Weird Stuff

There are a lot of weird things in this world if you REALLY think about it. I have spent a large majority of my time this week pondering the things that I just find so completely bizarre and will be shocked and appalled if you tell me otherwise. Weird things are happening all around you, people. Open up your eyes and actually see the true madness for once.

These are the seven weirdest things around:

1) Nipples.

So, ridiculously, entirely weird. Let us just start with the word itself: nipples? N-I-P-P-L-E-S Say it three times very slowly (and make sure you are at work when you do). See what I mean? The word in itself is so incredibly bizarre (and a little disheartening).

Also, nipples are one of the most mystifying things on our body. I mean, think about it, no other part of our body produces a substance to be ingested. I am like a walking milk factory, just waiting to be sucked dry one day. Yumm-o!

To add to the weirdness, people get these little suckers pierced for cryin' out loud! I mean, what does the human mind even make of all this? Food factories are also some kind of weird sex thing?

In addition, some food for thought, why are the nipples the only part of the breasticle that are not allowed to be viewed in public? Questions, I pose them.

Why are we all so fascinated by the nipples? Nipples, what IS it about you that enthralls us all?!

2) Trombones.

I am going to go out on a limb here but I bet at least one of you has had a week or two long obsession about the inner-workings of this brass instrument. Again, first of all, the name? How did that name come about? And how can we just ignore the presence of the word "bone" there?

Also, like, what is going on with this instrument? It seems so elaborate and confusing, I wonder how any person can ever truly understand the real truth behind this gadget. Personally, I can not wrap my head around this thing.

3) Buttons

I understand the usage of buttons but they are still just absurd to me. Perplexed by their circular shape and their usage, I can not help but be drawn to them. I own many button down shirts and I never get sick of buttoning and unbuttoning them (sometimes, unfortunately, at inappropriate times).

The little holes in the middle are practical but still questionable. I can't help but think that buttons are some kind of perverted, sick joke that I am just not getting.

4) Avocados

Very often you will find fruits posing as vegetables but avocados take this to the extreme. They take this task way too far and someone needs to stop them. Avocados are way out of line and Obama should start taking action for once.

5) Vases

I can not decide whether or not it is that vases are weird or that I just do not like them. I mean, some vases are just plain attention-whores. They are basically competing to be prettier than FLOWERS. This is a very immature action. How can a vase think that it really stands a chance next to a beautiful chrysanthemum or a lovely daisy?

Stop trying so hard vases and stop being so weirdly obsessed with attention.

6) Lint

The word in itself is mysterious and kind of disgusting. If you have ever done a load of laundry (which I know half of you haven't, you lazy fucks) then you know how weird this shit is. Its soft, rough, fluffy and terrifying all at once. I dare you to find something as weird and as intimidating as a big ball of lint. I fucking dare you.

7) Capricorns

Howard Hughes,  Michelle Obama, J.D. Salinger... all Capricorns. Creepists, they are. Weirdos, yes indeed. I have said it before and I will say it again, be very careful around these Capricorn characters. You may think they just want to go for a leisurely walk down a deserted block with a knife but they may really just wanna turn you into their next couch or ottoman. And do not, absolutely do not, look them directly in the eye. They hate that.

Kate Middleton hates that.

XOXO,
Jules

Look What You Did to Her-hiney!

Let me preface this post with this: I really have nothing against Emma Watson. Truth be told, I think the girl is rather lovely and is quite blessed to be born with probably one of the most perfect faces I have ever seen (and, trust me, I have seen A LOT of faces in my day). Perfect face, totally chill girl. I do not want any absurd Harry Potter fanatics torching my house or fucking my invisible boyfriend, so let's just get it out in the open: Hermione is alright.

So, no one get emotional or try to do any ridiculous wand tricks or place any silly spells on me for what I am about to say.

I have been watching things play out this past year without speaking (I know, how totally bizarre). In the past few months, Emma Watson has launched this "HeforShe" campaign. In short, this is a gender equality campaign, looking to recruit men as "agents of change" for women's rights. Look it up on wikipedia if you do not know, you ignorant fucks. Am I supposed to research everything for you biddies? Jeez.

Anyways, recently, Watson described the widespread success of the campaign. The campaign has gained many supporters, including (allegedly) the one and only Prince Harry!!!!!!!! Watson's words aside, I could not help but notice the widespread attention HeForShe has been gaining on social media by unlikely feminists. White girls who never cared about feminism before are suddenly ALLLL about it. Boys who, in all likelihood, still do not care about feminism are claiming solidarity! They are all just tweeting away, as I speak, hash-tagging HeForShe like there is no tomorrow.

So many are entering this feminism party a litttttttle too late (this feminism rager, if you will). Newsflash: women have been tooting this feminist horn for years (Feminism: killing boners since 500 BC!) I literally can not even NAME all of the women who have been scrutinized because of their connection to the word "feminism." Now, all of a sudden, you have this hot, sexy little wizard telling you feminism is a turn-on and now every single girl (and guy) are taking part in bra burning rituals near and far.

For instance, Lena Dunham, stands for similar things as Emma Watson (is claiming to stand for) and all Lena Dunham has received is criticism, body-shaming and projectile vomit. Lena Dunham is not conventionally good looking, or thin for that matter, and therefore her words are way less enticing.

The truth hurts but it is apparent that pretty, skinny and perfect faced women are the only women we care to listen to. But wait, how is that feminism or equality at all? Aren't all of you ignorant, self-loathing females projecting the same superficial standards that you claim to be protesting? Oh, you silly, naive biddies... back to square one, aren't you?

And all of you "men" who claim to be in solidarity with HeForShe, is this not some elaborate, fantastical ruse to get into Emma Watson's pants?

Do we all just, secretly (or not so secretly), want to fuck Emma Watson? And if so, why can't we just say that instead of pretending we give two shits about gender equality. Fuck unequal pay, we all just want our dicks sucked and I will be the asshole who blows your cover.

BYEEEEE

XOXO,

Jules

A Love Note

Dear Bae,

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate, Rough winds to shake the darling buds of May... and all of that other shit. The truth is, no Shakespearean sonnet can sum up the love that I have for you, sweet prince. Sweet, sweet Chris. No Kate Hudson rom-com can define our everlasting love. The passions we have shared over the years have only grown stronger with time...and more tender. Some mornings I wake up after a night of our intimate lovemaking and I feel my heart practically drowning in both love and lust, simultaneously.

With eyes that you can get lost in and a body that can bring any girl to both tears of joy and tears of horniness, your looks can be met by no man (except for possibly Jake Gyllenhaal). My hands run gently through your delicious head of hair--not one grey hair visible, not one sign of thinning in sight. You are a god of the gods, a man of both pureness and godliness. If they ever make a movie about Jesus again, you are likely to be their pick for main lead.

And Mel Gibson better not fucking kill Jesus in this one, that sick son of a bitch. I will hunt him down and feed his penis to the wolves.

That brings me to that beard. That rugged patch of manliness, that beautiful masculine gem of a facial hair that you sometimes don to award shows to make women cream their pants. That beard is both a beauty and an insulator. Keeping your face warm, keeping my heart warm...keeping everyone warm.

But our love is not solely a physical one. Chris Pine, you and I are connected in both body AND mind. We share a true bond that I share with no other man, and you share with no other woman. No person understands me like you. No man has shown interest in both my vagina and my brain as you have, sweet Chris. Sweet, sweet Chris. There is nothing we do not talk about with each other, we are both open-books. Sexy open books who like to make sweet passions in your BMW before you drive off to go be hot in some silly movie you are in.

Chris Pine, you are the reason why I wake up in the morning. I live for you, Chris. I have devoted my life to your sexiness and your penis.

In fact, I have built many shrines to your man meat. This shrine includes a piece of dirt that may have been near your penis this one time, four years ago and a drawing I made a year ago of what your penis (probably looks like). I say many prayers to this shrine tri-daily. I praise God everyday for your averaged sized cock.

As if your looks and brains were not enough, you hit the ladies with your undeniable sense of humor. You can hear panties drop within a 5 mile radius whenever you bust out your best material.

Like, remember that time you made that joke about the cow and the protractor?! HAHAHA oh my god, hilarious. You had me rolling for hours. So typical you. Cracking jokes, making sillies...so effortlessly, so sexily.

I sometimes feel like our love is so strong, I just want to kill myself. There is only so much love the heart can bear. After I watched the Star Trek movie I almost drove my car off the bridge near the theatre. You were just so beautiful (or maybe the movie was just incredibly boring). Regardless, I often fantasize about us killing ourselves together. The ultimate act of romance... the ultimate act of passion.

Okay, Chris, I know this is breaking all the rules clearly outlined in my restraining order but we both know those are only technicalities. Our love is stronger than a little piece of paper. Our love is stronger than your pure terror of being within 20 miles of me. I know that we can make it. I know that we will be together forever.

And if you die, I will dig your corpse up, keep it in my house and snuggle with it every night.

Because I love you and that is what people who love each other do.

Love always and FOREVER (and I mean forever),

Jules

P.S. If you ever decide to date Taylor Swift, we are so fucking done. I will never send you my homemade chocolate fudge brownie cookies ever again.

White People, White Movies & White Cheddar Cheez-its

Okay, white cheddar cheez-its are just TO die for... and I am not the least bit ashamed or embarrassed to admit it. But that's about all there is to say about white cheddar cheez-its, just thought I would mention them nonetheless.

Hello biddies of the nation! It has been a minute since I have posted on my blog. Yeah, I can bore you with the details about how I have been busy with "work" and "school" and petty things like that, but I respect you way too much to do that to you. I am far too appreciative of your presence in my cyber life to thrust my laundry list of things I have been doing and things I must do on to you (quite the opposite of 90% of my Facebook friends, just sayin'). Instead, let's just get right to the meat and potatoes (is that even an expression?? WHO AM I??)

It has been a very lively couple of weeks. More unarmed black men have been killed by police, two police were killed by a crazy and Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston managed to completely avoid each other at an award show. I do not know which one of those things is more pivotal! You decide.

That brings me to my main order of business: award show season. Specifically: the Oscars. I posted last year about my distaste for award shows in general. The dresses that are more times ugly than not, the exhausted Meryl Streep jokes about how she's won SO many times and HA HA HA leave it for someone else Meryl, the acceptance speeches that last longer than two of my dad's trips to the shitter and LASTLY the white people.

Oh, the white people. So many whites, so little time.

Okay, let me preface this with the fact that I really do not give one fuck about the Oscars. You are talking to someone whose favorite movie is She's the Man. I do not need a bunch of old white men to tell me which movies to like.

Any quick glance of the Oscar nominations this year will reveal the unsurprising: 90% (or more, I am no mathematician) of the movies are for and about white people.

Recently, Al Sharpton called for protests about this issue...this very...old...issue. Do not get me wrong, I think it is totally fucked, all the same. But, were we all taking a nap for the past how many years? The Oscars only honor black actors rarely and the movie ALWAYS has to be relevant to slavery.

Dear Black actor, Oh, you are black? You are in a movie? Are you a slave in said movie? No? Okay, not interested, keep moving. Love, The Academy

Besides, it is always the same three black actors who are honored and the rest are ignored completely. Let's see, let's see we have: Denzel, Samuel L. Jackson and Morgan Freeman. There just is not anymore room in these white people's heads for ONE more black actor! Quota is full.

Now, it's hard to say what the REAL issue is. Is this all a product of the fact that mainstream Hollywood and cinema IS pro-white? Or, is this because the people who make the nominations and choose the winners are all white people? Both?! I do not want to get too far into all of this racial discrimination and what not but it is important to recognize that this IS a thing. While Al Sharpton is all about Al Sharpton, there is something to be said about these protests.

Where are the Asian-American actors? Where are the hispanic-American actors? Where are we? Who am I? Why am I?

I mean, I love Jake Gyllenhaal and all but I can give my bean flicking a rest for one night for the sake of, you know, human rights and everything. I know, I am such a good person.

The truth is, everyday I become more and more aware of how pro-white every part of our society is. The culture is completely plagued by subconscious white-supremacy, masked by liberalism and pseudo-progression.

Remember my good biddies, there's more to life than white people... but, there is very little more to life than white cheez-its. You remember that now.

XOXO,
Jules

Memoirs of a Young Biddy: The Annual Gynecologist Appointment

Semi-annual, at least. This is the doctor's visit that requires at least three pre-appointment shots (of Buttery Nipples, of course), one run through the rosary and at least seven good glances of Dirk Diggler's dong in Boogie Nights. It is a wonder that us biddies even manage to make it out of bed on the morning of this barbaric violation.

Your day begins with going through the list of various scenarios that would make it okay for you to cancel the inevitable 10 AM appointment. 

"UGH, I have a huge deadline at work coming up, gotta cancel!"

"I have no more Special K cereal left in the house, it is absolutely vital that I pick it up from the grocery store at precisely 10 AM."

"Today is just not a good day, it's the thirteenth anniversary of my pet bird's death (Mr. Jerry). It also just happens to be the thirteenth anniversary of the day that we bought him."

"My vagina is in a very bashful mood this morning, I just can not do that to my precious baby right now."

"ISIS"

"FEMINISM"

"CHARLIE SHEEN"

Just about anything you can think of...

But then, you realize, all this will do is delay the inevitable sense of degradation and humiliation you will feel while your feet are in those fateful stirrups, your junk is under a spotlight and you have some stranger's face directly staring at your lady parts. Judging, inspecting and probing you at your, arguably, worst angle ever. 

So, you just bite the bullet, and you get your ass (and vagina) to the doctor's office only to wait in waiting room for what feels like a million and one episodes of Friends. What's more, everyone in the doctor's office seems to be staring at you because they know you are about to be penetrated by a metal object that looks like a swan's beak (and not in a good way!!!!)

Then... just when you were getting settled into your chair, just when you were really getting into your People magazine article about Kourtney Kardashian's newborn demon in the making, your name is called. After this, things begin to become a blur.

A blur of peeing into a cup, finding out you have gained 15 pounds since your last visit and finally... and the most terrifying... getting butt ass naked. Once you are naked, the struggle becomes real, the struggle becomes impending and you realize it is no longer a distant thing to be anxious about, but rather, a thing that is in your immediate future. Nothing can save you now, nothing can stop what is about to happen.

After a series of unimportant sexual questions by a nurse (sometimes even the perplexing occasional, "are you post-menopausal yet?") you are left in the room with your own thoughts. They say that during this time you can see your whole life flash before you but... I see nothing. All I see is that tube of lube, the speculum and those stirrups below me--taunting me, mocking me and ruining any chance I had for happiness (for next thirty minutes...) The lube seems to whispering "Jules, you are nothing... you mean nothing... you will never amount to anything"... and the speculum seems to agree.

And then... the doctor enters. Energetic (A LITTLE TOO ENERGETIC) and happy (A LITTLE TOO HAPPY), just ready to tackle the day, one vagina at a time. She immediately tells you to lie back and to place your feet into the stirrups, the stirrups that you have been eying all along, the evil stirrups of...evilness. And there you are... in all of your glory...

As you are being probed you hear the, "Relax, just relax...breathe," over and over and over and over and over and over. AND ALL YOU CAN FUCKING THINK IS, HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO RELAX?! How, in the name of Jesus H Christ himself, can I fucking relax? 

But, you try, you really do because at the end of the day, what choice do you have but to try?

You try to think of nicer thoughts: s'mores, bunnies, a fresh box of Crayola crayons, the smell of a Christmas tree, Harry Styles's hair, the song "Party in the USA," marathons of America's Next Top Model, slapping Taylor Swift... not being here...getting robbed... death... I mean, you are literally grasping at straws and then--- then the door opens, as a nurse barges in, revealing your vagina for the entire doctor's office to see... (but at least I got a thumbs up from a nice looking fellow just trying to be supportive). Yes, that actually happened. 

But I digress, after a series of curse words, derogatory slurs and cries for your mother, you are finally finished with the probe. You are on top of the world, you are queen of biddyland right now because it will not be for another year that you will subjected to this nightmare of vaginal oppression.

You are out of that doctor's office like a bat out of hell. You practically are running to your car and speeding out of the parking lot--liberated and redeemed, a hero in your own world. 

A hero to the biddies.

XOXO,

Jules

The Fallon Theory

I have said it once (more like a million times) and I will say it again: there is something very, very wrong with Jimmy Fallon. Even during his days on SNL, I could always tell that there was something quite amiss with that fellow.

You may be asking, why should we believe you? What do you know about people having PROBLEMS? Well, I know a lot, if you must ask. I can spot a bad seed from a mile away. In fact, I have quite a history of weeding out the bad eggs. For instance, at a young age I was completely terrified of Bill Cosby on The Cosby Show. I have never been one to trust a person who talks like a prophet.

Slooooowwwwlllyyyyyyyy annnuunnnnnnnncccccciiiiiiatttttttinnnnggggg every word. Like a REAL rapist would. Rapists ALWAYS annunciate.

I was in tune to his rapey ways at such a young age and here I stand before you with a big ol', "I told you so!"

Then there was the priest dad on that 7th Heaven show. It is hard to believe that I was the only person who could tell he was a child molester. Some may say he was just an avid method actor and got way too into the whole "priest role," but I think he was just a bad seed to begin with. I could hardly watch that show without getting the chills. 7th Heaven nightmares plagued my childhood and landed me in therapy week after week. I was tortured by 7th Heaven, a slave to the Camden family's drama.

I had to stop watching. It was just too much for such a young girl to bear. And here we all are, years later, talking about what I knew all along.

Okay, but back to the absolute horror that we call: Jimmy Fallon. This is a man that everyone has been tricked into thinking is a sane human being, with human emotions and blood running through his veins. No, people, Jimmy Fallon is a sociopathic maniac and you heard it from me right here, right now.

Jimmy Fallon has never changed his facial expression once. His face seems to be frozen into a vague, unemotional, ambiguous mold that shows no sign of any type of feeling anytime soon. His eyes are black holes, holes of nothingness, holes of terror, holes of... doom.

I heard a news story, about a year back, that Jimmy Fallon was stabbed by a man on the street and he did not even bleed. The man who stabbed him was absolutely terrified. He quickly reported to the police that Jimmy Fallon's facial expression showed no sign of pain, sadness or even anger when he stabbed him! In fact, Jimmy Fallon replied with one of his usual robotic jokes and then kept right on walking.

Disturbing, I know.

Now, I am not trying to alarm you all and I am not trying to cause trouble. However, recently, I had a very disconcerting dream about Jimmy Fallon. A dream that I can not shake from thoughts, a dream that has stayed with me. Long story short, my dream more or less revealed that Jimmy Fallon was and is the Zodiac Killer. I woke up screaming, uncontrollably. I had the image of Jimmy Fallon's face, covered with blood (and semen) imprinted in my brain for the entire next day.

And that is when it occurred to me... Jimmy Fallon IS the Zodiac Killer. He must be. All signs point to yes on this one. I mean here he is, with his creepy jokes and his suits, playing mister "nice-nice," when all a long he's been slaughtering people left and right!

So maybe Jimmy Fallon was not born until after these killings began but that's neither here nor there... he could be lying about his age anyways. Who knows what else he has lied about?!?!

I for one do not want to wait around for when he strikes next. I am a Scorpio, after all, and everyone knows that Scorpios are always the ones sacrificed first. Jimmy Fallon must be stopped. Jimmy Fallon must be exposed for what he truly is...

...a monster.

XOXO,

Jules

Brains, Boobs, Bras & Brats

I write to you today with a heavy heart and a heavy flow (just kidding, but I AM especially bitchy today, so beware!) But mostly, with a heavy heart. Well, not JUST a heavy heart, but also a great deal of confusion and perplexment (yes, perplexment is now a word!)

I write to you today to talk about the most popular and highly anticipated, annual meeting of the minds. This is a gathering of intellectuals near and far. At this event, we have all of our modern day Aristotles (if you will), joining together to answer the BIG questions and discuss PRESSING matters. Matters such as:

Is a push-up bra the answer to world hunger?

Are g-strings more practical than thongs?

How do you wear nipple tassels but still keep it tasteful and wholesome?

No, I am not talking about the State of the Union, but good guess! We are talking about The Victoria's Secret Fashion show--the single most important event of every dumb biddy's life! Yes, more important than Valentine's Day and even more important than the opening day for the movie 50 Shades of Gray (and, let me tell you, that is an IMPORTANT day!)

 This year, Victoria's Secret fashion show received the same irrational attention as it has every other year. For straight men or lesbian women this attention is understandable and kind of whatever. But, I can not for the LIFE of me accept the obsession that straight dumb biddies insist on having with this fashion show.

Some may argue that it has to do with a woman's vanity. As a straight and severely jealous (to the point of practically needing to be locked up with a straight jacket) biddy myself, I understand this sentiment. One can not HELP but gaze enviously at woman who has been blessed with perfect tits, a perfect washboard stomach, a perfect face and who is just all around, you know, perfect. However, I am not going to sit here and lie to you and say that this makes me happy for them or that it makes me happy in general.

In my humble opinion, these moronic biddies who plague the country, swallowing up all our air and using all of our Essie nail polish, are full of doggy doo-doo. They do not LOVE Adriana Lima or want to see her succeed in being hot. They are merely PRETENDING to have some kind of "sisterly camaraderie" because that is their cute little "feministy" defining moment.

(*said in an English accent*)"Oh, Adriana, I am so HAPPY for you that you turned out to be the perfect human being, carved by angels and shitting flowers. Here I am just little old me with my cellulite-ridden ass and bacne haunting my life (even though I am at least fifteen years past puberty) but I rest peacefully knowing that you do not suffer from the human condition of blemishes, fat and poop that smells like, well, poop."

Yes, let us continue this elaborate ruse that we are celebrating other women's beauty by watching this ridiculous fashion show year after year.

Yes, let us continue to pretend that we do not dread the day, every year, where we are reminded that our push-up bras that we purchased from Victoria's Secret do not come with the breasticles that the models have been advertising (these accessories are apparently sold separately... batteries not included).

Yes, let us continue to celebrate a mindless, pointless fashion show that makes us hate being naked in front of even our pet hermit crabs.

AND, for the love of everything holy, let us continue to celebrate the Taylor Swift disease that is far worse than any Ebola outbreak...

XOXO,

Jules