Oh And Another Thing…

There’s a rather ugly strain of snark going around right now that speaks from a place of high intellectual assessment of pop culture & its various depravities. Instead, it betrays the snarkist as medically ignorant.

I get that some people are on diets because it’s trendy & fashionable. But those diets exist because some of us would die or at least experience tremendous discomfort if we ate the foods that aren’t on them. Yes, a Norm that goes gluten free is kidding herself, but for those of us with celiac, it’s not us making a fuss or being difficult or precious. It’s that we don’t want to crap ourselves in your presence in the immediate future, & we don’t want diseased bowel cut out of us at a later date.

If someone has a nut or wheat allergy, they frequently learned this after showing up at the ER because they stopped breathing. So let’s not be dicks about this. You may as well deride someone for being averse to drowning or falling into a wood chipper. Should we poo poo those who aren’t keen on being hacked to death by Jizzy The Marvelous Murder Clown? Well then seriously. Calm your tits. Don’t be offended if someone can’t eat something you made. It not their fault any more than it’s yours. And if they’re over the age of 7, they usually get that.

(If they do throw a fit & you didn’t know, however, feel free to assume their blood sugar is low & that all this stuff is coming up from the time their brother poured soy sauce in their Coke when they weren’t looking & they missed Thanksgiving due to near death. We all have baggage.)

I am also weary of people who mock those that look different or behave differently without first ascertaining if there’s a medical issue before assuming they’re a slovenly entitled jerk. I’m fond of saying “Most people don’t have Asperger’s; they’re just dicks” but some people do. They’re not dicks; they’re just kinda difficult to get on with. I use that saying so often because I’ll meet women dating a somewhat awkward, neglectful, inappropriate guy but he’s hot so they put up with it cos they saw a thing on Dr. Oz about “Aspergris or whatever” & I’m like “Child, no.”

The same goes for people in the grocery store sick of a child’s flapping or strange utterances (after 20 seconds, not imagining the parent deals with it all day). And my other favourite, the impromptu weight counselor. This has never happened to me, but it has happened to friends losing a significant amount of weight.

The most mortifying example was a gal in a fibro support group who had lost 40 lbs eating right & going to the gym, but she had about 120 to go. She was at the supermarket loading her basket with lean protein & veggies, wearing a sweatshirt from her gym.

An extremely well put together & elegant woman approached her. She was very slender & my friend thought she was beautiful. Then she opened her mouth. She sorta grasped at the sweatshirt & said “Did you get this from Goodwill? Cos your ass has surely never seen the inside of a gym.”

My friend was dumbstruck. She stopped by the pizza & ice cream aisles, went home, cried, & ate. We all got her back on track, but this hideous Beast of Prey did enough damage to make the gal no longer proud to wear her gym sweatshirt out any more.

My response, as I’m this kind of a bitch, would be “I can imagine why you’d think that. I still have a ways to go, but I’ve lost 40 lbs, & I’ve in fact just come from my 3rd gym session this week. I think I have pretty good food choices in my cart, but you’re so slim, maybe you could recommend some others?”

I’ve been known to completely destroy a person’s life with meek kindness.

This all boils down to think before you open your giant flapping hate hole. You don’t want to have to shove your foot in there, do you?*

*Foot fetishists need not answer.

The Prayer of the Helper Monkey

Dearest Lord Jesus, bastion of compassion, He who tolerated the constant faithless questions of disciples who saw You turn water to wine, heal the sick, & even raise a fricken dead guy from, well, the DEAD but they were still worried about where they’d get a nosh, please help me.

I am a helper monkey. I’m a luxury in the first world. Most people on this planet walk 20 miles for a gallon of clean water, or have been raped by gangs of “soldiers”, or hate monkeys because they steal their food or crap on their house or whatever monkeys do in the wild. What do I know? I’m a trained helper monkey.

I like helping people. Sometimes, I don’t feel like I’m helping Jack nor Shit & I realize, Lord, it’s because sometimes folks are help-resistant. They have become intimate with their misery & it’s the only thing they own, so if they can feed its bloated belly, they will stuff that motherfucker until it pukes. It usually pukes on me, but that’s my job. I’m a helper monkey.

I am sad when I can’t help people. I am angry for them & at them. I have been where they are, & they are reminding me of how well I kept my misery. I had a little bed for it & Fancy Feast & I even bought it little outfits, God help me. It scratched me & it pooped in my shoes, but it was mine. Eventually the thing destroyed my couch & pissed on the few people willing to come over & then it gave me scabies. I asked You if You could take it & You said yes. You took it to Your SPCA in the sky & found out it had some kind of hormone imbalance & also needed to be neutered. You changed it into Experience & since I was already over the zoning limit with other Experiences, You gave it to some nice kid who needed to pad his résumé. That was nice.

One day the people I’m helping, who are help-resistant but who keep coming to me for reasons only You know, will also give their misery to You & You will transform it. Right now they share it with me & I try to help them tame it. I even tell them to give it to You, but they’re either afraid of You because they equate You with some heinous jerk authority figure from their past, or because they mistake the stuff they’re now doing to themselves with stuff they assume You did. I try to explain You don’t hurt people or punish them but they can’t imagine they’re hurting themselves. It’s so hard to bring to light.

So I guess I’m not really praying to You for me. I’m praying for them. Please heal them. They shouldn’t need me any more. I know they won’t initially recognize Your healing as it requires change and change is SCARY but eventually they’ll realize they can’t stay the same & expect things to get better. I’m cheering them on. I wish they knew that. I think they hate me.

Also I would like a drink, or cake. Ooh, or tamales!

Thanks, Jesus,
Your Humble Servant, the Helper Monkey.

Shut Up & Enjoy Shit, Prole.

I’m going to preface this by warning you that I come off like a complete elitist dick & I absolutely don’t care, so any earnest & impassioned whinging in the comments section will be heartily mocked. I will also mock your spawn & all traces of your DNA floating throughout the universe. So shut your hack gob.

What happened to just going to a film or watching a TV show or listening to music made by professional artists & saying to yourself, “Gee, that was splendid! I sure did enjoy that. I’m going to continue to support this artist & respectfully purchase their works & tell my friends and family about them” which is exactly what my mother has done with Michael Buble & if my mother hasn’t grabbed you by the shoulders & told you how achingly amazing & good natured & supremely talented Michael Buble is then let me be the first to congratulate you on your safe return from Mars where you were obviously establishing a thriving colony for the past two years. You’re a brave American & a credit to the space program & humanity as a race.

Back before the Internet, fans of things bought shit, hung out together, & shut their hack faces. Now that the Internet has allowed everyone 15 minutes of shame, there exists fanfic, filk, sincere & earnest horrible covers, & fan dubs. See, before you kids started playing on my lawn with your acoustic guitar & your Bronie ears & your web cam, artistically inclined folk (like myself from time to time) were inspired by our favorite artists to make our own shit, not to copy it or dub it or for the sweet love of God write slashfic about it. NOBODY SANE WANTS HARRY POTTER AND SPOCK TO MAKE LOVE IN THE TARDIS. Why are you people allowed in public?!
These heinous secret fantasies used to be in your head or your parents’ basement where they belonged. Now you actually publish &/or film them so that decent people like me googling “Aragorn/Theoden alliance pre-Hornburg” will pull up a Deviant Art link titled “Aragorn & Theoden horny servicing horses” & I want to stab my eyes out with Anduril.

Oh yeah be careful googling “Flame of the West” because…yeah.

And nobody needs you to live tweet a film either, Ebert’s Apprentice. Turn your goddamned phone off & enjoy the fucking movie you paid $18 to see. Oh, I paid that too, asshat, & I shouldn’t have to kill you with my mind. Which I can do, by the way, so don’t even try it. The burning in the back of your skull means it’s working!

I will say one encouraging thing to you fanpersons before I go, which is if you really feel the need to write “Captain Mal Tenderly Makes Up With Jayne” ew ew ew ew, reconsider & write original homoerotic space cowboy porn. There’s a market for that shit & you could actually make cashy money if you write an original story not based upon copywrited work.

Oh & ThinkGeek? Your mash up tees are art theft. Just a thought.

Fans, if you really want to honour something you love, leave it alone. Don’t appropriate it, violate it, or “add” to it. If it needed your help, Joss, Gene, George (well, maybe not George) et al would have asked for it. Think about how you’d feel if you knitted a baby blanket & some weirdo turned it into a bondage thong. Are you sad & naked to your every soul? Yes. So stop.

If you’re aroused, I know a guy who can service your needs. But like all real artists, he charges money for his original services.*

*Don’t actually contact me about that.

Let’s Have a National Conversation About Taking Me Out For Dinner

Look, we’re never going to have sex & you’re not allowed to touch me. I’m a happily boyfriended girl, & also you’re married/slightly creepy/bald. So in this spirit of raw honesty we simply must have a national conversation about how I’m barely functional in Los Angeles but you have money & you’re not taking me out to dinner for some reason.

You know I’m a goddamned fucking delight. One time we had pleasant banter on Twitter & another time we ran into each other at Starbucks & you thought my Nerd shirt was cute. You were obviously covering for staring at my tits, so imagine getting to spend an entire hour or more staring at them from across a table while I make nigh orgasmic sounds consuming gourmet gluten free foods.

Look, I know you have a family function/aortic aneurysm repair/yogic free range cruelty free retreat to go to. I will work with your schedule. Just know that I tend to eat only once a day. If I lose too much weight too fast, my boobs will go flat. Neither of us wants that. Think of the children.

You can write every meal off on your taxes as charity. Now you’re helping the less fortunate while staring at tits! Everyone wins in this tax free, bipartisan solution!

You also know I have a habit of being a free goddamned therapist to everyone, so the cost benefits of avoiding seeing Dr. Painfullyslowprogressonyourdadissues are incalculable. If you take me to Nobu, though, it’s kinda a wash.

Think of me as the only woman who isn’t disappointed in you but is also very hungry. Think of me as Mother Teresa but hotter & also I say “fuck” a lot more than she did, by all reports. If you just add me to your family gathering, I can guarantee a 75% reduction in f-bombs & a 100% increase in my Mary Poppinsesque mastery of your young children.

You have my number.

Disclaimer: if you post some kind of humorless comment below, I will diagnose you with Asperger’s syndrome & will also mock you to my roommate. There is no “Think of me like The Onion” font.