Dear Chris Cornell:

Today, I am a man.

With the whole gender fluidity thing the young ones are bringing to the mainstream, limiting myself to being a women seems a bit outdated. At first, I didn’t quite get it. I mean, I am a girl. I have a vag, a pretty expensive rack and have birthed two babies. But yet, I have never been one to grasp the nuances of being a chick. So I can understand the concept of gender on a continuum. You are how you feel. 

And today, for the first time ever, dude, I feel like an adult. 

I awoke to learn that our world had lost another creative, brilliant, fragile, intuitive voice of my generation. By your own hand, allegedly. Or perhaps more accurately, by your own broken, battered heart. For the first time in my life, I cried over the death of a celebrity. 

And much like the first time Jerry cries on Seinfeld, I experienced the warm liquid sensation running down my Spock cheeks with equal parts confusion and relief. I felt human. And that feeling both terrified me, and gave me hope. 

The Boomers have Bob. And Neil. And Joni. Poets. Bards. Troubadours. Voices of their generation. Vanguards of change. Amazing musicians, all. 

The Xers? Well, really, what is there left for them to care about? Haven’t the IMPORTANT stories already been told? I mean, what more can you say than what has already BEEN said? Tear down the old guard. Fight the man. BUT, also love everybody. Question authority. Don’t trust the government. BUT get in a group to do so. Looks like all you aging fuckers have got it covered. What more is there to lament or discuss…
Here’s a tip: 


Remember them? No? 

I didn’t think so. 

I’m not sure who dubbed my generation “x” as a variable. Devoid of a constant meaning. Shifting. No real identity. But lets face it, we cannot have people breaking away from group identities and recognized as actual humans. I mean, COME ON!!! Are you a Democrat, or not? Are you a feminist? A Catholic? A patriot? And if so, how many groups can you join in order to leverage your influence? How many other people can you bully into agreeing with you? And, as such, how much of your individuality are you willing to cede to an agenda that may or may not define you? POWER TO THE PEOPLE!!! Because, you know, WE HAVE GOT TO UNITE!!! 

For what, I’m not sure. 

Somewhere, lurking in the lengthy shadow of the mobs of Boomers; protesting and demanding to be heard; stood a generation of outcasts. Misfits. Losers. Slackers. And this generation had its own set of questions. 

Who am I? Where do I fit in? Do I want to fit in? Why should I join any group? Why do I have three college degrees that I am still paying off and the same job I had when I was twenty five, only now I am fifty? Why do we have MORE wars with the Boomers in charge than we did when they were protesting wars? 

Why can’t I find all this “love” you fucking hippies are always singing about? 

How could I know that this would be my fate? 

Or yours? 

CC, I loved your music and your lyrics. They spoke to me. I thank you for that. The fact that this world held no more magic for you, lets me know that it is time. Perhaps past time. 

Today, I am a man. 

And I don’t like where they found you hanging from. 

Peace, my friend. 


Dear Noam Chompsky:
It’s not every day in 2017 that I get to sit across from someone on a plane who blows through his own copy of The Economist, The Wall Street Journal AND Scientific American all in one sitting. As a lover of financial markets, science, and a former magazine/periodical addict, I have to say BRAVO! Way to keep it old school! 
As a person with functional ears, however, I must insist that next time, try to see if you can pull this off WITHOUT chewing at Mach 3; mouth agape, rhythmically munching whatever you have jammed in your face hole in synch with every word you are absorbing. Not to mention the now hundreds of wrappers strewn around your seating area. 

Ok. I mentioned it. 


I mean, I get it. The Economist IS riveting. But if you’re this into magazines, I can only imagine what your work space/ kill room/ torture chamber/ toilet laboratory looks like. 

Take it down, a notch, Doc. I can smell your breath from here. 


PS. Thanks for keeping it real by giving me a “Bruce Jenner” happy ending. For a minute, I thought you were legitimately interested in those other subjects! #whew


Dear Republicant’s:

Guess who’s back? The REAL Slim Shady! Everyone’s favorite dickbags, the GOP!!! And just like that raging case of anal herpes you got from that one hot chick at the stripclub who turned out to be a dude, they’re every bit as painful and embarrassing this time as they were eight years ago when you got ass rammed the first time! 

You know what is SO GREAT about the Republicans? 


No, no. That’s too easy. What is amazing is that for them, its like time has stood still. Literally. Motionless. Much like the sex they have with their spouses. One minute, it’s 2017 and the next, with virtually no effort, we are magically transported back to 1817. Powdered muffs are all the rage. In fact, EVERYTHING seems to be getting whiter! Old white fuckers are making all the rules. And OTHER old white fuckers are going to get rich because of those rules. God tells them all what to do, which is lucky for them because without him as a scapegoat, everyone would immediately realize that they have no legitimate rational basis for their policies beyond greed and an unnatural proclivity towards forcing others to do everything that they themselves will never do. It just SOUNDS so much better when you say that God inspired the old “Catch 21” where you demand to save Down Syndrome babies from the abortion hook, but then exclude them from insurance coverage because they are BORN with a “preexisting” condition. Because if there’s anything God hates, its preexistence! You know, if there was such a thing. 

And really, who can blame him? Who in the FUCK do those Down Syndrome asshole babies think they are hogging an extra chromosome #21 and then expecting billionaire insurance titans to assist them in ANY way that might endanger quarterly earnings? I mean, talk about SELFISH! These old fuckers need affordable viagra so they can use their rotting sperm to create Down Syndrome babies that they then force their mistresses to abort while simultaneously demanding that abortion be illegal! They can’t tacitly encourage anyone to actually HAVE a Down Syndrome baby by whittling deductibles down to ten thousand dollars a year when premiums are a paltry fifteen hundred dollars a month for a married couple! This isn’t a fucking free ride! You can’t just do whatever you want, pay a premium to hedge against it, and then cash in when things don’t go your way! That’s ridiculous! WHO WOULD EVER BELIEVE THAT LOAD OF SHIT WOULD ACTUALLY WORK?


Every insurance company in the fucking world?


Ok. So maybe their whole take on health insurance is a little fucked up. At least they were kind enough to do away with the inhumane practice of time and a half pay for overtime and replace it with (spoiler alert:) MORE VACATION!!! Because what could be more fun than earning extra vacation days by busting your ass at a low paying job and then having no extra money to fund it! 

I know! ANAL HERPES!!! 

Just don’t tell your insurance company you have the same preexisting condition that all the buttfucker Republicans in congress have because that shit will get you NOWHERE with this healthcare plan. 

For real. I. Can’t. 


PS. Fuck you guys. Seriously. You are LITERALLY the worst people in the world. 

Except for Bruce Jenner. 


Dear Not Sienna Miller:
Listen, I’ve been there. You sucked enough cock and starved yourself by eating ramen noodles every night for a month until you had stashed enough money to buy your very first $2000 + Burberry Runway coat, and have been dying for the right occasion to wear it. Fortuitously, it started raining today.  So you threw on $300 wellies and decided to bust out your new look at Centennial Parks “420 Festival.” Then, you get here and everyone else is wearing 99 cent ponchos, tank tops and broken Tevas. 

It’s a royal pisser.

Kind of like the copious amounts of urine you’re currently standing in. 

Here’s the thing. Weed, 4/20, and all the hype that goes along with it SEEMS really fashionable right now. But, unlike your double breasted, AA cup homage to Twiggy, drugs are NOT a trend. They are a lifestyle. They’re here to stay. I’ve never been a drug user, but I respect that they have their own culture. If I invade their space, I don’t do it in couture clothing. Your coat WILL be riddled with blunt holes, cocaine residue, beer backwash and possibly even jizz from that one guy who has eaten so many mushrooms, he forgets where he is and jacks off behind you. 

Here’s a tip: 

420 is not just a reference to smoking weed, it’s ALSO supposed to encompass the entire amount of cash you spend on your festival outfit. 


I saw a chick with Christmas lights strung from her head to her waist, a large white mans v neck t shirt, dolphin shorts and bare feet walk by a few minutes ago. Go find her and ask her to give you an emergency makeover. 

You’re welcome. 


PS. Oasis broke up before you got your first nose job. Remember? 

Don’t look back in anger. 


Dear Capitalist Pigs: 

I like money. And I like freedom. Growing up in America, you operate under the delusion that somehow these two ideas can peacefully coexist. You get older, your tax bill hits 40% all in, and you begin to understand that they absolutely can not. You must exchange one for the other. This is how wealthy, business minded dudes came up with incredibly insightful one-liners such as “time is money” and “pimpin’ ain’t easy” both of which mean exactly the same thing. The “time is money” fuckers are decidedly less honest about their motives than the “pimpin’ ain’t easy” crowd, eschewing overt hubris to instead make consumers feel obligated to participate in a never ending Ponzi scheme of false acceptance earned by taking vacations to Tulum, binge watching Netflix and driving hybrid cars. 

But I digress.

I’m a chick. I have a vag. I’m also a mom. So, you know, it’s not what it used to be. But nonetheless, I still have one. And much like a compass set to true north, it occasionally leads me to spend time in home decorating and craft stores. Often, I rush through these places with the speed and intensity of Bruce Jenner racing for the gold in the Olympics. Other times, I saunter the aisles for hours, Caitlyn Jenner style, reveling in my femininity like a giant used super plus tampon. Mesmerized by realities such as the fact that there are literally nearly a dozen different sizes of hole punches that can be used for scrapbooking. Yes. There are actually factories that manufacture such things. Not in the United States, of course. But they’re out there. Somewhere. America has a market for at least ten different sizes of round hole punches. 

Side note: I don’t really view it as coincidence that most of the time I am in these stores, I see at least ten different women who I would like to punch in the hole. And they probably have all different sizes of holes. Which means technically there is ALSO an underground market for ten entirely different kinds of hole punches. Then I start factoring, and I try to figure out, you know, what is the square root of the “Michaels” random hole punch? My ADD goes off the rails, and that’s around the time I grab my 40% off picture frame and four pack of Sharpies and get the fuck out. 

So, anyway, I guess I must be ovulating (which is INSANE since I was born when there was still only one Darrin on Bewitched) because I made a stop at a crafty/homey/decorating store today and just as I was mid transition from Bruce to Caitlyn, this quaint little sign caught my eye. 



This mantle mandate, a call to abandon the needless excesses of an overburdened, overblown, over-accessorized society that has lost touch with the “little things.” This hidden gem, positioned on a broken clearance shelf between a folding leather chess board with half the pieces missing, and a heavily discounted Yankee Candle Company offering aptly monikered “Tailgate” (which I had the misfortune of opening merely seconds earlier only to be assaulted by the stench of smoked hot dogs), shone like an abandoned, laminate, mass produced beacon, beckoning me to become a better person! 

Simplify! Indeed. 

Lighten your load. Quit making things harder than they need to be. Get lean. Take it down a notch. Be grateful. Stop buying stupid, needless shit for your house.

Wait. What? 

Here’s the thing. I feel like the first step in simplifying, is probably NOT buying a cheap wooden sign designed to demonstrate how you’re so far above materialism, that you need to advertise your humility with something you bought. 

We get it, ok? Being overtly greedy and/or flashy is not a thing anymore. I mean, it IS a thing. As long as the greedy, flashy things you do include: pretending that wine tasting in Napa isn’t the same concept as touring a bunch of hog farms that offer bacon samples; demanding that poor people stop eating fast food while simultaneously expecting all produce to be “organic” and, thus, double the price; chastising people for drinking one 32 ounce fountain Diet Coke while wasting packaging on single serve Keurig coffee seven times a day; and reminding everyone who comes to your house to “simplify” by plastering it on your wall on an old timey looking plaque you hang next to all the IKEA shit you’re going to dump in the garbage after it collapses on your twin test tube shitzus, causing them to require weekly dog therapy and chiropractic. 

You know what? I call bullshit. Much like this crappy, stupid sign rotting on the clearance rack, no ones buying it. Materialism, like racism and sexism, is alive and well in America. Buying and selling stupid shit is who we are. What other population on earth is self indulgent enough to possibly have created a demand for Chia pets, Silly Putty, the dog Thunder Shirt and viagra? 

Knock it off, America. No one here wants anything to be simple. How else do you explain the constant barrage of paranoid conspiracy theories that pass as mainstream news? Why else would we ALWAYS be in at least one war? And let’s not forget the BRILLIANT taxpayer bailout of our banks. Because it’s one thing for some uneducated plumber to go out of business. But THESE GUYS ARE BANKERS! They need to keep going no matter how badly they fuck up. THEY ARE BANKERS, you peasants. Don’t you get it??? (Bonus: IVY LEAGUES!! Yay!) Simply put? “Simple” in America is an illusion. Did Martha Stewart’s incarceration teach you NOTHING?! Geez. 

If I want simple, I’ll hitch a ride to North Korea where I will never have to make any decisions for myself, I can harvest “organic” produce and meditate all fucking day while wearing various shades of taupe. Until then, I’m content to complicate my life by thinking for myself, eating carmel corn with a 2019 expiration date and scouring this entire store for the rest of those chess pieces so I can score that 70% off folding chess board I don’t need since I don’t know how to play chess. 

Stop harshing my vibe, fuckers. 



Dear Babymama:
I feel ya, sister. There you are, standing in the middle of the desert/ocean/mountains/trailer park wearing ill fitting garments with your stomach distended, containing a live human who in a matter of weeks is either going to be cut out of you with the force of a knife, or pushed out of your slowly expanding wax clown lips. 


Yet, somehow, everyone keeps telling you you’ve “never been more feminine”, you’re “glowing” and that your husband/baby daddy/ future ex/sperm donor has “never been more attracted to you.” Guess what? 

They’re all lying. 

Exactly no one is attracted to you. That’s part of the way nature fucks women over. While men suffer no visible physical changes during pregnancy, your giant stomach signals to men everywhere that some other dude has marked his territory, and causes their balls to recess into their pelvic cavity at the thought of possibly being tied down by knocking ANY chick up. Instant boner killer. Women pretend to be envious that you got some dude to commit to you for a few minutes during conception, a few hours during birth and possibly a few months throughout the child’s next eighteen years, but secretly, they are like “… no fucking way am I standing in the desert wearing a queen size bedsheet showing the world I’m too fat for my Rag and Bone skinnies…”

Listen. I know you really like these pictures. You think that whoever that dude is who is in them with you cares about them as much as you do. That he will gaze lovingly at them and experience feelings of overwhelming joy and gratitude for this special commitment you two share. You are spending a months wages to capture this incredible bond so he can savor it forever. Let me save you some trouble, ok? 

He won’t.

In fact, he won’t even know where these pictures are five minutes after you show them to him. All you’re doing is setting yourself up for disappointment. No guy likes anyone enough to get this intimate in public unless there’s a blow job involved. And even then, it’s more of a tactical decision than an expression of emotion. Plus this whole kissing/touching your stomach area is a totally staged load of shit. Sure, your “soul mate” will place his hand on your stomach. No problem. But the whole time he’s thinking “… if I push hard enough, could I get the baby to make her fart/pee/shit herself?” It’s all about dominance. That’s why they knock you up in the first place! To keep you in line. Until one day when they arbitrarily decide you’re too much work because you dare to disagree with their infallible life mantra by making fun of Chuck Norris/Chuck Berry/Chuck Barris one too many times, and they kick your ass to the curb for a less mouthy (most likely foreign) make, with fewer independent thoughts and even less ability to express them. 

Do yourself, and the world, a favor. You don’t look that great. Ok? Pregnancy is not about being sexy. AT ALL. In fact, it’s basically a punishment for being sexy. So, you know, ease up on the in utero porn. Wait until AFTER you expel this human from your vag and then hire a photographer to take pictures of you and your child. That’s right. I said YOUR child. If the child’s father has enough interest in photo documenting his journey through time with the child, he will make sure it happens. Believe me. You presenting him with photographic evidence that he can dig out of the bottom of his junk/porn drawer in ten years and use to convince himself that you aren’t that hot anymore after a decade of popping out babies, cleaning toilets and licking his ballsack will only work against you. 

You can thank me later. Everyone else can thank me now. 

Give it a rest, Jenna Jameson. That sheet is barely covering what’s about to become the second biggest hole in the state of Arizona.