2011 in Review: Dumbest Moments in Pop Culture

Honorable Mentions:  Casey Anthony.  Arnold Schwarzenegger has illegitimate child with his maid; kid dresses up as the Terminator for Halloween.  Ke$ha.

5. The Royal Wedding.  

While we’ve posted on the royal wedding before, we’re still amazed at how long this cloud of bullshit lingered (and continues to linger/respawn). First it was about the princess-to-be and the wedding itself.  Then it was about the hats. Then it was about her hot sister with the weird name (oh, right, “Pippa.”).  Then it was about her alleged and highly anticipated pregnancy.  Why everyone felt it so necessary to freak out about this, we’ll never know.

4. Kim Kardashian gets married… for 72 days.  Kim married basketball player Kris Humphries, and divorced him less than three months later.  Cue media firestorm: it was fake!  They did it for the money!  All of it is a sham!  Do you people not realize Kim Kardashian’s entire life is a scam to get your money?  Why did you think her marriage to this douche would be any different?  C’mon!  On a side note, I think the height-difference alone doomed them.  I mean, that would really, really complicate things… like dancing.

3. Justin Bieber’s baby mama drama.  Everyone’s favorite manboy singer was accused of having sex with some random nineteen year old girl in a bathroom at one of his concerts, resulting in her getting preggers.  We already posted about this, largely because this girl was claiming she banged a minor… for more entertainment!  Not only was it impossible to Google “Justin Bieber Baby” to get any information about this ridiculous story (given the title of his single), it was just stupid.  There’s so much wrong here.  First off, if you’re nineteen and you are at a Justin Bieber concert, you should be ashamed of yourself.  Secondly, I’m sure this kid has a little more class than to have sex with you in a bathroom stall.  I mean, he’s Bieber, he gets whatever he wants.  He would probably make love to you on a bed of candy or something equally juvenile.  Three, maybe you shouldn’t text people and reveal that you’re full of shit when you’re trying to scam a celebrity out of child support for the next eighteen years.  On top of that, maybe Biebs should have listened up on his Kanye West before hitting the bigtime: “eighteen years, she got one of yo’ kids got you for eighteen years.”  Just sayin.  However, the tweets about this stuff were, admittedly, HILARIOUS.  Nothing better than twelve year olds freakin’ out and calling some teenager a dirty, lying whore (which she was).

2. Charlie Sheen goes overboard on blow, “Winning!” If somebody didn’t realize Charlie Sheen was a little bit “off” before his coke addiction hit the fan this year, then you must’ve been living under a rock. The way news media latched on to this bombshell of a story, though, only happens once in a blue moon. Sheen is no idiot–he used his meltdown to his advantage, and is possibly one of the only celebrities I’ve ever heard of making money off of their sheer insanity caused by drug abuse. Charlie, you are, truly, a rock star from Mars.

1. Rebecca Black gives the world “Friday.” I don’t know what was more amazing: how totally, absolutely, and truly BAD this song was, the hysterical memes that resulted from it, or people’s unchecked rage toward Rebecca Black herself. This goofy YouTube video took on a life of its own and even created a template for a Kohl’s Black Friday ad this year. While the song was awful, you have to be impressed with a piece of music that causes such a guttural reaction among the public and is collectively condemned as the worst song of all time. Just think, Jefferson Starship had to work almost thirty years to get “We Built This City” declared as the worst song of all time. It took Rebecca Black about two weeks. Bravo.

We hope you’ll remember 2011 like we will:

25 Clues You Aren’t In College Anymore

Congratulations, recent graduate. It’s been either six months or a matter of days since you entered the real world.How’s that treating you? If it’s not seeming like finishing school is all its cracked up to be, never fear.

If you’re feeling reminiscent and often wind up confused–am I still in school? I don’t know… I can’t remember…–here are a few clues you aren’t a co-ed anymore.

1. Large groups of people standing outside the front door of your apartment building cause you to be slightly suspicious and/or uncomfortable.

2. Screaming drunk people on Tuesday nights kind of piss you off. You have to get up at 7am and work tomorrow.

3. When you find out a lot of 18-22 year olds live in an apartment building you’re looking at, your response is a unenthused, “Oh…”

4. Girls with skirts short enough that their asses hang out actually are whores. Like, the real kind that have sex for money.

5. You look at a house with a lot of plastic dishware on the lawn and don’t think, “That must’ve been some rager.” Instead, you think, “Why doesn’t this jerkoff pick up his trash?”

6. Backpacks suddenly seem… lame.

7. You are now familiar with hangovers. Too familiar. Honeymoon period over.

8. Bad decisions made while intoxicated seem to have much more gravitas.

9. At some point, what used to be forgivable dramatic fuck ups on the part of others are now painted as rude and unnecessary. And likely unprofessional.

10. Kids complaining about their professors/grad student teaching assistants/exams/papers/[insert necessary evils of undergrad here] seem whiny and stupid to you.

11. Rather than writing that shitty freshman seminar paper, you’re grading it. And hating every minute of reading that verbal vomit you know was written between shots of Goldschlager last Saturday night.

12. Suddenly, not everyone around you is wearing the same two colors on Saturday afternoons.

13. You actually have to pay for a gym membership.

14. Suddenly, eating pizza three nights a week sounds awful.

15. You go to coffee shops to drink coffee, not cruise Facebook while pretending you’re doing homework.

16. Your Facebook tagged photos are no longer you making that face you make when you’re drunk. They’re you with your fiancée on vacation or at the office Christmas party (and you’re not drunk enough).

17. Friday is no longer part of the weekend.

18. You go to Happy Hours regularly, but you’re almost always home by midnight.

19. Sweatpants are no longer acceptable to wear anywhere but the gym.

20. Waking up at 10am is actually sleeping in, not “waking up early.”

21. There is no longer any such thing as “winter break.” There are, in fact, no scheduled breaks at all.

22. You have more than just a 30 pack of Busch light in your fridge.

23. Sometimes, on weekends, you cruise websites for home goods.

24. High school students not only seem to be younger than you, but they’re downright babies. (You started high school almost ten years ago.)

25. It’s possible, nay likely, that a dog/cat/fish has replaced your college roommate.

Ten Things I Hate About Starbucks

I would like to warn you that I have taken some liberties with the exact location of all of these occurances, but I hope you will forgive me. I’ve combined two coffee house experiences of my day into one.

 

1. Why is there a drink called “Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte?” THIS MAKES SO EFFING SENSE!!! Can you just stop with the alternate languages? The small is not tall, the medium is not grande, it’s fucking medium, and the venti is the only one that kind of makes sense but still–twenty? Twenty what? Twenty hairy old men in speedos on the corner? WHAT??

 

2. Yes, you see me. I’m alone. I am at a two person table. Yes. I am reading. NO, that’s not an invitation to come join me. Just, seriously, if you’re gonna do that at least ask Don’t just sit down! Maybe I’m not anti-social and was waiting for someone, you dick head!

 

3. If you skip my advice in #2, then at least do me a favor and don’t put your head down on the table after you’ve invaded my bubble and SLEEP. For the love of god. How rude ARE you? Just… really?

 

4. You’re way too excited about your drink. If the Starbucks baristas know you by name, and you go up to the counter to order “the usual,” you’re probably spending way too many dollars and empty calories on coffee-like drinks. Probably not something you need to be proud of. Additionally, if you’re this fucking happy on a Wednesday morning at 8:30, why are you even getting coffee you crazy morning person?!??

 

5. Stop with the phone. Really, I don’t want to listen to you make thirty phone calls while I’m trying to mind my own business and read. You are so distracting. Don’t you have a home? Or an office? Or better yet, a home office that you can make business calls from? Not a fucking cafe in a university student union?

 

6. Why, Barista, do you look at me like I have skinned a live goat in front of you when I order? I asked for a coffee and a salad at 2:30 in the afternoon. Is that a problem, or is the problem with your fugly face?

 

7. I overhear the dumbest shit in coffee shops. Seriously. Don’t believe me? How about this one: “Yeah I bought them at CVS, and they totally woke me up but they don’t have caffeine in them.” “How do you know?” “Well, like it wasn’t on the ingredients list…” Or try: “Oh my god, yeah, like, the Old Testament is bullshit. I mean the only people who believe that are Catholics and Jew people [I did not make this up. Not “jews” but “jew people.”] think that that shit actually happened. I mean not all of them do but then they aren’t really Catholics and Jews.” (No, moron, Catholics don’t read the Bible literally. And many sects of Judaism don’t, either. Before you go bashing people’s faith, maybe you should actually understand the tenets of their belief system.) This was followed later by a conversation about piercings and how sometimes they smell bad, like “rotting flesh.” WHAT THE FUCK, I AM TRYING TO EAT AT THE TABLE NEXT TO YOU. SHUT UP!!!!

 

8. No, I’m not going to tell you my name. Don’t write it on the cup. I don’t need to be named, I just need you to call out my drink. I’m smart enough to realize that if I just ordered and there’s three people waiting in line to pick up drinks, the next drink up probably isn’t mine. C’mon.

 

9. Why do all of your baked goods cost like $7? I hope you make everything with the finest, freshest ingredients known to man. At least, I hope your muffins taste better than your shitty house blend.

 

10. Number ten isn’t really a reason to hate Starbucks. I just really want to know, who’s the chick on the logo? And what’s wrong with her arms?

If you actually are interested in the logo, this website gives a pretty good explanation of how it got to be what it is.

There’s Nothing Funny About Living With Dudes

The New Girl is a television show airing on FOX, starring the adorable and quirky Zooey Deschanel. The main premise of the show, aside from Deschanel’s epic break-up, is the cute-but-totally-weird-and-awkward girl lives with three dudes, and isn’t that hilarious?!? One girl living with a bunch of guys!! AHHAAAA!

I am going to fill you in, America, there is nothing cute or funny about being the one girl living with a bunch of dudes. Take it from someone who did it: Nothing about it is funny and everything about it sucks.

Five Reasons Not to Move in With Your Guy Friends

1. Everything smells like male body odor and Axe.

Dudes smell. There’s just no way around it. Whether it’s dirty socks lurking in the living room or strange smells wafting into your bedroom from the room across the hall, there’s always a smell of dude sweat when you live with guys. Also, now that we have been blessed with Axe (because Old Spice just wasn’t cutting it for awful pseudo-cologne anymore), every bathroom always smells like a strange combination of cinnamon and musk, causing any person with asthma who enters to immediately have a coughing fit. Awesome.

2. If you weren’t bargaining for a parade of whores, you should have.

Guys are focused on one thing when they go out: getting chicks to come home with them. Get ready for a parade of different girls who range in attractiveness from the super hot to the painfully ugly tramping around your house at all hours of the night and awkwardly sneaking by so they don’t have to introduce themselves (or be introduced) to you. They (perhaps rightfully) fear your womanly judgment. Also, you will oftentimes find they’ve used the only girly products in the bathroom after they’ve fucked your roommate and took a shower before they did their walk of shame. Thanks, ladies. Much obliged. Additionally, every friend you ever invite over will not only be treated as a house guest, but will often be invited to be one of your roomies’ bed guest as well, because you no longer have friends: you have potential sex partners for your roommates.

3. You will know every song from every video game and the plot to every bad action flick forward and backward.

Your living room is no longer a living room. It is now what is called a “man cave.” That means the staple decorations are empty beer cans, three week old potato chips hiding beneath the rug, dirty dishes, and the lurking stray sock I mentioned before. The TV will only show the following: sports of all kinds (even those as obscure and stupid as curling), first person shooters and sports video games (if you don’t know that first term, live with dudes and it will become VERY familiar), bad action movies or other manly movies, sci-fi series movies–think Star Wars or Lord of the Rings, and other crappy and generally unfunny TV (e.g. Workaholics). Forget ever watching Grey’s Anatomy or Teen Mom or Say Yes to the Dress or Ghost or any Lifetime movie.

4. Your kitchen will always be sticky, dirty, and smell like something died in it.

Dudes generally suck at cooking and/or know nothing about storing food. This results in a lot of food particles and rotting bananas around your kitchen. Between this, sticky beer/alcohol residue, beer cans, and Chinese take out and pizza boxes, it’s basically impossible to navigate, let alone cook in this room. So, that Coq Au Vin recipe you were going to make for your boyfriend for your anniversary? Yeah, forget about it–go out.

5. They don’t see you as a girlfriend/sex partner, and therefore you fit into the same category as their mother.

You have passed from being drooled over as the sex object or chased after as the girlfriend into the friend zone. You aren’t an accessible vagina, and therefore when you ask for something, it’s nagging. Now you’ve entered the mom zone. Once this happens, all bets are off. Get used to being expected to clean up after your dude roomies, retrieve forks from their bedrooms when they all disappear from the kitchen, pick up those dirty socks in the living room, clean the bathroom fixtures, and take care of all the things their mothers have been doing for them for the last twenty two years.

So instead of living with four dudes, you, in the matter of a few weeks, have suddenly birthed quadruplets. Congratulations on being a New Mom!

Beer Pong and Botox, or Why It’s Okay to Age

There’s always been those people who deny the fact that they’re getting older. Whether that meant patting their wrinkly, old faces with lead-based powder in the 1700’s (and ironically making their appearance go downhill faster–lead does *wonders* for your skin) or injecting botox and getting face lifts and tummy tucks at the dawn of the 21st century, there have always been those who fear aging. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t really understand the insatiable desire to stay 18 forever (or 20, or 25, or what-have-you). Sure, everyone wants to be “young and beautiful,” and often what is called beauty is really just youth, but I don’t think I would inject my face with botulism or let someone stretch my skin tighter over my skull in order to make people think I’m younger (and/or made of plastic).

What is it about age, other than pure vanity, that scares everyone so much? We value the wisdom and experience we gain as we age, but it seems to be those pesky wrinkles and grey hairs that throw us for a loop. But really, it’s just aesthetics. You are more than how you look, and the sooner we all realize that, the better off we’ll be. All I’m saying is that cutting/poking/prodding/and spending, spending, spending hasn’t gotten anyone very far when it comes to looking younger. However, we do have a lot more women walking around looking like life-size, discarded barbie dolls.

But maybe it’s more than just looks. Maybe everyone’s trying to get back to looking young because they want to go back to being young; perhaps it’s less about aesthetics than it is about a living memory of being 18, or 20, or 25, and being “carefree” and “innocent” and all the cliche terms associated with youth. But why don’t we value our later years? Is pursuing your career, having a family, finding a partner, travelling, learning, and living as an adult really that lamentable? Sure, getting blitzed on Tuesday nights and having no responsibilities and no job (for some of us) and getting with all the hotties (like I said, for some of us) can be great, but I wouldn’t want that to last forever. What about other interests? What about being productive (or reproductive for more eager folks)? What about establishing a life and relationships outside of party buddies?

I’m just saying, maybe we should stop looking at 18-22 or 16-22 or whatever combination/range of years as “the best time” of our lives. Why not assume the best is yet to come and relish in the moment? Find good in being 25, 35, 45, 55, 65, and 95, and all the ages in between. I mean, just think of it this way: if you stayed 18 forever, beer pong would still be the preeminent subject of conversation, along with awkward teenage sex jokes and petty high school arguments of who-did-what-to-whom-and-don’t-you-think-that’s-just-awful??!!.

Consider this a friendly PSA to stop living in the past and embrace your present.

Being a Pedestrian 101

I learned a lot in college. But one of the most important lessons I learned wasn’t in the classroom or at a frat party. It was on the sidewalks.

The campus on which I lived for the last four years was dominated by pedestrian foot traffic with a good chunk of bicyclers. I was aghast to find, as a freshman, that people lacked basic pedestrian politeness, so I’d like to share with you some tips on how not to be a jerkoff on the sidewalk.

1. Don’t Tailgate Me.

Just like when you’re driving a car too close to my back bumper, I get mad when you’re walking on my heels. I’m not going to start jogging because you think I walk too slow. Feel free to walk past me, but I’m not jumping off the sidewalk and into a mound of snow for you, buddy. Deal with it.

2. Don’t Text and Walk at the Same Time.

This could likely have its own posting, but here’s the heads up: don’t do it. You can’t see where you’re going so you oftentimes nearly crash right into me. Additionally, when I’m walking behind you, you’re going at a snail’s pace. Just make a phone call. It takes virtually the same amount of time, if not less, and requires about half the attention. (This means you’ll be able to walk and talk at the same time… I hope.)

Also, it’s worth adding, don’t iPad and walk. Yes, reader, don’t iPad and walk. Today I walked in the vicinity of a girl who was walking home while on her iPad blasting music for eight blocks. It was the most astounding, obnoxious, mind-bending sight I have ever had on my walk home. Not only did she appear drunk (she walked directly into a parked bicycle at one point), but it was so annoying to have to listen to her bad music and pass and re-pass her as she changed pace all the time. Bah!

3. Don’t Walk Three or Four Abreast.

My city has nice sidewalks, for the most part. A lot of them are pretty wide and accommodate a lot of people at once. But, listen. And I mean, really, please listen because I’m tired of knocking shoulders with your dumb ass: If I’m walking alone, and you’re walking with two or three of your buddies, it’s polite to move out of the way so I don’t have to jump into the snow/mud/into someone’s front yard to save myself from getting bulldozed by you. I stopped being polite and doing all that, so now you’re going to get bulldozed by my shoulder when you don’t move your ass. Seriously. Nothing about walking annoys me more than this. So just stop being such a jerk.

4. Don’t Sneak Up Behind Me, Bike!

“Excuse me” are two simple words that work a lot better than letting your bike click so I’ll know you’re there. You can even warn me, “Coming up on your right!” I would totally appreciate it, and make way for you. But remaining silent helps no one, so give me a heads up when you’re behind me so we can share the road. Sound good? Good.

5. Don’t Assume I Love Your Pet Furball

This last one seems pretty straightforward. If you’re out walking your dog, keep it in check. I generally am pretty happy to come across dogs while I’m walking, but when the owner allows the dog to cross into my path sniffing and forcing me to make an awkward dodge around a leash/slobber/an exciting hump session, I get mildly annoyed. Just keep your dog doin’ it’s doggy thing not in the path of every oncoming pedestrian. Additionally, don’t get mad when I give you the stink eye after you just left a steaming pile of dog shit on the sidewalk. You deserve every moment of that stink eye and more! You make me sick.

How you act as a pedestrian matters! The sidewalk is a public space. Remember that because of this, you share it.

There Can Be Only One

I was super stoked when Mad Men, the acclaimed AMC television series, hit Netflix streaming. As such, I’ve had my nose buried in the boob tube for a while. The show definitely creates its own aesthetic, set of mannerisms, and speech delivery, and once you watch a few episodes, you’ll know it anywhere.

However, recently, I’ve seen advertisements for two other period dramas, Pan Am and The Playboy Club, showing this fall on network TV (ABC and NBC respectively). I’m used to seeing TV try and rip off other shows (see also Ridiculousness with Rob Dyrdek, showing soon on MTV–ripoff Tosh.0 much, execs over there?), at least in concept. Which seems to be more of what The Playboy Club does, but at times it, and most of the time what Pan Am seems to do is rip off the style of Mad Men–the mannerisms, the speed and style of line-delivery, etc. And that’s kind of annoying.

Don’t get me wrong, Mad Men is a great show. But it’s great because it’s not a desire to relive the early 1960s in NYC; rather it attempts to use the positive and the negative from the period within its realm to create drama without overlooking or promoting negative attributes of the period. So rather than relish in or gloss over the sexism and racism that were pervasive in the day in which the drama is being created, the show seems to lay them at its viewers’ feet, bare-boned and without apology. But it is this style of honesty that makes Mad Men worth watching, and what I don’t see in the sneak previews for the other two shows. That both worries and irks me.

Now that I’ve raised my concerns, here’s the rant: Hey, network TV, quit ripping off good shows and other people’s good ideas. Maybe fire your creative departments and start over because it’s been obvious for years you can’t find much of anything that works, let alone is unique, innovative, and good. Maybe instead of hiring a bunch of people with business degrees and actuarial mathematicians who calculate the time it will take for America to become totally fed up with the crap you’re putting over the airwaves, you should instead hire someone who actually cares about the work they produce instead of the money it will make them. Because if all you’re focused on is dollar bills or what your viewer stats are, you’re never going to produce anything good. And you’re going to keep making me pay for cable. Thanks a lot.

I Don’t Want To Smell Like Sugary Treats, Thanks

The smell of your bathroom products can, at times, be a big deal. I don’t know about everyone else, but I normally take a few minutes to smell the products that I’m buying for two reasons: I don’t like hating the way I smell and I don’t want the six hundred smells from all the different products to clash and make me smell like a trash can or a perfume-obsessed grandmother.

However, the other day I went to Target and purchased a new hairspray on the cheap: Suave Touchable Finish Hairspray. I thought, well, this looks all right. Let’s try it. I also happened to be in a bit of a hurry, so, contrary to my usual beauty product purchasing routine, I didn’t smell it first.

Oh, brother. I now am the proud owner of a product that makes me smell like a cotton candy factory. Might have been cool when I was 12, not so much when I’m 22. I didn’t realize that the pink stood for “Smell Like Treats Four Year Olds Love”!

The quality is decent, but the smell got me thinking about other beauty products and smells that drive me nuts.

Body Spray/Spritzers

I don’t really understand how these are different from perfume except that they usually smell worse and people think that because they aren’t perfume that they should use ten times as much. They really don’t accomplish much other than making women smell like cheap Thai hookers, too-ripe fruit, or a variety of sweets. This causes me to wonder who exactly wants to walk around smelling like food. It seems like you would attract more attention than you might have bargained for (e.g. from squirrels or other hungry animals).

Hair Paste

As a short-haired woman, I love me some hair wax, but I hate buying it. There doesn’t seem to be any standards for what terms like “wax,” “paste,” “fiber,” or “gum” mean, what texture they will give your hair, or what texture they have on their own. They vary from a nearly solid paste-like substance to semi-solid material to runny goop that makes you look like you have respectfully declined to wash your hair for the last two weeks.

Pore Strips

I, like many other people, continue to buy these stupid little things even though they continuously disappoint me. They kind of, sort of work, but more often than not, I’m more frustrated with what I think is left in my pores than what these suckers pulled out. Why? Why do I keep buying these?! Oh, yeah, it’s because every other product that claims to clean your pores also sucks. Man has walked on the moon but has yet to come up with a good way of cleaning his or her pores.

That’s all from me, but what beauty products leave you feeling angry, disappointed, or smelling weird?

Being an Adult is like Being a Baby, Only Cooler

What does it mean to be an adult? Does it mean responsibility? Morality? Logical reasoning? Maturity? Politeness? Maybe some, or all, of these things.

I painted my fingernails bright purple the other day and had the most terrifying thought after I was finished: “Oh man, I’m too old for this.” But what does that mean? How does one “be an adult”? I thought I used to know, but once I started thinking about it, I really couldn’t come to a conclusion. So, I thought, let’s start backwards: how does one “be a kid”?

Kids and the iPad, or How to Raise Technologically-Advanced Barbarians

A friend of mine posted a Facebook status about two kids comparing their iPads. They were nine. My eyes, like yours may be doing now, bugged out slightly, and my cynic lobe of my brain went, “GHWAAA?” What in god’s name does a nine year old need an iPad for? Really, I’m serious. Can anyone suggest a possible necessity here? Even offer me something that the iPad does that a laptop or a video game system does not do, and I can at least maybe go with that. But, from where I’m sitting, this looks like another case of parents who don’t want to interact with their offspring, so they let technology take care of that for them. I’m so excited to see what today’s nine year olds are going to accomplish as world leaders in two decades with their expert and adept Angry Birds skills. Can you kill eight round, green pigs hiding behind glass, stones, and wood with a single bomb bird? Yeah, thought so. So last century.

But the bigger issue here, in my opinion, is the fact that nine year olds get everything they want. When I was nine, there were things my parents said ‘no’ to. If I was nine now, you can bet your ass I wouldn’t be getting an iPad. In fact, I’m twenty-two now and if I told my mom I was thinking about buying an iPad for $500 and I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it exactly, I know the look that would cross her face:

<– Or something like that. And it wouldn’t even be her money.

I guess the crux of this part of my rant is that parents let their kids do, say, and act whatever and however their tiny, yet-to-mature brains decide, with absolutely no input from the parents. Sorry, but you don’t beg your child to stop acting like a tiny barbarian. No, you tell it, and if it doesn’t listen, you take some sort of action to discipline it, whether that means a stern talking-to or an ass-whooping. A half-hearted, “Honey, would you please stop pulling your sister’s hair?” or “Sweetheart, could you not pee in Grandma’s shoes?” isn’t going to cut it. This kind of “discipline” (if one can call it that) basically teaches kids to ignore the reasonable voice because they can. When you use a reasonable/logical voice to discipline a child and then take no action to back it up, you wind up with kids who only respond, for the rest of their lives, to people screaming at them, and sometimes not even that. But where does that leave us when we have to act like an adult?

The Debt Ceiling and 535 Overgrown Babies

As you probably know–because, let’s face it, doom-sayers abound–the nation is in a crisis regarding the national debt ceiling. Republicans and Democrats are kicking and screaming in order to get their

I imagine he's thinking, "OMFG can we get this shit taken care of already?!"

ideological position validated. On The Daily Show recently, Jon Stewart compared President Obama to the incensed father figure of the childish Congress, lecturing his fellow politicians on the importance of seriousness, compromise, and to quit “playing politics.”

Hearing about the debt ceiling and watching Eric Cantor & Co. essentially stamp their feet and throw a hissy fit like a four year old whose mother won’t buy it a candy bar at the grocery store checkout causes me to wonder: if I’m twenty-two and can effectively compromise with others, what the hell is wrong with these 40, 50, and 60-somethings in Congress? Why do they insist on acting like whiny, stubborn teenagers who think their curfew is inappropriately early? Perhaps because their parents tried to reason with them instead of telling them to clean their rooms, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. We’ve raised a generation that finds itself utterly incapable of listening to logic or venturing to compromise on an issue.

This brings me to a larger point. In America, adults don’t act like adults. They act like overgrown babies. This is evident in a number of weird phenomena: Dads getting in fist fights at their kids’ sporting events, politicians sending pictures of their dicks to young women on the internet, women apparently murdering their toddlers in order to ‘party more,’ as well as the larger and more expansive attitude that the rules just don’t apply to me (whether this means sports stars taking steroids to cheat their way to success or people driving drunk and wondering why they’re getting their licenses taken away).

So, why do people in the great middle age of life continue to wonder why their kids and their kids’ kids have no respect for authority? Why they refuse to obey the rules? Why they’re greedy, stingy, hissy fit-thowing, kicking, screaming, spitting, whining hellspawn in the shape of cute and small children? They shouldn’t wonder, they should just look in the mirror.

So what does it mean to be an adult in America today? I guess it means being a kid. And in honor of entering/reentering childhood, I’d just like to say:

Hey, mom, I’m gettin’ me an iPad!

Crazies, Babies, and Casey Anthony

Yesterday I watched the verdict to the Casey Anthony murder trial read live. I then watched roughly an hour of news coverage on MSNBC while awaiting comments from the jury (or lack thereof) in regards to their decision. During this hour, I was both aghast and amazed at the investment people made in this trial.

For example, the reporter for MSNBC interviewed one woman who had driven two hours with her mother and children in tow to stand outside the courtroom and wait for the verdict. Okay, I say to myself, maybe they knew the Anthonys. Nope. Just some random people, who, additionally, had stopped at the deceased child’s grave on their way there in order to drop off flowers and pray and grieve.

Pardon me, but what the hell?!

1. Why make personal grief and frustration that isn’t yours? Is your life so awesome that you need to adopt other people’s pain as if it is your own? The thought, admittedly, is nice, perhaps even sincere, but in completely bad taste.

2. Don’t you, oh, I don’t know, HAVE JOBS? DO SOMETHING? HAVE COMMITMENTS? It’s the first day after a long holiday weekend, so I assume people with jobs are at them, and if you don’t have one you might want to be looking for one because obviously you need something to occupy yourself, and wasting a bunch of gas driving 2 hours to a courthouse and dragging your kids and elderly mother along ain’t it. Why don’t you try doing something productive and helpful to society instead of something pointless and wasteful!

3. I’m shocked at how many people followed this trial so closely. A friend of mine posted quite the insightful status on Facebook; something along the lines of “Wouldn’t it be something if people were as invested in local issues and events as they are in a murder case in Florida?” Something to think about.

Additionally, the reporter interviewed two other people: a middle-aged guy who lived two blocks away who came over to see what all the fuss was about and a nine-year old girl. The questioning was along the lines of, “do you understand what has been going on?” To which the girl responded, “I think so, kinda.”

Give me a break, media. DON’T INTERVIEW NINE YEAR OLDS. EVER. Unless you are covering an elementary school picnic, I don’t give a shit what a nine-year old thinks/feels/understands about an obviously adult topic. I care what a nine-year old thinks about Anthony’s trial about as much as I care what she thinks about the National Debt–which is to say not very effin’ much. If we were talking about Santa Claus or pink unicorns that shit rainbows and fart roses and are BFFs with Barbie, that might be another story. But until you’re covering the tragic accident involving the mall Santa and tween-aged mythical creature sightings induced by too much Harry Potter, DON’T INTERVIEW CHILDREN.

The lesson to be had from all this? Sometimes it’s best to stick with the expert opinion rather than polling crazies and babies. Just sayin’.