Missing the Point - ENTIRELY

So this 14 year old girl from Maine starts a petition to stop Seventeen Magazine from photoshopping pictures because it creates an unattainable image for girls and young women.
Even better - Seventeen Magazine agreed!

See, this is all very excellent. I did nothing so productive at 14. I may not have even had a smart thought until my mid-20's. Everyone is happy; feeling warm fuzzies...

Everyone except Alexis Jones that is.

Alexis Jones of Alpharetta, Georgia, said Thursday she'd worry that, if magazines portrayed young women who were overweight or had acne as being beautiful, some girls may think it's OK to live an unhealthy lifestyle. In fact, she feels making models' bodies thinner and their skin clearer can serve as positive motivation for people to take better care of themselves.

"Some people use that ideal image as motivation to get fit, eat healthy and stuff, while some use it as a crutch," said the 18-year-old, a rising freshman at Georgia State University. "You just have to be strong-minded." - CNN.com

Wait, whoa, what??

Alexis Jones seems to be making quite a leap from "not photoshopping" to hiring "fat, acne-ridden" models.

What the hell is wrong with Alexis Jones?

Seventeen Magazine wasn't hiring models that looked like Precious and using editing wizardry to come up with Halle Berry! Does she even know what photoshopping refers to?

Even photoshopped models started out as MODELS. And the kind of attractiveness it takes to be a model is already kind of unattainable for the most of us. Add some photoshopping to that, and it's completely unattainable which was the fucking point of the petition!

But how, in all that is holy, did Alexis Jones go from a photoshop ban to the inevitable hiring of mongoloids and tundra pigs?!?

Alexis Jones needs to go to a better school...I'm not sure GSU can clear up this kind of stupid. Maybe we can photoshop it out of her since it's apparently magic.

Flash Mobsters

My mom called me this morning to tell me about a “riot” that recently occurred, fairly close to where they live. Actually, she said, “There was a drunken, naked riot on the beach down the street.”

Obviously I thought my mom was misinformed. After all, rioters rarely get naked, at least to my knowledge. And my parents live in a sleepy-ish beach town, where even drunken nakedness would be rare.

Turns out my mom was correct – there was a drunken, naked beach riot, albeit not right down the street, but close enough to worry her.

“Do you think it was one of those social media things?”

“No Mom, social media doesn’t get you drunk. Or naked. Or riotous.”

"Well those flash mobsters dance and rob stores.”

“Those are different things. They don’t dance and rob stores. Some dance. Some rob stores. No one is a mobster.”

I tried to assure her that most people are decent, clothed and law abiding online, just like most are offline. Unfortunately I don’t think I was able to assuage her fears about flash mobsters, social media riots and the risk of drunken and/or naked hooligans using the power of the Internet for nefarious purposes.

But then she said, "It's good that Facebook thing is telling the police who posted pictures of it."

I repeat - fuck Facebook.

Bra Shopping

I hate shopping for a bra. HATE IT. It's only after I have completely exhausted every other waste time option in existence...FINE, I guess I'll go bra shopping.

How there can be so many variations on useless pieces of bullshit, I will never know. It's like all of the Clash of the Titans remakes only with lace.

Seriously ladies, some of those bras are too padded for drag queens. Wearing all that is misrepresentation, up to and including, fraud. With all of the stuffing, water balloons, gel, wire and elastic - you are the description of an epic disaster clean up on aisle 6 of Hobby Lobby.

I'm in need a racer back bra. Not a convertible bra. Those suck. One strap always comes loose, but you only notice when it has come out the arm hole of your tshirt, and snagged itself on a door handle. Now you're wrestling to figure out why you can't walk through the door and how your boobs just came out.

Then, since you're in the midst of a breast emergency, and (OF COURSE) not close to a bathroom, you're forced to seek out the assistance of some random woman to reach inside your shirt to fix your fucking bra.

As a result, despite the fact that you probably spent upwards of $60 on the bra, you're now terrified to wear it because it won't stay clasped. We all know that if the clasp comes out once, it will do it every single goddamn time that you so much as consider wearing that bra. Result's result - you wear your old, comfortable, albeit hideous bra, festooned with safety pins and infinite sadness because you will never feel sexy again.

Guys aren't sympathetic at all, "Why you gotta spend so much on them? It's just a bra."

Screw you. If a guy were to buy underwear that even hinted at being uncomfortable, they throw them away no questions asked.

"That underwear felt scratchy on my balls. Won't stand for it."

What's the problem? Let the boxers scratch your balls, so you don't have to while we are talking.

I'd just hate for that to feel not so soft against your balls. Woe is you. And woe for your balls.

"Can't you just go without a bra?"

Nope. Not without fake boobs. Or magical powers of levitation.

Probably the only thing worse than needing to buy a bra, is not buying one resulting in my boobs being even with my hips. NO THANK YOU.

Now try wearing something that lifts and separates them by digging into your skin and gets you stuck in a doorway. Try that. Then debate with yourself if you should buy the matching underwear that Victoria Secret is pimping only to then come to the conclusion that there is an age where having something written or a picture of a dog on your ass is no longer appropriate. If it was even ever appropriate. Which is wasn't.

Words on your underwear aren't necessary because you're either taking them off to shower (the soap can't read) or your getting busy. Honestly, I don't know of anyone who took the time to read an ass message before getting busy.

And if you think quips on your butt are funny, you're not mature enough to have sex.

I Don't Like Ice Cream

In celebration of tomorrow being July 4th, my coworkers have gotten together and decided to have an ice cream party. Everyone is supposed to bring something, but when it's my turn to name the ice cream accessory I'll be bringing, I totally blank.

"I don't know. I don't really like ice cream, so I don't know what you put on it."

And thus begins the exclamations of disbelief.

"You don't like ice cream?! How is that even possible? Ice cream is delicious!"

Oh, delicious you say? Well, nevermind then, I like it. Sign me up.

OR - I just don't like sweets, regardless of their deliciousness. But instead of being accepting, people usually react as if I had just confessed to murdering orphan amputees with their own prosthetics.

Needless to say, I'm less than jazzed about the idea that I have to buy some sugary condiment I don't like, to atop the ice cream I don't like, and sit with these ravenous sugar monkeys for a hour, whilst repeatedly hearing, "Who doesn't like ice cream?"

Me, motherfucker. Let it go.