In defense of Jenny McCarthy

Jenny McCarthy has been at the center of the vaccine controversy for years now. The criticism directed toward her is growing as childhood diseases spread as a natural response to kids not being vaccinated. McCarthy is not the first and only anti-vaccine celebrity. She’s just perhaps the most outspoken.

When she went on Oprah in 2007 to explain and defend her stance on the vaccine and autism link, I watched, terrified and riveted. What I saw was a mother who passionately believed that the MMR vaccine injected into her son caused him to develop autism. She was trying to warn parents of the dangers of vaccines, and she was pushing for the medical community to develop safer vaccines.

With my baby in my arms, I wondered if she could be right. So I researched. I spoke with my child’s pediatrician. I researched some more. I eventually delayed the MMR shot for my son. It wasn’t long until Dr. Andrew Wakefield’s study, where McCarthy gathered a lot of her information, was debunked and Dr. Wakefield lost his medical license. To me, the safest option was to vaccinate.

If parents choose only take Jenny McCarthy’s word for it and are too irresponsible to gather research their own, it is the fault of those parents. Jenny McCarthy is an actress, activist, former Playboy bunny, author, and mother. She is NOT a doctor or a scientist. She is not responsible for how anyone cares for their own children.

Jenny McCarthy may be misguided and outspoken, but it’s wrong to blame her for the spread of childhood diseases.

On Potlucks: By my girl Dee

I was struggling for something to write for this guest blog, then I get an email for our upcoming Spring Break Work Potluck. Let the flood gates open…

First of all, it’s not spring. At all. So let’s just get that right out of the way. Second, there’s no luck involved here. Potlucks are soul-crushing events, designed to rob us all of the God-given right to be left the fuck alone. It’s a display of everyone’s sorrow and defeat in life, dumped sadly into chipped, discount dishware bought right after a divorce. Plus, work colleagues wouldn’t actively choose to be socially involved with one another. If they did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be in potluck form.

And okay, I might be a food snob. I typically don’t eat processed or pre-made foods. But I’m not so much of a snob that I can’t shut my organic, homemade piehole and enjoy that stuff if served by other people. That being said, there’s a line… and potlucks cross it. No one wants to deal with cooking or spending money on work people – half of which you know to be shitheads – so the quality quotient of what’s provided plummets to the “fuck-these-people-I-hope-they-spend-tonight-shitting-water” level.

Allow me to recap the fare at our last work potluck, and perhaps you’ll agree:

Enter 20 different pasta salads, all of which were SWIMMING in what I assume to be a mayonnaise/ranch/mustard/cream incest-fest. I could make out the rotini (because that’s the pasta you use when you’ve given up on life) but I couldn’t make out the rest. Chunks of something that were the color of my cat’s vomit that time I took her to the vet? And I guess some curd-like things? Perhaps shavings of carrots, or skin. A couple of them had what looked to be the ‘healthier’ flax or wheat noodle, though they were drowning painfully underneath a pool of milky goo.

Baked beans, brought by a secretary who mentioned she’d “hopefully heated them enough to kill bacteria.” Way to sell your dish.

Rolls dethawing in a fancy basket, gumming together in a sauce of ice and napkin. There was a corner of the gummy breadblock cracked off from where someone tried to separate a roll, but clearly gave up after losing the battle. You could still see the fingerprint embedded in bread putty. Next to the fancy basket? A stick of margarine from the early 70’s – before margarine was proven terrible for health – with some toast crumbs engraved on top. Points for the fancy basket though.

Three plates of some dip that’s apparently a potluck favorite. It’s made with a layer of red (??) and a layer of crabmeat. And by crabmeat, I mean Krabmeat. I’ll eat canned fish, but I draw the line at Krab. It’s the hot dog of the sea.

A heated tub of, oh I don’t know, maybe slices of ham? Or slices of beef? Or slices of a decayed leper? It was graybrownpink and scaly. So whatever’s that color and consistency, it was that. And it was stewing in its own wet. At one point, someone whispered, “Is that the meat?” Unclear. But go ahead and give it a try. I’ll just dial “9” and “1” on my phone just in case…

A table of six hundred 2-liters of pop. And no water. Look, I don’t drink pop, but if I did, I’d at least want it to be fizzy. A 2-liter is just pop that’s given up on life. In any case, all six hundred bottles were empty within 20 minutes. People. Love. Pop.

And then the dessert table. I mean, if nothing else, you can usually count on dessert, right? WRONG. There were plates and plates of depressing cookies, and I imagined the person baking them the night before, pissed, and sweating under a fluorescent kitchen light at 11:50pm while her distant, unloving husband watched Two and a Half Men reruns in a stained t-shirt and black socks. I chose two different cookies that looked halfway decent, but ended up tasting like a stick of butter someone carried around in their ass-crack. In the middle of the table, a beautiful coconut cake sat on a glass-domed cake stand. It looked great. It looked like salvation. And then someone cut into it, revealing the horrific innards – dry, dusty, and brown. Like Arizona’s anus. In fact, the knife kinda made the sawing sound that happens when you rip cardboard. And in that moment, you could hear everyone’s hopes die a suffocating, painful death.

So yeah, fuck potlucks. I ain’t goin’ to this one.

What did we learn this year?

  1. America gets a boner for jerk-faces. Every time a celebrity or pseudo-celebrity does something jerky, all forms of social media blow up with everybody spewing their take on it. Simmer down, folks. It’s called a publicity stunt. And you fell for it again.
  2. Miley’s butt and tongue have too much power. They railroaded the news too many times this year. I’m sick of her butt. I don’t mean that figuratively.
  3. Kim Kardashian’s uterus has more pull with the media than social issues. You know, those issues like poverty and oppression. Way to go, Kardiuterus. Maybe you can use some of that power to help people instead of buying cars that cost more than mini-mansions.
  4. Apparently I was wrong this entire time about Simon Cowell being in the closet. Or was I? Maybe I got too close to the truth and he had to knock up some chick to throw me off the trail.
  5. It’s best not to be anywhere near Danny McBride when the apocalypse comes. He’ll drink all the water and then try to murder you. Not to mention what he’ll do to your magazines. Oops- should have said ‘spoiler alert’.
  6. Jennifer Lawrence and Amy Adams should be in every movie.
  7. Chris Brown is still a douchebag. Can we please stop giving him publicity? Oh shit. Did I just become part of the problem?
  8. Jesus would not want people to have healthcare. It’s true. Just ask Fox News. I think the Bible verse goes, “Only help people who have enough money to take care of themselves. If they’re poor deadbeats, they’re totally supposed to die.” (I made that verse up.)
  9. People love Date-rapey songs by children of 80’s sitcom stars. Especially if there is a Beetlejuice suit involved.
  10. Justin Beiber is still holding off puberty but can’t find a shirt that stays on or pants that stay up. You know what they say: fountain of youth on one hand, clothes that fall off on the other.

A Citizens’ Guide to the Government Shutdown


Confused about the government shutdown? Here’s a handy do’s and don’ts guide to help you through this trying (i.e. bullshit) time.

DO: Watch TV. Preferably sitcoms, dramadies, Lifetime movies, and cartoons.

DON’T:  Watch the news, especially political news (other than the Daily Show). Don’t give them attention. It only encourages them.

DO: Question why congress can behave this way when private citizens are fired for walking off jobs.

DON’T: Walk off your own job to drive that point home. Unless your job really sucks, then go ahead.

DO: Suggest that members of congress are responsible for the money they are costing taxpayers.

DON’T: Spend too much time thinking about that money. It will just piss you off and they will NEVER, EVER pay you back.

DO: Consider becoming an anarchist.

DON’T: Wear white shoes after Labor Day. I know this has nothing to do with the government, but it’s still very important, even for anarchists.

DO: Eat your veggies.

DON’T: Blame the entire state of Texas.

DO: Lose interest in this ridiculous shutdown which is not unlike a group of children holding their breath and stomping up and down until they get their way. Or like some little shit getting mad and being all, “It’s my ball and I’m going home” because he lost the game.

DON’T: Stop going to restaurants. Because cooking every single night for your ungrateful family is for suckers.

Did ya miss me?

So sorry I haven’t been around lately. I’m addicted to Twitter. It’s ugly, y’all. I wonder if Twitter addicts should be called twats for short? That and I’ve been working on my friggin’ masterpiece, no big deal. And of course, it’s summertime (stands up and drops it like it’s hot, because it’s finally hot).

Let’s catch up on current events, shall we?

Madonna still isn’t wearing pants. Pretty soon we’ll be able to see her Depends under that leotard. Come on lady, put on some drawers! Sure, you’re in great shape. But the time for wearing only a leotard and tights in public passes once you hit double digits. If you’re old enough to menstruate, you should wear pants. This goes double if you’re old enough for menopause.

And speaking of adult diapers, what was Miley Cyrus wearing on GMA Wednesday morning? Seriously, it looked like a giant fuzzy diaper and KISS boots. We get it, you’re edgy. You can still have fashion sense and be edgy, Hannah Montana. Excuse me, Ms. Montana.

Speaking of sad children. North West. Really? Only this country’s two biggest narcissists would think this name is good idea. I really hope they’re just punking the press. This kid is already facing a life of therapy, rehab, reality TV crews, and paparazzi. Why add to that shit storm with a ridiculous name? Why do those two do anything, though? Maybe their egos will collide, explode, and kill each other (fingers crossed).

As for stuff that isn’t stupid: it’s a great day for equality. Divorces are for everyone! For real, it’s up to each individual to decide what’s right for him/her. It’s just common sense and common courtesy.  I feel so happy. You could say I feel…gay.

Current events, Scapegoats style

I so glad the election is finally over so we can go back to being a dignified country.  Let’s talk current events!

Once again the media is obsessed with someone getting laid. What I want to know is why Pat Robertson defended  General Petraeus but has remained completely mum about Kristen Stewart.

What? Elmo’s not asexual?

Some people want to secede from the union because Obama was reelected. Translation: we didn’t get our way so we’re going to take our toys and play somewhere else. Stomp, stomp, stomp.

Black Friday is on the way. I’d personally rather eat tar-flavored glass than shop on Black Friday, but do what you’ve got to do.

Uganda’s Kill the Gays bill will become a law next month. No joke here. Just something we should all know about.  If you support any business that supports the Family Research Council here in the United States, you are supporting this law in Uganda.

To avoid ending on such a solemn note, here’s what’s new around here: my 3-year-old recently announced that she no longer wants to be on the ‘good list’. No more Santa threats for her, as she is actively seeking naughty certification. Shouldn’t be too difficult.

Cat lady, alcoholic, or celebrity stalker? Take this fun, flirty quiz to pinpoint your personality!

1. How do you like to wake up in the morning?

a.  With a little purrfect love! Give me a kitty snuggle and kiss any day of the week. Honestly, it’s probably the only affection I’ll get all day unless I can trick the janitor at work into bumping into my ass again.

b.  Nothing gets me going like the detox shakes. Better than Folgers, baby!

c.  Brangelina’s body guard’s bulging biceps cradling me as he lifts me gently out of the bushes. Swoon!


2. What’s your go-to outfit?

a.  Nothing says ‘this is me’ like my cat face sweatshirt. Plus, it makes me happy all day. Who cares if it smells and has questionable stains?

b.  It used to be anything with my Rock & Republic jeans, but I left them somewhere last weekend. I guess I took a cab home with no pants. Good thing I wore panties that night (I hope)!

c.  Anything from my Celine Dion collection. People say we look just alike. I even sign my checks with her name sometimes. No one ever notices because normal, unfamous people are stupid.


3. You find yourself home alone and bored on a Friday night. What should you do?

a.   Dress up the kitties for an impromptu wedding. Mr. Whitey Paws and Creamsicle were made for each other. Break out the camera and the sparkling cider!

b.  Enjoy my solitude. Put on my PJ’s, pop in a movie, and cook some Pizza Rolls. The fifth of vodka in the cabinet isn’t going to drink itself!

c.   Kim Kardashian is never home on Friday nights. Time to break in and steal her socks!


4.  Do you drink alone?

a.   No way! I have a white Russian while Twinkle Toes has a bowl of milk. That’s how we do date night at our house.

b.   I’m not alone if I’m on Facebook.

c.  I don’t drink at all. Alcohol interferes with my anti-psychotics.


5. What’s your ideal date?

a.    Two words: cat circus! Complete with trapeze and tiny leotards. What a riot!

b.    It’s important that a date start with a drink. You know, so we can relax and get to know one another. Then we should continue drinking so we can have fun. An ideal date will also end with drinks, and maybe some saltines or peanuts somewhere in there so I don’t puke.

c.     Setting up camp outside of Lindsey Lohan’s house. I’ve heard if you catch her when she’s wasted enough, she’ll invite you in for Dorito’s and cigarettes.


Mostly a’s: Congratulations! A cat will never stab you in the back like that bitch best friend you had in high school. So what if she was the last human friend you ever had? Who needs people when your house is overrun with felines and fur? This lifestyle is for you and you wear it well!

Mostly b’s: Alcoholism is not for the faint of heart or for the weak of bowel, but you can handle it! Just be warned: interventions are all the rage these days, and you really don’t want all your friends and family in the same room. Take my advice and hide your habit like a dirty bastard child!

Mostly c’s: Put on some make-up and visit the networks. Get your pitch ready for the next big reality show: Stalkers of the Rich and Famous. It’s what you were made for, baby. And once you’re a Z-list celebrity, you’ll have stalkers of your own.

Mixture of all 3: Welcome to my world. Stay out of my way.

Ten signs that this really might be the end of the world

  1. Courtney Stodden not only exists, but is frequently in the news for wearing stripper heels to the grocery store.
  2. Though we have a huge problem with poverty and unemployment, the current political discussion in the US is focused around chicken and magic vaginas.
  3. Everyone’s got their knickers in a bunch about this being a Christian nation, but there’s a Mormon running for office (Mormons don’t believe in the holy trinity or hell and there’s this whole thing about three heavens but I got bored reading about it). I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t believe in coffee.
  4. High fructose corn syrup.
  5. Miley Cyrus got a haircut. Are we really supposed to give a shit? There are bigger problems in the world, people. She’s a 19-year-old who had a TV show on Nickelodeon. Prioritize.
  6. Nobody smokes at concerts anymore.
  7. Honey Boo Boo is a reality show. I’m not completely sure what it’s about, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the apocalypse.
  8. Monsanto.
  9. American Girl dolls—seriously, I don’t get it. That shit is creepy. I really, really hope my daughter doesn’t get into those.
  10. We’re still talking about Kim Kardashian’s divorce.

Mercury is a jerk-face

The past few weeks I’ve felt chaotic to the point that I started to consider professional help. A psychic, not a shrink. I’m not prepared for the level of commitment a therapist would require. I learned yesterday (thank you, Kathy) that my irrational behavior and the sensation that a gazillion thoughts are going to make my brain explode and leave little bits of skull all over the place can be attributed to the fact that Mercury is in retrograde. I’m not losing my shit, you guys! This is fabulous news. In case you don’t know what this means, please allow me to explain.

The planet Mercury occasionally gets too big for its britches and decides to go so ridiculously slow, it appears to be going backward. “Look at me, I’m so special I don’t have to do what the other planets are doing…blah, blah…” This throws the entire universe off kilter. Energy is a sensitive beast, after all.

Well, before Mercury was a planet he was the Roman god of commerce. In some depictions he carried a purse, supposedly because he was a businessman. It was a purse, Tinky Winky.  I think we all know where this is going: straight to mutha-flippin’ Chick-Fil-A! Mercury got his knickers in a twist and did something “inappropriate” at America’s third favorite chicken shop and then that man named Cathy said some things and now nobody but Fundies can eat cheap chicken sandwiches with waffle fries.

Mercury was also the god of sleep and dreams. Lots of us have suffered from insomnia lately. Why aren’t we conducting all night domino-tournaments? That’s better than lying awake trying to choose between world-domination or rehab.  Let’s plan ahead for Mercury’s next hissy-fit, y’all. I’ll bring the big gay purse full of chicken!

Mercury was also the god of pranksters. So, basically he’s a bit of an asshole. That’s why he’s messing with each and every one of us right now. Are things just not making sense? Are your children taunting you to the point that you’ve considering joining the Merchant Marines but you’re not sure if that’s even a real thing? Have you considered using your creative energy to sew all the sheets in the house together because it would be really cool to have a giant sheet (you could drape it over your house and the neighbors would wonder if you had ET in there) but you sold your sewing machine fifteen years ago when that silver dress you made looked like something Courtney Love would have rejected for being too shabby? Calm down, sweetie. It’s not your fault. Blame Mercury. That prick.

Synopsis of Fifty Shades of Grey, by someone who’s never read that book

This is how I think it goes from what my friends have told me, crap I’ve read here and there, and the reviews on Amazon.

“Hello, are you Mr. Grey? I’m Anastasia.”  Ana gasps and her cheeks flush red beneath her alabaster skin. Holy crap he is hot.

“Yes,” he barked. “What are you doing in my office?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just a virgin. I’m here to interview you for something.”

“Oh really? That’s great because I’m older and pervy. Do you like handcuffs?” He barks again.

Ana’s knees go all wobbly and she falls down.

Mr. Grey extends a smooth yet slightly work-calloused hand. “You can call me,” pause, “Christian.” The name escapes his manly throat breathily as he assists her to her wobbly yet mousy shoes.

He looks to her shoes and chuckles. “We’ll be exchanging those for heels. You know how heterosexual men feel about their lover’s footwear.”

“Oh Jeez, did you say ‘lover’?” Ana feels titillated. Oh, quadruple crap.

Christian’s lips quirk up, because that’s a thing that happens. He stands her upright and steps away. “I have mommy-issues. Please, please, tell me you have daddy-issues.”

“Oh, I do,” she murmurs.

He, ya know, spanks her because that’s what goes on all the time right there.

Christian says, “Ana, let me dress you just like straight men always dress their women.”

Ana bites her lip and nods, then falls down, because apparently she’s quite clumsy.

He touches her nose with his long index finger and she stares into his intense gray eyes (what a coincidence that his last name is Grey, right?) and they do it and she plays the submissive and falls down some more and then she like learns how to take the power back or something and he gets over his mommy-issues and she did it! She changed the bad-boy billionaire and they get married and live happily ever after because that’s what every woman all over the world really wants.