Cute Butts

The news has been one big boner kill as of late. Everyday there seems to be YET AGAIN something else to make us hate being alive.

We wake up (in a bed if we are lucky), we shlep our way to work (if we are lucky... or unlucky enough), we experience the day with all of its annoyances and griefs, just to return home (assuming we haven't been shot down or blown up by someone committed to God or someone just committed to killing) and then we watch or read the news to see who did not make it through the last order of business of the day: staying alive.

During these endless days of dodging bullets, kissing asses and wishing that the guy on the train next to you would just fucking clip his toe nails another time, you start to lose hope. You lose hope that you will ever be happy, you will ever see the light at the end of the Grand Central tunnel (okay maybe I am personalizing that a little bit). Regardless, you feel hopeless. But then, the universe grants you a small, modest glimmer of hope. A tiny, merciful gift of the gluteus maximus nature:

cute guys' butts.

I began noticing these butts a few weeks ago while watching the miserable show The Leftovers. While normally the show wants you to feel suicidal, it slipped up when it gave the viewer an above average look at Justin Theroux's beautiful bedonk.

I mean, the guy is seriously talented in the crap factory area. Never in my life did I need a view of a cute butt more than at that moment. Emerging from the bathtub, Justin Theroux's buns were the hope and change that Obama promised and finally delivered.

Justin Theroux's butt was everything in that moment (and nothing at the same time).

That night, I felt truly blessed to be on the Earth. Then, last night, two more miracles occurred. God or Jesus or Mary-Kate and Ashley, I don't know who, but SOMEONE gave us the gift of a full view Uncle Jesse's buttocks. I mean, this was truly a spectacular Hanukah miracle. Uncle Jesse (or John Stamos or whoever the fuck he REALLY is) can light my menorah ANY day.

Only a couple of hours later, something even more miraculous occurred. There I was, already high on life, high on hot guys' heinies and BAM: Justin Theroux's butt is on my television screen AGAIN. I mean, really? What have we all done to deserve such a treat? And in such copious amounts?! I must have done something right in another lifetime.

The truth is, we need more cute butts in this world. In times like these, when the whole world is going to shit, all we REALLY have is cute butts. All that really inspires us to wake up in the morning are these beautiful, flawless dumpers. Sculpted, plump and perfect for our perverted viewing pleasure.

XOXO,

Jules

My Yacht May Have Sailed

...But my ship is coming in!

These are optimistic words from Lady Sonja Morgan. We need a lot more of these Sonja Morgan delusions these days as current presidential campaigns continue to remind us of the true dire and helpless state our country is in (and will continue to be in). 

It is nearly impossible for anyone to completely ignore the inevitable presidential election. No one can avoid it. Do you have Facebook? Instagram? Yahoo? Television? Ears? Eyes? A window? The nonsensical noise of politicians whoring themselves out is excruciatingly loud and is only getting louder.

I feel almost exactly as Ramona Singer did this season when she was in the limousine, on her way to her extravagant Atlantic City birthday party, Ramona Pinot in hand, yelling:

And, in all seriousness, after a quick perusal through today's New York Times, I share Ramona's sentiments exactly (and the sentiments of every dumb biddy ever in existence who LITERALLY JUST CAN'T EVEN)...we just freakin' can't.

When the presidential campaigns began to awaken I felt fairly excited. It has been almost eight years with the same president. Obama is beginning to feel like that annoying almost-boyfriend that won't fuck off but you do not have the energy to fully eradicate him from your life because it's not like you have anyone better lying around. And now, so I thought, we would have some brand new faces. Some fresh meat, if you will.

We need someone new, someone who will love us right.

But quickly I realized, oh so quickly, that the "fresh meat" that was promised, was hardly fresh at all. It was old, rotten, stale, ejaculated-on meat that you just can't seem to rid yourself of. You know, that kind of meat.

We have Hillary Clinton for starters. Old, old news. She is easily the most disingenuous candidate of the bunch (which says something considering we are talking about a bunch of politicians). Emails, sliminess and blatant lies aside, Hillary is BY FAR the least likely person out of the bunch that you would want over your house for your weekly viewing of She's The Man. Bitch can't chill for shit. Trust me, I met her at a movie theatre once.

Next up, Donald Trump. Again, old fucking news. Stale, crusty, shit-stained underwear,  kind of old (to put it delicately). Donald Trump has wasted no time to completely expose himself as a bigoted, ignorant, delusional, entitled piece of dog crap. In all honesty, his blatant slander of Mexicans and Mexican-Americans almost begs the question, is Donald Trump even a serious candidate or is he just yankin' all of our dicks?

I don't appreciate the yank.

Then there's good ol' Bushy boy (the third coming of the Bush?!) This is like some fucked up laser hair removal procedure gone wrong. For a while, it almost seemed that Jeb Bush had a little bit of an edge as the Republican candidate when placed up against Donald Trump. I mean, this should have been a no-brainer for him. After Donald Trump expressed his undying hatred for Mexicans, Jeb had the perfect chance to come out looking like some kind of hero! Immediately, Jeb Bush pointed out that he loves, loves, LOVES Mexicans.

In fact, he pointed out that he's currently humping a Mexican-American AS WE SPEAK. But, instead of leaving it there and going on his merry way, Jeb could not help himself. Yeah, he said, the Mexicans are chill and shit, but the Asians, he said, the Asians are the REAL problem. In other words, Mexicans stay, Asians get the ol' Jeb Bush boot. Jeb, you were so close to not being a total moronic piece of doo-doo, so damn close. 

Then there's this old bloke who goes by the name: Bernie Sanders. Recently during one of his speeches, he was just chillin' out with his cock out until he got caught off guard by some Black Lives Matter activists who were not too pleased about, like, black people being killed all the time by police officers. Meanwhile, Bernie just stood there holding his little dick all like:

Then, not too long after, Bernie walked off the stage in classic, "I'm too old for this racism shit" fashion. "Deuces!" Bernie exclaimed.

Then you have the other background noise: Ben Carson (gay-hater), Ted Cruz (rape-lover) and Marco Rubio (who I know absolutely nothing about).

Meanwhile, the Democrats are actually WAITING for Joe Biden to run for president. And let me tell you, if our country's last hope is Joe Biden, beat me with a bunch of rocks, throw me into a ditch and poor hot oil over my dying body. 

In conclusion, I guess it is safe to say that I will be voting for Deez Nuts in the upcoming presidential election.

XOXO,

Jules

5 REALLY Good Reasons Why Bill Cosby Can't Be a Rapist

I am so sick of people going around, soiling Bill Cosby's reputation without proper evidence. No more will I stand for it. Instead of just waiting around for any other of America's sweethearts to go up in flames (Robert DeNiro, I'm looking at you). I thought of five solid reasons why all of these allegations are unfounded, untrue and just plain un-American.

1) He had a show on television.

Like, everyone watched his television show. And on his television show he seemed so nice and wholesome! What are you guys saying? All of those years on his sitcom, ALL of those years of touching moments and you are gonna look at me and tell me that was all ACTING? No. No, Dr. Huxtable was the only father-figure I ever had and I know for sure he is the best obstetrician around. I mean, he really knows his way around the vagina (as long as the woman is asleep, that is!). Maybe all of these sexual assault allegations are just a testament to method acting? Ever think of that?

Can you really fault a guy for his commitment to his craft?

2) His wife doesn't think so.

Alright, there you have it. From the horse's mouth or whatever that offensive phrase is. If the wife (who apparently has one hell of a pre-nup) thinks he's innocent than that explanation is good enough for me! She has said it once and she does not have to say it again, these women AGREED to be drugged and raped. They consented to being raped and now they need to live with the consequences.

Years of emotional scarring, STDs, post-traumatic stress and shame. Big whoop!

Maybe you shouldn't have worn that burka to his room if you didn't wanna get drugged and molested. Hell, maybe you shouldn't have been born at all if you didn't want to get raped by Bill Cosby.

But anyways, he didn't rape you. You wanted it, Bill Cosby's wife insisted you did...so I believe her.

3) Only, like, fifty women have accused him.

You're gonna need a little more proof than that to sell me on this one. Fifty women?!

Fill up MetLife stadium with women claiming to have been raped by Bill Cosby and then we can have a conversation about it! Until then, take your measly fifty women and cry to someone who cares.

4) Woody Allen!!!!

Did you all forget about Woody Allen? The "secret" child molester, father-figure who everyone loves and adores and who totally no one thinks is a huge weirdo/predator? I mean, you all are over here attacking poor Old Bill while Woody Allen gets away with murder.

In fact, as a kid, I distinctly remember we had a portrait of Woody Allen right next to our Virgin Mary sculptures and pictures. Woody Allen was an absolute saint in my household.

What's more, last time I heard, that old geezer, Woody, even started a daycare center at his house. I mean this guy has people dropping their kids off at his house like there's no tomorrow and Bill is over here...

...being tortured in his mansion (without any possibility of being arrested or held accountable for his actions, but I digress). I mean for too long we have idolized Woody Allen and allowed ourselves to go down dark alleys with him (if there's anyone I trust going down a dark alley with, it's Woody Allen, hands down).

Besides, if Woody Allen can get away with rape, why can't Bill Cosby?! That's just not fair!

5) Because I say so.

Yeah, I have seen the evidence. The cold hard facts, if you will. And, at the end of the day, I am gonna chalk it up to my gut here. In my gut, I just do not think Bill Cosby raped all those women. And let me tell you, my gut has never steered me wrong before (except, like, maybe always?!)

REGARDLESS, just trust me on this one! K?

XOXO,

Jules

100

It has been almost three years since I began this journey of blogging, shit-talking and mindless rambling. At the beginning, I really only started the blog to fill time while being under-employed and bored. I pledged from the beginning to write posts that were strictly non-serious, unpolitical and just plain stupid. This seemed like a simple task considering I am a pretty non-serious, unpolitical and just plain stupid person.

Real Housewives became a staple on my blog, along with characters such as: Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber, Jimmy Fallon, Ryan Gosling, Caesar Milan and even Chris Pine (the man of my dreams and of his nightmares). I received Facebook messages, emails and texts that in some, way, shape or form were reacting to the words that I posted week after week. Some people got really annoyed, some people asked me out to drinks, some asked me for blow jobs, some people stopped talking to me altogether (LOL losers) and others shared in my entertainment. All of these things were truly positive experiences for me because it was evidence that people were actually reading what I had to say. Whether or not they agreed, I could not care less.

While my blog is usually filled with mindless jokes, there were times when I came up short on my pledge. There were times when my blog was not just solely for shits and gigs. Sometimes, I actually had something SERIOUS to say. Who'da thunk it? I discovered that my blog could be more than just an outlet for my entertainment but also for my healing and, well, existing. After all, life isn't all diamonds and rose (but it should be), as Lisa Vanderpump always says.

This is the hundredth post on my blog and I think that's kind of a cool thing. Right? I mean I do not mean to toot my own horn but I feel like I have never been THIS committed to ANYTHING. Not to an pet, not to a guy, not to a friendship and not even to my Facebook profile. While I have gone through hiatuses and ignorantly abandoned this blog for weeks or months at a time, I just never could quit you.

Thank you to those who read my offensive words again and again. Thank you to those who read my offensive words and don't, like, TP or egg my house. Thank you to to those who I have referenced here and have not gotten such a big HEAD about it (big fucking deal, you are on some random ass biddy's blog...get over it).

Thank you, thank you, thank you times 100.

XOXO,

Jules

When Life Gives You Lemons...

Put nine in a bowl! At least that's what Shannon Beader's introduction this season advises you to do.

Weeks have gone by without me even MENTIONING the start of the TENTH season of Real Housewives of Orange County. Now, a brief little history for ya, Real Housewives of Orange County (or, as I will affectionately call it for the rest of the time: RHOC) was the first Real Housewives location in the whole "Real Housewives" series. Just knowing that should bring tears of happiness, nostalgia & fear into your eyes.

Now, what we learn from the opening credits alone is that, housewives may come and go but Vicki Gunvalson is forever. Being the only original housewife still standing on the the OC series, she proudly announces in her tagline, "I'm the OG of the OC, everyone else... is just a copy."

Now, whether or not that is an accomplishment or something to feel deeply embarrassed about is debatable. However, being the sentimental biddy that I am (lol?), I am gonna go ahead and say I am proud of Vicki for sticking it out for all of these years. Never once did she let any of these vapid, blonde (or the occasional brunette) morons scare her away. No, she is the original vapid blonde and, no one... NOBODY... can take that away from her.

Nope.

So, the opening of the season was pretty standard. Vicki's shady boyfriend allegedly has cancer (some speculate that he is faking it), Tamra's crazy ass is wayyyyyy too excited to be a new grandmother (or as they like to pathetically call it: a glam-mother), Heather has way too much money (money enough to feed about 3 countries in Africa for years), Megan (the new housewife) needs to be fed a sandwich with some of Heather's money and FINALLY, Shannon... Oh, poor Shannon.

There have been times I have been watching Real Housewives over the years and have felt highly discouraged. Sometimes the show becomes way too real for me. Don't the fucking editors realize that we do not want our reality television to be ACTUALLY real? We want it to be mindless and frivolous. 

Exhibit 1: Flashback to Real Housewives of Beverly Hills' Taylor Armstrong's abusive relationship with her sleazy husband Russell a few years back was mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually, politically and anaerobically draining to me and my fellow reality television devotees. What's more, that whole ordeal ended in Russell committing suicide (like, FOR REALSIES) and Taylor discovering his body hanging in her closet. I mean, shit just got way, way too real.

Now there's Shannon. Shannon's real, genuine misery radiates through your television. 

Last season we were introduced to Shannon and her family. Shannon is a true, authentic housewife: unemployed, raising three kids with (or for) a husband who alternates between catatonic, whiny and apathetically eating chips & salsa. The camera is careful to catch (thanks to Bravo) every moment of Shannon yelling (and seemingly "nagging") her husband, looking for any kind of reaction that she can from this lifeless shell of a man. The camera alternates between her yelling at him and her interviews as she sits crying to the audience, saying how she feels like her husband doesn't give a fuck (and as far as we can tell, Shannon is right on the money).

Now, the thing that kills us all the most is that Shannon is so goddamn likable. It is one thing when it's Kyle Richards (I mean, who CARES about Kyle) but Shannon actually seems like a chill ho. 

So, fast forward to this season. We learn during this season premiere that... *SPOILER ALERT*... he was cheating, all along. Surprised, we are not. However, Shannon's reaction to the affair is something straight out of an Amy Schumer skit.

"We're just kind of on hiatus because he made out with somebody at a party in front of me, and I totally overreacted. I tried to apologize, but it was too late."

Shannon is a complete wreck and there's no end in sight for this cluster fuck of self-delusions, self-loathing and self-destruction.

So Shannon, about your your introduction this season. When life gives you lemons, you do not put nine in a bowl. You take those fucking lemons and you fucking throw them at his cheating, lying, chips & salsa eating face. Then, you take a knife and you cut off his balls. Then, you put his balls in the bowl. Then, you leave and you take those chips and salsa with you... and you bring them straight to me.

Because, who doesn't love a delicious bowl of chips and salsa?

XOXO,
Jules

The Men of My Dreams

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Ed Sheeran Must Live

I know, I can tell you're terribly perplexed by the title of this post. "Ed Sheeran Must Live." What on EARTH is this biddy talking about THIS time? Why in tarnation should Ed Sheeran live? Well, allow me to explain myself a little bit before you get all up in my jock strap.

The rumors are true: Ed Sheeran is an abomination. His music could drive any man or woman to drink heavily, blow their brains out, and/or (even worse) take-up Krav Maga. The lyrics that he sings are more potent than any laxative. His tunes will leave you with an Imodium-induced night, soaking in your own vomit and blood.

And as you lay there, literally drowning in your own barf and feces, chances are you will ask yourself: how did I get to this point? How did I let Ed Sheeran do this to me?

I get it, I really do. "Thinking Out Loud" is responsible for most of my problems that I have been having these past six months (I am quite convinced). Ed Sheeran is the reason why I fucked up my front bumper, Ed Sheeran is responsible for ISIS and I just know Ed Sheeran is somehow responsible for my acne problems. But, one must understand that despite all of this, Ed Sheeran MUST to be protected.

You know how all of these ridiculous celebrities die and then everyone turns them into these "musical geniuses" or these "heroes" of ridiculous proportions? For instance, they do this with actors. Paul Walker dies and now everyone is acting like he was some kind of Robert DeNiro or some shit. I mean, hot as fuck he was, but let us not forget...he was in the Fast and the Furious 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6...ugh... AND 7.

Okay, enough about the late Paul Walker's beauty. Back to ME.

Singers die and their awful, awful music is then suddenly "classic." "Lego House" will be be the new "Imagine." "I See Fire" will be the new "Bohemian Rhapsody." All I want to do is prolong the inevitable.

But the truth is, I am worried. I am worried about Ed Sheeran. I am worried that Ed Sheeran is not properly protected. More so, I am nervous that he is not eating the proper fruits, vegetables and milk! I even saw on CNN the other day that he does not believe in multi-vitamins... or eating organic! How the fuck is Ed Sheeran going to outlive me us if he does not even care about his fucking health?!?!

Not only that, Ed Sheeran needs to be protected from all of the level-headed, intelligent Americans who want to take him down. We all need someone who is up to the task of protecting this embarrassing human being.

That is why I am taking this opportunity to selflessly elect myself to be his bodyguard and protector. I will take a bullet for Ed Sheeran, for cryin' out loud.

Yes, I am applying to be Ed Sheeran's bodyguard. For my whole life I wondered what my purpose was. Am I a musician? Am I a porn-star? Am I an actuary? No, all along the answer was right in front of me in the Top 40. I am meant to keep Ed Sheeran alive. I am meant to stall his eventual John Lennon status. I need to stall this numb nut from becoming a legend.

I will to save the world, one horrible song at a time.

For those of you who do not think I'm up to the task, think again. This biddy is FIESTY.

And that is a damn fact my good hoes. I will save Ed Sheeran. You will build memorials to my name, you will have a National Holiday in my honor. You will all love me...finally

#SaveEdSheeran... who's with me?

XOXO,
Jules