My WTF-meter has been going off pretty often lately. A day doesn’t go by where I’m not shaking my head like the emoji that doesn’t know what the fuck is going on in the world. So I’ve saved up a few rants that I’ve wanted to vent about for cathartic purposes only. Yes, these are angry rants and yes, I sound like PMS personified, but that’s actually pretty accurately me and there’s nothing like a stormy Monday to make you want to vent … here goes:
The Mini Muffin Hostage Situation
The Little Debbie Mini Muffin commercials have me pretty perplexed lately. If you haven’t seen one of these monstrosities, please go watch this or this. In fact, there’s an entire series of these Moms of 7 a.m. commercials meant to really connect with people like me. And I get it, being a parent is hard fucking work. I also get the fact that I’m only a breeder once over and I don’t know what it’s like to have my own little litter of five kids or whatever but … I’ve got to call bullshit on this.
These are like those cold medicine commercials where they insinuate that men are too stupid to know when or how to take cold medicine. Naturally, our maternal instincts kick in and we pour the medicine out into a little cup and give the men their medicine with our arms crossed and that “teacher look” on our faces. WHAT WOULD THEY DO WITHOUT US? Uhhh no. FUCK THAT. If you’re too stupid to know when to take over the counter medication you are probably meant to have it turn into some MSRA-enflamed sinus infection and die.
But back to the muffins – did you listen to the commercials or were you instantly swept up in the fact that these, too, are women. You understand their struggle, right? You get the fact that kids are assholes in the morning and they will riot and loot if they don’t get pure sugar for breakfast, right? Did you hear the language used? They say the muffins are “a way to get them in a great mood so it’s easier on me” and the other claims that “I’ve gotta keep them happy at the end of the day. Little Debbie Mini Muffins keep them all happy.”
I’m sorry, WHAT? Are you being held hostage by your fucking kids and their preferred sugar-laden breakfast food? I’m not going to pretend we don’t do sugary shit sometimes – cereal, french toast sticks, whatever but you make it sound like they’ve got a gun to your head and someone needs to send in the SWAT team to rescue you from “the situation.” They’re kids. They’ll eat what you tell them to because they get hungry. They’re not mobsters; you can buy whatever the hell you want. Advertising has a way of insulting all of my sensibilities that I just can’t get over today.
Nope, We Aren’t The Same At All
So yeah, I’m fat. And look, you’re fat too. That’s cool; we can hang. But DO NOT start with the “skinny bitch” rhetoric. I get that you’re trying to relate to me and that’s pretty difficult sometimes but mocking someone else’s looks as a way of connecting with someone turns my stomach. You think I’m supposed to share in your hate and skinny shame because, according to your wisdom, you “can’t trust a skinny bitch?”
Look, I can’t trust any bitch. Skinny, fat, giant, little person, one leg, secret penis, I don’t care … why are you trying to single out skinny people all of the sudden? Oh, because you’re fat, have low self-esteem and you’re jealous of what someone else looks like? Don’t lump me into that mess; I hate everyone equally.
And Speaking Of Fat Girls
I’m going to let those of you who aren’t fat in on another little secret: Clothes shopping is a real bitch. But not for the reasons you think. It’s not about fitting in to a tiny dressing room under fluorescent lighting in an 80-degree store (though none of that shit helps, either.) It’s the fact that I can’t buy a solid black fucking t-shirt (black is my signatuh colah) without weeding through pages and pages of total shit when shopping online.
Options for fat girls are limited. There’s not too many places we can shop anyway. Then you insist on putting out shirts inspired by fucking Disney princesses and cartoon characters? I’m thirty-eight years old. I don’t need the Dr. Who Tardis across my tits. I don’t watch that shit so I don’t even know what it is but I sure as hell don’t need it on my clothing. And I don’t need a Little Red Riding Hood cape or my Hogwarts House emblem on my ass either. Can we just make some more solid black clothing, please? We’ve got it hard enough; why do I need a jacket with Minnie Mouse ears on it? I refuse to participate in this fuckery. This is reason enough to go on a diet.
People That Need to Colonize Another Planet
People that use the term “misnomer” when they really mean “misconception” should team up with the Russian space monkeys and go colonize Mars. Like, my annoyance with these types of people borders on the consideration of reintroducing eugenics (but, you know, in a happy, non-Hiltery way). And it’s not just them. There’s a boatload of people on the internet trying way too hard to sound intelligent when they’re just … not. They’re simply Brain Bougie. I mean, how did you even come across the term “misnomer?” Guys, if you don’t know a word – do me a favor and DON’T use it. If you use three wrong words in a sentence and/or proceed to lecture me on historical “facts” I’m pretty much going to lump you in with Mr. Fake News himself.
Yeah, that was vile, ranty and blood-soaked but we’re all entitled to a little of that every once in a while. What’s pissed you off over the past several days? Grab your ovaries (or balls; I’m equal opportunity) and RANT AWAY in the comments.