Escape from IKEA – Choose Your Own Adventure

If you read my site, then you know that I’m a bit obsessed with 80’s pop culture. One thing I loved in the 80’s was choose your own adventure books. I actually loved them so much, I created one for the George Zimmerman jury selection. It’s a bit dated, but it’s still available for playing here.

But I recently had an experience at IKEA. While the IKEA experience is a bit intimidating, it also occurred to me that it makes a pretty good quest. And swashbuckling adventurer that I am, I can enjoy a good quest.

Which is why I attempted to buy a desk from them. Luckily, I just barely managed to escape from IKEA alive, but can you? Test your knowledge below by playing;

Escape from IKEA! – A Choose Your Own Adventure Rip-Off (with more swearing)

Today is a day for bravery. Today is a day for courage. Today, you will put down that remote, you will get in your car. You will buy a computer desk for your son from IKEA.

This is something that you’ve been putting off for awhile. This is for good reason. There are few places more feared than an IKEA in Orlando, Florida on a Saturday afternoon.  IKEA has this amazing ability to drive even the most even tempered person to murder. Entire families have broken up over simple trips to IKEA on a Saturday. People have been scarred for life.

You ever have this dream? You’re walking down a hallway, trying to get to the end. You can see the end, but the closer you get to it, the further it gets away. Every time you’re just about to reach it, it slides just out of reach.

Yeah, that’s kind of the design concept IKEA was built on. But today, you will do what needs to be done. So you brave the I-4 traffic and you finally make it to the Orlando IKEA.

Your bravery pales a bit when you see the parking lot.  It’s a lot like a parking lot right before a game at Yankees stadium, with significantly more Cuban people.

As you cruise the parking lot, you realize that parking is limited. You;

Park illegally

Park like 12 miles away and walk

Fuck this, you’re going home to watch reality TV

Bullying – An Overused Phrase That is Losing All its Meaning

Today, I saw a news story about a breastfeeding mom who received a letter from her school’s principal. Apparently, this woman had been breastfeeding her six-month-old in a middle school in Utah while participating in some ‘free meals’ program. The principal gave her a letter asking her to discontinue the practice.



I’ve never commented on the breastfeeding debate because I never did it myself. After I had my kid, I was way too pumped up on Fen-Fen and Ephedra to consider breastfeeding. Plus, after 9 months of sharing my body with another human, I decided I wanted it to be just mine again. I regret nothing.

But here’s the deal, I’m actually not ok with you breastfeeding in front of my 12-year-old. Yes, I know it’s beautiful and natural and everyone should bow at the knees of the almighty breastfeeding mother, but my son doesn’t think that when you pop out your boob in public.

I’m pretty sure all he thinks is “Holy shit! Tits! Tits! Tits!”

Call me a prude if you want, but I think it should be my right to decide when I need to explain breastfeeding to my son. Like it or not, in this country, breasts are private parts. This is why I’m not allowed to wander around topless.

So yes, I think people should make an effort to make breastfeeding at least semi-private (i.e. not in a room full of children). I mean Jesus, I need to sign a permission slip for my kid to go to Sex-Ed, but he can see nipples in his cafeteria? You’re fucking kidding, right?

That does not make me a bully. It doesn’t make me a prude. It makes me a parent who wants the right to explain the whole birds and bees (and yes tits are part of that) to my kid in my own way. Not because you feel like popping out a nip in the middle of a busy middle school cafeteria. Yes, I get you have your rights as a parent, but what about my rights as a parent? Does me wanting to exercise my rights as a parent by teaching him about certain things on my own time really make me a bully?

Because the nicely worded letter that the mother was given was immediately labeled as ‘bullying’ by the media.

Bullying is not a catch all phrase that you’re allowed to use against everyone that disagrees with you. Bullying is to “use superior strength or influence to intimidate (someone), typically to force him or her to do what one wants.”

The principal was making a respectful request. Whether you disagree with that request or not, it was a request. It wasn’t bullying. In fact, the mom taking the letter to the news in order to intimidate the principal into taking it all back actually fit the definition of bullying a lot more. Let’s be honest, the second that shit went viral, I’m pretty sure that school started getting hate mail left and right.

So who’s the real victim here? The woman who was given a private letter, respectfully asking that she not breastfeed in front of children whose parents whose might be uncomfortable with it? Or the woman who started the fire storm by taking that letter to the media and creating a witch hunt?

We’re using every fucking disagreement as an excuse to scream bullying. We’re using bullying to crush free speech. Hell, I see authors with bad reviews calling those people who left bad reviews bullies. Apparently, if you and someone else share a different opinion, one of you is a bully.

Usually, the bully is the one whose opinion differs from the masses. Then, the ‘victim’ uses that as an excuse to bully their own alleged bully.

It’s getting a bit fucking ridiculous. Our witch hunts for bullies are creating more bullies than ever actually existed.

I’m allowed to feel how I feel. I mean Jesus, KKK members are allowed to hold parades in this country and the ACLU supports them, but I can’t say I’m uncomfortable with public breastfeeding in front of my kid without being labeled a bully?

People will always have differing opinions, and sometimes those opinions will be unpopular. I am the current holder of an unpopular opinion and yes, I will share that opinion. That doesn’t make me a bully. I’m not trying to intimidate anyone or hurt their feelings. I’m simply saying I don’t think they’re right. Expressing my opinion does not make me a bully.

It makes me an American adult who is allowed to express her opinions…you know, that whole free speech thing.

Well, here’s my free speech. Your boobies in my son’s lunch plate do not make me think ‘wow, what a miracle.” Instead, it makes me explain things to my child that I would rather not explain to him, because he’s only friggen twelve.

I’e. my son would like to know why it’s not ok for a girl to flash her titties in a “Girls Gone Wild” video but it’s ok to do it when she’s in his cafeteria.

Anyone else was to field this one for me?

It is not my job to change the world’s opinion on breasts.  The fact is, right here in America, they are private parts. You can’t put them on TV, you can’t put them on a billboard, so why the fuck is it ok to put them in a kid’s cafeteria?

It does not make me a bully to mention my concern about the subject. It just makes me a concerned parent who has the right to parent how she feels fit.

That does not make me a bully. That just makes me a woman who disagrees with you. Deal with it.

Everything Gives You Cancer

My dog likes popsicles. Specifically, my dog likes grape popsicles, but she only really likes them if you hold them for her while she licks them. If you put the popsicle down even for a second, she gets bored and she stops licking.

My point is this; my dogs’ obsession with popsicles is a lot like the American public’s obsession with the media. We all suck it up as long as someone is spoon feeding us the information, but the second we’re expected to do anything for ourselves, we lose all interest.

Case in point; everything gives you cancer.

In the ten years I’ve been online, I’ve been sent about 7000 messages indicating some innocuous thing like number two pencils or pork barbeque was going to give me cancer. This mass panic works. People share the message. They comment on the message.

They all get together and lick the giant purple popsicle.


Warning: This photo will probably give you cancer.

Here’s the truth people. EVERYTHING gives you cancer. When I was in the Germany, I joined a debate class mainly out of boredom, but also to get out of work details. I was only auditing, but I was still given the opportunity to make a speech when Spring finals came.

My speech was entitled ‘the benefits of smoking’ and I pissed a lot of people off.   I pointed out the decline of obesity rates in smokers and I pointed out the positive economic impact of smoking. When people argued cancer statistics, I came up with some statistics of my own.

Specifically, in a free thought poetry format I named about 400 chemicals, that you will find everyday in products in your house, that will give you cancer. Not making this up. Email me if you want the list.

After that, everybody shut up, not just because of my mad, mad lyrical skills, but also because everyone knows the Germans can’t rap.

The truth is that cancer isn’t that complicated. It is nothing more than cells multiplying at maximum pace. Once they multiple fast enough, they go from ‘calcifications’ to tumors. How do you get those cells to multiple? Constant friction.

You ever rub your hands together real fast and little rolly balls of skin start to come off? That’s pretty much the explanation of cancer, only it’s happening inside your body where you can’t control it. Much like constant friction on the inside of an oyster will create a pearl, constant friction on the inside of a human body will give you cancer.

So yes, everything will give you cancer. Hell, if I rubbed a strawberry under my left armpit long enough I’m sure I would eventually get cancer. Because the formula for cancer is surprisingly simple. Constant friction results in frequent cell turnover, but when that friction tells cells they need to turn over faster, they start creating new cells.

And abracadabra…cancer.

But cancer, no matter how simple, is still sexy. It’s still news. Those news stations want you to tune in so you can see how your air fresheners, your carpet clearer and your box of California raisins are all toxic. After all, imminent death is news worthy. The results of friction aren’t.

Everything gives you cancer. If it hasn’t yet, it will soon. But I don’t panic and I don’t argue. Instead, I start rubbing another strawberry under my armpit and I say “I’ll see you in hell bitches.”

Because if everything can give you cancer, then there’s really nothing left to avoid, now is there?

Citizen of the World

You never really wind up where you thought you’d be. I think that’s kind of the whole meaning of life.

But if I could freeze frame a moment in time, I would freeze frame this. Me and Sara sitting on the hood of her car, at Jericho pond outside of Berlin New Hampshire. We passed a joint back and forth. I told her I was gonna be a famous writer. She told me that she was going to marry the trophy husband to end all trophy husbands.

What can I say? It was Berlin New Hampshire; our dreams were small.

Less than half an hour later, our idyllic haze was lifted by the entrance of Sara’s boyfriend. I was left behind with Sara’s bitter friend, Jesse.

Jesse yakked about his ability to steal car stereos for about 20 minutes straight, while I tried to look interested. I mean, how hard is it to steal a car stereo? See car…insert screwdriver. Done. It’s hardly rocket science.

But then Jesse started yakking about his big city dreams. At one point, he looked over at me and he said. “Nah, you don’t get it. You’re a hick. You were born to be a hick. You’ll never get out of Berlin, New Hampshire.”

Rest assured, I wasn’t offended. By the time I was 18, I learned what it was like to be the smartest person in the room, when your room was filled with a bunch of Forest Gumps with no ambition. I knew that people not as bright as me resented me and I wasn’t that impressed by anyone’s ability to steal a car stereo. Hell, a monkey with a screwdriver could do that.

But it got me wondering, what about having small town aspirations is so bad? What if I had decided to stay in Berlin New Hampshire? What if I had decided to carve out a life for myself in a town that boasts less than 10,000 residents? Would that mean I gave up? That I didn’t think I could hack it in a city?

Nope. I’m going to go ahead and disagree with that one.

Both types present their own form of challenges. In a city, you live with an anonymous past and you try to find a way to make yourself stand out from the crowd. In a small town, everyone knows your past and you try to find a way to get the people there to forget about the things you’ve done.

Now, I’ve acclimated myself to a lot of cities and I’ve acclimated myself to a lot of small towns, but I always found those small towns the hardest to break into. Because when you become part of a small town, it’s almost like marrying into a family. Sure, you’re technically a part of it thanks to some legality, but you can’t really become part of it but for the approval of the people.

In a big city, I show up, I pay my rent and no one gives a fuck. But also, no one gives a fuck if I’m dead in my apartment for 3 days while my dog eats my face.

You give a little, you get a little.

I have a friend. I have a really sweet friend who once told me, “I don’t care about money. I don’t care about love. I just want to find a home.” Then, after that inspirational statement, she vomited on my shoes and passed out on the floor.

City living at its best.

That was when I realized, you don’t really need to choose one or the other. You can make friends in a city as easily as you could make friends in a small town. What matters is your perspective. You get what you put in.

So I’m not a small town girl, nor am I a big city girl. I’m simply a citizen of the world.

That day, Jesse was right. He wasn’t right in calling me a hick. I had an IQ at least 40 points higher than his and I also knew that stealing a stereo didn’t mean shit if you didn’t take the base box with you, but he was right about one thing.

I didn’t really belong anywhere. I saw the cities and the small towns for their flaws and I never looked deeper. I went from place to place and avenue to avenue trying to find a home, when I should have known that home was right in front of me.

I’m a citizen of the world. I blend seamlessly into it because I know that I’m not that important. Every now and then I do something that matters. Every now and then, I say something that matters, but I don’t say it on behalf of any given place.

I say it for me and I say it because it needs to be said. I would have said it regardless of whether I lived in a big city or a small town.

Where you live is not an accomplishment. If by an accident of your birth, you were born in New York City or Kenosha Wisconsin, you’re not special. You’re not special until you do something that makes you special.

You know when I became special? It happened on a hot summer night, sitting on the hood of my friend Sara’s car up at Jericho Park in a tiny little town that no one gives a shit about.

I picked a lofty dream, despite the fact that I had small town roots and I made that dream happen. But when it did, it wasn’t about where I came from. I could have been born in a small town and I could have born in a big city. Either way, the results would have been the same. I would have grabbed the world by the nut sack and I would have made it do what I told it to do.

So I’m not a city girl and I’m not a small town chick. I’m simply a citizen of the world. I’m a citizen of the world because I know this.

It isn’t about where you came from. It’s about where you go.

Tips for Writing a Young Adult Novel

As you all know, I like to delve into various writing styles. I write in everything from technical non-fiction, to pulp novels to erotica. But there is one area I have never tried out before…until now.

If we’ve learned anything from Stephenie Meyer or Jaime McGuire, writing young adult romance is a fucking goldmine! If they can do it, why can’t I?

And why can’t you for that matter? As I was researching into this, I found many of the following common themes that I am going to use to make me a quadrillionaire.

So here are my tips for writing a shitty young adult novel that will have readers banging down your door for more. Then, you can cash in again by writing the same story from the heroes point of view.

Essa’s Tips for Writing a Shitty Young Adult Novel

  1. Your heroine must be beautiful, but she must have no idea that she’s beautiful To underline this lack of confidence, she should regularly trip over her own feet and she must dress like a bag lady…right up until her gay BFF gives her a makeover.
  2. She must have a gay BFF. Gay BFFs have three benefits. Number one, they show other girls how trendy we are. Number two, they show boys that other boys like us. Number three, those straight boys won’t be intimidated because our gay BFF isn’t competition. Because god forbid a chick be friends with a guy who is straight.
  3. The boy must qualify as a bad boy, but he also must be redeemable. See, in real life, these high school bad boys with the tattoos and the muscles spend all their time being tough and cool, instead of getting good grades and applying for colleges. After high school, these bad boys trade in their motorcycles for jobs pumping gas and peddling small amounts of weed to local teenagers. At night, they become ‘that creepy old dude’ at the high school kid’s parties. But in the novel world, the bad boy is secretly a genius who only needed the love of a good woman to set him on the right track.
  4. All the other girls in your book, aside from the kooky, weirdly overprotective best friend, are sluts and bitches who want nothing more than the leading man. Actually, every single woman on the planet should be obsessed with the leading man, even the lesbians. Because lesbians don’t exist in the young adult world. Only sluts, bitches and the kooky best friend exist.
  5. Never underestimate the power of exclamation points! Exclamation points make everything more exciting! Why describe how exciting something is when you can just phone it in with punctuation!
  6. Every man on the planet who isn’t the leading man is a nefarious, evil stalker who will eventually attempt to rape the female lead…if she hasn’t been raped already. Because there is nothing more romantic than a graphic attempted rape scene in novel aimed at young adults.
  7. The hero must commit several felonies to prove his love for the heroine, up to and including; beating the shit out of any guy who dares talk to the heroine, kidnapping the heroine, breaking into her house or repeatedly stalking her. These same crimes would usually be creepy if an ugly guy did it, but the hero gets away with it because he’s hot.
  8. When in doubt, also make the bad boy a vampire or werewolf…fuck it, make him a werewolf/vampire/pirate.

All right people, I’ve got to get to work on this. I’m estimating I can churn out one book like this a week for the foreseeable future. After that, all there is left to do is count my money.

Easy, Breezy…How About a Dose of Reality?

Today, something that most people call inspiring kind of set me off. Specifically, it’s the new Cover Girl, “Girls Can” campaign.

There are so many things I hate. I hate peas and cold weather. I hate fan fiction. I hate Kirk Cameron, the Taliban and people who clap when the plane lands.

But above all, I hate being patronized.

In case you haven’t seen this ‘inspiring’ new gem, it features a group of female celebrities, who normally, I don’t hate. These ladies spend the entire commercial talking about how hard it is to reach the top as a woman in music, business, and a whole host of other industries that are apparently allergic to vaginas.

This is all done for a campaign for a make-up company.

Now look, I’m not one of those chicks who hates make-up. I rarely wear it, because I can’t find a color scheme that matches my sweatpants, but I don’t hate it.

What I hate is that an industry that is completely dependent on making women feel like they’re not good enough unless they’re pretty has the balls to jump on the “girl power” train. What I hate is that a company that claims to be so women focused has a board of directors that’s 60% male.

I hate being patronized and I had the phrase ‘girl power’ or anything to do with ‘empowering woman’ because I find it entirely patronizing.

Nothing makes me want to smack a chick in the chops more than the phrase “girl power.” It’s usually spewed out after a bunch of shots of Jose Cuervo, after said girl just got dumped and has decided to “give up on men” and “just focus on me for awhile”.

Even though I give an agreeable smile and down my own shot, I get annoyed. Why?

Ladies, ask yourself this? Has a man ever done this? Has any dude you’ve even known shouted out ‘boy power” as he downs a shot and said that he didn’t care about picking up, he just wants to focus on himself? No?

Hold on while I recover from my shock.

Ladies, straight up; it’s patronizing. While you’re shrieking out ‘girl power’ you’re making it clear that you had no power of your own to begin with. When you say, “I’m just gonna focus on me,” you’re indicating that you weren’t before. And I know, two months from now, no matter how much ‘focusing on you’ you’re trying to do, you’ll have some unemployed douche bag living on your couch because you’re afraid of dying alone.

Because you’re not powerful. You’re just using a phrase that rich white dudes came up with to sell lipstick.

People who are actually powerful never have to tell others that they’re powerful. It’s obvious from their actions. When woman who are powerful say “I succeeded despite the fact that I’m a woman,” they’re not taking a stand for feminism. They’re simply making it sound like there’s something wrong with being a woman.

And when they start saying dumb shit like ‘girl power’ and ‘girls can!’ it sounds a lot to me like of case of protesting too much. It’s patronizing.

The fact is, some girls can’t. Just like boys, some girls are stupid and lack talent and would have never made it to begin with. It’s not because they’re girls. It’s just because they suck.

And yelling ‘girl power’ and ‘girls can’ all night isn’t going to change that, no matter how many celebrities you stick in your ads.

4th of July – You Need to Earn the Right to be Proud

In a few minutes, I’m going to go outside, light something on fire and shoot my gun up into the air. No, not because it’s 4th of July. Mainly, because it’s Friday and I’ve been day drinking since noon.

I like being American. I like being American because America is me. America is a good looking, aggressive, capitalist loving, loud-mouthed country that loves talking shit. It frequently gets into fights for no reason, and gets itself involved in fights that are none of its business. It tells others what to do, despite that fact that it’s a broke, substance abusing mess. It never admits it’s wrong and when something makes it really mad, it blows something up.

I’m pretty sure that is how most of my friends would describe me. I’m super glad that I was lucky enough to be born in a country that I have so much in common with.

But I’m not ‘proud to be an American.” To me, being proud actually indicates you did something to earn that pride. Being born an American was a lucky accident of my birth. I didn’t earn being an American. It was given to me by the benevolent flying spaghetti monster. For that I’m grateful.


But I’m not proud.

I’m proud of my novels. I’m proud of the time I served in the military. Hell, I’m proud of the fact that I can tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue. I earned those things because I worked for them, so I am proud of them.

I wouldn’t say that I’m proud to be white or proud to be blond. Those were genetics. I had nothing to do with that. Am I glad? Hell yeah! I can’t dance and I could never get one of those complicated handshakes down. I really wouldn’t be able to pull off being black and I’m not sexy enough to be Hispanic. So I’m glad to be white, but I’m not proud to be white.

And I’m not proud to be an American.

Ironically, the people who actually deserve the right to claim they are proud to be Americans are the ones who get bitched at the most for being here in the first place.


The people that crawl through the desert in the dead of night to get past the border, or pay their life savings to arrive in someone’s trunk should be proud. The people that come here on makeshift life rafts, paddling their way across an ocean that is more likely to kill them than help them deserve to be proud. The people who come here seeking asylum because they spoke out against their own country’s corruption and crimes against humanity deserve to be proud. The people who have to study for and take a citizenship test that most of us born-and-bred Americans couldn’t pass deserve to be proud.

Those people wanted to be here enough to risk their lives for it. They faced imprisonment for it and they gave up everything for it, including their wealth and families. Who does that remind me of?

Oh yeah, these guys.


Yes, I’m pro-immigration and pro-open borders, and it’s not just because of my love of Hispanic pool boys. It’s because if someone cares enough to come here, whatever the risk, I think they deserve to be here.

“E pluribus Unum” isn’t just some silly Latin phrase on our money. It means something. Specifically, it means “out of many, one.”

It was the original endorsement for immigration and it was made when this country first started, when people actually had to struggle and fight to be here and to make this our country….and also kill a fuckload of Native Americans, but I’m going to go ahead and gloss over that one in honor of the holiday.

Those people were proud Americans and the people that fight to be here are proud Americans.

But I’m not a proud American. I am a very lucky girl who was born 3 hours south of the Canadian border. I could have just as easily been Canadian…and I’m a fuckload of glad I wasn’t. I’m far too rude to be Canadian.

So happy 4th, from one glad American, who was lucky enough to be born in a country arrogant enough to call itself the greatest nation on earth. America, we were made for each other.

Now if you’ll all excuse me, I need to go indiscriminately fire some bullets into the sky and blow up a trash can with a cherry bomb.



Essa Writes a Soap Opera – Or Was She Pushed?

So I’ve been sucked into a soap opera. Yes, I know they are filled with clichés, plot holes and one dimensional characters, but I am a sucker for a good story and soap operas tend to deliver.

My current obsession is Hollyoaks. Also, if any of you motherfuckers reveal who killed Fraser Black in the comments, I will hunt you down and murder you.


Living in a soap opera world is much more difficult to navigate than living in reality. You have amnesia, who-dunnits, evil twins and people coming back to life several times over before they actually die.

Which is why I have decided to write my own soap opera, casting myself as the lead detective.

Chantilly Flats – An Essa Alroc Production

Detective Essa Alroc wakes in the early morning as her phone starts to ring. Muttering, she checks the display; Chantilly Flats Police Department.

Essa: <sits up in bed and her hair is absolutely perfect, despite the fact that she’s been sleeping for 8 hours>. This is the last thing I need after finding out that my bi-sexual husband has been having an affair with my gardener Filipe, who also might be my secret love child that I gave up for adoption. <She answers the phone> Detective Alroc here.

Officer Eric Mendelson: Sorry to wake you up so early boss. But we got a murder on our hands. Jackson Bedford has gone missing and all clues point to him being dead.

Essa: <Rolls her eyes> Do you have an actual body?

Officer Eric Mendelson: Well, no but there is a lot of blood in his car, and we found it abandoned in the woods. Plus, he got into a fight with just about everyone in town last night, including me…and you…and his cat. All signs point to murder.

Essa: <deep heartfelt sigh> Listen, we both know how shit works in Chantilly Flats. I go out there, all gung-ho and arrest somebody, have them put on death row, then six months from now Jackson Bedford shows up claiming he has amnesia and doesn’t remember who tried to kill him. Let’s cut to the chase. I’ll start this murder investigation when you drag Jackson Bedford’s cold dead corpse onto my doorstep.

Officer Eric Mendelson: But I don’t have time to find the body. My sister-in-law is about to give birth to my secret love child and I need to get to the hospital in time to switch babies and…

Essa: <hangs up the phone>

Four hours later, Essa’s phone rings. It interrupts Filipe as he tries to climb in bed with her to have potentially incestuous relations in order to blackmail her later.

Essa: Filipe, get the fuck out of my bed! I might be your mother for Christ’s sake. <answers the phone after seeing the call is coming from the Chantilly Flats Police Department.> You got me a body?

Officer Eric Mendelson: Yes boss. Right on your front stoop. It’s definitely Jackson Bedford.

Essa:  Hopefully, I can get this done in time to make it to my disciplinary hearing. You know, from when I let the Olgavie sisters off with a warning for murdering their uncle, who’d been sexually abusing them for years. Now gather every single person in town right to my front yard.

Officer Eric Mendelson: All of them? There’s like 14 people in Chantilly Flats.

Essa: Just fucking do it. I’ll be right down.

Essa arrives in the late afternoon, after having yet another fight with her bisexual husband, who is concerned because he might have testicular cancer. She stands at the podium in front of all 14 of the residents of Chantilly Flats.

Essa: Listen, I’m sick of these small town who-dunnits dragging on for months, so we’re going to take care of this right now. Everyone who had a fight with Jackson Bedford on the night of his death, raise your hand. <Every single hand goes up, including the paw of Jackson Bedford’s cat.> Great, now every single person who can’t name their alibi because you were screwing your sister or brother-in-law at the time of the incident, go away.

Eight people walk away, including Officer Eric Mendelson and Jackson Bedford’s cat.

Essa: Next, does anyone here have a drug problem which would prevent them from remembering the night in question? <Two hands go up> Good to know. Leave and check out your local AA chapter. It won’t help, but it will provide some interesting drug addict story fodder next season.

The two drug addicts walk away and Essa is left with four suspects.

Essa: Alright people, let’s hear some motives.

Karen Bedford: He was my husband and he was cheating on me with his secretary, who is also my secret half sister.

Lisa Nichols: I’m his secretary and he was blackmailing me into sleeping with him for years, because he knew that I killed my first husband and held my step kids captive in an attic. We have a secret love child together that he threatened to kill. It’s also in the attic.

Marcus Salinger: I’m his right hand man in his drug empire and I was having an affair with his wife. I also might be his secret love child.

Lilly Anderson: I’m a 14 year old girl scout. When I went to Bedford’s house, he refused to pay for the Thin Mints he ordered. Also, I have a brain tumor that causes brief periods of uncontrollable rage.

Essa considers all the information she’s heard. Drawing on years of tela-nova and soap opera watching, she realizes who did it.

Essa: Lisa, Karen, you can both go. No woman ever kills a man when she should in Chantilly Flats. Marcus, you can go. You are too obvious a suspect. Also, I’m pretty sure you’re my secret love child. Lilly, I know exactly what happened. You and Bedford wrestled over the Thin Mints. Bedford was a diabetic who had just gone into psychosis because he refused to take his insulin. He pulled a gun on you. You wrestled over the gun and in your panic, accidentally shot him.

Lilly: How did you know?

Essa: What can I say? I have too much time on my hands and I watch way too much TV.

Essa’s statement is interrupted by the sudden, shocking appearance of Jackson Bedford.

Jackson Bedford: Wait, that isn’t me <he points to the corpse on the ground>. It’s my evil twin. I only showed up now because I had amnesia.

Essa: Oh, fuck this. I’m moving.












“But I’m Such a Nice Guy!!!”

Every now and then I get a message from a dude from my past, who I was friends with, but never romantically interested in.


These messages all take on the same theme. First, they start out by asking how I’m doing. Then, they move on to dragging up the past. This dragging up the past usually includes a confession about some secret crush they harbored for years, but never had the ability to act on.

Then it turns accusatory. Along the lines of ‘I always wanted to tell you how much I liked you, but I knew you only dated assholes and I never thought you’d go for me.”

First, guys who do this, stop calling the dudes I used to date assholes. Yes, some of them were jerks, but many of them were perfectly nice guys with whom things just didn’t work out. These things happen and I don’t see the reason to pigeonhole them into the whole ‘asshole’ category. That category is reserved for actual assholes, like the guy who slapped me around or the asshole who’s behind on his child support.

Stop claiming that ‘girls only want assholes’ because we don’t go for your passive aggressive shtick. I’m so sorry that you spent years pretending to be my friend in some half-hearted attempt to get into my pants. Life must have been so incredibly rough for you…Seriously, those Boko Harem victims must have nothing on your pain.

You are not a nice guy. You’re just telling yourself you are because you feel like a failure. I know, because I’ve been in the same position.

A long time ago, I was crazy about this guy Dave. We went on a few dates but it never amounted to anything serious. Simply stated, Dave didn’t want children. I had one, so he shut any potential relationship we could have had down early on.

Initially, I was a bitch about it. I mean, I was perfect for him. Why couldn’t he ignore his own standards in order to make it work between us? We laughed at the same things and watched the same movies. We argued allot. He was one of the few people that could argue with me in a way that would actually shut me up. Let me tell you people, that is a rare quality for me to find in a man.

But we never really escaped the ‘friend zone’. Over time, I got mad at him. I was irritated with him because he didn’t want me. I started ignoring his phone calls and being a cunt to him.

Then, I remembered my friend Mark.

Mark was one of those guys that I had a ton in common with. We read the same books, watched the same movies and laughed at the same jokes. Despite the fact that Mark was an incredibly attractive Cuban guy, I was never sexually attracted to him. He just wasn’t my type. So when the inevitable came and Mark word vomited his feelings all over me, it made things weird. Mark got resentful because I didn’t feel the same way.

He disappeared from my life, despite the fact that we had a fantastic friendship. He threw that away because he couldn’t get into my pants, even though as he said , he was “such a nice guy”.

Then it occurred to me that Mark wasn’t really a nice guy.

He was a jerk who was only after me because he wanted to screw me. The fact that he wasn’t my type for a romantic relationship was enough of a problem to throw away 2 years of a good friendship. That made me feel utterly useless, like the only reason he laughed at my jokes was because he was trying to sleep with me. Like the only reason we ever hung out was because he wanted me to be a notch on his bed post. I felt used and hurt.

I thought we were friends, but we were only friends until Mark realized I wasn’t going to screw him, because my only apparent value to him was a sexual one.

Then I realized that I was doing the same thing to Dave. Dave was a good dude. We had fun together and he helped me through a lot of hard times. Was it really ok for me to cut him out of my life because he didn’t want to be romantically involved with me?

No, it wasn’t and I wasn’t being a nice girl. So I let that shit go and I accepted our friendship for what it was. A really good friendship. That is rare and there was no way that I was letting him out of my life over my own petty feelings.

To this day, me and Dave are still good friends. We don’t talk as much as we should; we both lead pretty busy lives, but he’s a good dude. He is one of the first people I contact when I’m having problems and he has helped me through more than a few rough patches.

He started seriously dating someone else, and I never even got jealous. By that time, I realized what he’d known all along. We weren’t really right for each other. He’s a type A conservative who has never smoked pot, hates kids and has an affinity for greyhound dogs.

I’m a type B liberal who loves kids, is secretary treasurer of a cannabis reform group and finds greyhounds creepy (their necks are just so skinny).

Once I was able to let of that romantic obsession I was feeling, I found true platonic love with Dave. I was able to be happy for his new relationships and tell him anything. I talked him through his depression and he talked me through a bipolar summer.

I would have never had that kind of friendship if I’d just decided to cut him out of my life simply because he didn’t want to fuck me.

Our relationship is good because we’re not friends with conditions. We’re not friends until one of us decides that ‘friends’ isn’t enough. Our relationship is good because we accept each other.

Boys, if you’re pissed because some chick that you’ve been passively aggressively seeing doesn’t want to take things to the next level, know this. She’s not the problem. You are.

You are the problem because apparently your entire relationship with that girl was based on manipulation. You weren’t being nice to her because you cared about her. You were being nice to her to see what you could get from her.

That isn’t nice and you are not ‘such a nice guy’. You are a manipulator and that is the polar opposite of being nice.

If you want to be friends with a girl, then do it. But if you’re only being friendly because you hope to get something out of her later, that’s not friendly. In fact, you’re kind of being a passive aggressive pussy.

Not everyone who you’re attracted to will be attracted back. That’s just a fact of life. But if you walk away from people because they don’t want to sleep with you, don’t want to date you, don’t want to have a relationship with you, you are limiting your own horizons. You are choosing your friends based on what they can do for you and not how you feel about them.

And you are not ‘such a nice guy.”









Things That Confuse Me

I’ve never claimed to be the smartest person in the world. Well… actually I have, on several occasions. But rest assured, I was entirely drunk when I did so.

My point is I am at best above average on the intelligence scale. But there are still several things in this world that confuse me. So I would like some clarification on the following.

Why the hell do my maxi pads have diagrams?

For men and really stupid women, a maxi pad is something that teenage girls and lazy writers with tilted pelvic bones use during their monthly menstrual cycle. What confuses me is that the inside of my maxi pad looks like this;


Ignore the shirt on the lower right. I’m pretty sure that’s just something designed to show how ‘athletic’ maxi pads can be.

Is my menstrual flow supposed to be reading this diagram? Are my unfertilized eggs that smart that they know exactly where they are supposed to go? If so, should I feel guilty for the fact that I’m flushing them down the toilet? I mean, I won’t eat pork because pigs are smarter than dogs and that bothers me. If my unused eggs are smart enough to follow the diagram on a maxi pad, should I be throwing them away at all? Or should I be enrolling them in an Ivy League school?

Also, why blue for the diagram? Trust this people, the second I start seeing blue stuff leaking out of me; I’m not worried about staying ‘dry and fresh.’ I’m more worried about the fact that apparently I’m miscarrying an alien’s baby.

Why do people play the lottery?

I used to consider playing the lottery, then I elected to start lighting my money on fire and flushing it down the toilet instead becuase I realized the lottery is for idiots.

I’m not talking to you occasional hopefuls who buy a ticket on the way home from work. I’m talking to all you fucktards out there who choose scratch tickets like you’re choosing your first born’s name.

You know who you are. You show up at the gas station at rush hour and take 45 minutes trading in tickets to buy more tickets to a lottery that you will never win.

Listen fuckers, in the time that it takes you to pick out those tickets every day, you could have written a novel, created a cure for cancer or more realistically, GOTTEN A FUCKING JOB.

The house always wins. Whether you’re playing at a craps table or scratching off little grey boxes, you will always lose. But the lottery commission depends on one thing to keep selling tickets.

They depend on you being a fucking moron. Stop playing right into their hands.

Where the hell did Tilapia come from?

Ten years ago, I had no idea that this fish existed.


Now, it’s everywhere. At any restaurant I go to, tilapia is on the menu. When I was in the hospital, I even got served tilapia during the daily meal I ignored because I was too drugged up to eat. As I recall, it smelled like feet and tasted two items as bad.

The best way I could describe the flavor is ‘cardboard flavored death.’ But now it’s popping up everywhere. It’s like reality TV shows. One day I saw one, and the next day, the world was overrun. I’m pretty sure the government manufactured tilapia out of cardboard and old ashtrays in an attempt to make fun of hipsters.

It’s working.

What does the ‘power of prayer’ really do?

This week, Tracy Morgan was seriously injured in a car accident. That isn’t news. But what I saw in the comments is news, because apparently there are idiots who feel they can save Tracy Morgan through the power of prayer.

First of all, the fact that Tracy Morgan is a celebrity does not make him any more important than the people that were on the bus with him, who were also seriously injured (or killed).

Next, what the fuck are your prayers supposed to do?

Let’s be honest. You don’t know Tracy Morgan. If he dies tomorrow, you might open your Facebook page and be like “oh, so sad, I will pray for his family. :( :(”

But you won’t really pray and you won’t be sad. You’re just saying that. You don’t know him, his family or what they’re going through. You’re just using him as an excuse to sound like a good person.

My bible knowledge tells me this. You can’t pray for someone to live or die. It doesn’t work like that. According to the Catholics, everything is predefined and whatever happens to one person will be god’s will, and can’t be changed. You can only pray for your own acceptance of that fate.

So why the fuck are you idiots wasting time praying? If you really want to honor Tracy Morgan, head to Vegas, get wasted and snort some coke off a hooker’s ass.

Above all, stop bringing god into this mess. It isn’t your place to pray for Tracy Morgan, no matter how much you liked him as Brian Fellows. It’s his family’s place so back the fuck off and let them grieve in peace. Stop stealing their grief so you can get attention.

That’s all I had to say. Now if you’ll all excuse me, I need to go buy some lottery tickets so I can buy candles for Tracy Morgan at midnight mass, because he is the most important person in the world to me. My menstrual eggs are also coming. They followed the maxi pad diagram right out of my pants and used a very complicated algorithm to buy their own winning lottery tickets.

Good times.








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