Advice From a Bunny-Owner: Why No One Should Ever Own a Bunny

Not my bunny, but a bunny nonetheless.
About two years ago, I decided on a whim that I would get a bunny. They're extremely cute and I had whimsical premonitions of walking him in Central Park, on a leash, wearing a floral dress (me, not the bunny). I did a teensy bit of research, at least enough to know how to properly care for one, and then I scoured Craigslist for a couple months looking for an all-white bun with black eyeliner (the breed is called a Hotot). Finally, an extremely enthusiastic bunny lady with at least 20 or so buns in her New York City apartment, posted a picture of a six month old, neutered, white-with-black-eyeliner, blue-eyed boy bunny. He had to be mine.

Don't get me wrong, I would never give House up now that I have him. He's going to be with me until he decides to part this realm for the great beyond. In the beginning, the cold, unfeeling, robotic, unblinking, fish-like eyes and complete lack of a affection were a bit jarring. But now, especially since I've found out which treats he goes apeshit for (any flavor of these Smaks cookies and Lacinato "dinosaur" kale), we've sort of gotten used to being around each other. He never bites me, he's pretty quiet, and he keeps to himself. Also, he's pretty fucking cute. I mean, he is a bunny rabbit afterall. However, when he does finally reach the end of the line, I will never EVER get another rabbit again. Here's why:


Ok ok, all animals poop a lot (except my man, the sloth!), but rabbits are OUT OF CONTROL. They poop about ten BB gun pellet-esque poops every minute. Most bunnies can be litter-trained (House is), which definitely makes cleaning up these little things a lot easier. It does not, however, change the fact that the sheer volume of pewps is absolutely overwhelming. Within about five minutes of cleaning House's cage, there is already a one-inch layer of doodie in his litter box. As if that wasn't enough, most rabbits like to leave little surprise gift poops wherever they go. I let House out of his cage and around my room to hop about freely and no, he is not an exception to the surprise gift poops rule.

Midnight Flubber

Did you guys see the movie Flubber with Robin Williams when you were a kid? If not, the movie Flubber is about an amorphous, mischievous, transparent, green glob of goo (wassup, alliteration?) that scientist, Robin Williams, creates in order to win back a girl...or something? Anyway, the most important fact to retain is that Flubber is a portmanteau of "flying" and "rubber." If let go in a room, Flubber will bounce from wall to wall, ricocheting off of everything and smashing all of your earthly possessions. Another vocabulary word to remember in this section is "binky." Binkying is what happens to a rabbit when they are ecstatic. Here is what binkying looks like:

It's a pretty spastic phenomenon (om nom nom) and almost looks like their back legs are trying to run away from the rest of their body. Why House would be OVER-THE-MOON happy in the dead of night in his cage sleeping in his own feces is unknown to me, but if your bunny is anything like mine, he will binky at midnight while trapped in his cage. What's wrong with this you ask? When in a confined space and very happy, bunnies ARE Flubber. House ricochets off of the cage bars and floor making loud banging and thumping noises until his unstoppable glee subsides.

Butt Juice

Like most animals, bunnies have anal scent glands that need cleaning. Once a month, I have to go in with a damp Q-Tip, spread what I GUESS are his butt cheeks, and swab some nasty shit out of his anal glands. This graphic cartoon from binkybunny.com describes where I have to perform this graceful routine. The little slits marked "anal scent glands" are my Q-Tips' target. If I didn't grow a set and take care of this, his butt would get all backed up and possibly explode. That, or I'd have to take him into an exotic veterinarian (not exotic as in exotic dancer but exotic as in not cats and dogs) every month and have him or her clean them and pay for it with an internal organ. It definitely makes the process more enjoyable to have your bunny kick you with his back feet as hard as he can while you poke his butt with your fingers. I assure you.

Pica 4Eva

If you don't know what Pica is, you can get yourself educated here. Pica usually refers to people who eat inedible things/inanimate objects, but for the purpose of this post, I'm using it to describe bunnies. The first day I got House, I made the mistake of turning my back for .2 seconds. When i turned back around, he was just finishing eating an ear bud. In those .2 seconds, House had eaten my roommate's pair of headphones WHOLE. Since then, he has managed to eat plants, closet doors, rugs, his own poop, backpack zippers, and probably a nibble or two out of Shadow the cat's feet. When I'm not using my removable window screens, I have to put them up as barriers all over my room just to keep him from eating anything on the floor when he's out of his cage. The days of wires and clothes on the floor are no longer. I once watched him take a quick, test chomp of a wire right in front of my eyes and go flying 14 feet in the air from the electric shock. He almost turned from my pet to my meal that day.

It might be hard to tell from this post, but I really do love House. He's my babby bunny and as far as I'm concerned, he can eat all the headphones he wants. But when he's gone, the only rabbit I'll be having in my house is a chocolate one.


Why You Shouldn't Butter a Bagel While Driving

So in between getting my cervix biopsied (yum) and taking a business trip to the hot, steamy, armpit-esque Florida (sorry Floridians, but your state is not hair-friendly with its consistent 99.9% humidity), I haven't been able to update in a while. Sorry about that. I thought I'd mark my return to trolling the bowels of the internet with an anecdote about my childhood. Shall we?

Every summer since I can remember, my mom and I drove up to Quebec, Canada to visit my aunt and uncle (the ones who own the ostrich farm). It takes about nine hours to get there, but with my mom speeding like a maniac and getting at least one ticket each way, it took about seven or eight hours. On one particular trip, when I was about six years old, my mom decided to pack a dozen bagels and a big tub of butter so that we wouldn't have to stop for food and could get to our destination faster (What kind of behavior is that?). Since she was trying to save money on gas, my mom refused to use the AC for as long as she could stand it. Instead, we drove with the windows wide open on the highway so that we didn't melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. Unfortunately, that didn't stop the giant tub of butter from melting.

About halfway through our trip, I decided I was starving. My mom, not wanting to pull the car over and therefore "lose time," decided she would butter my bagel (this is not a sexual euphemism) while she drove. She reached into the back to grab the melted tub of butter, which was nestled in a pile of my bedding (we had to bring extra pillows and blankets to my aunt's house). After procuring the tub and stabilizing it on her lap, she reached back again to grab a bagel and a butter knife. Then, without taking her hands off of the wheel and instead, taking her eyes off of the road, my mother proceeded to butter a bagel for me while cruising up the highway.

As you can imagine, within about five seconds, we were skidding off the road at 70+ miles per hour and doing a life-threatening donut on the shoulder of the highway. The centripetal force of the car spinning in tight circles caused the entire contents of the butter tub to be dumped on my face. By the time the car finally stopped spinning, I was hysterically crying, drenched in liquid butter, and resembled a baby lobster at the mercy of Paula Deen.

Some people stopped to help us out, but overall, everything went better than expected. The car had a dent in the door from the sign post we had swerved into, but was otherwise in perfect, working condition. I wouldn't let my mom clean me up with my pillowcases because I didn't want to get them dirty, to which she responded, "Taylor Paige, you are covered. In. Liquid. Butter." The evidence she presented was irrefutable and I let her clean me off with my bedding while weeping full-force.

On the way back home from Canada, we picked up more bagels and butter for the way home. This time, the AC was on full blast and when I whined for a bagel, my mom pulled over to butter it.


Product Review: Lush's Ultrabalm

I don't know why this post and my last post have both been so review-y. Maybe I'm under the illusion that people care about my opinions. Either way, I might review more shit in the future so hopefully these types of posts are tolerable.

I went to Sephora the other day to buy new makeup because I finally realized that the MAC Studio Fix Liquid Foundation I was wearing was a couple shades too dark and extremely cakey. I was expecting to go into Sephora, grab something by Make Up For Ever, and bounce (especially since I'm extremely awkward and avoid the sales associates like the plague). However, a very friendly Sephora employee, named Adrianne, approached me while I was trying to shade match myself for Make Up For Ever Duo Mat Powder Foundation and decided to go above and beyond the call of duty (haha doodie). After consulting with me about my skin type, she removed all of my makeup (she could tell I was really uncomfortable doing that, but was very supportive and told me it would help her find the best makeup for me), and told me she was going to try the Laura Mercier Oil-Free Tinted Moisturizer on my face. I had heard wonderful things about this product before and had actually considered getting it, so I was pumped. After she put some on with a pretty, fluffy brush that I ended up buying (sucker...) and added some Benefit Boi-ing Concealer, my skin tone was even and all of my small imperfections were covered up completely and naturally. I have very oily skin, so I have to wear a powder on top of the tinted foundation to set it so it doesn't slip off of my face, but other than that, it is absolutely perfect for me. And my face finally matches my neck!

Anyway, I kind of told you that little story so that I could segue into my next story. While she was taking off and putting on my makeup, the sales associate noticed that the area around my mouth, under my nose, and around my eyes was very dry and almost flaky/scaly. This was completely new territory for me because I have always had the oiliest skin ever and have never once had to deal with dry patches. I had thought that the flakiness was due to the cakey MAC foundation, but it was actually super dry skin! I was sent home with some Boscia exfoliator and a sample moisturizer to remedy my meth face. Unfortunately, despite the exfoliator and moisturizer making the rest of my skin radiant and smooth, the aforementioned areas were still dry and flaky. I was at a loss.

I started brainstorming yesterday in the late afternoon and remembered how I've heard a lot of people say Vaseline really helps them get rid of super-dry patches of skin. I didn't want to buy anymore things in case they didn't work so I thought a bit harder. Then, I remember that I had bought a mini tin of Lush's Ultrabalm from a very convincing sales lady (Lush sales people are simultaneously the best and the worst) about two months earlier. The mini tin was only $2 and I could bring it back in, empty, for 10% off (or something similar) the regular-sized Ultrabalm. Before bed last night, I slathered the balm on my upper-lip/under-nose area and all around my eyes.

This morning I woke up with perfectly smooth, flake-free skin. It was that simple and only took one night and $2 to fix. When I first bought Ultrabalm, it was described to me as "Lush's version of Vaseline, but without all of the crap in it and BETTER." That's exactly what it is. With an ingredient list solely of organic Jojoba oil, Candelilla wax, and Rose Wax, this is a must have for anybody with dry skin or anyone who has oily skin and discovers that their mouth is freakishly dry one day. The full size is $12.95 and a little bit goes a long way. Why are you still reading my post? GO BUY THIS SHIT.


Artist Review: Adele

I'm really just making this post because I have absolutely no idea what to write about and just want a platform where I can rave like a banshee about Adele. Before this, I spent about ten minutes trying to write a post combining science and sandwiches, but then I realized that I had no idea what I was talking about and am just really hungry/wanted to include HD pictures of sandwiches in a post. To fulfill the latter desire:

Get in mah bellay!

Now that I've been placated, let's talk about Adele. I have no idea where she came from, but it seems like I blinked my eyes and her complete discography was all over the radio and everyone and their mom knew who she was. Prior to finding the spotlight, Adele was hurt bad. I mean real bad. That, or she is extremely creative and imaginative because almost every song's message is "I love you but ow, my heart" or "You really cut me deep and now I'm going to fuck up your shit." Her voice is like an angel's wet willie and I find myself listening to her albums on repeat. I also find myself singing with her, full blast and pants-less, in my room at 1:00am on a Sunday night (Monday morning?). But that's a different story. Her single, Rolling In The Deep, sounds like Etta James or Tina Turner but BETTER (yea, I said it). I have yet to have a negative reaction to my semi-fascist force-people-to-sit-down-and-listen-to-Adele sessions.

On top of all her mad harmonious skillz, Adele is just an awesome person. She is a curvier lady who does not give a single fuck about the beauty standards of society and the pressure that is put on her in the music industry to look a certain way. Below are some of Adele's most fabulous, body-positive quotes:

FUCK. YES. Reading stuff like this makes me feel incredibly empowered as woman who constantly struggles with loving her body (don't we all?). To stand up and say stuff like this, without shaming the other women who choose to go a different, more provacative, route, takes a lot of cajones and cerebros (that's balls and brains for you non-Spanish speakers [I don't speak Spanish either. I had to ask Sam, which led to me wondering if Spanish zombies moan "Cerebrossssssss..."]). Anyway, now I'm distracted by zombie thoughts and by how many parentheses are in the previous sentence. Punctuation, y u make me sad? Moving forward, Adele is a positive role model for women everywhere to learn to love themselves, respect other women, and do what's right and comfortable for them without judging and putting down others. Behind those angelic wet willies is a woman worth listening to, both with accompaniment and without.

I think that concludes this installment of "Taylor's Unfocused And Grammatically Offensive Tirades," or as you like to call it, "http://majorstranger.blogspot.com/." To sum up everything that's been discussed, here is a picture of Adele eating a sandwich (burgers are sandwiches, right?):



After a recent conversation over dinner with my long-time friend Emily, I decided to right a post revolving around most 20-something's favorite past time: dranking. Don't get me wrong, I love the sizzurp (Am I using that wrong? Does sizzurp have to contain cough syrup?), I just think it's pretty hilarious how we spend most of our leisure time consuming something that we absolutely hate the taste of. I know what you're thinking, "But Taylor, I love beer. I'm a beer connoisseur." No, you're not. And for that matter, you're not a wine connoisseur either. You might have grown to tolerate the taste or even somewhat enjoy it through some sort of weird, semi-Pavlovian response (beer leads to fun drunk times, you like fun drunk times, therefore you now like beer). The truth is, when you put alcohol up against caramel apple lollipops, bacon cheeseburgers, or extra crispy french fries, which tastes better? Not the damn alcohol.

Think about it: we're constantly mixing booze with other things in order to make it taste less like a bitter, unwashed armpit. The only reason you put a lot of alcohol in your drink, or get excited at the bar when the drink is strong, is because you want to get fucked up. If you're like me, your father used to like to play tricks
Normal reaction to alcohol
on you involving alcohol when you were a wee babby; waiting for you to ask for a sip of his "Sprite" which he knew was gin and tonic. Remember that spicy, carbonated applejuice? That Diet Coke that tasted like bubbly nailpolish remover? That pitcher of what seemed like water in the fridge that you chugged when you were ten and then exclaimed, "WHY IS THERE GASOLINE IN THE FRIDGE?" (oddly specific)? These experiences were your first foray into drinking alcohol and man, they were brutal. Nothing much has changed since then, and the taste of alcohol certainly hasn't. What's changed is you. You now know the results of muscling down that fakey water pitcher is being able to appreciate techno music on a deeper, more wiggly level rather than standing there with your arms crossed, looking unimpressed. You are now old enough to recognize the effect that alcohol has on you and so you tolerate the fact that is tastes like spermicidal lubricant in order to get that tipsy buzz we all know and love.

You can lie about it all you want. You can tell the world your favorite drink ever is a greyhound or a car bomb. But the truth is, we all know it's chocolate milk or peppermint tea. Why? Because they taste yummy! We don't need to mix them with other things in order for them to classify as passable to our palates or put them in a 1 ounce glass and shoot them directly to the backs of our throats before our taste buds even know what's happening. Next time you go to a restaurant and someone wants to order a super-fancy bottle of wine, think about it first. It's going to taste like vinegar-soaked gym socks no matter how much it costs or what year it was made in. Unless someone else is paying, save yourself the money and buy a shitty bottle. This way, you don't have pretend it tastes superior to the other, less expensive, wine you've tried when you're really thinking "Yep! This still tastes like rotten grapes and fear!" You can scowl and make all the blehhreherghe faces you usually suppress while drinking and blame it on the fact that the wine you ordered is sub par.

All that being said, I'm getting my drank on tonight.


Be Nice

I remember being out with some friends a couple of weeks ago when we passed a young couple walking the opposite way on the sidewalk. As we passed them, they both smiled at all of us and said "You all have a wonderful night!" It was completely unprovoked and entirely refreshing in a city filled with rushing, over-crowded, scowly faces. As a group, we decided to pay those well wishes forward to the next person we saw. About a block up, we found an 300+ pound man alone on a stoop, sporting the grumpiest face I have ever seen. Simultaneously, we all shouted "You have a wonderful night!" to him. His face lit up like the 4th of July and he smiled at all of us, completely surprised, and said "You too!"

Example of how not to be.
Over the years, I have made it my personal objective to be a kinder person. I used to harbor extremely judgmental thoughts about other people, even if I didn't know them. I would verbally bring down complete strangers with a friend or two in order to feel better about myself. I'm honestly ashamed to admit this, but I'm sure there are a lot of people who used to do (or possibly still do) the same thing. I've grown up a lot since then. I've come to realize that different doesn't ever equate to bad and that if someone is happy with their self and their life, then who am I to say anything? Who am I to judge? Since learning this valuable lesson, I have been able to make new friends (and keep old ones) who are on a similar track. Many people have "toxic friends" who bring them down. I only have positive people who lift me up. Granted, sometimes you guys make me feel stabby, but you're still good people and I still love you. I don't think I would've been lucky enough to meet such an amazing, kind, open-hearted, caring boyfriend if I didn't learn to open up my own heart.

That's not to say I'm a rainbow candy unicorn to everyone in real life. I'm still sarcastic and goofy and will call you out for saying something ridiculous, like when you're drunk at the bar and think the name "Lily" has five L's in it (right Sam?). But I'll never talk you down to bring myself up. Sometimes I feel negative, judgmental thoughts creeping into my head at the end of a rough day, but I've learned to recognize them and then push them out full force. It doesn't matter to me anymore whether you're fat, thin, handicapped, black, white, deaf, big-haired, overly made-up, gay, straight, transgender, post-abortion, a jesus lover, schizophrenic; as long as you're happy and not hurting or policing anybody else, then keep doing your thing and don't let anybody bring you down.

Niceness breeds niceness. If one person does something nice for another, it can change their entire day for the better and increase their chances of doing something nice for someone else (or so I've experienced, this isn't scientific). If you can learn to quell your judgment and just be nice, you have learned more than most people have been able to grasp in their entire lifetime. One "Bless you!" (or "When you die, nothing happens," if you're an atheist) after a sneeze, two helping hands for a woman with a stroller and a toddler to help her down a flight a stairs, three extra seconds to hold a door for the person behind you, these little things make all the difference. If all of us could just be nice, just BE NICE, we could change a lot around this place, don't you think?

You all have a wonderful night.


Maybe You're Pregnant

If you're female, you have heard this suggestion at some point in your life. Sometimes it's legitimized and in response to something like "I haven't gotten my period in five months and my stomach feels like there are tiny feet playing a tiny soccer game in it." Sometimes, it's in response to mundane things that happen frequently to most of the population, including males. I'm writing this post now, on behalf of all women, to tell everyone that unless you are 100% certain that the person in question is actively trying to get knocked up, you should shut the fuck up and keep your pregnancy foreshadowing to yourself.

The future people force me to imagine.
Pregnancy would absolutely ruin my life. I am far too selfish to care for something that isn't small, furry, and poops in a portable box. If I tell you I woke up nauseous and had to stay home from work because I felt pukey all day, do not, I repeat DO NOT, tell me that it's because I'm probably pregnant. Those are nightmare words for me to hear. Sentences like that cause horrible mental imagery of me holding at least nine spitting, crying, pooping babies and looking like my soul died. They also make me incredibly paranoid. I start thinking of all the scenarios in which I could be pregnant: maybe someone replaced my birth control with certs, maybe some guy jacked off into the washing machine and then when I washed my underwear some fusion occurred, etc. (THIS CAN'T HAPPEN BUT THIS IS WHAT THE WORD "PREGNANCY" DOES TO ME). I also don't want to hear you suggest pregnancy if I've been eating like a heifer recently. Maybe I'm just hungry. Maybe I eat my feelings (I do). There are plenty of other reasons why I would be consuming everything in sight other than having a bun in the oven. Also, don't you know how rude it is to comment on how much someone is eating? News flash: it's very rude.

I love how casual the
pickle outside of the jar is.
Lastly, if you're female and love pickles THIS DOES NOT AUTOMATICALLY MEAN YOU'RE PREGNANT. I just fucking love pickles, ok? When did they become emblazoned on the metaphorical pregnancy flag? They are low calorie, satisfyingly crunchy, salty, garlicky goodness. I would like to enjoy all my pickles or be able to freely declare that I want 54 of them in my mouth at once without someone gasping and saying "maybe you're pregnant!" Maybe you're making horrible, earth-shattering assumptions that will ruin my life forever (or at least for the rest of the day). So again, on behalf of all women who eat their weight in food, get nauseous sometimes, and heart pickles; please stop convincing us that we are carrying Rosemary's baby. Thank you and good day.


Out of Creative Juices: What Squirtle Reads In The Summer And More!

So I thought long and hard (that's what she said!) about what I could write about in this post. At first, I thought I'd write about love and reminisce about that time I gave my high school boyfriend a box filled with miscellaneous candy and a bra of mine with a broken clasp for Valentine's Day and thought it was the most romantic shit ever. In retrospect, I hope one of his parents found that bra and had some cross-gender-y speculations about him. This idea was ruled out because that's really the only funny story from my past relationships that won't completely embarrass the other party (normally, I wouldn't care, but they can see this blog from my Facebook and I really don't need to remind the world about how they cried hysterically while eating ice pops that one time). I then decided that I would write about all the characters I've shared apartments with the past six years, some of whom I'm still good friends with. This idea was also vetoed because while some people may be proud that they accidentally sleep-peed in my closet, I think it's safe to assume that most people would feel profound, public shame. As a last resort, I decided to take a poll on which topic(s) I should discuss in my next post. My prayers (statuses?) were answered.

Angel vs. Riley vs. Spike
Suggestion by Lily T.

If these three words mean nothing to you, then you mean nothing to me. So who's the best man for Buffy Summers? Let's start with some pros and cons.

Angel AKA Angelus AKA Liam

♥ Out of the three suitors, he is the sexiest.
♥ He is old, wise, loyal, and strong; the most helpful boyfriend in Buffy's slaying adventures. He is known to come back to Sunnydale to help fight the bigger monsters and always has Buffy's back.
♥ A very mild-mannered vamp, Angel rarely gets into disagreements with Buffy and is usually nothing but supportive and loving.
♥ Angel is a true romantic and expresses his love for Buffy in actions, words, affection, and gifts (not going to lie, I bought myself a claddagh ring after Surprise aired).
♥ He is the sexiest.


♥ Despite being the sexiest (third time's a charm!), he can NEVER have sex. Ever. Blue lady balls forever.
♥ If he does, or if someone works the voodoo on him, he can turn into an evil version of himself (Angelus) from his soulless, vampire past. When he changes, he is an almost unstoppable evil force.
♥ Despite being on the Earth for God-knows-how-long and being a katrillion years older than Buffy, he can sometimes be extremely immature, petty, and jealous.
♥ Angel is a vampire and will therefore never be able to go out to dinner with Buffy, hang out with her during the day (unless he can repair the Gem of Amarra), and he will continue to look young and handsome while she withers and wrinkles. Hawt.
♥ Long-distance became an issue when Angel moved to Los Angeles. If they wanted to rekindle their romance, Buffy or Angel would either have to move or travel 6-7 hours every other weekend in order to see each other.

Riley Finn (no nicknames because he is THAT BORING)


♥ Human! Riley is human and this sets him apart from both Angel and Spike. He can do normal things with Buffy and have a normal life with her.
♥ He has military experience and can help Buffy fight all sorts of demons and give her access to high-tech gear.
♥ The Scooby Gang (Xander, Willow, etc.) all seem to really love Riley and have never really disapproved of their relationship. It's always important that your friends like who you're dating!
♥ I wanted to try and get five pros for each guy on here.
♥ But it's really fucking hard to think of five positive things about Riley Finn.


♥ Pussy-whipped bitch. Riley has a tendency to occasionally turn into a back-stabbing, sniveling coward.
♥ He blindly follows authority figures without questioning their motives, sometimes leading to the creation of a mutant man-robot that wreaks havoc all over Sunnydale.
♥ When the tough gets going, Riley also gets going. He isn't there to comfort Buffy and can be found in crack houses being drained by sexy lady vampires. What kind of loyalty is that?
♥ Like Angel, Riley has also been known to turn on Buffy against his will (weird army drug withdrawal?).
♥ He is currently married to a foxy spy who is his perfect match.

Spike AKA William The Bloody


♥ The British accent. Everyone with an accent is hot. It's just science.
♥ He can sing like a mofo, as proven in Once More With Feeling.
♥ Dawn will never be without a babysitter and friend. Some may consider this a bad thing because Dawn sucks and should be left alone to pass away. I agree, but unfortunately this pro/con list is from Buffy's perspective and we're choosing a man based on what's best for her.
♥ Spike used to be a shy, hopeless romantic with a penchant for poetry. This means he carries some of that with him into vampirehood and, despite his very tough exterior, can be a softy on more than one occasion (mostly when he has a soul).
♥ His sense of humor is on point; Buffy has never had a funnier boyfriend.


♥ The whole vampire thing again, can't have a normal life, blah dee blah.
♥ Spike is intensely untrustworthy and selfish. Yes, he does have his moments where he puts on a necklace and kills himself via light, but throughout most of the series he's just a douchebag to everybody.
♥ HE TRIED TO RAPE BUFFY. The argument is that he didn't have a soul at the time, but I'm not buying it. It was still him doing it.
♥ His hair is pretty fucking disgusting. Billy Idol and only Billy Idol can pull off that hard platinum head-shell.
♥ Who lives in a fucking tomb? Spike does! A cold, windowless, stony, unfeeling tomb. Is that where you want to snuggle up with your boyfriend?

So, who should win Buffy's heart? It must be obvious by now that Riley won't win shit. He just makes me want to fall asleep forever. That's right, his personality makes me want to DIE.  So for me, it's always been between Angel and Spike and I must say, in the later seasons when Angel wasn't around, I warmed up to Spike a lot. But, and this is a huge, Kim Kardashian butt, he still attempted to RAPE Buffy. Rape is serious and regardless of whether someone has changed, sought therapy, and/or acquired a soul through a series of weird physical challenges in a cave, they should never be forgiven. Spike will never be deserving of Buffy's love because of this and so for me, and many other Buffy-lovers, the clear winner is Angel.

Squirtle's Summer Reading List
Suggested by Jon C.

If you're not well-versed in the Pokéarts, you might want to read this before trying to decipher this portion of the post. Below is my best estimation for Squirtle's summer reading list. Disclaimer: Obviously, this is 100% make-believe and silly because I do not know what deranged teacher (who completely disregards reading comprehension level) would assign such books together.

  1. The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka
  2. Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen
  3. Franklin In The Dark by Paulette Bourgeois
  4. Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk
  5. Sex by Madonna
  6. The Tortoise and the Hare by Aesop
  7. Confessions of a Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella
  8. The Antichrist by Friedrich Nietzsche
  9. The Odyssey by Homer
  10. The Modern Kama Sutra: The Ultimate Guide to the Secrets of Erotic Pleasure by Kamini and Kirk Thomas

10 Things I'd Like To Do or Say To Anthony Weiner
Suggested by Mary W.

Again, if you don't know who this is or what he's been up to lately, I'd suggest taking a look here, and/or crawling out of that rock you've been living under, before reading on:
  1. Shake him like a polaroid picture.
  2. Smack him in the mouth.
  3. Ask him what on Earth he was thinking.
  4. Relax and allow him to talk to me more about his pro-choice stance.
  5. Smile as I reminisce about what he could've done for New York, then smack him again for ruining it all.
  6. Ask him if he sees the irony in his own last name being the catalyst of his downfall.
  7. Hug him. I think he needs it.
  8. Tell him he should name his unborn baby "Oscar Mayer Weiner."
  9. Ask him to explain why he was unfaithful to his pregnant wife and why he went about it in such a creepy, Ted-Bundy-with-technology way.
  10. Shake his hand, smack him one last time for good measure, and wish him luck on getting his shit in order. He needs it. Obama's not even on his side anymore.

That's it! I hope this random, suggestion-based post was good for you. It was a bit awkward for me, to be honest. I kind of want to shower now.


How To Trick Yourself Into Feeling Clean Without Actually Showering

Happy mushroom farmer
This post is loosely based off of a conversation thread or two in my favorite exclusive Livejournal community, smash_club. If you shower regularly and are the picture of hygiene, than this post obviously is not for you. If you're like me and you find yourself too exhausted from work/school/farming mushrooms/whatever to clean your own body when you get home, then read on. Please note: I'm talking about skipping a day or two every now and then. For the most part, I shower every day. Don't start spreading rumors.

Spot Wash The Important Parts

I can't believe I'm saying this (my mom reads my blog for fuck's sake), but wash your bathing suit areas. This means your junk. All of your junk. No need to go crazy because then let's face it, you might as well just hop in the damned shower. Just take a damp washcloth and go for the gold. If you're feeling especially fancy, wipe down your armpits and neck too.

Change Your Clothes

The clothes you're currently wearing have, no doubt, absorbed some of your nastiness and filth by now. Change into something crisp and clean and the cycle will start anew. The detergenty smell of the new threads is guaranteed to make you feel a little bit fresher, at least temporarily. If you're too lazy to change your outfit, at least change your draws (drawers? I'm talking undies). It will make a world of difference.

Wash Your Face And If You Have Bangs, Wash Those Babies Too

If your face and crotchbutt are clean, you will also feel clean. This is just basic biology (or is basic biology more about mitochondria and phyla and shit?). Wash your face with cool water and soap. If you have bangs, like I do, give them a good shampoo in the sink. Boom! You are squeaky, Mr. Clean clean!

Dry Shampoo Is Your Friend

Spray that shit all over your nasty hair. I'll be honest, even when I'm showering daily (again, MOST OF THE TIME), I rarely wash my hair. I like to tell people that this is because my hair is extra thick and can withstand
Marie Antionette: another fierce lady who rarely showered.
the natural oil buildup and New York City street debris. This is true, but I also push the envelope a bit when it
comes to hair hygiene. Flip your hair to one side and then spritz it with the dry shampoo layer by layer. The dry shampoo absorbs some of the oil and gives your hair a bit of fluff. This is not really too noticeable though. What it DOES do is make your hair smell like product for the day instead of like ass tacos and shame.

So Is Perfume

Everywhere. Don't make me say it again. Just spray that shit. Perfume used to cover up the fact that people didn't shower often back in the Renaissance-y days, and it can help you do that today as well.

Braid Some or All of Your Hair Into Something As Intricate As...I Don't Know...Math?

You want it out of your face and off of your neck right? Well braid it! You can french braid (if you're skilled like that, I'm not), braid yourself a headband from the hair behind your ear, make a low braid and put it all back (make sure to take this out in the evening before it turns into dreadlocks from sheer filth volume alone), braid it all up and across your head like a little milkmaid, or even braid just the front section (this is technically a twist). Everyone will compliment your steady hands and dedication because everyone fucking LOVES braids. It's a fact. Not only that, all of the hair-related compliments will make you feel less soiled and more awesome. Troof.

So those are my tips. Am I a disgusting person? Probably. Is this relevant to my current cleanliness? I don't want to tell you (is that ass taco and shame I sense?). Either way, I hope these things are helpful next time you're feeling less than fresh. And I'm sorry for all the cursing, mom.

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Germs And Worms

One leads to the other and for the past four or so years, I've been convinced that I have the latter. I told the following story on my Livejournal many moons ago and due to a recent influx in requests to retell it by my co-workers, I'm also going to retell it here.

Back in 2009, when I worked as a veterinary assistant/receptionist at a practice in Greenwich Village, I was told an interesting story by a patient of ours (or client I guess, since the patients are the animals and none of her pets were feeling especially anecdotal). She had come in for one of her cats' annual exams and I couldn't help but notice that she had lost about 30 pounds since I had last seen her. This was when I was at my heaviest, so of course, I had to know what her secret was. Here's where it gets creepy...

She had gotten extremely ill a couple of month earlier and it got to the point where she had to go to the emergency room because she couldn't stop vomiting. After a battery of tests at the hospital, the doctors decided that it would be best if they removed her gallbladder. Being very apprehensive about surgery (as most people should be) and big into holistic medicine (as most people should only somewhat be), she decided
All intestinal parasites look like
mini Beetlejuice sandworms, right?
to check into a cleansing facility and heal herself by removing whatever toxins were causing her to be ill. This facility started off the cleanse with a couple days of fasting. On her second or third day there, she went into the bathroom to do her business and when she got up, she discovered a long, white WORM in the toilet. Upon further investigation and explanation from the staff of the cleansing facility, she discovered that she pooped out a tapeworm and that it was quite a common event in that facility (can you imagine working in a place were tapeworms were the rule and not the exception?). According to them, when you don't eat anything, tapeworms often migrate down the digestive tract (closer to the colon) looking for food and will actually end up being passed with waste in search of said food. Horrified, she decided to go see a well-respected parasitologist stationed in New York City.

Upon further testing, it was determined that she had two different types of parasites in her body: one was the tapeworm which she had acquired on a recent vacation to Bora Bora and the other had been living in her body for 16 years. 16 FLIPPING YEARS. The worms were in her lungs and all throughout her body. They were causing her to be tired all of the time and, despite being an active person, hold onto 30+ pounds. They were also what was causing her to constantly vomit. She was given medication and once she finished her course and eliminated the worms from her system, she lost all of the weight in the blink of an eye. After her experience she referred three friends to the parasitologist to get tested (these friends weren't even showing any symptoms); two of them tested positive for different types of worms/parasites.

She then decided to pass some of the doctor's insight onto me and, along with the story she had already told me, scare me into a wormy panic for the rest of my natural-born life. The parasitologist estimated that over 60% of the population is hosting parasites and don't even know it. Think of all the things you touch without washing your hands, all of the food you buy from a questionable source, everything single thing you do! And there I was, having worked as a vet assistant for the past six or so months, where I rubbed puppies and kittens all over my face only to have their stool tests come back the following day positive for disgusting shit like giardia and coccidia. I was convinced that I was infected with a plethora of worms and parasites. I could actually feel them crawling around in my intestines at the very moment she finished telling me the story.

Around this time, I went on my first date with Sam. Much to his dismay, I'm sure, I gushed about how I was convinced my bowels were infested with worms over our sushi dinner (I have absolutely no internal filter). I guess he digs girls who are good hostesses (get it?!) because this coming Saturday, we've been together for a whole year. What is wrong with him?

Anyway, a couple of weeks later and after hours of online research, I ended up buying some strange black walnut and wormwood tincture that tasted like fresh butts and cement. It was rumored to be a natural dewormer and after I started taking it, every bowel movement was a terrifying gamble with fate. Was this the time I would look into the toilet and see a giant worm? Lucky for me (or unlucky for me) it never happened. At least if I would have seen a definitive worm, I would know that I didn't have them anymore. There were only two options: either I never had worms (less than a 40% chance of that!) or the tincture was ineffective. I guess the only way to know for sure is to hit up the parasitologist and explain my paranoid wormy thoughts to him. One day.


Two Truths And A Lie: The Reveal

So since there was only one response to my last post, I'm assuming most of you must've made mental lists with your answers or even jotted them in a notebook at home. There is just no way a game THIS GOOD would go unplayed. So, without further bullshit ado, here are the answers:

1. I shoved a crayon so far up my nose that I had to go to the hospital to get it removed.


To my mom's horror, she could not get the crayon out of my nose herself and had to bring me to the emergency room. Accordingly to her, I looked her square in the eyes as I slowly inserted the crayon deep into my nasal cavity. In the E.R., they had to strap me down with harnesses like something out of Girl Interrupted in order for me to stay still. They did manage to extract it though. No word on what color it was.

2. My father sneaked (I always thought the past tense of "sneak" was "snuck" but spell check is telling me NOPE) backstage at Woodstock.


My father has always been quite the slippery eel when it comes to outmaneuvering people in order to do something awesome. This time, it was making it backstage at the greatest concert of all time. He noticed someone unloading equipment near the stage, picked up something that wasn't his, and wandered backstage saying he was with the crew. That never works right? Well, it did. It also worked for the friends he was with and all of them watched the entire show from the best seats in the house. That is, until one of his friends cut open his hand and had to get air-lifted by helicopter out of Woodstock.

3. I was born in Brooklyn, New York.


My dad was born in Brooklyn, New York. I was born in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. I have dual citizenship yay!

4. I have never had the chicken pox or the chicken pox vaccine.


I did have the chicken pox vaccine and fell into the .0000001% that develops pneumonia from the vaccine. I also fell into the percentage that develops chicken pox from the vaccine. As the cherry on the itchy sundae, I was also allergic to the pneumonia medication, Biaxin, and broke out in hives everywhere (including my fucking EYELIDS). I don't know how I survived my 12th year on Earth, to be honest. I have a strong memory of thinking I was healthy enough to eat, snarfing down a container of my father's roasted peanuts, and then vomiting extremely fresh, organic peanut butter into the bathtub less than 30 minutes later. Parents are saints.

5. My aunt and uncle used to own an ostrich farm.


Yep! They had two breeding couples and would sell the eggs to a nearby restaurant and the shells to jewelry makers. I still have a hollowed-out shell that they gave me on top of my kitchen cabinets. They almost feel like porcelain. I wish I laid eggs. What am I talking about? Anyway, after a particularly harsh winter, one or two or all of the ostriches died and that was the end of that endeavor. I can say I learned three things from my visits with them during that time: ostriches do not stick their head in the ground/sand, if you put your ear up to their necks while they drink you can hear the water going down, and you never want to see ostriches breed up close and in real life. Trust me.

6. I can speak four languages, including English, French, Spanish, and Russian.


Yea, right. Like I'm that wordly. I speak English, a bit of French (enough to get me a bathroom, a snack, a drink, and a friend if I were lost in France), and Pig Latin.

7. I used to weigh about 200 pounds.


All those cheeseburgers and spoonfuls of Nutella eventually do catch up with you. At 5'7", I topped the scale at 196 pounds my senior year at NYU and my Wii Fit categorized me as right smack on the line between "Overweight" and "Obese," if I remember correctly. Due to my intense fear of the line tipping over into "Obese" and me hitting the 200 pound mark, I decided it was time to lose weight and start being healthier. I started counting my calories every day using one of the many websites available, eating lots of fruits, vegetables, lean meats, and whole wheat carbohydrates, and eliminating snack foods such as french fries, candy, chips, chocolate and basically everything that I loved (don't get me wrong, I did let myself have these things sometimes, but I didn't make it a habit). I also used my Wii Fit for exercise in the beginning until I was in need of more of a challenge. At that point, I switched to running 2-3 miles daily and then when that got that old and it got cold, I switched to Jillian Michaels' 30-day shred. As of right now I weigh 135 pounds. I still eat the same way as I did when I started my "diet" but I don't need to input my calories into a website anymore (it's all tallied up in the ol' noodle). It was a lifestyle change for me, but not everyone would benefit from this. If you're 5'7" and 200 pounds and you feel happy and healthy, then more power to you! I didn't and so I had to make some changes. I still eat like a monster every now and then though.

8. My dad drummed for a Billboard Top 100, Number 2 song.


My dad is a recording engineer and when he was sitting in on a session and ~learning the ropes~ from a more experienced engineer, the band's drummer didn't show up. Having played drums for most of his youth and dropped out of college to play drums in a band, my father was able to sit in and play for them on the recording. He's not credited for the track anywhere and we certainly do not get any royalties for it (IF ONLY), but you may know it:

9. I hate all bugs and immediately kill them when I find them in my apartment/personal space.


I heart bugs and I never kill them when I find them in my apartment. Usually, I will place a cup or glass on the wall or floor that they're crawling on, slide a piece of paper over the top to trap them in the cup/glass, and release them safely outside.

10. I am half Chinese, a quarter Native American, and a quarter English.


I am not one of those nationalities. My heritage can be summed up by the following drink:

White Russian

11. I have a scar on my upper thigh from riding my bike too slowly.


Unfortunately for Sam, this is why I'm so unwilling to go on whimsical bearded hipster Brooklyn bike rides with him. That, and when my bangs blow back I look exactly like Joe Dirt. How does one get so severely injured from riding too slowly, you ask? Well, first of all, if anyone would, it would be me. Second of all, I just let the bike slowly tip over onto the ground and didn't dismount. I don't know if I was distracted by a Backstreet Boys song or something (I was 10) when it started to tip over, but when I hit the ground, some sharp, evil part of the bike went right into my leg and cut a hole (BONE DEEP) that required ten stitches. Yum.

12. My mom is a blonde republican.


My dad is a salt and pepper republican. My mom is a blonde democrat (naturally a brunette democrat). Thank God one of my parents has some political sense.

So, who should win the prize of nothing? I hope everyone had fun learning a bit more about me and the nonsense that is my life. Maybe you already knew me but didn't know any of these things. Now you'll mention it in conversation next time I see you and I'll get all freaked out because you obviously creep me on the internet. Just kidding, I'll play it cool.


Two Truths And A Lie: The Presentation

Everyone knows this game. It's on the list of silly icebreakers that you're forced to participate in when it's your first team meeting at a brand new job or you've just moved into your dorm and the whole floor decides to get together and go ice skating in Central Park where you clutch the hand rail for dear life the entire time and look like Bambi when he walks onto that frozen lake (oddly specific). I've decided to amp it up a bit so that my followers/readers/subscribers/whatever the fuck you guys are called can get to know me on a more intimate level. And what better way to do that than by lying to all of you? So, without further ado, can you guess which of the following facts about me, my family, and my life are true and which are false? The winner gets nothing!

1. I shoved a crayon so far up my nose that I had to go to the hospital to get it removed.

2. My father sneaked (I always thought the past tense of "sneak" was "snuck" but spell check is telling me NOPE) backstage at Woodstock.

3. I was born in Brooklyn, 
New York.

4. I have never had the chicken pox or the chicken pox vaccine.

5. My aunt and uncle used to own an ostrich farm.

6. I can speak four languages, including English, French, Spanish, and Russian.


7. I used to weigh about 200 pounds.

8. My dad drummed for a Billboard Top 100, Number 2 song.

9. I hate all bugs and immediately kill them when I find them in my apartment/personal space.

10. I am half Chinese, a quarter Native American, and a quarter English.

11. I have a scar on my upper thigh from riding my bike too slowly.

12. My mom is a blonde republican.

So those are the fact (or are they?). Make your guesses now because tomorrow I will be revealing which of these are truths and which are lies. If you know me personally and I have told you one of these things (Sam, Aparna) or you are one of the people I'm talking about (hi, mom!), then keep your trap shut and don't ruin my life.


Dressing Like Lonely Tourist Charlotte Charles All Day, Errrday

I had completely forgot about how amazing Pushing Daisies was is until Sam and I started watching it on Netflix yesterday (it's his first time and while the narrator and general whimsy ground his gears when he watched the pilot, I think he's slowly becoming obsessed). What's even more amazing than the kitschy plot and vibrant candy colors are the characters' wardrobes. I find myself most drawn to Charlotte "Chuck" Charles' character's clothing choices: bubblegum pink dresses, monochromatic outfits, hyperbolic accessories, 50s/60s-inspired looks, and overall über-feminine shapes. Everything she wears just looks so rich and fancy without being over-the-top and costumey. Plus, her look lands her Lee Pace, and who wouldn't want that thick-eyebrowed, long-eyelashed sexpot?

So, how does one get this look without spending a fortune? One word: Etsy. If your budget is a bit higher than mine (my dress maximum tops out at like $30), you'll be rolling in thousands of choices. Simply search 50s or even 60s in the "Dress" subcategory under "Clothing" under "Vintage," and scroll away. Feel free to adjust your price min and max or even sort from lowest to highest price in order to get the best deals. Here are some details to look for:

Bright Colors - The more vibrant the better! Focus on bold blues/aquas, grassy greens, bubblegum pinks, bright sunny yellows/oranges, hot reds, and true purples. Chuck also wears prints and pastels sometimes so really you just need to avoid "dull" colors such as browns, whites, blacks, and beiges (unless they are included in a pattern).
Monochrome - Chuck is very fond of wearing the same color from head to toe but varying it by a couple of shades. This means pairing canary yellows with mustard yellows and baby pinks with melons. Be creative!
Feminine Shapes - Cinched waists, full skirts, hourglass shapes. You want your dress to be tight at the top with an interesting neckline, fit at the waist, and then end in a full skirt (if you can pull off a shift dress [I absolutely cannot] you can also look for that shape). Most Etsy sellers include the dress measurements at the bottom so do your best to choose a dress that matches your bust and waist size almost exactly.
Understated Details - Ornate detailing is also important, but not necessary. If all else fails, get a simple shirt dress (like Chuck's in the bottom right panel). If you're feeling a bit more ambitious, go for items that have some crochet work, beading, lace detail, and even eyelets. Keep it simple though: these details are only accents and should not cover the entire dress.
Eye-Catching Accessories - When you're ready, feel free to search for some accessories to pair with your dress. You want to focus on oblong hats, funky rounded and cat eye sunglasses, basic flats and heels, and flower and bow-adorned headbands/hair ties (the bigger, the better).

If you're not into scouring Etsy, you can check out stores like Asos, Zara, Modcloth, Anthropologie, or Dorothy Perkins (H&M would probably work out too, but they don't have a U.S. website, jerks). If you click on the store names, I have already pre-selected a Lonely Tourist-friendly dress from each site! Also, pants, skirts, shorts, and shirts are not off-limits. Just remember to follow the above rules and you can really make any piece into a Chuck-worthy creation.

And in case you're wondering how I channeled Chuck today (with limited clothing options, mind you), here's a polyvore of what I'm wearing right this very moment:

I know I know, It's not ideal, but I worked with what I had. Do note that the yellow top is a brighter, more pastelly yellow than the photo is letting on. Also note that I am in no way a fashion blogger or fashionista. I can barely dress myself 97% of the time and end up defaulting to a slouchy/over-sized shirt and jeans. Anyway, have fun! And whatever you do, don't touch any pie-makers.


Going To The Gynecologist

If you're a prissy man who can't handle the thought of what goes on behind the doors of an OB/GYN, then turn around now. You're the same type of guy who goes "ewwww" when a girl even says the word "period," regardless of whether you're in English Grammar And Punctuation 101 with her or not. These are human bodies. Many mammals menstruate (overtly or covertly) but they can't go to the Gyno for obvious reasons (even though I'd love to see a hedgehog get a pap smear). Anyway, to those men, peace out and grow up.

Yesterday, I went to the Gyno (or cervix goblin, as I like to call them) for my annual exam. I had forgotten what a hoot it was (this comment is dripping with sarcasm)! It was my first appointment at this practice (I had recently decided to switch because my old Gyno was disappointingly run like a sweat clinic [hybrid of a
House M.D.
sweat shop and a clinic]). Either way, this was exciting because I got to sit down with Dr. Pilshchik and answer the intake questions (my favorite part). Do I smoke and drink? Sometimes. Do I have a boyfriend? Yes. Do I have AIDS? No. What am I allergic to? Biaxin and Benzoyl Peroxide. What happens when I use them? Gross hive-y things. Finally, she got to the last question: Do I have any pets? I love talking about my bunny and my cat, as you can tell. However, I'm a little fuzzy on what either of them have to do with my vagoo. My manager at work told me it probably is some Toxoplasmosis-related foresight if I were to get pregnant in the future (PLEASE NO, knock on ALL the wood). I honestly still have no clue why she asked me but again, it was a chance to gush about House M.D. and Shadow, so I didn't mind.

Me and my Shadow
At this point she brought me into the exam room where I got a pap smear and had my ovaries tickled and smushed (the scientific way to check for cysts). Let me just say now that pap smears suck every time. I don't even think I'd enjoy them if I was given an avocado and a glow stick to distract me during the procedure. That, and the stirrups are the most awkward things ever; they just make me feel so vaginally equestrian. Overall it was a quick, thorough, and satisfying (not like that) visit. If I were rating my Gyno on Amazon.com, she would get five stars.

On the off chance that there is some sort of virtual suggestion box for all OB/GYNs out there, I'd like to advise possibly finding another way to smear my pap that doesn't involve so much pinching and pulling. Also, why don't you cervix goblins sell sex toys? After all, this is a women's health facility, right? I feel like it would be extremely profitable for both parties if there was a room in the practice that was devoted to explaining and selling sex toys. What do you think? Am I out of line? Sam seems to think so, as he likened it to Proctologists selling butt plugs and Podiatrists selling foot fetish paraphernalia. I think I'm onto something though.


Why You Should Never Elect My Father For President

My father isn't a bad person. He's had some life struggles and a big chunk of his adolescence involved copious experimentation with a smorgasbord of drugs (I once asked him which drugs he hadn't tried, to which he respond, "Well, I never tried cocaine"). Sometimes I think that pieces of his brain disintegrated entirely somewhere between 1963 and 1978. In my childhood, I knew him as a lonely, bipolar alcoholic who, for obvious reasons, wasn't the best parent. But a lot has changed since I was a kid (such as being prescribed medication and kicking the sauce) and in the past couple of years, we've actually developed a somewhat friendly and stable relationship. Plus, he does one of the best Jerry Lewis impersonations I've ever seen.

Last night I went to dinner with my dad for the first time in a couple of months. We went to my favorite spot, Friend House, and he tried Pad See Ew for the first time in his life. We chatted about our jobs, my roommates (if you're reading this, you guys suck rule), our respective significant others (hi, Sam), and many other things. We even reminisced about that time I tried to add him as my father on Facebook and he rejected it twice and then, when I finally sent him a message asking him why, he responded with "Maybe I'm not." Dark, no? It wasn't until the topic switched over to politics that I was clutching my proverbial pearls.

And here's why:

♥ My dad is a tea-partier. I really don't need to expand on this.
♥ He thinks that the couple who recently decided to raise their children in a gender-free household should be sterilized, sent to jail, and have their kids taken away by Child Protective Services. These were his exact words.
♥ After ranting for a bit about how he believes that the government should have very little involvement in everything, I dared to ask him how he feels about abortion (my question was inspired by this Anthony Weiner video). First, he asked if his response could come with some sort rule set that he feels is morally accurate. I said absolutely not. By now you probably guessed that he did that anyway. My father's view on abortion is that he "is pro-choice as long as stupid girls don't repeatedly use if for birth control while places like Planned Parenthood pay for it free of charge with our tax money." I told him that this doesn't happen as often as he seems to think it does and that any instance of this is a reflection on the government's inability to provide proper sex education and resources to young women (especially in lower-income areas). You will
My dad: looks harmless, right?
see here and here, that no abortion at Planned Parenthood is free or paid for with taxes, but you probably already know that. I shared this with my father too. Unfortunately, it remained unabsorbed.
♥ Next, we decided to delve into gay marriage. What can I say? I needed to know. My dad thinks that committed homosexual couples should have the same rights as committed heterosexual couples but it should not be called "marriage." According to him, this is because "marriage" is defined as being between a man and a woman. I asked him if he meant that his argument was one about preserving sanctity. He said yes. I cited drunk, drive-through weddings in Las Vegas that get annulled the next day (think Britney Spears) as not preserving sanctity but still being legal. He said that that's just "goofing around." I asked him why we can't change the definition of marriage since our society is growing and changing from what it once was when these definitions were set in place. He said that if we change it to include LBGT people, what's next? Bestiality? Pedophilia? I told him that it was disgusting to even compare gay marriage to those things considering they are non-consenting and that by saying gay couples cannot call it "marriage" and cannot use the same terms as straight couples, is saying that they are unequal to straight couples. He said that these rules/definitions were founded upon Judeo-Christian morals and that everyone should respect these religions and follow their guidelines. I brought up the point that many Jewish movements support gay marriage and that other religions do not have to respect or follow any other religion's guidelines since this is a country that is supposed to separate church and state and uphold freedom of religion. He scoffed. For the record, my father isn't even religious.
♥ Finally, as the icing on the cake, he told me that he can't wait to stop working at his job because of how "ghetto" the students are. I would bet my life that what he meant to say was "black."

My co-worker, Scott, suggested that I should take his TV away from him. I concur. That, or I should just permanently block FOX News. I guess it just boggled my mind to actually know someone who believed, in earnest, all of these wackadoodle things I hear spouted from intolerant, right-wing mouths in the media. I wish there was a way to change my dad's mind and believe me, I've really tried to. You can't teach an old dog new tricks though, and 64 is REALLY old in dog years.