to drunk friends!

Cryptic BS that makes you sound like a tripping buddhist.

Wardrobe needs, solved.

Exciting discoveries!

Spy communiques.

So, friends, don't ask yourself if you'll send an emoji to annotate your latest selfie. Ask yourself how many.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Dear Nicole: When is it okay to eat off of someone else's plate?

Welcome to "Dear Nicole," the advice column that gives you advice you didn't know you didn't want.

Today I'm tackling a question that has stumped the friendless and sociopathic for years. 

Dear Nicole, When is it okay to eat off of someone else's plate?

I'm really glad I've asked myself this question. 

They say that possession is 9/10th of the law. I will say that having a plate in front of you is normally a sign of possession, but food that enters a mouth is somewhere around 10/10ths possession, except in the case of unfortunate make-out timing, when you will be forced to share custody of the food. So, as you can see, having a plate is not the same as owning the food that is on that plate. 

That doesn't mean you shouldn't follow some food-sharing protocols. But what are these protocols, I ask myself? When can I steal a bite of food from a plate that I've now decided has far superior food than what I ordered and dammit I knew I should have gotten the special? 

Allow me to illustrate times that it is acceptable or unacceptable to permanently borrow someone's food:

OKAY! The plate belongs to your child. You bought the food. You own it. You can and should eat those fries while they are still hot.

NOT OKAY! The plate belongs to someone else's child. Don't be weird. Seriously, no. 
OKAY! Eating off of your lover's plate while out for a romantic dinner for two. Hey, what's good for The Lady and the Tramp is good for non-animated humans. That's amore! 
NOT OKAY! Eating off of the stranger's plate next to you at the bar. This is how Ebola spreads. Well, that's what I heard. 
OKAY! Out with girlfriends sharing a plate of delish appys! Why, this is how an entire subset of humans eat out. I actually know a woman who has never ordered an entire meal just for herself, deftly living on shared sandwiches and appetizers for the last 13 years. Brava, food-sharing enthusiast! 
NOT OKAY! Soup sharing. Soup is a mixing bowl for blood from someone else's diseased gums, errant body hairs from sous chefs, and sneezes. Don't make it worse by dipping your saliva-slicked spoon in there.  
OKAY! At a party where plates are as limited as the seating options. Find a friend, be cool, and ask him if he would scoop some mini-wieners on his plate because as long as he's already filling his Chinet . . .  
NOT OKAY! At a party with people from work. Those people are probably disgusting. Sure, you sit across from Ed 40 hours a week, but do you really know if he washes his hands after going to the bathroom? I rest my case. 

I hope this has helped you to understand the finer points of plate-sharing etiquette. 

And remember, I'm answering the questions that no one is asking! So keep not sending me your letters! 

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Well done, Sister Suffragette!

Say hey, sisters! It's voting time. 

That means that you can head out to your local church or municipal building or school gymnasium and pull the lever (or touch a screen) to register your energetic support or your apathetic resignation for the new sheriff in townliterally. 

And when you do, and I know you will, realize that you've been able, as a vagina-carrying American, to exercise this right for a staggering not even 100 years. 

Yes, our country is 200 and something something years old! A country populated by religious reformers looking for the right to exercise their rights to deny rights to non-men and non-whites! What an inspirational and moving genesis of our Republic!

I, for one, am feeling, what is the word? Is it empowered? Am I enfranchised? No, I know, it's marginalized! Marginalized even still as the last of all Americans to get the vote. The last to have her turn. Way to go America! The radical revolutionaries who started an entire country based on democracy for the elite few! 

That's not to say that I don't love my country. I certainly don't want to move anywhere else, and I'll take a delayed share of the democracy over none at all. We are flawed, America, but we are worthwhile. 

But, ladies, come on. If we'd been running the show since 1776, I mean, better, am I right? Slavery would have ended sooner (oh, yes, we'd still have been slave owners, because women are not immune to squashing the civil and human rights of others), but many of our female predecessors worked hard to advance the rights of all citizens, including black women and men.  

Of course, when 
black men got the right to vote, they were less interested in helping their sisters, no matter their skin color, in obtaining the same rights. Why, no man wants to mess up his chance to participate in democracy by also supporting the voting rights of undesirables like us, gals!
It was only in the aftermath of the Civil War, when Republican politicians introduced the 14th and 15th amendments to the U.S. Constitution extending citizenship and suffrage to former slave men [Editor's note: That's back in 1868 and 1870, girls. Women would wait another 50 years to vote. Math is fun!] . . . Many abolitionists initially advocated universal suffrage, for both African Americans and women. When that was made impossible by the insertion of the word male in the 14th and 15th amendments, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony, with support from African Americans like Sojourner Truth, campaigned against any amendment that would deny voting rights to women. Among their opponents were former allies like Lucy Stone, Antoinette Brown Blackwell, Wendell Phillips, and Frederick Douglass, who argued that it was “the Negro’s hour” and that women’s suffrage would have to wait. (Source, PBS)
Still, though major upheaval in the form of a civil war, the citizenship of former American slaves (though the ability to exercise the freedoms of citizenship was squashed until well after the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and 1960s) had already rocked the country. Ladies, we unpredictable creatures of hysteria and menstrual mystery, were not allowed the vote until 1920. Let's examine how not-so-long-ago that year was. 

In 1920, the following were part of the daily lives of Americans:
  • The Red Sox and the Yankees hated each other (Babe Ruth was traded from the Sox to the Spankees that year, patooey), JUST LIKE TODAY.
  • Airmail became a thing. Basically Amazon two-day shipping, plus a lot of days, JUST LIKE TODAY.
  • People went to the movies, JUST LIKE TODAY. 
  • Professional football was a thing, officially, JUST LIKE TODAY.
  • People were driving cars for realsies, not just the wealthy folks, JUST LIKE TODAY.
  • They didn't have a ratified Equal Rights Amendment (ERA), and sure, some of that is due to the fact that the ERA wouldn't be written by suffragist Alice Paul until 1923, but whatevs, JUST LIKE TODAY.
What? Wait, what the hell? That can't be true. I mean, there must be some inflammatory language in that amendment, right?! Like, "Women are the rulers of the free world! Kneel, misogynist scum!" Let's take a look at that there ERA.

The Equal Rights Amendment 
Section 1. Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of sex.  
Section 2. The Congress shall have the power to enforce, by appropriate legislation, the provisions of this article.  
Section 3. This amendment shall take effect two years after the date of ratification. 

I see, that's about as radical as "all men are created equal." So, it's no wonder the amendment has never been ratified by the federal government. IT'S JUST TOO CRAY CRAY. Treating women to equality under the law?! What next? Letting them think? Letting them have opinions? Letting them vote? (Whoops, gotcha, America, naninibooboo! No taksies-backsies!) 

I think I know why the amendment hasn't passed, yet. WHAT IF WE ARE ALL ON OUR PERIOD AT THE SAME TIME, AMERICA?

Here's something that's very different from that first national election women participated in in 1920. In 1920 the number of voters at the polls rose "from 18.5 million in 1916 to 26.8 million in 1920." Sure, those aren't all women making up the roughly 8 million voter difference, but surely many of them were. Still, that's less than one-third, closer to one-fourth of the vote coming from the ladies. In the 2012 presidential election, women made up 53% of the voters. The majority. The muscle. The largest voting bloc. The bitches in britches making political process a priority. I apologize for all the alliteration, I alliterate when I get excited. 

So, today, on Election Day, let's keep it up. We were the last to earn the right to vote, so let's make up for the lag time by being the loudest. And I will be proud to call you "sister suffragette," even if you vote for the wrong people, specifically, the people I'm not voting for. 

Friday, October 31, 2014

You’re better than that sexy taco costume this Halloween

It’s easy to get pissed off about the sexy cop costume for little girls. You know the one? It’s full-on pedophile gear with a short and sassy skirt, fingerless gloves, and handcuffs. Nothing says “respectable female police officer” like an eight-year-old wearing something Christian Grey would buy for Anastasia. Even better? Party City’s site lists this as a “Toddler Girls Cop Costume.” Whoops, just threw up in my mouth.

But that costume has nothing on the more fetishistic sexy garb. As wrong, and sex crime–adjacent, as the little girl dressed like a two-bit stripper is, what else would we expect from an industry that churns out the Sexy Taco? Oh, I see what you did there, “taco” is Mexican street food that you put in your mouth, just like a “taco” is also slang for female genitalia that you put in your mouth. Pass the sexy salsa!


Still, who’s to blame for sexy everything? Is it the producers of such tasteful items as Baby Cannabis Leaf or Sexy Mostly Likely to Get Roofied by the Cookie Monster Costume? Or is it us? Here’s a surefire test, if you go to a Halloween party as Sexy Ebola Containment Suit Wearing Person and don’t fall immediately into a shame spiral, then it’s our fault, America!

"C" is for cray cray.

The question becomes, which came first, the Sexy Big Bird Costume (don’t forget the sexy hat!) or the Sexy Egg? That question is even harder to answer when an entity that usually exploits women for the sex industry, are the ones pointing out our obsession with making the least coitus-inducing things into something with fishnets.
In this topsy-turvy Halloween tale, it’s Playboy—a name synonymous with the in-your-face sexualization—whose has given us a satirical take on titillating costumes. This year it’s Heff who is getting America to take a good, hard, long look at itself in the mirror dressed up as Sexy Gumby and wonder, “What fresh hell?”

Is that a Gumby coming out of your skull or are you just happy to see me?

Yes, Playboy has turned a tongue-in-cheek and hilarious lens on sexy costumes by making half-naked versions of some of America’s favorite men, from John Oliver to George Takei. And I hate myself for loving you, Playboy. Just like I hated myself about 10 minutes into trolling the sexy costume and lingerie site,, when I thought, “This Sexy Jellyfish could be cute.” So, how broken is our sexy meter when a nudie mag best sums up everything that’s wrong with the misappropriation of “sexy”? Sure, they did it so they could call out some of America’s favorite men and bask in the reflected glory, but that doesn’t mean we can't learn from this, America.

What’s the lesson? The lesson is that lingerie made to look like a Nintendo DS does not a Halloween costume or an erection make. Because, if it really were possible to make everything sexy just by removing 99% of the fabric and adding an accessory, then Sexy Louis C. K. would work as well as Naughty Kitty. But it doesn’t. 

PSHow many animals do we suppose men want to have intercourse with, in reality?

So, check yourself before you Sexy Miley Cyrus Wrecking Ball yourself (not an actual costume, just some $13.95 underwear). If you need help keeping your taste levels reigned in, keep this Sexy George R. R. Martin costume in mind. On second thought, do not look directly at the Sexy George R. R. Martin costume. Somebody needs to tell that girl that winter is coming and she’s gonna need more than a captain’s hat to stave off frostbite.