In 2009, I wrote a blog post that I had no idea would become the most-viewed thing I had written. It was called “Jonny Craig is a Piece of Shit.” Back then, I thought I was the only one who had shitty experiences with him in person. But it is consistently viewed to this day, do you know why? Because “why is Jonny Craig an asshole?” is a popular search term. Occasionally, someone will leave a comment on that post, too. Most of those comments are from ex-fans who want to share their own horror stories with me, but there are also the scathing ones from rabid supporters, telling me I’m pathetic, that he doesn’t owe me anything as a fan, and that I’m clearly butt-hurt.

Look. I’ve only been butt-hurt once in my entire life, and that was when I lost my footing on a pile of pumpkins at Trax Farm and wound up sitting on a stem. True fucking story for all of you pumpkin porn fanatics out there.

Anyway, the catalyst of that post was meeting him for the second time during the Dance Gavin Dance/Emarosa Squash the Beef tour. He was standing behind me at the bar in Mr. Small’s and literally all I wanted to do was tell him how much I enjoyed Emarosa and what an impact their music had on me emotionally, how it stimulated my creativity (back then, I had based some of my paintings off their lyrics), and how interwoven it had become with my life. I wasn’t trying to sit on his lap (let’s face it, I’m too fat, much ugly for him anyway) or make him sign shit. I wasn’t trying to pull him away from his alcohol for a photo session. I just wanted to say nice things to him for < 30 seconds, God forbid. It took every ounce of courage I could muster just to even say hello to him, after years of allowing his voice to be the personification of my dysfunctional friendship with my ex-BFF Christina.

But he just stood there and stared at me, making it clear that I was boring the shit out of him, so I mumbled, “Enjoy your stay in Pittsburgh” and walked away with my head down. It was humiliating and I know that he was making fun of me as soon as I walked away.

Because that’s what douchebags do.

When you put so much stock in a person like that, raising them up on some shaky pedestal, creating images of them in your mind, and then the reality of their personality shatters everything you had built up, it’s devastating. Maybe that sounds pathetic, but music has always been how I have coped with things. It enhances all of the good times and softens the bad. So now when the singer of a band that had made me feel so good has single-handedly made me feel AWFUL, well, it was a little emotionally traumatic.

It’s amazing how we deify these underserving people in the name of fandom.

He sounded like shit that night too. Drunk, stumbling, forgetting lyrics. It was my friend Alisha’s first time seeing Emarosa and her succinct review was: “They’re terrible!”

No, Jonny Craig is terrible.

I vowed to be done with him after that, and I was doing well until Emarosa released their next album in 2010 and I couldn’t resist. I still hated him. But I felt if I could separate my personal feelings for him from the music, I would be fine. Besides, wasn’t that what all of my detractors were telling me to do in certain harsh terms on my blog?

The problem is that as soon as I hear his dumb voice, I melt. It has nothing to do with him. I forget what a douchebag he is and all I can remember is how good it feels to be that into music. And it somehow kept me psychically connected to Christina, even when we were no longer speaking. It always goes back to that anyway.

Meanwhile, Henry was totally annoyed. He doesn’t get the whole “OMG JONNY CRAIG SINGS LIKE AN ANGEL!” argument, and it drove him nuts how I would turn into a 30-year-old fan girl at the mere mention of his stupid name. You know how I have pretty much based this entire blog on hassling Henry, right? I mean, unless this is your first time reading it. So if he hates Jonny Craig, then I am going to FUCKING BE OBSESSED with Jonny Craig.

My obsession can be broken down like this:

5% immaturity // 10% mental illness // 10% sincere love of his voice // 75% desire to drive Henry into an early grave.

(I triple-checked to make sure that added up, btw.)

And let’s face it: I thrive on being obnoxious.

I ran with it. Jonny Craig became my shtick. I made a Jonny Craig Christmas tree topper. I had my friend Maya make me a Jonny Craig doll. I hung up pictures of him around my office at work (if you go to the Law Firm and start questioning people on my floor who Jonny Craig is and they don’t know, then obviously I must never talk to that person, ever). This whole time, it was helping me cope with issues that Christina had left me with. I know, some people would just get therapy. But I’ll just sit over here and hug my Jonny Craig doll. Because projection is normal. Right?

The MacBook scam happened. The detox. The rehab. I was prepared for this to be the end of the Jonny Craig story, but then he started dating a girl who seemed to really change him, or at least, she was trying. And the crazy part was that she didn’t seem like a basic groupie. She seemed pretty intelligent, which one might argue about since she got involved with JC in the first place, but love is blind, you guys. I’m with Henry, aren’t I? Of course, I had to keep up my Crazy Jonny Craig Fangirl Persona and act like a nutcase when they got engaged (I think I might have even referred to her as Jonny’s penis-cozy in one of my faux-fits, what the fuck is wrong with me), but really–I hoped that she would save him.

Because as much of a loose cannon as he is, he really is a bright spot in a scene overflowing with generic, formulaic background noise.

All of these things I was willing to overlook because the music meant that much to me. I was so excited when Henry reluctantly agreed to drive five hours to Allentown last weekend so that I could see Jonny’s new band, Slaves. But then when I was going through his twitter feed to get screen shots of the nasty things he was saying about Emarosa (I wanted to have those as visual aids for my Emarosa blog post; can you stand how thorough I am?), I ended up seeing some terrible things.

Really awful things.

Jonny and his fiancée are currently going through a messy breakup, and he had a tweet that said if he saw her being raped, he wouldn’t stop to help.

He had another tweet saying that he never beat her when they were together but now he wishes he had. He deleted the original tweet but his retweet of this smart girl’s response still existed on Twitter:

This asshole seriously needs to have someone monitoring his social media accounts. Like, I don’t know, maybe his MOTHER?

“Really fucking nice guy, Erin,” Henry spat when I showed him.

(Even worse is that these asinine girls were tweeting things like, “Jonny Craig could have his hands around my neck and I would still love him.” Which of course he was retweeting because these are the things that make King Shit’s ego swell. Keep encouraging him, girls. Make your mamas proud.)

At this point, it was too late. We had already bought the tickets. Rented the car. Booked the hotel room. Whether we went to this show in Allentown or not, I had already inadvertently supported a misogynistic douchepig and it made me sick to my stomach. So sick that I had a mild panic attack standing outside of the venue that night and we almost didn’t go in. Henry had to take me back to the car so I could calm down.

Look, I don’t know his ex-fiancée, but as a woman, I can’t stand for shit like that and I will automatically have her back. This is the reason men run the fucking world, because they say shit like this and no one does anything. They’ll have tons of men cheering them on in between disgusting chugs of beer, wiping Hooters wing sauce off their lips with their unwashed football jerseys of rapist athletes.

There could be actual video footage of Jonny Craig beating a woman, and he will still have fans. I mean, Chris Brown still gets played on the radio, doesn’t he?

“I just feel like if I see him, I’m going to fucking punch him!” I kept saying over and over. I was so disgusted. I kind of wished that I had worn my Emarosa t-shirt, like I had joked about last week. I brought it with me and at the last minute, Henry agreed it was a bad idea because it wouldn’t be Jonny who noticed, it would be his legion of scantily-clad side broad hopefuls and I wasn’t trying to get clawed at by their nasty acrylics. Talk about a petri dish of I Don’t Wanna Know.

We went inside. I scowled at all of the meatheads in their Jonny Craig is My Homeboy shirts. I cringed at all the girls wearing barely nothing, knowing exactly why they left 89% of their clothes at home. I suddenly felt so protective of all these little girls.

Slaves took the stage and as expected, the crowd went nuts for Jonny. But for the first time ever, I felt nothing. I just stood there with my arms crossed, refusing to clap, refusing to do a single thing Jonny demanded. And then he dedicated the last song to his ex, Amanda. “Til death do us part, bitch!” he spat and everyone was like “Yay!” because that’s cool, right?

I looked at Henry and my eyes started to well up. I felt like such a traitor to women everywhere just by being there.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said to Henry afterward. “I can’t keep supporting this asshole.” And I think that was the happiest I have ever seen Henry in the thirteen years we’ve been together.

Meanwhile, King Shit was standing a few feet away from us, going through the motions of showing his fans what a “changed person” he is by posing for pictures with them. Two moms (like, I know I’m a mom, but these were MOMS wearing mom jeans with their mom purses slung across their mom boobs) ran over to him, took his picture, and then ran back giggling to show their respective daughters, who didn’t look more than 15-years-old. The daughters predictably squealed and were dragged back over to him by their moms.

“I guess these old broads don’t know he loves demoralizing under-aged scene girls,” I yelled to Henry. Oh, it was sickening to watch. And then afterward, I saw someone’s picture with him on Instagram and the caption said something about how Jonny was rushing everyone along because there was “quite a horde” of fans waiting. I didn’t know “roughly fifteen people” constituted a “horde,” but OK.

I’m not going to lie: I’ve always looked at fans of Ronnie Radke and wondered, “How could these kids love a guy who is such an asshole?” And duh, hello. Look at me. Blindly supporting a dreg of society since 2008.

More than anything, I feel like I owe it to my 8-year-old son to wash my hands of this guy. What kind of an example would I be setting for him if not? He already knows the guy is a drug addict (but the piss test! it was clean! blah blah!) and just a flat out mean person, but I definitely don’t want him to think that it’s OK to make those kinds of violent comments about women, publicly no less, and still have girls falling over you. “Hey, this guy acts like a douchebag and my mom loves him, so…..”

So maybe, if you’re a Jonny Craig avenger reading this, some girl with low self-esteem anxiously awaiting your chance with him, some bro who thinks it’s cool to treat people like dirt, then you might think this is a lame reason to throw in the towel. And that’s fine. Because one person writing a blog post like this is not in any way going to hurt his career, don’t worry JC afficionados. But I have too much respect for myself and at the end of the day, it’s all about girl power. I won’t stand for comments glorifying domestic violence, whether they were empty threats or not—-doesn’t matter. This guy clearly needs help, and I wish his new bandmembers luck with all of the future statements they’re going to need to release, swearing that their singer “has changed” and “is clean.” Seriously, good luck with that, and I hope he doesn’t destroy your careers.

I think I’m going to tell my kid, when in doubt, to ask himself “What would Jonny Craig do?” And then do the opposite.

Last week, Henry realized that, in addition to our own, we were given another customer’s bag on our way out of Target.

“You have to return it immediately!” I yelled, in a total panic, over what? A bagful of Christmas tree ornaments and Balance bars. I think there was some sort of masculine-fragranced deodorant in the mix, also.

“Why?” Henry asked in a much calmer tone. “Whoever’s bag this was is definitely long gone by now.

”

But it was the principle, I kept saying. The principle. Dogma. It was frankly just the right thing to do.

Otherwise it ends up being some sort of consequential theft. We may not have purposely or knowingly walked out of the store with it, but keeping it would be an admission of guilt. I didn’t want to add to my peccadillo totem pole. Besides, hanging stolen goods on my Christmas tree? Talk about ornamental onus.

Henry and I were doing some shopping this morning and I finally remembered to bring with us the Bag That Was Not Ours. When we told the Target employee at the customer service desk why we were returning it, she was noticeably surprised. Sure, it wasn’t a handbag of gold rubles to help rebuild a town after a natural disaster, or a wheelbarrow of sustenance for a poverty-stricken village. But it was still something that rubbed a little verdigris off my conscience.

“Oh! Ok. Well, thanks!” she said happily, if not uncertainly, and I understood her reaction.

Because how often do people really do the right thing? Because how often do we turn on the news or get a Breaking News alert on Twitter about someone doing something charitable, instead of just another Kardashian societal faux pas or some motherfucking teenagers shooting someone in the face over a cigarette? I can’t tell you how many times I say hello to fellow pedestrians in my own town, only to get the stinkeye in return. Altruism is about as antiquated as your grandma’s Poodle skirt, Katy Perry’s wigs and the word “perambulator.”

As much as I front like I’m some asshole misanthrope giving the finger to humanity—and that’s only because I’m just exhausted from being let down by humans—I will always end up doing the right thing. Plus, I’ve softened a lot over the years. Henry and Chooch might have had a hand in that. (They both definitely had a hand in the softening of my midsection, anyway.) It scares me to know that there are A LOT of people out there who choose to do the wrong thing again and again. And we all suffer.

The dewy, feel-good flush of my cheeks was short-lived when, an hour later, a radio DJ went from talking about the Sandy Hook tragedy straight to Tom Cruise buying that spoiled brat Suri a pony for Christmas.

I mean, can you even comprehend the fact that some guy massacred twenty innocent children whose only agenda that day was to brush their teeth, learn some new spelling words and sing some fucking Christmas carols? No, because WHO CAN? Yesterday, I found the words “I hate my job” ALMOST rolling off my tongue, but I bit it. Oh my god, I bit my tongue so hard. Because oh noes, some American middle class white girl has a job that is maybe the tiniest bit annoying on a really bad day, and then gets to go home and hug her six-year-old son who was able to go to school that day without being sprayed with bullets. Because this is the world we live in, where that ultimate horror can and does happen.

And you know what else I couldn’t be bothered by? Instagram’s new terms of service. And you know who else shouldn’t give a shit about that? YOU. Go help an old lady across the street. Fill a homeless persons hands with a cup of hot coffee. Give someone a hug. Do ANYTHING but worry yourself about something so trivial, it literally has no impact on this life.

God, fuck Tom Cruise. Fuck us all. What a nightmare.

I was skulking about Clairton three summers ago with my camera. All my local friends know what a terrific idea THAT is. I saw this guy palling around with some of his friends and he just really appealed to me. I was going to try and photo-stalk him, but ended up opting for the direct approach and asked  if I could photograph him.

“For a school project.”

That’s honestly the best excuse on Earth.

“No really, it’s for a college project and not at all for my blog! I don’t even have a blog! What is a blog!?”

A few weeks ago, Pittsburgh’s urban radio station—WAMO—made its big comeback debut. It went off-air in 2009, money problems I’m sure. You’re probably thinking, “But you’re a music snob. Why do you care about radio?” Look, urban radio is my shit, especially in the summer. I need my summer jams for when I’m carousing the cemeteries. And WAMO was always the only radio station that never pissed me off.

This new incarnation of WAMO, though, I don’t know what’s going on. They play LADY GAGA. BRUNO MARS. That is not r&b nor is it hop hop!

They play that Katy Perry trash. Look, I get that she’s got Kanye in that one song, but that doesn’t make it OK to play it 8 times an hour.

What bothers me most, though, I mean what REALLY gets under my skin, is the motherfucking Black Eyed Peas every goddamn time I turn it on. Fergie’s lucky if she gets to sing two notes before I’m bashing in the radio with the heel of my hand.  I was so incensed about this yesterday that I “liked” WAMO on Facebook JUST SO I COULD WRITE ON THEIR WALL.

Fuck the Black Eyed Peas! Fuck the whole collective with pine cones! THAT IS NOT URBAN MUSIC. That’s shit soccer moms listen to when they’re waiting to pick their kids up from fucking karate. Country fans listen to that shit when they want to feel like a “bad ass.” WAMO is supposed to be for black people and me!

I guarantee you if I went back to Clairton and sought out the dude in the picture above, he’d be all, “SHIIIIIIIIIIIT girl, that’s WHITE PEOPLE music.” CAN I GET A HELL YEAH.

I’m taking the day off. (Because I do SO MUCH on here, you know.) So here is an oldie about littering and cops, and cops who litter.

Another Reason to Hate the 5-0

May 2007

It was the middle of a lazy Saturday afternoon in Hamilton, Ohio. Christina and I were lounging around her room and I was making her cry by talking about how I hate God. I suppose I should have been penciling in a time for church in my day planner since “He” evidently spared our lives the night before when we got caught in the midst of a hail storm on our way from Pittsburgh to Ohio. It was probably the single most terrifying moment of my life and it took place right after I had been talking about Hell.

Over top of Christina’s mighty exaltation for her love of all things Christ, I heard the squelch of a siren from behind her house. We ran over to the window and discovered that there were two police officers on the street behind her house and they had pulled over a man in a truck. It seemed like it was just a traffic violation and I was quickly becoming bored. Luckily, I hung around long enough to witness the most appalling act of crime I have ever seen with these green eyes.

The officers were beginning to wrap things up and as the one cop made to get into the passenger side of the patrol car, he poured out the remainders of a can of what appeared to be Pepsi and then deliberately tossed the empty can into Christina’s back yard.

“Oh no he didn’t!” I exclaimed to Christina, right before shaping a makeshift megaphone with my hands and shouting “LITTERER!” and then ducking, leaving Christina framed alone in the window looking like the sole perpetrator.

Stomping over to her bed, I grabbed my shoes and sat down hard.

“What are you doing?” Christina asked nervously.

“I’m going out there.” I walked out of the bedroom and bounded down the steps, leaving her pleas in a cloud of my dust. She caught up with me before I made it to the back door and grabbed my arms.

“Look, I really don’t think going out there is a good idea. The cops around here are dicks.” She had thrown herself between me and the door so I knew she meant business. I walked dejectedly back into her kitchen as she explained to me that her neighborhood is kind of bad and that the cops are always looking for a reason to, well, be cops and that she really didn’t want to have to make that call to Henry.

“Henry!” I exclaimed in remembrance of my boy-toy in Pittsburgh. “Let’s call him for legal counsel.” And of course he wasn’t home. I left a message and that dickshitter never called back because he figured it was “something stupid” I was calling about, as I would later learn.

The cops had left by then, leaving me alone with a heightened sense of extreme community failure. I didn’t want it be over yet so I continued pacing and spouting vulgarities until I finagled Christina into calling the police station. “We have their patrol car number! Do it, Christina, for all of us civilians. And the environment. It’s God’s will.” I knew that would clinch it.

Christina finally relented, only because she didn’t want me making the call because supposedly I’m too “hot-headed.” But I would have used words like ‘reprehensible’ and ‘detestable’ to convey to the sergeant how appalled I truly was. And I would have thrown in the words ‘law’ and ‘suit’ somewhere in between mention of dying babies and that our earth is God’s playground (HAHA).

But Christina still wouldn’t hand over the phone; she was eventually dispatched through to Sgt. Ebbing (a man I will never forget, bless his heart). Explaining the complaint, she actually said, “Sir, I know this may seem trivial.”

Excuse me, trivial? Are you kidding? That prick littered in her back yard. He did something that people like us would get fined for. Oh, I was livid. She was being too nice and congenial during the phone call and my body was burning. I started to envision what would have happened if I had managed to get out of her house while the cops were still there. They don’t scare me. Plus, I have big boobs.

This was when I decided that I really, truly, and legitimately hated that littering officer. My ears were roaring with the sound of large, wavering sheets of metal and my heart was pounding like I had just run ten yards after ingesting fourteen fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches and an eight ball. I imagined scratching his face (out of malice, not passion) and striking his nose with the heel of my palm in an upward motion, just like Mr. Miyagi taught me. Then I would retrieve his discarded aluminum can and crush it against his jock.

Oh heaven, I have finally reached you through my fantasies.

Christina ended the call and jolted me out of my daydream. She explained to me that Sgt. Ebbing was going to call her back once he reprimanded the officers and that he also informed her that she could go to the courthouse and file for a citation, to which she said would not be necessary (I would have done it – fuck the police). I felt a tiny bit reassured and calmer but Christina was a little leery that Sgt. Ebbing had asked for her full name and address. “I’m a pot head! What if they’re going to be watching me now?”

“What do I care? I live in Pittsburgh.” And then I laughed. And if you know me, you know that laugh, and are probably wanting to bitch-slap me just at the mere thought of it.

In the meantime, we called Henry to fill him in. “You didn’t go out there, did you?” was the first utterance from his fat mouth. I began to feel a complex developing and asked, “No, I didn’t go out there but would it really have been so bad if I had?”

“Uh, yeah!” he answered. “With your temper? I don’t need to be bailing you out of jail.” I have to say I’m a little insulted that I’m not trusted to handle situations such as this one on my own. But Christina was happy because Henry shared in her apprehension.

Sgt. Ebbing called back about two hours later (presumably because he was banging broads in the drunk tank), at which time Christina’s sister Cynthia answered the phone and yelled to Christina, “I don’t fucking know who it is!” The sergeant (I don’t trust him, by the way; I think he’s a cocksucker to be honest with you) relayed the disciplinary action that was sanctioned, and might I add it only entailed asking the officers if it was true and then telling them to come back and pick up the can.

But he lied to us and I know it. Sgt. Ebbing, you’re a lying cocksucker. He told Christina that the officer admitted to tossing the can, which was purportedly an “illegal can of beer” which was confiscated from the man who had been pulled over. In the midst of the confusion while they were making an arrest, it must have slipped the officer’s mind that he had littered.

Except that I didn’t see them make an arrest. I saw the man get back in his truck and leave. What did they say, “Just meet us at the station”? Oh, I don’t think so.

In other words, the sergeant wanted us to think that it was admirable of the officer to be honest about the littering, but at the same time he tried to make us feel guilty or ashamed that these men were in the throes of serving justice and that they should be excused of such a trivial act.

“I’m going out there to wait for them to come pick up the can,” I announced as I ran for the door. Christina came with me and we discovered that the can was no longer there. That asshole sergeant waited for them to come pick it up before calling back because he knew that I was about to get all Firestarter on their asses. I just know it!

I don’t feel like justice was served. And I didn’t get to swear at anybody.

I’m going to pay one of her neighbors to let me slice their baby with a Pepsi can and then pretend it happened on the one in the Christina’s backyard. THIS IS FAR FROM OVER.

[Ed.Note: Obviously, it was over. Christina plied me with pie and the day quickly turned into “Sgt. Ebbing who now?”]

Look, the fact that I know anything about this is embarrassing, because I learned it from The Blog Frog, which is supposed to be a community for bloggers but us decent ones are unfortunately out-numbered by the vanilla, scripture-slingin’ mommy variety. So, evidently, there is some Christian mommy blogger who gets paid by BlogHer to write mediocre accounts of her loosely truth-based life and take crappy photos of her kids. BlogHer recently found out that she’s been plagiarizing so they terminated her account.

Some uber-Christian zealot started a thread over on The Blog Frog, practically condemning all the people who are in agreeance with BlogHer. I don’t really understand what God has to do with any of this, but she brings him up constantly in the original post and all of her replies to the people who are actually trying to approach this with some rationality.

Here is a quote from the original poster:

That being said, I can honestly say that without a second thought I would take a picture from the internet and put it on my blog ( i don’t have a blog but I’m just saying). If you want credit for it then put your name across the middle of it like I see eveyone do. I wouldn’t even think that was wrong.

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If I were copying someone elses words I would change them up alot into my own style, not write word for word, but I don’t think anyone should have reported it. They only did it to hurt her because they felt mad. Those thoughts and feelings come from the devil. They just can’t see it.

Oh really? Fuck you. Fuck you with your own Goddamn Bible. The fact that someone doesn’t think stealing another person’s images, words or intellectual property is wrong makes me feel ill. Whatever happened to originality? When did that become such a novelty?

And the fact that the bible jockey who posted that doesn’t even have her own blog is very unsurprising to me. If she did, it would likely just be filled with emoticons and theft.

Some of us actually put effort into what we write, even though it may not always seem like it when you come here and see that once again, the bowels of my punctuation skills have dropped out all over your screen. But if you want to steal my typo’d words and pass them off as your own? Be my guest. You just better make damn sure I don’t find you, motherfucker.

I am very upset about this.

[eta: I apologize if this makes me sound like some Christian-hating freak. I don’t hate any religious person. I just don’t like being told my opinions are influenced by Satan.]

To get to my job, I have to drive through the Liberty Tunnels. For you lucky non-Pittsburgh folks, it’s a two-lane tunnel that takes you downtown, but every day at 2pm, the right lane becomes right-turn only. There’s even some orange traffic cones set up in an arc at the end in case people feel compelled to keep going straight and thereby causing a maybe pile-up. For the most part, this goes smoothly, but there are still the occasional assholes who like to speed all the way down the less-trafficked right lane only to slam on the brakes at the end and try to merge back over. For that reason, there’s usually a cop at the end of the tunnel, though he NEVER pulls any of the people over that I put window down to yell “That’s illegal!” too. I’m sorry, but I’m not trying to die in a tunnel car crash.

Henry has been driving me to work so I don’t have to lose 3/4 of my pay check to the parking lots. Plus, it’s just more convenient. For me.

Yesterday, we suffered through the slow-moving left lane, me re-playing the same song over and over, and him trying to act like he knows stuff about the world. Chooch was in the backseat watching inappropriate YouTube videos on Henry’s phone. Finally, the end of the tunnel appeared, and right as we were about to emerge into the overcast day, a barrel-chested, mustachioed prick of a cop clad in aviator sunglasses and a boulder on his shoulder stepped out in front of us, swooped his arm to the side and bellowed PULL OVER.

At first, I’m like, “Oh my god, there’s a terrorist on the roof on our car. Thank god this gentleman caught it before we drove this bomb into the city.”

Then I thought maybe we were the 1,000,000,000,000,000 car to make it through the tunnel without any collapsing incidents, and I wondered what sort of gift or cash prize we would get for that. I started thinking of my statement for the evening news but then laughed because my name is not Ben Roethlisberger.

The cop stomped over to the driver side window and when I tell you he hollered into the car for Henry’s license and registration, I really am not joking at all. Please, yell at us a little harder, I’d love for my four-year-old to be traumatized and scared of you pricks for the rest of his life, you mother fucker. You’re real cool. What’s wrong, got kicked out of the army in 1985 for fucking your bunk mate and now you have to take it out on poor demure families which is not what mine is, but still?

“What exactly is the problem?” Henry asked. We all had our seatbelts on, the tags were (miraculously) up to date, and there was no way we could have been speeding when we were practically crawling through the backed-up tunnel. And of course, all the drugs were stowed neatly up Chooch’s ass.

“Oh, like you’re going to try and tell me you weren’t weaving in and out of the lanes in there,” he said with snide laughter. I bet he smokes cigars. And I couldn’t imagine why he wasn’t marching around some barracks somewhere, whipping naked backsides and stepping on necks.

I don’t like cops, and I’m not afraid of cops. I have certainly never CRIED in front of a cop. If anything, I get extremely self-righteous around them and have this incredible desire to backtalk. So in tandem with Henry’s calm and collected objections, I plunged across his lap, shouting, “HE DIDN’T SWITCH LANES THAT’S ILLEGAL!”

And you know what this fucking douchebag  said to us? With contempt dripping off him like your grandma’s pearls, he sneered, “I don’t believe a word you’re saying, but I’ll let you back out into traffic.”

&^&^$%**(*$#@?????

Oh, but he was SO SURE we had gone all Fast and Furious in the tubes with our son in the backseat navigating. Only to just let us off the hook? And ew, the way his lip curled up into the most condescending half-smile, it gave me chills for the rest of the night.

He knew we didn’t do it, but god forbid he should break his Dickhead Cop Oath and admit that he might have pulled over the wrong car, sending us off on a positive note. And you know, we didn’t even notice any cars around us switching lanes, for that matter.

Meanwhile, Chooch didn’t even know we had been pulled over and had Beefy Bulldog’s steroid-coated false accusations wafting through our car.

As we drove across the Liberty Bridge, I laugh-yelled, “Well, those are your friends, Henry!” Because he is ALWAYS defending cops. ALWAYS. Yes, some are good, but I need to encounter at least 2 dozen more good ones before they can sway my opinion away from the hundreds of dickish ones I’ve encountered in my (very legal) days.

Henry started stammering some nonsense about how all cops are God-like, it’s just the ones on motorcycles that are mean.

OH OK. Erik Estrada was pretty awesome, but whatever.

Here are some things that are currently attaching themselves to my mental health like tassels to a stripper’s nipples. And not pretty tassels either, but macrame ones that someones blind grandma made in a nursing home in Ypsilanti. Skip if you’re a fan of the sanctity of marriage, figure skating, and Sarah Palin.

Tiger Woods: Am I the only one not offended by his actions? I don’t feel that I was entitled to an apology and you shouldn’t feel that way either. Let him apologize to his family and be done with it, OK? Maybe it’s my dried-up well of morals speaking for me here, but I don’t give a shit who he fucked. It’s not my business. He can fuck whoever he wants for all I care, so long as it’s not a child or an animal. If he wants to fuck your grandfather in a barn while hens peck chicken feed off his ass, and your grandfather consents? Beautiful.

Perhaps he should have not been married before indulging his weener in such a vaginal buffet, but still. Not my business.

Get a fucking life. Go find a fucking whale to save or some shit. Go get laid and stop concerning yourself about into whom Tiger dips his wick. If he was a basketball player, ESPN would be trying to get a bronze cast of his cock.

And now there’re these assholes out there who are don’t want the debacle to end, so they’re going to start lighting pyres of angry entitlement and shout that, oh my GOD, how dare he schedule this disgustingly unnecessary public apology DURING THE OLYMPICS. He took away from the all the events that are billed as live, but guess what my friends? NBC IS NOT AIRING THIS SHIT LIVE. I know who wins what color medal and at what fucking time, hours before NBC decides to get off its rich, lazy ass to show us, all while acting surprised as though it’s happening in real time.

And speaking of the Olympics!

Who the fuck is in charge of the hockey coverage? Because I missed nearly the entire first period of both Team Canada games because CNBC (or whatever the equivalent is to the lunch table for NBC bastard channels  unloved hockey was relegated to) decided they needed to show bonus coverage of curling. And on top of that, they cut to commercial whenever they felt like it, TV time outs be damned, only to return to a game in the middle of power play for a penalty that was never shown; or, my personal favorite – returning from a commercial with a completely different SCORE. But I mean really, who watches hockey to see goals? I watch for the AMAZING commentary by the AMAZING NBC announcers.

Really, the only way NBC could fuck up their Olympic hockey coverage any more would be if they had Jay Leno announcing.

Figure skating. Why? Why does it have to be so douchey. I feel like when I was a kid I actually enjoyed it, but now I watch it for more than thirty seconds at a stretch and I feel like I’m watching Liberace go down on my grandma.

Those skaters are fucking assholes. Arrogant and snotty. I keep hearing about how some Russian douchebag on skates (no, not Alex Ovechkin; this Russian douchebag has his questionable ballsack ensconced in sparkly spandex) is bitching about scoring being unfair or some bullshit and it’s like, who does that? I mean, besides me if I were an Olympic loser. I guess bitching about not getting the gold is the new Olympic sport.

Speaking of douches with sparkly spandexed ballsacks, why is Sarah Palin still around? Has no one thought to mistake her for a wolf and shoot her aerially? Usually I can just tune her out, turn the channel, plug my ears and hum, but her latest publicity headlock made me laugh because as usual, she succeeds in making herself look like a complete you-betcha hick-cunt asshole piece of shit, this time by voicing her outrage of a Family Guy episode that featured a character with Down Syndrome. It really set me off, and I found myself ranting about her to Henry The Great Conservative to the point where it felt like a game of Space Invaders was in session inside my chest. I don’t generally like to get involved in political rants because I fear it’s horrible for my health, and I’ve had this Sarah Palin shit clogging my arteries for a few years now.

You know, I’d like to pay someone to rape her and then laugh when she has to pay for her rape kit.

I’d be screwed if I had to pay for my own rape kit, because I’m going to be unemployed again real soon here. Oh yeah, that’s right. You know how Henry was breathing down my neck to get a job, and being so emphatic that if I had to get a daytime job, he’d work it out with his boss and for me not to worry?

Yeah, that lasted two weeks. Today, Henry had to go back to the office for a meeting in the afternoon, wherein his boss handed out new job descriptions to everyone. In Henry’s, it states that he now he has to stick to a more rigid shift of 6am-3:30pm.

Which means I’m faced with the awkward task of giving notice at a job that I only just started, a job where I was told today that I could “have a bright future.” Sure, that made me laugh in my head, but really – when was the last time something like that was said to me?

I came home from work today to find the house looking like a crime scene and Mr.

Mom stationed at the computer, playing online poker. “Every Conservative’s dream,” said my friend Matt when I tweeted about it.

Maybe I should just consider Bedazzling a soapbox and grabbing a spot on Public Access.