An Open Letter to Guys with Facial Hair.

Dear Guys with Facial Hair,*


*This includes all of you with beards, goatees, sideburns, moustaches, or some weird yet sexy combination of the latter two like Joe Cocker rocked circa 1969. This excludes all you with unibrows and freaky chin pubes. Those aren't facial hair. Those are just scary.

Disclaimer aside, and inspired by Steppenwolf (the band, not the book, because really, who reads when there's classic rock to be had), I wanted to thank you. With the plague of Justin Biebers and other pre-pubescent looking, hairless boys masquerading as males, it's time to thank you for stepping up to the plate, spitting in the face of femnazis (lest they steal your hair in addition to your balls), and growing your manly man hair, just as nature and Grizzly Addams intended.

I'm not sure when it got cool for men to no longer look like men. Once upon a time, facial hair was revered. Cavemen had it. General Grant had it. And then the 60s happened... and everyone had it. And it was good. And men looked like men.

Then, somewhere down the line, it was decided that men should be as clean shaven and hairless as their lady counterparts. Even the Brawny Man was unceremoniously stripped of his man fur. And that was sad, because, well... beards are sexy and moustaches are neat and sideburns are basically the coolest thing ever. Unless they're on the face of that one chick I went to high school with.

So, rather than do my annotated bibliographies for work, I decided I'd applaud you manly men. Be fruitful and multiply, and fur-ify, and spread your furry man love throughout the land.

Thanks guys,
<3 Me

The Cookie Monster, Fred Durst, and Everything in Between

Recently I became fixated with a dress I saw in JC Penney's. Now, understand that I don't typically fixate on a single article of clothing- especially in our modern world of skank-and-ho couture. However, this dress stood apart from the others. It was cute. It was black and white. It was on sale. It was not in my size. Disappointed, I decided to troll New Jersey for this magical dress. Four Penney's-es later, I finally found it.

The above really has nothing to do with the rest of this post. I just really like that dress.

Adult-onset ADD aside, as I was trolling said Penney's aisles, I came across a shirt in the juniors department that said "I did it all for the cookie" and featured the one, the only, the Cookie Monster, dressed head to toe as Fred Durst.

As I stood, staring, as one stares at a four car pileup or train derailment, I wondered to myself...was the target audience of this shirt even BORN when Fred Durst was doing it all for the... [(cookie - c) + n]? (She CAN do math!) And was Nookie REALLY that much of a cultural epiphany that we're still shirting about it 11 years later? And have I mentioned how much I LOVE my new dress?

Now I'm not saying the juniors department is reserved solely for the prostitot crowd (it's also a marvelous option for midgets like me who just never felt compelled to grow into the size of normal adults who can wear normal adult clothes)...but a Cookie Monster Fred Durst? Come the fuck on.

Baby Got Black: The Sequel

This afternoon, I almost stole a black baby from a local burger joint. Now now, I know what you're all thinking: "Didn't she almost steal a black baby from a city bus once? What in G-d's good name is wrong with this girl?" Before I get pegged as a crazy would-be baby thieveress, let me reiterate my dislike of children. Further, I didn't ACTUALLY almost steal him. I would never thieve a child (a pan of fresh baked Ghiradelli brownies, maybe. But that is another story for another day when I finally give up on my arteries.) In fact, 99.9% of them annoy the crap out of me. It just happens that Montclair is apparently populated with hoards of the most adorable black babies the world has ever seen.

Today's baby was named Bishop (which begs the question of who ACTUALLY names their child "Bishop"...you know...like the chess piece? I guess? But I digress) and he was one year old (strangers also like to tell me the life stories of themselves and their children; it happens at least 5 times each day.) He was walking around the burger joint with his mom as his dad got their food ready (go ahead, everyone have a good laugh that the vegetarian was in a burger joint, because no one has yet realized that veggie burgers have been around for at least fifteen years. Hardy har har), and then tried to sit across from me at my table. The determination on his face was priceless...until his mom yanked him away, apologized, and took him back to their table.

It was mildly heartbreaking. But still not as much as when they discontinued all-banana Tootsie Roll pops.

And Now for Something Completely Different.

Like snow. To that end, I've decided to petition Ms. Nature for a redress of grievances (a.k.a. let's send the mother of all mothers a bitchy rambling piece of brain trash composed as the clock approached midnight):

I have to hand it to you, Mother Nature. You've really gotten all sorts of creative this winter. We've had blizzards, on top of sleet, on top of dustings, on top of more blizzards. I have to tell you, I'm not thrilled. You see, dear Mother Nature, I'm really not a fan of this mayhem you've chosen to unleash on our fair state. I understand that it's New Jersey and if I hate snow, I should move south. But, Mother Nature, what you don't seem to realize is that I'm scared of the following things: palmetto bugs; fatback; and kissing cousins. I just don't think I'd last too long in those states we should have just let secede.

Furthermore, I understand that snow is good because it blah blah blah something about global warming. In the interest of being fully candid, though, I must tell you that your behavior this season is really just making me want to drink from disposable plastic water bottles while driving the new SUV I'm going to purchase just to spite you.

Bitter? I wouldn't call it bitter. I'd call it time for sunshine before I crawl into a hole and don't emerge until June, when it will be time for Mountain Jam, and my soul will no longer be weeping.

Mother Nature, please just stop. Save the snow for those polar bears who really need it, and give me back my 70 degree Februaries.

Slowly losing it,
Me.

Ode to My Fat Jeans

Fat jeans
My fat jeans
I love you so

You let my ass grow
And grow
...and grow

I don't care that you're faded
And ripped
And tattered

You let me eat veggies
Not steamed
But beer-battered

While my skinny jeans would mock me
And make me feel awful
You'd encourage that extra waffle

Fat jeans
My fat jeans
I love you so

You let my ass grow.
You let my ass grow.

The Biblical Grace of the Bathroom Wall

Written in a stall of the bathroom located on the History Department's floor is the following conversation (contained hereunder within brackets for easy identification):

[Root Statement: "Love thy neighbor."
Reply to Root Statement: "God is Everywhere."
Reply to Reply: "Amen"
Reply to Amen: "Especially when you masturbate."]


...
....
.....
...And let us say, "Amen."

Baby, You Can Drive My Bus

I love The Beatles (in case you didn't catch the oh-so-subtle tribute to them in tonight's title, I'll just state it outright.) I do not love creepy store clerks who hit on me while selling me my monthly bus pass. As you may already know, public transit has become a really important part of my life. Part of it is because it gets me from my apartment to my campus and back again. Part of it is just so I can lovingly remember the days of being crammed between a fat drunk kid about to vomit and a couple who may or may not be having sex on my way to stats class. (By the way Rutgers, stay classy.)

So last week, as I bid January a fond farewell, I made my way to the nearest vendor of monthly bus passes, located in the train station-turned-mini-mall near my apartment. I was really proud of myself for being on top of things and purchasing my ticket before the months even changed. I was also really cold and badly in need of chocolate. (Which, as usual, bears no pertinence to the story at hand. But it seemed like I should mention it for all the fellow cold-hating chocolate lovers out there.) I go up to the window and clearly request a one-zone monthly pass. The man behind the window smiles creepily and says something to the effect of, "You don't want me to give it to you, two zones?"

...Well, golly. If I weren't already taken, that offer would have swept me off my feet for sure. Nothing gets me going quite like a dash of badly-orchestrated sexual innuendo surrounding a bus ticket purchase.

I already knew it was going to be a special day. I looked at him and said, "No. I just need a bus pass for one zone. That's 49 [dollars], right?"

"Ohhh you want it, 49 zones?!" Now, I'm no master of anatomy. In fact when it comes to science, I'm that kid that is perpetually riding the little bus. But I'm pretty sure that's not even humanly possible.

Anyway, he must have eventually realized I wasn't feeling it. I paid, took my bus pass, and left, to start yet another strange day in the city I'm currently calling home. Cheers, Mr.Creepy. Cheers.