When I first saw today’s headlines giving Kellyanne Conway shit for having her feet on a couch, I thought, “Goddamn, don’t we have more pressing things to fret about? Obama without a jacket, Conway’s feet — you’re so trifling. This is why we can’t have nice things!”
But, um…then I saw the photo in question and… Oh. Oh, honey… *sigh*
I don’t care about your feet on the couch, but damn, girl, get your VAGINA off the couch!
I hope she at least had on Spanx.
I understand why this isn’t allowed, but I really think I could be trusted to judiciously self-administer maybe six Xanax per year — just one for every time I see my parents.
But fine. I’ll just eat too much at brunch. Pancakes and Xanax are basically the same. (Panax? OMG, no — Xancakes! GIMME.)
Oh.
*blush*
Well, oh my…
Via Us Weekly: The Internet Is Freaking Out Over Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s Bubble Butt
Pfft. Challenge accepted.
Fellow straight chicks — weekend homework. WE RIDE!
Via BBC: Straight women have fewest orgasms
I’m subscribed to roughly 6,000 online job alerts, and one of the recommendations today was “Relationship Coordinator” for a bank.
Oh, honey. I know you’re just an algorithm or whatever, but the three things I’m worst at in life are relationships, coordination, and banking.
Important philosophical question: Do I eat Pop Tarts because I hate myself? Or do I hate myself because I eat Pop Tarts?
George Carlin had a bit about the potency of farts — eg, “A fart that could eat the stitching out of Levi’s,” or “A fart that could end a marriage.”
And even though I don’t make fart jokes because I AM A LADY, my mind wandered to Carlin today, high fived that bit, and ended up here…
The kind of cramps where you Google a diagram of the human body so you know for sure which organs are absolutely going to fall out of your body at some point today.
The kind of cramps where you’ve never seen the movie Alien, but you just know something similar is happening in your abdomen.
The kind of cramps where you sing along with that country song about shootin’ your husband and really mean it, even though you’re single, because you just know, somewhere, somehow, a man is responsible for this. (JK, men — please come have sex with me in 3-4 days.)
The kind of cramps where you apologize to your liver in advance, because today’s definitely an Advil with a Bayer chaser kinda day. With Aleve sprinkles.
The kind of cramps where you’re like, “Fuck ME, did I eat knives that I forgot about?!”
The kind of cramps where “Fuck YOU, this chocolate muffin I’m eating for dinner is medicinal.”
Here lies Smug Singleton: She died of cramps, which is totally a thing that can happen.
Don’t send flowers, flowers are bullshit. You spend that money on fried cheese and whiskey. That’s what she would’ve wanted. (YES, fried cheese and whiskey at 10 a.m. Christ almighty, do you want to honor her or not?)
Rest in petty, Smug.
Oh, OK. My bad, men — I didn’t know you’d be affected. I’ll just go back to “the home,” where I prefer to be.
I love love LOVE “Mothers” with the capital “M.” That is just…MWAH, delicious.
(He has since apologized. I have since not given a fuck.)
Via Boing Boing’s Facebook page:
On my way into my temp job, I drove past a truck emblazoned with a Kegel’s Produce logo.
Kegel’s. Produce.
Tragically their slogan is not, “Kegel’s Produce: Keepin’ it TIGHT!”
Smug Singleton 