The World Didn't End and I Have A Lot of Apologizing to Do.

Holy shit! We made it!

Sorry for being MIA, guys. I've been holed up in my fallout shelter (lovingly referred to as 'Michele Bachmann's Vagina' because it's dark and filled with spiderwebs from lack of use) preparing for the end of the world.

Well, don't I feel silly.

It appears the whole Mayan calendar prophecy was a sham, which makes sense. If the Mayans were that good at predicting the future they probably would have seen the Spanish coming.

Okay. Can I be honest with you guys?

I really didn't think the world was ending. I was just too busy trying to become Honey Boo Boo's mom's doppelganger by eating deep-fried turkey and shit.

This means I have no real excuse for not writing for a month, except that the holidays make me lazy. Come Thanksgiving I just want to lay on my couch in footie pajamas watching Miracle on 34th Street while sobbing into my tub of seasonal caramel popcorn. I don't have time to give a shit about the world or it's problems.

But I know I've missed a lot, and I promise to be back and better than ever after the holidays! I've got a lot of big plans for the future of I'm Not Really a Barista.

So stay tuned, my lovely little lambchops. Momma will be home soon. But first she has to go to the gym.

After I eat these Christmas cookies and watch Tori Spelling pretend she can act on ABC Family.

I'm Thankful for Dick Pics and Double Stuff Oreos.

It's November 21st, and you know what that means ...

Yep, I've suffered through 21 days of those "What I'm Thankful For" Facebook posts.

Consider yourself lucky if you haven't been inundated with these updates clogging up every social media site. I mean at first it was cute, but then folks started getting ridiculous.

I'm thankful for double stuff Oreos. That Walgreens sells "neck massagers". That Honey Boo Boo's mom makes me feel super-duper hot.


But in the spirit of Thanksgiving (and posting dumb shit on the Internet), here's what I'm thankful for...

1. I'm thankful that my best friend sends me spontaneous pictures of 

Channing Tatum with his junk out.

2. I'm thankful for this stupid face.

3. And this one. (Notice his David Judgement.)

4. I'm thankful that tomorrow I will be able to eat the shit out of my

 feelings without the cold eyes of judgement on me.

5. I'm thankful for ALL OF YOU! Any one who has ever read this ridiculous

 excuse of a blog, I'm more thankful than you could ever imagine. So...

Channing Tatum dick pictures for EVERYONE!!!

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

What am I supposed to Talk About Now? Oh yeah, Facebook!

In case you've been living under a rock, President Barack Obama was re-elected.

And my vagina unclenched for the first time in months.

All the horribleness that is watching a campaign play out was made worthwhile knowing that Mittens McMagicUnderPants would have to go home and cry in his beer glass of warm milk.

Until I got on Facebook, that is.

I always thought my friends were just overdramatic losers without anything resembling an actual life. But in the days following the election, I learned they are also slobbering idiots/bigots.

Good to know, guys!

Here are a few gems I just had to share with you all.

I voted. Where's my money? Love, Moochers

No problemo.

In all fairness, you won't be able to say much when 

you're a Communist.

Dammit, I was wondering where my baby went.

Wait? He's black? I just thought he was Hawaiian. Fuck.

And last, but definitely not least, ME!

The Mayans were obviously huge Romney supporters.

*UPDATE* My Facebook friends are well-mannered and informed compared to the election night social-networkers compiled at Jezebel. Warning: Many of these posts are ridiculously offensive.

Just. Vote.

Vote.

I don't care what party you are registered with, or what you believe about "your vote counting". 

Vote.

It's easy to get caught up in affiliation--in the blue or red of it all--but election day isn't solely about what box you check at the polls. 

It's about exercising a hard-earned right--a right bestowed to you by people who believed it was worth fighting for, worth dying for. They knew the most powerful gift they could leave the generations succeeding them was a voice. 

Don't let anyone convince you otherwise.

Vote.

Ke$ha Tries to Talk Me Into an Early Death.

I accidentally heard Ke$ha's new song on the radio.

It happened innocently enough. I was driving down the road listening to Ryan Seacrest talk about body glitter and the Kardashians when something horrible echoed from my speakers.

If skanks had a mating call, this is what it would sound like--meaning it could only be one person.

Ahh, Ke$ha. I immediately swerved my car into oncoming traffic, because who really wants to live in a world where Ke$ha is considered a worthwhile talent. That's when I heard it ...

We're Gonna Die Young. 

I straightened out my wheel because I'll be damned if Ke$ha tells me what to do. But it did get me thinking--is this what our kids  your kids  people are listening to? I mean, this bitch reminds me of shaved-head Britney, without all the sex appeal. Plus, she's riding on YOLO's coattails by encouraging 16 year olds to live like they're gonna die young.

And you know what that means ... Teen Mom: Season 35 sponsored by Valtrex.

See what you did, Ke$ha?! Life Ruiner!

I Still Hate Madonna: Part II

It's no secret me and Madonna got beef.

Okay ... I have beef, and she doesn't know who I am. But that doesn't make my disdain for the "singer" any less real--unlike whatever radioactive silly putty she's had shoved into her face to prevent her from looking like the Crypt Keeper.

Anyway, my holy war against Madonna obtained some backing Thursday night.

See, Madge got herself into a little bit of hot water (which must be nice change from the semen baths she's accustomed to) after pulling a fake revolver during a performance in Colorado. People complained that the use of the prop was irresponsible, considering the Colorado massacre that took place just three months ago.

Madonna's camp says that the media is making something out of nothing, and "there are always issues that people want to blame Madonna about."

Well, ain't that the truth! I choose to blame Madonna for climate change and Britney Spears' 2007 mental breakdown.

Now normally I err on the side of people need to stop being so sensitive, but since it's Madonna, she can go fuck herself. What do you think? Is Madonna a super bitch for pulling this stunt, or do people need to lighten up?

Either way, I think we can all enjoy this video of the Cabbage-Patch-faced singer tripping while performing "Like a Prayer."

Prayer answered!

Wanna Get Hammered While Pretending to Care about Foreign Policy?

The last presidential debate is tonight, and so far it's 1-1. You know what that means ...

• Any time Mitt reminds you of an entitled frat boy who majored in date rape. DRINK. Preferably some Mike's Hard Lemonade, or anything delicious that can easily conceal a roofie.

• Whenever Barack gives Mitt the side-eye like he'd love to go all "Southside Chicago" on his ass. DRINK. Maybe some Hennessy or some of that vodka that Diddy is always talking about.

• If at any moment during the debate you have a genuine fear that moderator Bob Schieffer has died on stage. DRINK. I suggest some NyQuil and just call it a night.

And that's it. Feel free to drink during the pauses, anytime you really wish they would just perform a duet of Endless Love, or whenever you feel a wash of relief that this is the last debate.

*Disclaimer: I'm Not Really a Barista is NOT RESPONSIBLE for any dumb shit you do while taking part in this drinking game. Have a lovely night.

Help! I Think I'm a Whore.

Allie,

I was listening to my favorite local morning radio show, and they were talking about a survey that indicated the ideal number of sex partners for men and women. What it boils down to, is that men and women both said 10 is the ideal number for their mate to have when they get married.

Now, I'm not super duper over the mark of 10, but I'm definitely past it. Aaaand I feel like a whore.

Mostly because I'm nowhere NEAR getting married or even engaged. And unless the guy I went on a date with Tuesday night turns out to be "the one," I will most likely date (and have sex with) an unknown number (who knows how many or few) men before I find that lucky bastard.

So what's a girl to do? Do I just stop having sex until I think I've found him? I mean, I like sex. What does the number matter? Do you really have to divulge that information when you're in a relationship? I've told before because I've been asked, but is my past really that important? Anyways, I'm feeling some kinda way about this, and I cant quite figure it out. Any thoughts would be appreciated.

Thanks,
Feeling Whore-ish


Stop reading my blog, you whore.

.
.
.
.
.
.

Totally kidding.

What station are you listening to, Whore-ish? Is Rush Limbaugh on it, demonizing birth control and masturbating to The Food Network?

Personally, I hate the word whore. I much prefer the term penis connoisseur. That ish sounds fancy, like you went to one semester at Le Cordon Bleu to learn what type of wine goes with a side of trouser snake. And that's a fine skill to have.

Anyways I don't think a number matters (surprise! surprise!) as long you're comfortable with your sexual experiences overall--meaning that, for the most part, you can look back on your sexytime partners and think "yep, I know why I did him. Trustfund! Married Republican Senator!"

Now is divulging "your number" important? I guess that depends.

Do you expect your partner to spill all the gory details regarding his sexual escapades? If so, then I think you have to give up the goods. If not, you can express that putting a number on your past experiences isn't something you're comfortable with.

However, withholding information often makes people fear the worst, so that may be something you want to consider, as well.

Overall whore-ish, I think people, especially women, need to relax a little when it comes to their "number". It doesn't define you. I've slept with nearly 10,000 men and/or women, and have been in a long-term monogamous relationship since high school. That means most of my no-pants dancing was done in a three-year time frame. That, my friend, is impressive. I'm like mother-fucking Michael Phelps without the abs. Or the underbite.

And if it makes you feel any better, Mittens McMagicUnderPants was on national television when he disclosed that he has "binders full of women". That can only mean tons of Mormon child-brides seductively bearing an ankle while locked in a Trapper Keeper.

What a whore.

And he's running for president.

P.S. If after reading this you think, "I might be a whore." Email me at notreallyabarista@gmail.com. You will remain anonymous.

P.S.S. Follow me on Facebook. And Twitter. And POF (JK! For now).

That's a real sexy hairline, Paul Ryan.

The Vice Presidential debate has left me with one question and one question only...

Do you think that Paul Ryan will be keeping his Joe Biden rape baby? I mean, it is just another method of conception.

In all fairness though, Ryan had it coming. Who does he think he is going out in public with that sexy ass hairline?

But seriously, you're a horrible person and deserved the "forcible" beating you received tonight.

Oh, and you look ridiculous. 

Obama Vs. Romney Vs. Big Bird

I'm kind of on a hiatus. Mainly, I'm just busy and would rather spend my off-time watching shitty reality TV than pretending to be literate and witty three times a week.

However, today marks a much-anticipated event here at I'm Not Really a Barista--the first presidential debate.

Which means...

In this corner, weighing in at a brawny 195-pounds--the Mormon Monopoly Man, the whitest thing to come out of Detroit since any Eminem fan--Mitt "Magic Underpants" Romney.

And in this corner, weighing in at a lean, mean 170-pounds--that Hawaiian guy who might be a Muslim or a Socialist or in blackface--Barack "I Killed Fucking Bin Laden" Obama.

Now while I'm still on my blogging diet and couldn't be funny if I tried, that doesn't mean that you people can't.

Here are some of my favorite tweets from the #PresidentialDebate.

@BigBirdRomney

@RobDelaney

@natashaleggero

@heyitstva

@ItsHeatherRose

@curlycomedy

@ItsReginaG

Well, I think that was a successful first debate. We've learned that if you drink every time someone says "top-down economics" you'll be dead in 20 minutes. That there's something called "clean coal" which I  assume is coal ran through a dishwasher. That Romneycare and Obamacare are NOT the same thing.

And that Mitt Romney hates Big Bird, probably because he assumes any 6'5 guy wearing yellow feathers wants to get gay married.

Confessions of an Absentee Blogger

Have you been thinking about me?

Wondering why I haven't had anything to say about Kristen Stewart being back in love with that sparkly, sparkly homeless guy? Or Mitt Romney thinking that 47 percent of Americans are super poor and gross.

Oh, you haven't ...

Not even a little?

Well, I've been thinking about you--mainly in the shower--but let's not worry about that.

Sorry, I've been MIA lately, guys. I am a moron and took on a huge project at work and now spend my days thinking about drinking Draino and my nights going to bed at 9 p.m.

Basically, I've been insanely busy, but that is absolutely no excuse to neglect my blog and you wonderful people.

However ... that's gonna be my excuse. But only for a little while longer and then I will be all yours.

But if you're aching for some Not Really a Barista contact, feel free email me at notreallyabarista@gmail.com with your sex/relationship/dating questions or just to say hi!

Now, I'm  off to take a shower and think about each and every one of you.

A Message to Self-Proclaimed Grammar Nazis

Hello friends,

I have a question. Is it just me or are self-proclaimed Grammar Nazis becoming more prevalent?

I feel like I can't get on Facebook, or Pinterest, or YouTube, or any of the other sites that occupy far too much of my life, without seeing a person do something like this.

Or this.

Congratulations! You have grammatical skills rivaling any child coming out of elementary school. That does not make you a Grammar Nazi. It barely makes you a Grammar Mall Cop.

Take that nonsense elsewhere.

Just because most people are idiots, does not mean that you are a genius for tackling the most basic form of grammar.

No one thinks, "looks like I'll be kissing cancer goodbye, cause homeboy who knows how to properly use a possessive will obviously be curing that shit in no time!"

It just doesn't matter that much. And you kind of look like as asshole--an asshole who is super freaking proud that they've mastered the grammatical equivalent of not shitting yourself. 

Listen, I'm not bad-mouthing anyone for thinking they're intellectually superior than a vast majority of the population -- hell, I've created a blog on that premise alone, but maybe we should take the self-praise down a notch. I mean, we all have our flaws.

If you asked me to do fourth-grade math, I would literally break out in a cold sweat. I can't do long division without a calculator and three Asians.

And that's my cross to bear.

I'm just saying, maybe we should relax with the whole passive-aggressive, grammar-correcting thing and instead focus all of our energy belittling a group that deserves such universal hatred.

Like people who take half-naked, self-photos in their bathroom.

Olympic Cycle Political Participants and the Bloggers that Hate Them.

I should probably be talking about politics--what with the RNC last week, the DNC this week, and a presidential election a mere 61 days away—but I just don't have it in me.

As someone who has branded herself a political blogger of sorts, I have a semi-scandalous confession. 

Election season makes me hate politics.

I know I can't be alone. I can hear the exasperated sighs from everyone when, yet another, political ad flashes on the TV screen, when your second cousin, with his eight-grade education, waxes poetically about the president being a Kenyan Muslim who collapsed the economy and the World Trade Center with one swoop of his half-black finger, and when every media outlet forgets their journalistic oath of unbiased coverage and picks a mother-fucking side like this is dodgeball.

It's not a secret, I'm a Democrat. A left-leaning Southern-born feminist, and I could write a goddamn novel about what it's like to have people around me think I'm a moron for my political beliefs. It would go a little something like this.

Now while I'm more than used to being in the political minority, I have a hard time listening to people who are what I like to call “Olympic-Cycle Political Participants”. You know the type, they actively participate in the presidential election, but couldn't tell you the name of their Senators if you put a gun to their head. They also always seem to scream the loudest—probably because they have to make up for all those years being political vegetables.

Now don't be misunderstood, OCPPs exist in both parties. But this is my blog, so I write about my truth-- a truth redder than 1980s Russian Shark Week.

These are the people that make this time particularly hard for me. Because while I'm extremely vocal on my blog about my opinions, I try to be respectful of others beliefs in my real life. I don't often post political messages on my personal social media sites, mainly because I realize the people who disagree with me are not going to be swayed by a snarky meme, just as I would not be if the roles were reversed.

I also am not interested in fighting with unarmed men. This may sound slightly arrogant, but I love politics. I follow it like most people follow professional sports. So I'm not going to argue with some once-every-four-year voter, just as I would not want to argue football with someone who knows what in the fuck a wingback is. (Thank you, boyfriend.)

But while I'm frustrated with the social-media zealots, the political ads and the Rush Limbaugh's of the world, I can't help but still tune it.

Just now, I watched Gabby Giffords lead the Pledge of Alligance at the DNC, and I can't help but feel lucky. Lucky to have a voice. Lucky to care enough to vote, to be an active political participant. Because November will come and go and OCPPs will go back to spamming my Facebook feed with Farmville updates and Nickelback videos, and I can go back to enjoying life.

But until then, I'll remember how grateful I feel right now as I watch this brave woman lead a room full of people who believe in the political process. I'll also remember that I have a deactivate account button. 

See you November 7th , Facebook.

RNC and the Five Stages of Grief

As many of you know, we're elbow deep into the Republican National Convention. Obviously my prayers for Hurricane Isaac to blow through Tampa like Marcus Bachmann during fleet week went unanswered.

Oh well, you can't win 'em all.

If anything positive has come from the old, rich, white guy Olympics, better known as the RNC, it's that we finally have a confirmed Republican presidential nominee.

Yep, Mittens McMagic Underpants will try to convince enough people that he is likable. And Paul Ryan will continue to spit on rape victims while polishing his dead eyes.

It really is an exciting time for everyone.

Except me.

I've tried, guys, really I have, but my pain threshold just isn't what it used to be. Every time I try to watch coverage, I end up going through the five stages of grief.

DENIAL: This cannot be happening to me.

ANGER: Yes, Ann, he's totally a self-made man, you fucking twat-waffle!!

BARGAINING: Herman Cain wasn't that bad. Can we get him back? I swear to turn in my frequent aborter card. 

DEPRESSION: I give up. I don't need equality. I just need to lie in bed for awhile and eat this pint of Ben and Jerry's.

ACCEPTANCE: I can accept this! I can accept this! Trickle-down economics? Are you fucking kidding me?!

And then the cycle starts all over.

Hopefully, you guys are enjoying the RNC coverage more than me. Let me know if there's any good drinking games helping you get through this trying time.

I'm going to go watch Pretty Woman now and try to remember a simpler time when venture capitalists looked like Richard Gere and romanced hookers, instead of attempting to hold office.

Help! My Wife Sucks. But Not Literally.

 Dear Allie,

While most of your readers are probably 20-somethings, I'm a bit older but just as clueless.

My wife and I have been together for 10 years, and while she had more than a few partners before we met (including one marriage), she was my first. She is also 10 years older than me and we're reaching *middle age*. Sex has gone from twice a week to maybe once a quarter; when she's done, she is DONE and I have to fend for myself; she won't try anything different to help me; she won't help orally or handily because "my jaw hurts" or "my hand hurts".

I do love her, I won't leave her or cheat on her, and talking things out fully clothed has not helped. Am I just stuck fending for myself?

 Sincerely,
Tired of Fending


Ahh shit. This is going to be serious, isn't it?

I don't know if I mentioned this lately, but I have absolutely zero qualifications in the advice-giving field. I make lattes with my college degree, so obviously there's a lapse in judgement there somewhere.

So Fending, take this as a disclaimer: I make coffee for a living, so I cannot in good conscience tell you TO LEAVE YOUR WIFE. But if I had like a certificate from the University of Phoenix or that online school Shannon Doherty is always running her mouth about, I'd probably tell you TO LEAVE YOUR WIFE. But I don't. So I can't.

Fending, I get it. I've been with my significant other for nearly 10 years and sometimes it literally takes everything I have to not punch him in the throat when he starts wagging his dick at me. Sometimes living a life with someone is a sexual buzz kill. It's like, "Why would I want to get naked and start the revolution with you, when I'm still trying to forget about the pubic hair forest I had to clean off the toilet seat?" Long-Term relationships aren't always sexy.

But, as I've said before and will repeat again, SEX IS IMPORTANT. And denying your spouse access to sex, when sex was previously on the table, leads to hurt feelings, resentment, and writing to strangers on the Internet.

You said you've already talked to her. You said you won't cheat on her. You said you won't leave her.

Well, dollface, sounds like you don't have a whole lot of options. I don't know the situation, maybe you guys have children, maybe she's heir to an oil fortune. But I do know that if something doesn't change, you'll put $50 in the hands of a Craigslist hooker without a jawbone.

Maybe you need to tell the wife that. And then try to hammer out some terms that will get laid more frequently, either by her or someone else.

But then again, I'm in no way qualified to give this advice.

P.S. If after reading this you think, "I'd like to have sex with a hooker without a jawbone." Then write to me at notreallyabarista@gmail.com. You will remain anonymous!

Todd Akin Gives Us a Biology Lesson.

Oh, Todd Akin.

I take one week off of blogging and basic biology gets a total overhaul. Let's bone up, shall we?

If you have been living under a rock, Rep. Todd Akin (R-Mo.) was asked in an interview Sunday if he supported abortion in cases of rape.

It appears the GOP Senate nominee somehow confused female reproduction with the self-destructing message from the Mission Impossible movies.

"If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways

 to try to shut that whole thing down."

This fertilized egg will detonate in 5 ... 4 ... 3 ... 2 ... 1.

I had absolutely no idea that this kind of technology was lying dormant in my lady parts. Looks like I need to go put on my best "come rape me outfit" and try this puppy out.

Good looking out, Rep. Akin. I'm going to make the assumption that since women come standard with this feature, abortion is absolutely off of the table, right? But let me play feminazi's advocate, what if there's a defect and a "legitimately raped" woman became pregnant, could she obtain an abortion then?

"Let's assume maybe that didn't work or something. 

I think there should be some punishment, 

but the punishment ought to be on the rapist."

Oh. So we can punish the rapist. But the victim still has to go through with the pregnancy, because the cluster of cells spawned from what would likely be the most traumatic experience of any woman's life, is more important than a her free will.

That's seems completely legitimate.

Speaking of legitimate, Rep. Akin, what exactly defines a "legitimate rape"? Is it a rape that requires two forms of identification and a notary present? 

Or is "legitimate rape" just one of those anti-abortion buzzwords that excludes things like date rape and spousal rape? But you wouldn't want to actually say something like that, you'd sound like a misogynistic asshole.

Well thanks for the biology lesson, Todd. I feel bad for all those faulty woman who became pregnant after being raped. 

But not nearly as bad as I feel for your wife. Because if you honestly think this bullshit is true, then it's safe to assume that you have no clue what a clitoris is, you fucking moron.

Good luck on your botched Senate campaign and subsequent Crystal Meth addiction.

[Not So] Poor Little Tink Tink

I love the Olympics.

Not because I'm athletic. Or patriotic. Or enjoy watching people live out their dreams.

No, I mainly watch because male swimmers have a Viagra-like effect on me. I would literally let Michael Phelps R. Kelly on me while Ryan Lochte did some Rex Ryan shit with a camera. (For anyone unfamiliar with those two events, R. Kelly famously urinated on a girl and Rex Ryan shot foot fetish clips featuring his wife. Moving on.)

Well, that was my old reasoning.

Has anyone seen Oscar Pistorius? The first double-amputee to compete in the Olympic games. Yeah, the mother-fucker with no legs who runs like a beautiful gazelle with boomarang feet.

I watched Pistorius run the 400 meter last night and it was easily the most inspiring event I've ever witnessed. I immediately started questioning my own abilities, looking down at my fully-functioning legs, and realizing that I can never bitch about anything again. Ever.

I'm running my first race in September and have been struggling with the frequency of my runs-- dragging myself out of bed, lacing up my sneakers, and eagerly awaiting the end of each session.

"I'd rather be dead," I think, pounding away on the treadmill. "I would rather vote a straight Republican ticket than run for one more minute."

But then I watched Pistorius, and something changed. Running hasn't quite become fun, but I am thankful that I can do it.

Damn you, Olympics. Your inspirational framing of athletes got to me. But that doesn't mean I'll stop wanting to sleep with Ryan Lochte and Michael Phelps, it just means I'll want to throw Oscar Pistorius in the mix, as well.

Side Note: Comedian Katt Williams has a hysterical bit about Pistorius. If you've never watched "Poor Little Tink Tink" stop what you're doing and hit play.

The Post Where I Chastise Kristen Stewart for Being a Godless Philanderer.

Holy mother of God, tell me it's not true. This horror of all horrors cannot be happening. What kind of times are we living in?

K-Stew and R-Patz are breaking up.

NO! Take me now, Mayan calendar prophecy. I don't want to live in a world where the two leading actors from the Twilight franchise can't make a relationship work.

Because of infidelity, nonetheless.

And it's all that cheating whore Kristen Stewart's fault. Did your vampire wedding vows mean nothing to you, dead eyes?

Don't you know what a good thing you had going. You were in a LTR with Edward mother-fucking Cullen. Or at least the actor, that Hollywood has convinced me is wildly attractive when in all actuality he sorta looks like he's homeless, that plays Edward Cullen.

You're never going to do better than him, KRISTEN!

And to top it all off, the man (Snow White and the Huntsman director Rupert Sanders) you were canoodling with is MARRIED and has CHILDREN!

Stephanie Meyers' mormon ass is losing it right now, probably drinking wine coolers and saying things like "Gosh darn that harlot."

You were supposed to uphold the sanctity of teen vampire marriage. How am I supposed to enjoy the final installment of the Twilight Saga, Breaking Dawn: Part II, knowing that you have been unfaithful to your blood-drinking soulmate.

And Renesmee. Oh God, I just remembered Renesmee.

Thanks a lot, Kristen Stewart. You've ruined my life. All I can say now is keep your slutty paws off of the Fifty Shades of Grey script. I can't have you sullying the semi-abusive relationship between Christian and Ana.

Now I have to go update my voter registration. Do you see what you did, Kristen? You're forcing me to care about something other than the lives of two 20-something celebrities.

And for that, you can go fuck yourself.

My Ass Hurts. And I Blame Mark Zuckerberg.

I like to live in denial.

Maybe you figured that out after reading the name of this blog. If so, good job. You obviously have keen observation skills. You probably don't live in denial.

But me--I'm a long-term resident.

I'm not really a barista. I don't really have student loans that I've deferred more times than I care to count. I don't really have a drinking problem.

And my favorite: My ass hasn't grown at all since high school.

Denial was my friend but not anymore.

I blame Facebook. And Mark Zuckerberg by proxy. (You hear that, Zuckerberg? Go fuck yourself!)

Facebook has an abundance of amateur photographers. And these people can tag you in photos. Most of which leaves you questioning when you started to look like Charlize Thereon in Monster. Or who your friends are. Or if that Wiccan shit you tried as a Freshman would actually work.

Basically, I realized I'm horribly vain. And now my gym membership is actually getting used. And my ass hurts, because I guess there's actually muscle in there and not jelly as Beyonce had led me to believe. (She may also be on my list.)

I don't think this post has any real relevance. I mainly just want to drink a bottle of wine and eat one of those tacos made out of Doritos.

But I won't. And that my friends, is called willpower.

Suck on that, Zuckerberg.

George Costanza Takes us to School.

Tonight I read one of the most thoughtful pieces I've seen about gun control since Friday's shooting in Colorado.

Also, it just so happens to be a tweet penned by George Costanza, or Jason Alexander as he probably prefers to be called. Either way, it's a good read--no matter what your opinion is on the subject.

Jason Alexander on Gun Violence

My thoughts and prayers are with anyone who may have been affected by this senseless act of violence.


I'll be back on Tuesday to blog about things that matter far less than this. 

TLC Presents: More Spastic 35-Year-Old Virgins.

TLC's train wreck, better known as The Virgin Diaries, is back and ready for action. Unless that action involves anything past first base, then it will be back and ready for a cold shower and a Harry Potter marathon!

Season 2 of the show that made us all feel a little bit better about ourselves, premieres tonight. But before diving into the new crop of hymenally-sealed misfits, lets take a little trip down memory lane.

Butterfly kiss? Stroke? The world may never know.

To be fair, this is her first kiss that didn't involve
peanut butter and a labrador.

Then he unhinged his jaw and devoured
her whole.

Beautiful, isn't it? You're going to have to do a lot to top that, TLC.

Wait, there's a 34-year-old Mormon who lives in his parents' basement, shaves his chest hair into a heart, and collects belly button lint.

I'm listening...

If that man hasn't killed at least one vagrant, I'll take his virginity. 

Oh TLC, what have you done? You're supposed to be The Learning Channel. The only thing I learned from this is that I wouldn't want to meet Skippy in a dark alley. 

At least your first bunch of weirdos were likable. That guy is just sad. And terrifying. TLC, please make sure you don't leave any of the little girls from Toddlers and Tiaras unattended with him. 

Oh who am I kidding, those girls would never fuck him. 

If there's any silver lining here, it's that this creepy Mormon definitely botched Mitt Romney's presidential run. So for that, Skippy, I thank you. Not enough to come anywhere near you, but I'm thankful nonetheless.

Anyway, season 2 of The Virgin Diaries is on TLC at 10 p.m. EST. I'll be watching and tweeting.

The Last 50 Shades of Grey Post I Will Ever Write. Maybe.

I've made it clear that I'm not reading 50 Shades of Grey.

Mainly, because I have a 12-year-old copy of Anna Karenina collecting dust on my bookshelf, and I can't bring myself to read that over-hyped vibrator manual, when I have real books going unread.

But there is another reason.

As an unqualified sexual advisor, it is my job to keep an open mind about human sexuality. Kinks included. Which is why 50 Shades of Grey really pissed me off.

The more I heard about this book, the more I learned that Christian Grey was not some normal 26-year-old billionaire with a penchant for kinky sex.  He was a fucked up guy who liked BDSM, because he was fucked up. And after conquering his demons stopped wanting that type of sex.

This is a problem. Someone unfamiliar with BDSM (which is basically everyone magic-wanding themselves to that book) could naturally assume that fetishes are something that can be fixed. That the person who enjoys non-traditional sex is broken in some way.

Now one could ask why a little bit of kink-negativity matters. It's not something like sexuality that can't be hidden. For the most part, you could know someone your entire life and never learn that they go home and strap on a ball-gag.

But at a time when basically every form of sexuality is under attack, having something like 50 Shades can provide rhetoric for the "sex-for-babies-only" crowd.

For example, I stumbled upon a blog that begins much like mine, with the author, Dannah Gresh, valiantly pronouncing that she will not be reading 50 Shades of Grey. However, her reasoning is a little different than my own.

• Erotica is sinful.
• Lust is harmful.
• Women don't like when guys view porn.
• BDSM is super-duper yucky. 

The post is full of broad generalizations about female sexuality. Women don't enjoy pornography or men that view pornography. BDSM is something evil that women are being forced to accept. 

The following statement is my personal favorite:

It’s not just that this book misuses sex, it redefines it into something evil as the lead character dominates in a hurtful manner. How woman can enjoy that, I can’t understand!

 But I do have a theory. It seems to me that in our emasculating culture

 there is a hunger so great for strong men that women will stoop to

 bondage, dominance, sadism, and masochism for just a taste. 

Do yourself a favor, don’t!

Well, thanks for that trip back into 1950s America!  

What Gresh fails to acknowledge is that BDSM, or any other kink for that matter, is not a misuse of sex. It is sex. 

Sex does not always look the same in every relationship, but as long as the parties involved are consenting and safe, they should not be shamed for their desires. 

As I read the post, I couldn't help but wonder would Gresh have a problem with BDSM if it took part in the realm of marriage. If a monogamous husband and wife engaged in a little bondage, would that be okay? What if the wife was the one in charge of the leash, is that still icky? 

If so, wouldn't her distaste have nothing to do with the sanctity of marital relations, and more to do with the fact that kinky sex bothers her personally. 

I'm going to assume that it's the latter, especially since her theory that BDSM was spawned from the emasculation of men is ridiculous. The origins of BDSM can be traced back to the ninth century, a time when queering gender was far from anyone's concern. 

Finally, just as rape-play is not actually rape, BDSM is not a form of brutal violence meant to do actual physical harm.

If it is, you're doing it wrong, Dannah.

Today Class, We Will be Watching an Educational Video.

My friend and former college radio co-host is in town from grand ol' Washington D.C. for the weekend. In celebration of our short-term reunion, we're going to get wasted-face on $1 beers while watching cute boys run around bases and shit.


It's gonna be a blast.


However since I'm not a very professional blogger, I didn't pre-write my Sexytime Thursday advice post. 


[Cue hysterical cries.]

Calm down, kiddos, I have the next best thing. A professional giving qualified sex advice and looking super creepy while doing it!

If you want to bang anything after watching this video, you deserve a fucking medal.

Enjoy.

P.S. If after watching this you're all like, "Oh, that was horrible. I'd rather take my sex advice from that chick who makes my latte." Write to me at notreallyabarista@gmail.com. You will remain anonymous.

Welcome to Funkytown

I try not to write when I don't have anything to say.

Don't get me wrong I could tell you all about my insomnia or my back letting me know I'm no longer a spring chicken by going out on me, but those things aren't really interesting.

Are they?

Yeah, I didn't think so either.

Basically I'm in a funk. A working too much. Sleeping too little. What in the fuck am I doing with my life. FUNK. Which means that all of my ideas for posting revolve around the following:

1. Dramatically quitting my job. And telling some Escalade-driving cunt that I would rather live in a cardboard box than make her another Nonfat Latte.

2. Dramatically quitting my job. And telling my boss that I would rather give an unwashed Newt Gingrich an enthusiastic rimjob than listen to her talk about how much she hates her husband and children.

Don't get me wrong, my funk was not born out of a dissatisfaction with my job. This funk was born from monotony.

I feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. Same shit. Different day.

So, dear reader, help me out. How do you break out of a rut?

In the spirit of full disclosure, a box of wine did nothing.

Anything else?

Magic Mike and the Case of the Sexually-Dissatisfied Soccer Mom

I did something. Something I'm not particularly proud of.

No, I didn't finally follow through with my Marco Rubio/Mitt Romney roleplay fantasy.

It's worse than that. I went and saw Magic Mike.

Now I know you're probably thinking, "Yeah, you and every other red-blooded female. What's the big deal?"

And to that I would say, "Valid point, reader. But how about you keep reading anyway."

I pride myself on not being a fan of romantic comedies. I'd rather chew off my own arm than read 50 Shades of Grey. And Twilight, well, let's just not talk about Twilight. But there was something about the premise of watching a bunch of oiled-up men shake their junk at a camera for two hours that made me eager to jump on a bandwagon.

So I jumped.

My friends and I pushed ourselves into the sold-out theater, managing to acquire seats that were exactly three rows from the screen. This was partly to ensure that we would feel like the werewolf from True Blood was teabagging us. And partly because we lost track of time while we were trying to get hammered before seeing this ridiculous movie.

A low hum buzzed through the packed room. (I'm almost certain it was from nervous excitement, not because anyone had snuck in a pocket rocket.) It seemed everyone was eager for the lights to dim and the action to start. I can only assume this is what an organized orgy would feel like. A room full of people all waiting for something to happen, but trying to play it cool.

"Oh man, I can't wait for this silly ol' movie to start. I'm just going put 

my phone on vibrate and place it directly between my legs."

"That sounds like a great idea. By the way, if I ask you to call me your

 dirty little whore at any time during the movie, just overlook it."

After what seemed like a really awkward eternity, the movie began. And it was just as horrible as anyone could imagine.

Two hours of loose plot about a stripper/furniture designer. A broke kid who starts doing a lot of ecstasy. And Matthew McConaughey doing exactly what he would be doing in real life, if the whole acting thing hadn't panned out.

It was a mess. 

A hot mess. 

One that made me want to make a baby with the first man I saw after leaving the theater.

Holy mother of God, does Channing Tatum have no bones?

And I would literally quit my life and lay around naked, smoking marijuana, and playing the bongos with Matthew McConaughey if he just said the word.

When the movie ended and I exited the theater, I was left with a lot of unanswered questions.

Why was there no full-frontal in that movie? Where is the nearest male strip club? Would they do full-frontal? Why is that woman not wearing any pants? Did someone really bring their 4-year-old daughter to see Magic Mike?

None of my questions were answered, of course. 

However, I can say without a doubt, that paying money to see men--albeit gorgeous, genetically-gifted men--dry hump a stage is shameful.

But it could definitely be worse, I could be masturbating to 50 Shades of Grey.

Help! I Might Be Sleeping with a Douchebag.

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Seen in the South

In case you didn't have enough reasons to be proud of your country this Independence Day, take a look at this deal on wheels.

Photo Credit: @lisadirtymoney (Feel free to harass her. She likes it!)

Suck our dicks, England!

Did You Hear Mitt Romney is ...

It's been a pretty crazy week in politics, what with the Supreme Court upholding President Obama's health care overhaul.


Did you know that under Obamacare it's totally legal to shoot anyone over the age of 65 who has the sniffles for more than 2 days? 


Me either! But Twitter told me. And my relatives on Facebook. 


If you live under a rock, or in a blue state, people are pissed about the SCOTUS ruling. I think Dave Rubin said it best on Twitter.

 

Seems crazy, huh? 

But if you ask anyone against healthcare reform they will give you a laundry list of reasons (many which are batshit crazy) why Obamacare roughly equals Armageddon.

But that's where the Right has always had the Left beat. The crazy coalition.

Righties get together and the crazy spreads like wildfire. Then the crazy gets a bullhorn and screams at the top of its lungs. And then the crazy starts rubbing off on normal people, and I have to hear people say things like.

"Did you hear Obama is going to take away our guns?"

"Did you hear Obama said he's a Muslim."

"Did you hear Obama is a socialist. He's also a fascist.

 No, I don't know what either of those mean, necessarily."

And then I start to cry. Because I realize that the Right is on to something. They out-crazy the Left EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. 

And the president has to do things like show his birth certificate. Because the bullshit grows legs and wanders out of the trailer parks and into the real world.

Well, I think it's time Democrats step up the crazy. And what a perfect time, because I've heard some pretty messed-up stuff about Mitt Romney lately, and I think I should share it with you guys!

Did you hear that Mitt Romney plans on

 selling the U.S. to China? 

Did you hear Mitt Romney is going to outlaw lingerie, 

and we're all going to have to wear Mormon underwear?

Did you hear Mitt Romney doesn't own a gun and 

drives a Prius?

Did you hear Mitt Romney was born in Mexico? He's going

to open the borders to his drug cartel friends!

Did you hear that Mitt Romney thinks Godfather 3 was

the best of the saga?

Did you hear Mitt Romney is going to outlaw Nascar 

and college football?

Did you hear Mitt Romney is from Detroit, and Kid Rock is a supporter?(Oh wait, that one's real. I guess some shit you just can't make up.)

Is there anything YOU'VE HEARD about Mitt Romney?