STFU Fridays: “Who Cares” About Kimye

There are two camps of people in this world: those that shout “who cares?” to all-things Kardashian, and those that stand in line for a couple of hours to ask acne-ridden Khloe for her autograph at a Laker game.

I’ve blogged about these people before, and I’m fairly certain that I said a number of times in there that I don’t care. The truth is, as far as my personal life and day-to-day interactions go, the Kardashians don’t even exist in my mind. I don’t wake up in the morning and check up on the buzz over what Scott and Kourtney have been up to. I don’t try to dress like Kim, or do keg stands like Kris. And I certainly do not – never ever EVER – watch their show(s).

Whenever I see articles about the Kardashians, though, I always notice something in the comments. There is always an unprecedented number of people shouting through the Internet – screaming from behind their computers – the same line over and over again: who cares? Who cares about these media whores? Ignore them and they’ll go away, they say. I have more important things to worry about, they argue.

Who cares?

Well today, in spite of the fact that the Kardashians and all of their sordid affairs have no bearing on my life whatsoever; today, in spite of the fact that I too don’t care – I am here to tell all of those people that said “who cares” to the news and the updates of the Kimye wedding to shut the fuck up. You guys have ignored them and “who cares”ed them long enough and it’s not made them go away. In fact, it looks like it’s just made them worse.

Many Things About Kim and Kanye’s Wedding Last Weekend Were – Arguably – Beyond Wasteful. Who Cares? Shut the Fuck Up.

When I read an article this morning with some of the sordid details of the Kimye wedding last weekend, I felt like my brain had been run through a cheese grater repeatedly over some of the stupidity and rampant wastefulness the event represented.

Reportedly, before the ceremony, Kanye didn’t like the most expensive sound system available, which was the sound system they had ordered. He didn’t like the speakers, I guess. He said they were too big. So he demanded that the entire thing be removed and used an iPod until a replacement sound system was brought in.

The money that was wasted on that set up, that Kanye argued went against his “minimalist style,” could have rather been – oh I don’t know – donated to a good cause. As an example, that money could have fed roughly 1500 children currently starving in Sudan, three meals a day, for the next full year.

Now I’m sure that all of the Kardashians and their offshoots, the Kanyes and all the other celebutants of the world give to charity. In some way. But just think about the wastefulness; how much the wastefulness could be that much more.

Honestly, I don’t even know where to go on; in fact, there was so much excess and wasting at the Kimye wedding that I don’t have the word count space to continue. I will say, though, that the golden toilet tower, the disposable marble dining tables with guest names etched into them, and the use of cranes to go to a higher area of the hill the chateau sits upon could have easily fed another couple thousand children – almost anywhere in the world.

And the headless marble statues. Oh, the headless marble statues. Four days before the wedding, Kimye reportedly ordered 30 nude marble statues to be put around the reception area. Somehow, though, only 10 of them made it up the hill, all of whom lost their heads in transit. Headless nude statues to adorn the reception area, and by the way the average cost of that failed endeavor could have clothed between 60 and 70 homeless families of four in the United States, for an entire year.

Spoiled Children and Total Direspect. Shut the Fuck Up.

Reportedly, Andrea Bocelli – arguably the world’s most famous and respected opera singer – sang during Kim’s processional. Afterwards, they had no seat for him to stay.

The Smith family was there too, with none other than little Jaden. I recently saw a meme that suggested a comeback/spin off of Fresh Prince, where Will Smith sends his spoiled kid to Phillie to learn to be less of a douche. I thought ‘little Jaden? Oh come now…”

Little Jaden wore a white Batman costume to Kimye’s wedding. For a couple hours, he even ran around the place knocking over and smashing glasses to the ground, and throwing his cape over people’s heads.

Who cares? If these people don’t have respect, no one will ever be able to change that? Shut the fuck up.

Kim Had a Crotch Dot, Went On A Rampage, and Turned Off the Power Leaving Everyone Inside the Golden Toilet Tower To Poop In the Dark. Who Cares? Shut the Fuck Up.

I guess at the reception a light beam was shining on Kim’s crotch. She went nuts and unplugged all the lights on the dance floor, which the golden toilet tower was positioned to the side of. So it went black inside the golden toilet tower, and rather than tell Kim that she was going a little overboard over a crotch dot, everyone cowered in fear and just peed in the dark.

Sound absurd? It sounds like a massive cluster fuck of diva mixed with narcissism mixed with – who cares!

Well I care, quite frankly because so many people followed the Kimye wedding on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and other social media news outlets this past weekend and following week that they broke records. Are you people with me? They broke social media records. THAT means that enough people – in spite of all the who cares, and what does this have to do with mes, that show up in the comments – a lot of people are paying attention.

More than anyone in that Kardashian-loving demographic are: kids. Teenagers. College kids. In other words, by not caring and choosing to be better than paying attention to any of these whorish, diva antics of the family that loves to drink and drama, we are letting the people who care learn from them. Next thing you know you’re daughter is getting married and a light beam shines on her crotch, so she takes the example her fave celebrities did and throws a narcissistic temper tantrum, only rather than cower in fear your guests flip the fuck out. Your boss is there, you get fired from you job. Friends never return your calls. Family disowns you.

That may be a little bit of an over exaggeration, but what I’m trying to say seems pretty clear. By choosing to ignore these antics, and by not speaking up, we are allowing these shitty people to dictate how our kids are going to act. Who cares? Why aren’t people caring enough to stand up and say that these people have a serious problem?  This sounds like the old story of Polly, who got raped and stabbed in a New York alley whilst apartment dwellers looked on and just didn’t want to get involved to speak up and speak out.

Why aren’t people standing up and saying why they don’t care?

I think maybe instead of telling people to shut the fuck up, what I’m really doing is telling them to speak the fuck out. Speak out against this Kardashian bullshit. Between their over the top antics, their wasteful spending, and their negative contribution to the world as narcissistic divas who have brains in their assholes – it’s time for people to stop talking shit and start doing something.

Like try to find out how many children in Sudan the Kardashians fed last year with their gobs of money that they have no problem throwing around and wasting.

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STFU Fridays: Seasons Greetings, Faithful Blog Followers!

Seasons Greetings, and kiss my fucking ass that is!

There has been a lot of talk about Christmas letters lately. Blogs are talking about them. People are talking about them. My grandpa fell the other day and is in the hospital recuperating, and keeps whining that he won’t get his Christmas letter done in time now. Apparently the letter is the thing to do.

So I’m leaving my own letter on your doorstep, faithful blog followers. Only instead of being printed on flowery paper with all sorts of bullshit no one wants to hear about on it, my ol’ yule log of greetings is in a paper bag and lit on fire. Instead of talking about me, for this Shut the Fuck Up Friday I’m talking about you…

drunkSanta2

Your Christmas Letter Informed Me About All Of Your Perfect Childrens’ Achievements

I don’t give a fuck if your kid placed first in soccer for the eighth time. I don’t give a shit if your kid is an honor roll student. As far as I’m concerned, he/she is on the honor roll of my asshole. You know why I don’t care? Because everyone’s kid is awesome – whether they are on the honor roll or the fucking dean’s list of losers that will never make it past 8th grade. Stop comparing yourself through your kids to other people. It’s cool that you want to encourage them; I, myself, have been known to brag on occasion. But a lot of times you’re just making them feel like they have to live up to certain Christmas letter standards, or they are a total failure to you.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Christmas Card Included Oh-So-Unique Portraits of Your Beautiful Family

NOT!

The choice to not remove the huge wart/pimple/hair from your face prior to the photo shoot was probably the wrong one. And while your portraits were clearly of you guys, you do know that your photos look just like everyone else’s, right? The kids walking in between the parents, looking back at the camera. In sepia. The family playing in the field in jeans and matching denim shirts. The beach images of the you guys writing your holier-than-thou family crest in the sand. Seriously, people – get over yourselves. I appreciate seeing your kids, since chances are I’m too much of a dick to just get in the car and drive out to see them, but let’s not put on any heirs here either: that picture is going in the trash come December 26th, right along with everyone else’s. Save your money and just send a polaroid.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Verbal Diarrhea Informed Me Of All Your Hardships

Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ, do you people not understand that a Christmas letter is supposed to spread cheer? Like happy news? We received a letter in the mail last week that was six pages long; line after motherfucking line of sadness and hardship and “this person got laid off” and “these people’s house got foreclosed on.” Shit, by the end of the sixth page, I had taken two Valium and a shot of Canadian Club and considered driving myself off the pier in empathy.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Blatant Lying Made Me Realize You Are Delusional

Although by contrast, we received another letter that was all unicorns shitting rainbows, and babies puking glitter – it was just that perfect. Life is great! Life is wonderful! I took a dump last week and it came out in bricks of gold! It concluded with “nothing ever seems to go wrong for us these days,” which is sweet but for God’s sakes: (1) grow up, and (2) stop lying. Life sucks balls. You don’t have to drag us down with all your problems, but the least you could do is be a little more realistic and humble about any good things you do have.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Medical Problems Were Your Christmas Letter’s Centerpiece

What is it with people and sharing all their medical dramas over their Christmas letters? Call me crazy, but I always thought I’d save the stories about my bleeding asshole and weird smelling tits for either my doctor, my husband, or my shaman (disclosure: I do not have a bleeding asshole or weird smelling tits … or a shaman … at least not yet).

My grandpa is the worst with these – his letters always detail his medical dramas and the problems he has making his bowels move if the Nebraska Cornhuskers aren’t doing well. And there was that one time my Trailer Trash Mom wrote a couple paragraphs in grandpa’s letter about her unpleasant discharge – that was a real crowd-pleaser.

Shut the Fuck Up

So seasons greetings, motherfuckers. Please keep your vaginal discharge and your honor roll students to yourself. As you write your Christmas letters this next week, just keep in mind that when in doubt: shut the fuck up!

STFU Fridays: Restaurant Loudtalkers, Illegible Texters, My Mom’s Gut

Here I am. It’s Thursday night. I’m in my pajamas. As you see, no make up. I’m just hanging out. I’ve written a lot today – both a blog post, as well done revisions on my new blog book coming out soon. I also went bowling and to the library. Those were pretty good times. I should be spending my night relaxing and reading my new Hem biography with a nice glass or two of skim milk.

But I’m just so fucking excited for this week’s Shut the Fuck Up Fridays that I cannot wait to post it. So I’m writing it early and posting it tonight because it is just that good. At least as it’s worked out in my head.

Shall we begin?

Restaurant Loudtalkers

Have you ever been in a restaurant, only for someone to be talking so fucking loud that you just want to break a glass and cut the motherfucker to get him to shut the hell up? It’s not always men – that’s sort of sexist for me to say “him.” In fact, more often than not, it’s been the broads.

Once we were out to eat and these three humungous women (I don’t mean their physical girth … well, they were a little heavy, but I mean like Amazon Women – tall, muscular, and quite frankly frightening); these women were loudly rambling on about their new marriages, the inadequacies of their husbands, and how nice it would be if they didn’t have to get porked every night. In the middle of the goddamned restaurant! In front of children! I will never forget as they pounded out of the restaurant, little Pookies clung to me in fear then asked what they were talking about. I really appreciated that.

Today’s experience was no different. We were picking up take-out salads and this old guy was shouting – literally shouting – to the person sitting right across from him. MY NEW NUMBER IS 7-9-5-4-4-3-7 … NO!! 7!!! 7!!!!” Then he kept going on and on about how his grandkid was in soccer and his son was getting a promotion and his fantasy football club was meeting up again and blaa blaa blaa blaa blaa, in the highest decibel possible. In the five minutes I waited for our food, I learned more about this guy’s life than I have ever wanted to know about another human being, a complete stranger no less.

Walking out, I was so overwhelmed by the Restaurant Loudtalker that I immediately turned into this crying lady who has the balls I don’t have to say what’s making me cry:

Illegible Texters

The other day I was talking about how my Trailer Trash Mom started texting and it is – like – seizure-inducing to read the things. I’m not talking about texters like her, though. I’m talking about the people that text, Tweet, email, Facebook, Instagram – whateverthefuck social whoring you want to reference – shit that just looks stupid.

B4

L8

Ta2

H8er

Seriously. There are very few acronyms I find to be acceptable alternatives to basic English literacy. OMG is one. WTF is another, with its variants WTS and WTH. B4 and L8 are not; nor is Ta2. H8er just makes me emotional again:

My Mom’s Gut

Everyone has been asking what the conclusion of my Terrible Tuesday was the other night. My mother and grandparents came over to dinner; it was such an awful day and I was essentially wasted by 6 o’clock. Before that, though, my mother announced that she was going to bring my grandparents over around 2 or 3, instead of when I invited them to come over, at 7. Being a generous host, I canceled my afternoon plans and made sure to be home by 2.

They showed up at 4:45.

So I had laid out some appetizers since they’d be there for so many hours before dinner. Just some chips and dip, and some caprese salads. I spilled an enormous amount of chips with dip on my chest, licking every one of them up with no comment from the crowd. Then I served dinner – again, relatively healthy. Nothing too bad and pretty low cal.

To be precise, I served some garlic bread, nonfat tortellinis with fat free feta, bar-be-qued sirloin (even though I don’t eat red meat), and a medley of vegetables (brocollini, asparagus, and snap peas). My mother – having just returned from her couple of months at the trailer with her hillbilly husband – was not used to eating such an healthy meal. It’s all Ramen, chili dogs, and McDonalds for those two, so her gut was a little ill-prepared for such an easily digested and nutritious meal.

As everyone sat and let their food digest before taking a piece of red velvet cake for dessert, my mother suddenly leaned forward and scooted to the edge of the couch. She spread her legs and positioned her hands on her knees, then puffed out her chest and let out the most uproarious and earth-shattering belch I have ever heard another human being let out.

My grandparents sort of sat there as if nothing was going on, although my grandfather did verbalize what she had just done by saying belch, like he normally does when he does it.

To make matters worse, when she was done letting out the gut-busting, time-stopping esophageal foulness, she wiped her mouth, giggled and said “I guess I’m ready for dessert.”

While everyone else ate their dessert – acting as though not a goddamned thing had happened – I snuck to the bathroom and sat there, tears leaking from my eyes at the horrifying display my mother had just turned the evening into. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was my Trailer Trash Mom’s gut rot. No one will ever know, but in the end it was all emotional and teary and STFU: