What I’ve Learned This Post-Christmas Vacation—So Far

1. “Dayton has suffered its first double-homicide of the year” is the most depressing sentence in the world.

2. There is an entire television show in which second-rate celebrities pretend to be retail or food-service slaves, and say “I get that a lot” every time someone cries, “holy crap, you totally look like a second-rate celebrity.”

3. Lean Pockets are repulsive.

4. A shocking number of people do not secure their wireless networks.

5. Some people think I need to lose weight. Some people think I’m too skinny. Apparently, I have two options: be a trophy, or be a typical southern Ohio resident. Both of those options suck, and actually aren’t really options, since I’m pretty sure I’m stuck with my own damn metabolism. Alas.

6. I have no upper-body strength. My arm is still sore from playing Wii—although, in my defense, I did spend hours stubbornly trying to beat my power throw bowling score.

7. If I lived here, I wouldn’t do anything—just sink into my rapidly-expanding body and cuddle my Wii console as I gave way to a sugar coma, with the strains of country-pop bouncing in the background and lending amusing contrast to my pathetic situation.

8. I’m really just not that interesting. Hopefully that changes and I can write something semi-not-completely-dull soon.

Drainage

I suffer from a complete inability to care.


Except for when I’m stressed out and grumpy, in which case I’m pretty easy to piss off.


“You keep eating burritos that big, you’ll be huge!”

Thanks for the concern, sir, but burritos have beans; this is a coriander shrimp wrap. Still, you’ve got a point – what the hell am I doing, eating lunch like a normal person? Next thing you know I’ll be eating dinner or some shit. Maybe even snacks. And one day? I might descend to the level of a cupcake guzzler.

I’m not sure what it is that makes people think it’s their place to make those sorts of comments, but you know what? Shut it. Especially since I could fit in one of your pant legs and probably still need a belt.


(I’ve been sitting here listening to a bug fry in a ceiling light. The sound is like heavy radio static. Then the bug fell on my shoe and lay there twitching while I yelped and spent a good thirty seconds jumping around like Rumpelstiltskin at his most gleeful until I succeeded in shaking the thing off. And it was horrible.)


“Is there any way you could photocopy part of this book for my daughter so she doesn’t have to buy it?”

“No way that’s legal.”

Had to love the eye roll I got for that one. And I suppose my stance was pretty ridiculous. After all, what’s the problem in making illegal photocopies of books that also negate the incentive for our customers to actually, like, buy merchandise? I should be catering to even the cheapest of these peoples’ whims.

But I fail at cheapness catering, so they left. Sad news.


So, Wednesday. I was pretty relaxed on Wednesday. I’d popped some biscuits in the oven and was curled up in my nest of blankets, reading a novel completely for pleasure – no highlighter in sight. I had tea and I felt great.

And then came the stress lasers. Do you know the stress lasers? Those blazing little shitheads. They skewer your brain cells and push them out through your eyes, which, in turn, causes the cells to take on the form of giant glittering stress tears. The empty space left by these former cells is then filled with pooling golden stress light that completely incapacitates the surrounding brain material and sends the body housing the brain in question to embark on a wonderfully fun panic attack.

Stress lasers blow.


The upside: dressing as a hipster zombie for Halloween, as in the photo at the top of this page, and as below:



I may not look enthused, but I wouldn’t have relinquished that Guinness for anything.

Thanksgiving break come quick, so I can be chipper once again.

Labor Day

There are times when life does not make sense. Like when you wake up to find a nearly nude Russian exchange student frantically searching for his boxers, explaining, while still thoroughly obliterated, that he has all his cash hidden in said boxers.

"Well, but how much cash?"
"Two thousand dollars."

And then everyone's faces flatten and sag.

"But...why? Why would you have that much on you...?"

I mean really. There is nothing logical about that scenario. Especially not in the morning, when waves of stale vodka are crashing against your temples and you don't know where your glasses are. And you're standing in a hallway while the Russian stumbles drunkenly around, and his 40-year-old host mom looks flatly on.

Then you notice that the Russian appears to be wearing your boyfriend's shorts, as they're far too big for him and are exposing the majority of his skinny ass. You're wondering how exactly they stay on, since you walked past the bathroom at a very inopportune moment the night before and know conclusively that there is distressingly little to hold them up in front...

So your boyfriend and his roommate are searching for the boxers in the bathroom, and the kid has passed out on the bed you woke up in. You're still standing there in the hallway, alone save for the host mom; you look into the kitchen, at the empty bottles of Jameson's and Jack, the one-third left in a bottle of vodka, various crushed beer cans and empty glasses scattered over the counter, and you suddenly feel like the Worst Person in the World.

Then you notice your shirt for the first time. It says "Do Something With Your Life. Get me a beer." Your humiliation is compounded.

"So. So yeah." You try to cover your shirt with your hair, crossing your arms high up over your chest to keep it in place. The host mom blinks at you; stupidly, you bluster on. "I mean, so those boxers. I know I saw them somewhere. They just...yeah. They've gotta be around."

Your brain and your vocal cords mercifully detach. You continue talking, but your brain's submersion in last night's booze renders you unable to recall any of the idiot things you say. Your boyfriend finds the boxers in the cabinet under the bathroom sink ("he must've hidden them last night"), and you all take a moment to observe the wad of cash sewn into the crotch. The Russian wanders into the kitchen and vomits gracelessly into a wastebasket, as you gaze pensively out the window and consider your life.

But all you come up with is, god damn I need an aspirin.

Life, Let Me Go. I'm Through With You and Your Consumerist Shenanigans.

Nascar Harlequin Romances.

I've officially lost the will to live.

My Only Real Motivation to Succeed Is My Aversion to the Following Phrases

"Well, at least you can always say you did your best."

How in the hell is that supposed to make me feel better? "You did everything you could and still failed. Ergo, you just plain lack the ability to succeed." That is what this says to me. I would much rather have someone tell me to "just try harder" or "not be such a damn slacker, you lazy bum" - at least then I could delude myself into thinking that I only failed because of my attitude (or other circumstances unrelated to my abilities).

"Just remember, things could always be worse."

Now there's a comforting statement. "Yeah, your life sucks right now, and guess what? Eventually, it might suck more!" I guess this is supposed to remind me of how green my grass is compared to, you know, someone else's significantly less green grass, but all it really does is remind me that my grass could be subjected to a drought, possessed lawn mower, or plague of locusts. None of which is terribly cheering.

And finally:

"Welcome to the real world."

Which, come on. That's just obnoxious.

Reason #89057 Lady Micromanage Should Not Own a Bookstore

Being a Pansy Can Be So Inconvenient

My family left for Ohio this morning, so the house, and its multitude of pets, are in my care. There are two dogs, three cats, some random fish, and one other pet - the one my brother dragged me outside to see.

When he said there was another animal my first thought was please, for the love of Jesus, don't let it be a snake. My brother loves snakes, because he is weird, and he had a snake once before (who died by choking on his own food - an understandably traumatic experience for Cormac, who witnessed the scene). We went outside and he lifted the lid of a plastic container, saying,

"He eats nightcrawlers or slugs, but the slugs can't be any wider than his head and the nightcrawlers need to be cut up or he'll choke and die. And the slugs are hard to find so you'll probably have to get a worm. Now I'm not too happy about this either, but we need to keep him alive for study purposes so you have to take good care of him."

And I thought:

Shit.

It's not the snake itself that I mind, it's the worms. I do not want to cut up a worm. I do not want to drop little wriggly worm bits into the home of a snake that is "probably a bull snake but could possibly be a baby rattler," and I do not want to watch the thing digest.

I'm not too thrilled about feeding the fish either, because I find fish kind of gross-looking and hate how they look when they die, and if any of them die on me I'll have to take them out of the tank and flush them down the toilet, which is disgusting. But asking someone to take care of fish is, at least, a normal request, and doesn't necessitate slicing up a live worm.

I am so tempted to don a trench coat and, looking all shifty on some curb, offer naive kids five dollar bills to do the dirty work for me. But then I might feel guilty about luring unsuspecting adolescents into the seedy world of worm-dicing, and anyway, I'm not a Dickens character. So instead I will prove my love for my brother beyond any reasonable doubt, and hopefully overcome my fear of potential rattlesnakes and the worm bits they slurp.

With shaking hands and my eyes squeezed shut, of course.

I Am the Lumberjack of Shitty Music

When confronted with a forest I will always, and without apology, focus solely on the trees. I do this because I like trees. Taking this cliché to its metaphorical extension, I dig details, and frankly, I see nothing wrong with this. Big Pictures are fine; they are varied and expansive and cover a blank space on the wall quite nicely, but as I am a Seinfeld fan, I find my greatest satisfaction in the dissection of irrelevant trivia.

As a result, I have a thing about stupid lyrics. The song itself could be fine, and the overall lyrics could be decent, but if there is one stupid phrase, I will harp on it like nothing else. Take, for example, this line in the Death Cab For Cutie song “Crooked Teeth”:

At night, the sun in the trees
Made the sky line up like crooked teeth
In the mouth of a man who was devouring us both

I actually think this is kind of a cool image. Except:

At night, the sun in the trees

Yep, that makes sense. Because, y’know, I love going sun-gazing at night. I like to just lie on my back under the pitch-black sky, soaking up those glorious golden rays. Just make sure to wear your sunscreen, kids – 90% of skin cancer is contracted by professional spelunkers.

The song, to be fair, is really pretty decent. But you know what song isn’t decent? That Proud to Be an American song. I don’t know exactly what it’s called – probably “Proud to Be an American” – but I’m not looking it up, because I’m lazy. Anyway, forget the forest; this song contains one particular tree I’ve been dying to eradicate for a long time. I’ve ranted about this line many times, so I expect that some of you will read this, sigh, and type your way to a less redundant destination. But you know what? I don’t care. Because this lyric pisses me off, and I want my disgust recorded for posterity.

I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free

I have many problems with this line, but let’s start with the problems I have with its message.

First, there is the notion that all it takes to be proud of one’s nationality is freedom. That’s it. Freedom. Nothing else. And this annoys me, because it requires that one’s standards be tragically low. Add to this the fact that “freedom” in this instance is such a vaguely defined concept (not that this is terribly unusual, but whatever) and you have one cantankerous Sam.

The use of the word “American” to refer solely to citizens of the U.S. rather than those of two entire continents is also irritating, but could possibly be justified on the grounds that “U.S. Citizen” does not lend itself well to lyrics. I’m willing to give a little leeway here, if for no other reason than to keep from appearing militantly P.C., since those people drive me bonkers. Bonkers, I say.

Anyway, it’s not the major issue. What really burns my toast is the fact that this lovely couplet makes no grammatical sense whatsoever.

I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free

I too am proud to be what I where. Or proud to be where I what. Or where I know, or what I’m free. Also:

My brain just shriveled up and died.

Why I'm Not Getting a Degree In Journalism

Our local paper is the Black Hills Pioneer. I don't expect much from it, because it sucks. But when I looked it up today for information on the recent murder that took place at a local motel (the mayor's stepson was the killer) I was even more disgusted than usual. The whole article is pretty badly written, but this part really stood out:

Bell was arrested at 8:15 a.m. Sunday only blocks away from the motel. He had been on the run for almost nine hours in bitterly cold weather and his feet were bandaged in court Monday.

You'd think they'd have taken care of that earlier - and in a more sterile environment.

A Sad State of Affairs

Some lady dropped off a bunch of books yesterday, saying she'd come back later for her store credit. I said that sounded like a fine idea, and off she went. People do this all the time and I'm totally cool with it, but in this instance especially so, because I'm not sure I'd have been able to disguise the look of horror that took up residence on my face as I perused her offerings. (That sounds...weird. I mean, "perused her offerings"? If Edith Wharton wrote erotica, maybe.)

First I pulled out a couple books on how to build a happy marriage. Aww, I thought. Mawwiage. Then I came across something called "Not Just Friends: Rebuilding Trust and Recovering Your Sanity After Infidelity." That was significantly less cheering. Then there were some books on parenting in the stern, unattractive face of divorce. And finally:


As a friend of mine said, the truly tragic part about this is that "none of the books worked." It's a valid point, no?

You Suck. Also, Why I Never Blog.

Okay, so I'm at the library, and I just went to print something off, and what did I see? Another queued document awaiting printing. Well, okay, I saw a bunch of documents awaiting printing, but this one stuck out, as it was titled "suck ass." Naturally I checked the name of the student to whom this sucky bit of writing belonged, and when I saw the name I smiled. That kid really is an ass.

Then when I sat back down, I noticed that the laptop I had checked out had the words "THIS LAPTOP SUCKS" scratched into the lid. (Do they call that thing a lid? Probably not. But then what do they call it? I'm sure it's totally obvious, but I have no idea.)

So, um, yeah. I'm not really sure what my point was. I guess that life just kind of sucks right now. And also, I really need to finish this paper.

Thomas's stories force his listeners to view their present situation in the context of their past, blah blah blah blah blah...

Yeah.

I need to stop writing in the passive voice so much. By which I mean, it is advisable that I cease writing in the passive voice. This stupid paper (you know, the one due tomorrow) read likes a freaking Sarah Palin monologue.

And that's all I have to say about that.

I Like Lists

Five Things That Are Making Me Want to Punch the World In the Face:

1. The doors to the library squeal when opened. They do - they squeal. The squeal is long and protracted, the sound of a colicky baby preparing for an epic scream. If it was only a little more high-pitched it would be audible only to dogs, but as luck would have it, it's just low enough that every time the door opens my brain feels like it's being stabbed. Which kinda hurts.

2. I don't understand how to factor quadrinomials and I don't give a shit. I really don't. Those goddamned quadrinomials can factor themselves, for all I care. They can find their own parentheses and distribute their own exponents and scrounge up their own negative signs, because I'm done. I am. Screw you, quadrinomials.

3. I have to write about integrity, and all I can think of is that Seinfeld episode where George won't let NBC make Jerry a show about something because he doesn't want to compromise his artistic integrity, prompting Jerry to point out that "you're not an artist, and you have no integrity!" But something tells me that won't work for this particular writing.

4. I forgot to eat before coming to the library, and now I am hungry. The library should serve strawberry whipped cream waffles and cranberry juice, but does it? Oh no. And why? Because it sucks. God, I love waffles. You know what else sounds good? Vanilla ice cream with maple syrup and nuts. That would be freaking delicious right about now.

5. I started reorganizing my apartment this morning and haven't finished yet, meaning that when I do get home - poor, downtrodden, with equations I don't quite understand swimming in my beleaguered brain - the first thing I see will be my dresser. In the middle of the floor. And then I will probably step on my jewelry box. At which point I will likely cry, or do something equally immature - like stomp my foot, pull on my hair, and scream, "it's not fair!"

The sad thing about the ridiculously cranky mood I'm in is that I can't blame it on a hangover. It's just me being a pain in the ass and reinforcing negative female stereotypes. Bad at math, hyper-sensitive to noise, addicted to sugar, obsessed with interior decorating to a disturbing degree: I am everything that is wrong with women. Also, I will grow up to be a cat lady.

And there's no turning back now.

A Rant

I am so sick of people trying to argue that the book is always better than the movie. Sometimes it isn't. Sometimes the book sucks, and the movie manages to extract the good parts, add interest, make the characters more believable, use a freaking awesome soundtrack, and just generally improve a hopelessly sub-par book.

And sometimes the movie does suck - it smacks the characters with terrible dialogue until they become 2-d, paper-thin with generically attractive faces; or it turns the story into an incoherent mess of garbled words and unclear motivations. But sometimes the book was garbled and vague to begin with - sometimes the movie is just being faithful to the story, the characters, the dialogue; sometimes the movie's suckitude is just mirroring the book's, and I don't understand why people are so surprised.

And can we please get over this bullshit notion that film is somehow an inferior medium? Because it isn't. Don't blame Micheal Bay on the art form he's chosen to eviscerate. Micheal Bay is a terrible director with a barely rudimentary understanding of dialogue, and that's all he is. He doesn't stand for anything but his own gaping plot holes, yeah?

Oh, and also? I don't get Hugh Grant. I thinks he's a competent actor, but far from exceptional, and I find him incredibly unattractive. While some people have posited that I only hate Hugh Grant because "he never called me in the morning," I call BS. Hugh Grant is icky, and his accent makes him sound so snobbish I've often wondered if it's fake - maybe he's just a pampered kid from Jersey who went to Syracuse and smokes clove cigarettes, who listens obsessively to the New Pornographers, not because their music is catchy but because it's oh-my-god-indie.

In fact, I was talking to someone the other day who claimed to do a fantastically fake British accent, and when I finally convinced him to prove it, I immediately said, wow, dude. You sound like Hugh Grant. Because he did. Hugh Grant is a walking satire, and his apparent ignorance of the fact is something I find highly amusing.

Plus he cheated on Elizabeth Hurley with a prostitute. I don't care one way or another about Elizabeth Hurley - I'm not even sure what she does, exactly, which probably means she's a model - but damn. That's low.

So, in sum: people should stop constantly whining about movie adaptations ruining the books they are based on, Micheal Bay is a talentless asshat, Hugh Grant is an oblivious walking satire whose appeal I will never understand, it must really suck to have your husband cheat on you with a prostitute, and I could use a good night's sleep.

Yeppers.

Knitted Limbs Are Creepy

So the new Knitty is out, right? And it's got some cute stuff. Like really cute armwarmers, and this quite interesting shell with armwarmers, and, well, lots of stuff to protect my arms. This issue is just chock full of armor. (Good Lord, am I witty.)

Unfortunately, it also features actual knitted arms. With hands attached, no less.


FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEONE SAVE THAT CHILD.

Because, in addition to "Hug" featuring some truly hideous knitting - what size needles did she use, anyway? - it kind of looks like it's about to drag that adorable creature into a cave littered with bones. And that just isn't right. The kid knows it, too. He's doing everything he can not to touch those arms. And his face is just crying out for help.

This hideous piece of crap totally reminds me of the "Therapy Buddy" from American Inventor - you know, the creepy blue doll with arms that wrapped around your shoulders (or wherever) and said "everything is going to be all right." Remember that?


No? Well then, I envy you.

But seriously. I bet that all over Manhatten, pampered upper-class moms are firing their nannies and knitting "Hug" as a replacement. Which is really pretty sad, is it not?

Team Angelina

Whenever I'm standing in line at a coffee shop, waiting to order my 20 oz. breve with an extra shot, there's always a brief moment when I consider just getting coffee. A plain coffee, with a bit of cream and nothing else. It's a solid, reliable, and sufficiently caffeinated beverage, is it not? There's nothing wrong with just a coffee.

That said, there's nothing all that exciting about it, either. Its main attraction is its affordability. Well, that and the fact that it's convenient. Whereas espresso is fresh, and exciting. It's dark. It's mysterious. It packs more energy into less liquid. It is, in essence, the Angelina to coffee's Jen.

Anyway, I was standing in line today, thinking about these things, and I said to myself, you know...maybe I should give Jen a chance. She seems like a nice girl, and she's probably better for me. Angelina is all shades of awesome, but kind of intimidating. Let's get a Jen.

My decision made, I started reading the sign with descriptions of each coffee flavor, but ultimately found myself horrified by the way they were written. That isn't to say the writing was poor, exactly, but that the descriptions read like personal ads. The bodies of each coffee were either "good," "very good," or, delicately, "full." Some were "very bright," while others had "a tinge of fruitiness." Some flavors were "powerful," while others were "light" and "gentle." At which point I realized: why jeopardize my meaningful relationship with espresso by taking up with some drip coffee floozy?

So I ordered a breve. And then I spilled it, and the foam dried in my hair. But whoever said that love was easy?

P.S. - Don't let foam dry in your hair. It's gross. Also, it reminded me of that scene in There's Something About Mary. "What is that? Is it hair gel? Oh good, I needed some."

Scraper of the Flies

One of the many occupational hazards of working in a used bookstore is the possibility of touching books which are utterly disgusting. Books that are molding; books that are speckled with mud; books that shower your shoes with dirt when you shake them. I have seen books stained with blood, both dried and fresh, and I'm pretty sure I once smelled cat pee while flipping through the suspiciously yellow pages of a Danielle Steel novel.

All these things are pretty repulsive. The fresh blood in particular. It got on my shirt - a shirt I no longer own - and on my hands, which I must have washed fifty times that day. For a week I agonized: What if I get hepatitis? Did I have any open cuts where it touched me? Did I put my hands near my mouth? Am I going to die?

Eventually, yes, I learned to live again. But it was a long, hard battle - one I wouldn't wish on anyone. (Except that one chick. God, she sucks.)

So anyway. Today I got a box of books, right? They were old and dusty, but that's par for the course 'round these parts. The woman who brought them in apologized for the dust ("sorry, they've just been sitting in my garage so long"), and I assured her it was no problem to clean them. I started going through the box, wiping each book down with a paper towel soaked in Windex as I went - but then, as I neared the bottom, there appeared a colony of flies.

They were repulsive, these flies. Some had been crushed beneath the weight of the books and become two-dimensional, while others had fallen in the gaps between the books and had actually expanded, their puffy bodies rolling back and forth like marbles over the dirty cardboard.

I turned the book I was holding over in my hand, and found about five or six flies stuck to the back cover. They were so flat they were starting to become one with the jacket: their wings were tissue-thin, and their heads looked like ink blotches.

"Um." I paused, unsure of how to proceed. "Huh. It appears that these ones are a bit...damaged."

"Well, but you can just wipe that stuff off, right?" she asked.

Oh, of course. Of course I can "wipe that off." I mean, how are mashed-up flies any different from a bit of water? You just grab a towel, and...well, no. When they're all mashed up like that, you usually have to scrape them. So you grab a chisel - you know, that chisel you keep on your person at all times - and you...oh, wait. THAT'S REALLY GROSS.

But I didn't know how to say that in a professional manner, and anyway I didn't feel like arguing with her, so I shrugged, grabbed a Kleenex, and used it to pick off one of the flies. I managed to rip the body loose, but the wings remained; they glowed green and pink, like the wall of a bubble caught in the sunlight. I stood there for a moment, pressing my thumb and forefinger against the lump embedded in the Kleenex, and then I took a deep breath, looked at her, and said:

"Of course."

Thereby cementing my status as the patron saint of retail.

I Am Doomed to Be a Solitary Bubble

On Monday, I bought a book. I bought it for my English class. It's called "They Say, I Say: The Moves That Matter In Academic Writing," and it looks like this:


When I picked it up, the first thought that popped into my head was, "what's with the cover? It reminds me of something. Something bad. Something endorsed by Oprah, penned by the very essence of douchebaggery."

And that's when I realized: it reminds me of "He's Just Not That Into You."


I mean, yes, there are some pretty obvious differences, but the colors are there. The green background, the blue and orange bubbles. No, the bubbles on the second book don't overlap, but they come close. (If the authors were only a little more into the New York Times, there would be some definite merging taking place.) And, of course, both books are written by a Mars/Venus team of authors with different last names.

What sucks about this is the fact that, every time I am required to open "They Say, I Say," the image that pops into my head will be of Greg Behrendt.


Seriously, how is this jerk qualified to tell me why my dating life sucks? He sports a spiked pseudo-mullet and appears to be winking. Also, is that a popped collar?

And before anyone mentally chastises me for being shallow, consider the book. I don't doubt that some guys are just not that into me, but I don't need Greg here to be such a condescending asshat about it. Some of my hatred for his book has to do with my overall disdain for the self-help genre, but the other 40% is aimed specifically at the book's content. I do not need another talentless wannabe guru telling me I'm not good enough. Oh, I know it's all just tough love, that it's supposed to help me find my soul mate, the man who really is into me, and yada yada yada, but, um, Greg? I wouldn't accept a date with you anyway, much less heed your wisdom.

Besides, I know why my dating life sucks: I am a judgmental ice queen who never gives out her phone number. (It's (605) 877 3007. Call it. Seriously.)

Of course, for most of the world, the time of Greg Behrendt is pretty much over. The book has been praised, then roundly criticized, and is nearing the end of its slide into oblivion. But for me, the time of Greg Behrendt is only just begun.

At 8:00 a.m., every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Greg will descend upon my mind like a vindictive woodpecker, his bulbous beak pecking at my brain. And it's all the fault of the jerks who designed the cover of "They Say, I Say."

And it simply isn't fair.

The Horror

At dinner last night I used the phrase "I've never saw." I blame the red wine (the menu boasted of its "peppery overtones") and mood lighting.

That's right: a single glass of wine turns me into a redneck faster than a six-pack of PBR. (Not that I've ever had a six-pack of anything - and if I did it certainly wouldn't be PBR, which is disgusting - but, you know. At least I hope you do. 'Cause I sure don't.)

A Gift For the Silicone-Pumped Lolita In Every Man's Life

Is it irony? Or is it just offensive?

Pro-Date Rape T-Shirt, Sold By Amazon (Update: shirt is no longer available through Amazon. Ha. There are still pictures of them, however.) (Update 2: The pictures are down as well. Which is good. The shirt in question was a three-quarter sleeve raglan emblazoned with the words "Anti-Abortion, But Pro-Date Rape.")

Maybe it's meant to point out the hypocrisy of the so-called "pro-lifers" - in fact, it probably is - but I still felt sick when I looked at it. If it is meant to be ironic, it isn't clear enough, and thus it has failed.

Of course, you can also get this shirt - in a junior size - at the manufacturer's website. Or this one. Or this one.

But no, I think my favorite is this "girly-sized" stunner. One would presume that once she gets drunk, the shirt comes off.

Actually, wait. I don't mean to be one of those indecisive, wishy-washy women with breasts for brains, but after further perusal of this charming website, I've found it. The shirt I want. The shirt I need. The shirt every girl is destined to wear:


Yes, it comes in a junior size.