Quick Update: I'm Alive but the Holidays have me Hostage.

Motherfucker! Has it really been almost a month since I wrote anything that would embarrass my parents on the internet?

This is why I'm never getting a book deal or reality show or a fucking bus pass from this blog, because as soon as people start making pies on the regular I've got to give up my extra curriculars to focus solely on not fitting into my jeans. Sorry y'all, these feeling ain't gonna eat themselves!

But I promise to be back on a regular blogging schedule in the New Year, but as a peace offering for my absence let me leave you all with the greatest meme of all time.

Retail Robin

Amazing, right?! 

Anyways, I hope everyone has an incredible holiday season, and I'll be writing dumb shit on the internet in no time. 

There's Santorum on this Christmas Candle!

Just in time for the holidays, everyone's favorite google search result is back and bigoted as ever!

Rick Santorum has been making the rounds, plugging his likely horrible project called "The Christmas Candle," which surprisingly enough is not a line of holiday-inspired sex toys. Bummer, right?!

For those of you who may be new to this dumb, little blog, during last year's election I wrote quite a bit about our homophobic, sweatervest-loving, frothy friend.

I'll sum it up for you--fuck him.

Anyway, Frothy McSweatervest is now the head of a religious movie studio and was a guest on The Colbert Report promoting his new film--hilarity and hatred ensued.

The Colbert Report
Get More: Colbert Report Full Episodes,Video Archive

While watching Stephen Colbert troll Rick Santorum is easily the greatest gift of all, I can't get over the fact that this asshole is considering running for office in 2016.

Ricky, do us all a favor, keep making your family-oriented films and quit trying to run the country. You're not going to do either one very well, but at least with the former, I'll be able to keep my birth control.

On another note, for my readers interested in having some super gay sex in a movie theatre, The Christmas Candle will be out in select theaters this Friday.

Just in Case Your Day Didn't Include Enough Talk of Unicorn Balls.

Matt and I were driving to my shoulder leprosy doctor when this argument/dumb-fuckery occurred:

Me: What is your problem? You have the shittiest attitude today. 

Matt: I have a wonderful attitude today! 

Me: Nope! It's shitty. Your attitude looks like, like, balls. Yep, it resembles a scrotum, so you might want to check yourself. 

Matt: Well, those balls must be strapped to a fucking unicorn. They must be majestic and sparkle in the sunlight. 

Me: Wait, do unicorns have balls? 

Matt: Oh yeah and they're beautiful. 

Me: So you think your attitude is like unicorn balls? 

Matt: I do. 

Me: Alright then. 

And that's how the argument ended, because my boyfriend blindsided me by bringing up a mythical creature's glittering junk. Later when we were home, I decided to google the term "unicorn balls" and found this.

Side Note: I also googled "unicorn dick" and found a picture of a girl with a

 penis on her forehead, so happy early father's day that girl's dad!

So even though Matt technically tricked me into not being mad at him, I was able find a picture of Mitt Romney with the words "unicorn balls" underneath his face.

I'm gonna take it as a win.  

Some Babies are Hideously Ugly and Other Things Overheard in a Coffee Shop

While cleaning the lobby of the unspecified coffee shop that I work at, I overheard a couple discussing the following:

Wife: (checking Facebook on her phone) My sister put the pictures up of [baby name]. 

Husband: (not looking up from his iPad) That's the ugliest fucking baby I've ever seen. 

Wife: Oh my God, I can't believe you said that. He's adorable. 

Husband: Are you joking? That kid looks like it wasn't cooked all the way. 

Wife: (Stunned silence) 

Husband: As a matter of fact, I'm pretty pissed that she's putting those pictures on Facebook and I'm being forced to look at them. What if I was eating? 

Wife: That is our nephew you're talking about! 

Husband: And he's hideous.

And that's how I met my favorite customer of all time.

Reasons I Suck so Hard at Blogging.

I suck at blogging.

I write with zero regularity because, you know, naps. I talk about dicks and sex and politics which is bound to alienate a good portion of readers. My social networking presence also leaves something to be desired, once again, naps.

But those aren't the reasons I'm never going to be considered a "good" blogger.

If you've read any of the "How to get Fuck Me Famous Blogging and Never Have to Make Another Cup of Coffee Ever Again" articles, then you probably know they suggest bloggers have a niche, something that ties all the nonsensical ramblings to a specific topic, i.e. motherhood, fashion, cats, etc.

But left out of that group are bloggers who talk about making coffee and watching TLC and porn (occasionally at the same time), which is too bad because I would corner that market. When it comes to tried-and-true blogging genres, I've got nothing to offer.

Dating Blogs: I don't bang random dudes. Not because I don't want to, but my boyfriend won't let me and that jerk knows the wifi password. My blog's not going to be like Sex and the City, where I talk about strapping on a pair of $600 stilts and having some rando I met at Whole Foods give me his half-assed version of a pelvic exam. Nope, just Matt playing Grand Theft Auto V and me trying to figure out the wifi password.

Mommy Blogs: I don't have a baby. Nor do I intend to any time in the near future. To be honest, I'm not ever sure if I can. My mom's uterus supposedly looks like uncooked Top Ramen or something, and I've been having unprotected sex for like a decade--and nothing. Thank God. Don't get me wrong, I like kids, but I'm pretty sure I'm unfit to have my own. Just the other day I bought a Nerf gun because I thought, "I'm gonna fuck with the dog." Anyway, if I did pop a couple little assholes out, my boyfriend would just end up raising them and they'd call me by my first name. It'd get confusing at parent/teacher conferences.

Wedding/Marriage Blogs: I'm gonna let y'all in on a little secret, I've been engaged since Myspace was a thing. When's our wedding date? We don't have one. Why? Because you have to plan that shit out. And pay for it! When Matt asked me to marry him I called him a bastard. That story isn't Pinterest appropriate. And I'm not a big fan of weddings. I like my last name. And white, come on, who am I trying to fool? Plus, all of my family consists of horrible drunks who hate each other, and I've made it 27 years without being featured on COPS, so why start now?

Fashion/Beauty Blogs: I'm not fashionable. I wear flip flops everyday. And most of my clothes are stretchy and have salsa stains on them. I already tricked a dude into loving me, what's the point of hoisting my tits up my shoulders on the regular? There is none. I like pajamas. Disgusting pajamas. My mom recently offered to buy me a pair of "flattering pjs", because she's concerned I'm never going to give her grandkids. So unless people want to read about how to rock the same pair of sweatpants for 10 straight days, I think I'm out of luck.

Other things I'm not good at/won't be writing about: DIY anything. Fuck Pinterest. I'm not making a wine bottle rack using yarn, empty toilet paper rolls and glitter. I've got TV to watch. Health and Wellness. I like cookies. A LOT. And I'm already in therapy trying to figure out how to not eat my feelings, and it's not going all that well.

I also don't live in NYC or LA. My life is not glamorous. I work at a coffee shop and wear an apron everyday. I don't always write that consistently. I'm not interesting and most of my day involves Netflix and my couch. But I love that people may care, even if it's just a little, about the bullshit I put on here.

So fuck all the blogging guidelines. I just want to write and make some of you weirdos laugh. That's it.

Oh, and maybe a couple nice pairs of pajamas, so my mom can get off my case.

People Found this Blog While Searching for Channing Tatum's Junk.

This is how people found my blog the other day.

Search engines brought people who made the decision to look for Magic Mike's penis on the internet. People who fetishize girls who make their lattes (I promise you it's not sexy. Move along.) People who want to find a fuck buddy who will be their big spoon.

And Google decided I was the gal for the job. Should that make me happy or sad?

Sometimes I feel like I'm peddling smut. But for all of my writing about blowjobs and handjobs and footjobs (and other -jobs that haven't been discovered yet), I can't help but think 'shouldn't I be richer'.

I've been led to believe that pornography, and all of it's brown-bag cohorts, make the people purveying it a pretty decent salary. But I just had to defer my student loans again, and I currently have a case of off-brand ramen in my pantry? I guess I'm doing this whole internet porn thing wrong.

People are obviously pissed once they get here and there's no hot barista-on-barista action, and Channing Tatum's dick is no where to be found (but if you find it let a girl know, oookay?!).

But if I'm being honest, I'd make an excellent pornographer. I had a horrible childhood. I want to make obscene amounts of money without doing all that much. And I know at least 46 euphemisms for ejaculate.

So it looks like I've got a new game plan, guys!

Now I'm off to get pictures of Channing Tatum's junk. But first, do any of y'all know how strict the trespassing laws in California are?

We Smell Like Baked Goods and Other Reasons you Need a Girl Best Friend.

My best friend is a real trooper, y'all.

Just the other day we were discussing how I can get blogger rich by writing about scrotums and reality TV and she did the nicest thing ever!

Offered to do webcam porn with my blog address written across her lovely lady lumps.

Good looking out, girl!

That's why when I decide I'm done with dudes because they smell weird and care way too much about guys who play catch for a living, we're going to get all kinds of gay married and live in a log cabin in the mountains and stop shaving our legs. I just can't wait! 

Of course, we can have an open relationship, because the most intimate thing we're ever going to do is snuggle under a cashmere throw and watch every episode of Dawson's Creek ever made. Dawson and Joey? Pacey and Joey? You better pick a team! But don't get me wrong, I think you're beautiful, it's mainly because I think of you like a sister. Except for that one time in high school. Whoops! Sorry dad, I told you to stop reading my blog.

Our love will be one that stands the test of time. And honestly, it already has.

It's lasted through: Random dudes. Breakups. Makeups. Babies. Dudes we met on the internet. Those awkward middle school years. Those awkward high school years. Bangs. We can endure anything! We're going to be like the Will and Jada of best friend marriages.

Nicky&Allie- To Duckface and Beyond

I couldn't live without my girls.

Which is why every time some chick wearing pigtails and a toddler-sized football jersey laments about how much she hates girls and feels more comfortable with guys, I die a little bit inside.

Doesn't she know that we are the best?!

If you're a girl, who thinks you can't be friends with other girls, then you've been hanging out with the wrong vagina-havers. Come sit at my lunch table, pumpkin nose.

First and foremost, we smell awesome, and we'll totally let you borrow whatever delicious thing we have expertly placed behind our ears and inside our wrists. We will never try to fingerbang you in a booth at Applebee's after your fourth mudslide. We will escort you to the ladies' room, hold your hair while you vomit up your alcohol milkshake, and give you a ride home. We understand how you both love and want to kill your mother. We will let you borrow our copy of 50 Shades of Grey with the good parts highlighted, so you don't have to pretend it's not porn. You know your ex's new girlfriend that you hate? We hate her too. We can talk about the Kardashians and the government shutdown, we're versatile like that.

Did I mention we smell like oatmeal cookies? What else do you need to know?

If any of my lovely female readers are currently in the "I can't be friends with girls" category, I want you to go back to the beginning of this blog. My best friend offered to pimp herself out because she loves me. And because she's kind of an exhibitionist. That is what girl-on-girl-best-friend love looks like, and you need to get yourself some of that.

If you don't know where to start, then let me be of assistance. Get at me on Twitter (@AllieOopsie). We're about to be internet BFFFs!

And I already hate your ex's new girlfriend. She's a major bitch, and I heard she has herpes.

What to do When Someone with the IQ of Asparagus Pities Your Career Choices.

I've spoken about a girl I work with before on this blog, you may remember her, my slightly racist, orange co-worker whose long-term goal is to be an import car model. You can read posts about her, here and here.

She has proven to be an exercise in acceptance and humility. I've learned to tolerate, and occasionally even like, this former cheerleader who is the color of a dirty penny. I've learned that I can literally make friends with anyone.

If Charles Manson and I were forced to make lattes together, I would eventually find common ground with him. I would even learn to overlook that swastika he carved into his forehead. I mean, I have a hella embarrassing tribal tattoo. Youth, right?

Also, whenever I start to feel good about myself and my life decisions, I'm quickly reminded that I am career peers with a girl who doesn't know how to pronounce photography. PHOTO-GRAPH-EE. I wish I was kidding.

A few days ago, I was feeling particularly great. I just landed my first freelance gig. It paid nothing, but I'd be writing about a topic I love for a popular local publication. Cloud nine and shit! That was until this happened.

Spawn of Tan Mom: Allie, when do you graduate from school? 

Yours Truly: Oh sweetie, I graduated two years ago. 

Snooki's Oranger Cousin: Oh. You haven't been able to find a job? 

YT: No, I mean I have some work lined up, but I'm still trying to figure things out. 

Bronze Forrest Gump: Awwwwww, I'm sorry.

You don't really know what humility is until someone whose life ambition is to pose semi-nude on a neon green Honda Civic pities your career choices. It's like having the guy who pisses on himself outside of 7/11 refusing your change, because you look like you need it more.

It's kinda like this.

   

But mainly this.

So what do you do when someone with the IQ of asparagus pities your life choices? You cry and eat all of your feelings. And remember that at least you can pronounce the word photography! 

Which will not help you in the least when you are a 45-year-old barista. I'm going to make cookies.

I Have Shoulder Leprosy, but at Least I can Still Give HJs.

As most of you know, and by most I mean the 10-15 people who read this blog/stumble upon this blog while searching for barista porn, I hurt my shoulder while reaching out of my store's drive-thru window. Yes, I'm quite aware that this is easily the least badass way a person could injure him/herself.

Anyway, I'm in a sling and banished to taking money, misspelling people's names on cups and getting harassed by people asking, "What'd ya do to your arm?" It's almost endearing that people feign concern over my injury. I say feign because most of the exchanges go a little something like this.

Concerned Customer: What's wrong with your arm? 

Yours truly: I'm not sure exactly. I get my MRI results.. 

Not-So-Concerned Customer: That's too bad. Make sure I get my whip cream on that Pumpkin Spice Latte.

But not everyone is more concerned with their coffee milkshake than my overall well-being. Just today, I had a man who resembled ZZ Top remind me that at least I can still give handjobs with my other arm. You sir, are making lemons into lemonade. Thank you!

Speaking of handjobs, I asked my boss if I could tell people that I hurt my arm because I'm an over-zealous masturbator. She told me only if I wanted to lose my job--so I'm still debating that one. But I've been thinking about alternative stories to explain why I'm in a sling, so far I've come up with the following:

1. I have shoulder leprosy. Don't worry, I don't think it's contagious. 

2. I bought Bud Light instead of Budweiser. Please help me. 

3. It's a lot more strenuous to give yourself an abortion than one would think. 

4. I was trying to copy Miley Cyrus and fell off of a wrecking ball. 

5. Arm wrestled a shark. Don't ask. 

6. Sometimes the voices get so loud. And I didn't mean to cut off his entire penis. It just happened. 

7. They tried to take my guns. 

8. What arm? 

9. Have you ever read 50 Shades of Grey? 

10. I hyperextended my shoulder handing out a drink to a customer who didn't understand that my ass is not Inspector fucking Gadget, but don't worry I can still give handjobs.

That should get me through about 4 minutes.

Any of you deviants have some more suggestions for me? Now remember I work in a small, extremely conservative town--so the more offensive the better. If you can somehow incorporate Ronald Reagan's ghost personally injuring me, you get bonus points.

Get in the Kitchen and Make Me 300 Sandwiches

Have you heard some woman is making 300 sandwiches for her boyfriend so that he'll propose to her?

I'm assuming you have, because I've seen nothing else on social media since this morning. Ted Cruz talked for 21 hours, and this chick is making sammiches upon sammiches upon sammiches.

A lot of folks are pissed. And a part of me gets it, the woman behind 300 Sandwiches, Stephanie Smith, a senior reporter for Page Six, is trying to make herself known for giving breath to every douchebag who thinks "make me a sandwich" jokes are funny. For the record, they're not. And never were.

To them, she's the Patron Saint of Domesticity. A beautiful woman whose boyfriend gets to say the following without the fear of castration:

“Honey, how long you have been awake?” 

“About 15 minutes,” I’d reply. 

“You’ve been up for 15 minutes and you haven’t made me a sandwich?”

For real, sweetheart? I completely understand that some things said in the confines of a relationship may not translate to the outside world, which is why you don't blog about those things. Because now everyone hates your boyfriend. He looks like a mega-tool. And I'm sure he's not, he just really loves sandwiches.

It's the same reason I don't blog about my boyfriend calling me a gutter slut, because people wouldn't understand that it comes from a place of love. (By the way, I'm pretty sure my dad's reading my blog now. So have fun crying that one out, Pops.)

But she put this all out in the open--every slightly disheartening comment.

As he finished that last bite, he made an unexpected declaration of how much he loved me and that sandwich: “Honey, you’re 300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring!” 

I paused. … Maybe I needed to show him I could cook to prove that I am wife material. If he wanted 300 sandwiches, I’d give him 300 sandwiches — and I’d blog about it.

Now don't get me wrong I make my boyfriend sandwiches all the time. I cook. I bake. I clean. I do all kinds of things that would make June Cleaver proud. But none of the aforementioned duties are performed with hopes of proving that I am "wife material". What does that even mean, anyway?

And how long after the 300 sandwiches are made does he have to propose? Is there a window of time or will he dropping to one knee while wiping dijon off his face? What if on sandwich 298 she finds him balls deep in her best friend? Is the agreement then void?

It just seems bizarre to be so attached to a proposal that you're willing to barter like you're buying matrimony on Craigslist.

I don't know Stephanie Smith so I don't want to judge her too harshly, but I do question how it feels to compromise the natural course of a relationship with a deli item? Will she feel a slight pang of regret when he does propose, because it was based on a sandwich quota? Is the thrill still there? Or is it like a modern day dowry? I'll give you 2 goats, an acre of land and 300 sandwiches.

But maybe we're all bartering in relationships. Look how funny I am. How good in bed. How many goats I have.

Maybe Stephanie Smith is on to something. Something really fucking weird.

Now I wonder if she'll make me a sandwich? No mayo, babycakes.

TLC Presents: How did this Dude Trick Five Women into Marrying Him?

TLC, the channel responsible for all your learning needs, is debuting a one-hour special that has 'hot new series' written all over it.

My Five Wives follows the life of Brady Williams, a Utah polygamist, his five wives, and his 24 children. Williams and his wives practice polygamy, despite being shunned by their church and community.

Yep, even the Mormons thinks this shit is a little excessive.

The premise sounds a whole lot like Sister Wives, which if you're not familiar with Sister Wives click here (you probably also have a worthwhile life and don't need terrible reality television to fill the hole inside of you). But it's better, because instead of four wives--there's FIVE!

Ohhhh, scandalous.

Every time I see a show about some dude with, like, 10 wives, I can't help but wonder what kinda voodoo, black magic is this bastard dappling in? It's the only explanation, because it's always some man who you're pretty shocked has one wife.

How did he pull this shit off? What did the conversation sound like?

Okay ladies, I understand I'm a slightly balding Mormon of average wealth and body type, but I think y'all should let me routinely bang each and every one of you. In return, you'll get to bare and raise about two dozen of my children

Oh, and there might be a TLC show.

Do these bitches not know how to negotiate?

I mean, Honey Boo Boo got her own show and all she had to do was represent a cultural stereotype and say stuff like "a dolla make me holla".

Shit, girl, a dollar makes me holler, too. You have a valid point.

I just don't understand. I can think of no man that is awesome enough to make me live with four other women and blow out my vagina. It's like a really fucked-up sorority.

Oh, and have you never heard of birth control, Brady? You're not in the Mormon church anymore, can you not pull out? Even that '19 Kids and Counting'
woman thinks you're being a bit ridiculous. When the Earth is overpopulated to the point where I can't get quality kale for my green smoothies, I'm coming to your motherfucking house. Believe that.

Here's hoping, that TLC decides that My Five Wives is not a good fit amongst its high-brow programming. Mainly, because I don't want my boyfriend to get any ideas.

My Five Wives airs tonight at 9/8c. And Breaking Bad airs on AMC at the same time.

Somehow the show about Meth seems less detrimental to society. Your call.

Rorie Gilmore: The Only Thing That Could Make Me Watch 50 Shades of Grey.

I don't give a shit about 50 Shades of Grey. I just don't care about some hot ass billionaire beating the hell out of his virgin assistant.

If someone gave me dental insurance and I didn't have to make coffee anymore, they could do whatever they wanted to me. That's not called BDSM. That's called being a college graduate in the year 2013.

But moving on. I know the whole entire internet exploded because they picked the characters for the 50 Shades movie and they weren't attractive/homely/brooding/brunette/fictional enough for the fans of the series. There's even a petition.

These sex-starved soccer moms sure are picky, y'all.

I thought the actors cast looked just fine for a movie that will undoubtedly rake in millions and make PeeWee Herman feel less weird about masturbating in a theater that one time.

That was until I realized who exactly fans were petitioning to get cast in the film.

Wait!!! They want to cast Rorie Gilmore in the horrible sex movie?

Sold!

If you don't know about Gilmore Girls you can escort yourself off this post now, there's a post about twerking a couple days back that might interest you.

Oh Em Gee! Where can I sign this petition? The only thing that might get me to watch this awful shit storm of a movie is the hope that I can watch Stars Hollow's own Rorie Gilmore getting paddled by the stripper from Magic Mike.

Hell, if they got Jess to play Christian Grey, I would fund this fucking movie myself. It's like my high school wet dream. 

For those of you that can't tell, I have an unhealthy obsession with the show Gilmore Girls, and it would make my whole entire life to have this fantasy realized.

I know some of you are thinking, if you love the show and one of it's main actresses so much why would you want her subjected to a movie that would more than likely be this decade's Showgirls?

Well, I might say, Ms. Bledel's Gilmore money may be drying up, and horny middle-aged women's money is still green.

However, that would be a lie.

I'm actually just a pervert, who loves the idea of my favorite TV character having semi-kinky sex on screen. And if that makes me wrong, then I just don't want to be right.

I know I can't be alone. Who would reconsider watching this full-length porn movie if their favorite TV character was cast in the lead? 

Michael Scott as Christian Grey, anyone?

Walter White Should Make Pumpkin Spice Lattes.

At the certain unnamed coffee establishment that employs me, people lose their freaking minds come September.

Why, you ask? Oh, because pumpkin-flavored everything makes a much anticipated appearance.

You didn't know that pumpkin lattes are like crystal meth to suburban housewives? Well, they are. Ann Taylor wearing ladies in pearls come in offering up their kids' college funds for an early taste.

It's the closest I'll ever get to being a drug dealer.

Here's an example.

Customer: Do you guys have Pumpkin Spice lattes yet?

Barista: No, not yet. But we'll have it in a couple of weeks.

Customer: Come on, I know you have it in there. 

Barista: I'm sorry, ma'am. Unfortunately, I can't sell it, yet.

Customer: Listen, you little bitch. You will sell me that latte!

 What do I have to do? You into girls? You want my wedding ring? 

Okay, that might be a little bit of an exaggeration, but I have been offered money before. And I'm pretty sure one of my co-workers could have gotten a blowjob if he gave in.

I'm not entirely sure what makes people so obsessed with pumpkin products. Maybe people are eager for a small taste of Fall after a brutally hot Summer. Maybe the manufactures mix whatever drug Miley Cyrus is on in it.

But whatever it is, I wish anything could make me as happy as the first week of September makes my customers.

It's like swing sets to kids. Or crack to Tyrone Biggums.

Are any of my readers addicted to pumpkin lattes? Tell me why (or why not) in the comments! 

An Open Letter to Miley Cyrus

Dear Miley,

Just the other day I wrote about my distaste for twerking, then last night you rubbed your ass on the crotch of Robin Thicke's Beetlejuice-inspired pants, and the entire internet exploded.

This may mean I have my finger on the pulse of what's happening, but probably not.

Either way I think you should probably listen to me, because well, what do you have to lose? This photo is already a very real thing.

So, what in the hell was all that about, Miley?

Seriously, did Kanye pay you off because he was sick of hearing about the Taylor Swift thing? That's the only possibility that makes sense. I mean, I know you love to twerk and obviously you hate your father. But sweetheart, last night you wore a condom and danced with furries.

Don't get me wrong anyone who has been a 20-year-old girl has done dumbass stuff for attention. I had a tongue ring and pretended to like girls, but you masturbated with a giant foam finger. Allie: 0, Miley:1.

Jesus, just look how uncomfortable you made wheelchair Jimmy Drake.

I know everyone is kinda coming down on you pretty hard, but we just don't want you to watch you go down the path of so many child stars turned raging lunatics.

Do you really want to end up like Amanda Bynes ... or worse, Danny Bonaduce?

Do you want your future to consist of Education Connect commercials and a stint on Dancing with the Stars? 

No? Then cut it the fuck out!

We get it. You're not Hannah Montana anymore. You have a vagina, a shit ton of Ecstasy, and some very strange fetishes, but that doesn't mean you have to battle Gene Simmons for the Most Overexposed Tongue award. Seriously, put it back in your mouth. It freaks me out.

I'm only going to say this once so listen up, kiddo.

You owe us better than this. 

Just because you're not a role model for pre-teens anymore, doesn't mean you still don't have eyes on you.

You're a woman. And unfortunately that means not everyone believes you are equal. And you're going to have a hard enough time garnering respect without making yourself a caricature. The whore. The barely-dressed teen. The girl who's only good for making a dick hard. It's a cop out.

You are more than that, because we are all more than that. And the sooner you figure that out, the sooner you will have to stop trying to prove you're not Hannah Montana. It'll be clear that you're a woman. 

So, get your shit together, girl. For all of us.

And please, for the love of God, burn whatever you were wearing last night.

Best wishes,

Your Barista

Ridiculous Societal Expectations: Twerking Edition

I can't twerk.

I'm pretty sure that could have went without saying, but just in case you're an optimist, that shit isn't happening for me. My ass cannot move independently from my body, and until recently I was not aware that was an issue.

Enter: Social media, Miley Cyrus and basically all of mid-2013 pop culture.

These things made me realize that not only should I be twerking, I should be really fucking good at it, like some beautiful mix of trained ballerina and drug-addled stripper.

Let me explain for anyone more stereotypically caucasian than myself. Urban Dictionary defines twerking as "the rhythmic gyrating of the lower fleshy extremities in a lascivious manner with the intent to elicit sexual arousal...".

Yeah, that's not happening.

I can't twerk. I can't rhythmically gyrate my lower fleshy extremities. But I can wear the fuck out of a cardigan, and if that doesn't elicit enough sexual arousal, I don't know what to tell you.

I'm not coordinated. I'm not sexy. And even if I was, I sure as hell wouldn't do this.

My dad almost shot me in the face as a kid, and I still don't have enough father issues to twerk on a trashcan. 

Ladies, we have to stop doing stuff like this! I don't care how many rappers want us to "wiggle like your trying to make our ass fall off". 

Don't we have other things to offer?

Hell, I'm a great speller. Can't I just stand, fully clothed, and spell "ambidextrous" without needing it used in a sentence. That's impressive. Why can't 2 Chainz rap about that? 

That song would write itself.

All I'm saying is that eventually there will come a time in your life where video evidence of you twerking on inanimate objects will be embarrassing.

And besides who has ever made an actual living that started by shaking their ass in front of a camera?

Fuck. I'm definitely not winning this battle, am I?

I Saw Lady Gaga's Vagina and Now I Hate Myself.

I have a problem.

I am obsessed with seeing celebrities without their clothes on. It's not something I'm necessarily proud of, in fact, it might be getting a little out of hand. As soon as I hear that someone with a Wikipedia page had their iPhone hacked, I am all over that shit.

Do you know how long I searched for the uncensored version of Anthony Weiner's dick pictures? A really long time. Did I want to see it? Absolutely not.

See, it's a kind of a problem.

Oh, and I've seen them all--and their sex tapes.

I chalk it all up to being a curious human being and/or a sexual deviant. I'm not entirely sure which category I fall under yet. But I'm nearly positive if I was a man I would be in jail by now for peeping through someone's blinds. God bless my boobs. They're always getting me out of stuff, like tickets and criminal voyeurism.

Today I watched the Lady Gaga Kickstarter video that features her running around upstate New York naked, chanting and dry-humping crystals. You can find the video HERE, if you want to see some really odd shit for like two minutes.

I assume this video is similar to watching a snuff film. You know you should turn it off. You know that it's going to cause some irreversible damage. But, hell, you've already come this far.

Now don't get me wrong, not every photo/film of a celebrity or pseudo-celebrity taking their clothes off, to further their career and having their privacy violated, is scarring.

I saw Scarlett Johansson's breasts, and I'm a better person because of it. I also might be a little gay.

I've also seen Screech from Saved by the Bell's penis--and once again, I might be a little gay.

But something was different about watching Lady Gaga galavant around a forest with her vagina out. Maybe it's because it's supposed to be art, and I'm about as deep as a puddle. Or maybe because it wasn't some grainy, night-vision "mistake" done by a socialite who has had more baby juice in her than a sperm bank cup.

Either way, I think my pervin' days are done.

Unless there's ever a video of Ryan Gosling giving Gerard Butler a junk-out neck massage, because in that case I want that masterpiece playing at my wedding.

Rush Limbaugh Calls Oprah Fat and Everyone is Really Confused.

Rush Limbaugh, the svelte, sexual creature that he is, suggested that maybe Oprah was not the target of racism on her recent trip to Switzerland--but sizeism.

LIMBAUGH: Maybe, it's because The Oprah
 is fat!... Don't most people think the the obese
 are poor and stupid? Where do you see fat people?
You see them at places where things don't cost very much.

Watch the Limbaugh video HERE.

Okay, so just so we're clear. This guy...

called this woman fat?

And my reaction was something like this...

    

Because that shit just doesn't make any sense. 

Besides the very obvious fact that Rush Limbaugh hasn't seen his feet (or penis) in years, his silly ass is trying to fuck with Oprah.

Oprah!

She's seen God. Hell, they text.

She's all, "What's up, G-Money?" And God's all, "O! You're my favorite. When you get up here we're going to get married."

Seriously though, doesn't he know that this is not the woman to mess with. She could buy him. Or at least make him disappear. Which I would be totally okay with--just in case you're reading, Oprah!

But what bothers me more than anything, is that this guy, who looks like a coked-out puffer fish, thinks he has any room to criticize any woman's appearance. He thinks he has the right to invalidate her experience. To suggest what she felt wasn't about her race. It was about her waistline.

Oh, if only Oprah had a Tumblr-inspired thigh gap this wouldn't have happened.

Thanks for pointing that one out, Rushie. But one question ...

Who in the fuck do you think you are?

This is Oprah. One time she gave, like, 100 strangers cars. The only thing you've ever given to anyone, is some poor hooker a broken rib from being underneath you--and probably herpes.

But me and Oprah--we're going to let this one go.

Why are you Talking in Acronyms? The Joys of Dealing with Teenagers.

I hate teenagers.

That's not an overstatement. If I could punch a 16 year old in the face without ending up on COPS, I would. But I can't, so I'm doing the next best thing--defaming them on my blog.

So back to my point, I really hate teenagers.

No, it's not just because I have no idea what "ratchet" means. Or because I can't twerk. Or because some sophomore in high school called me old. Bitch, I am 27, I will kill your family.

It's because they're assholes.

And while I understand that this is all a necessary stage in the maturing process, it doesn't mean I have to be cool with it. Sure babies scream all the time and piss themselves, but that doesn't mean I have to enjoy the screaming or the piss.

And at least babies are cute some of the time. Teenagers are just oily, half-formed humans, who control way to much of what's playing on the radio. Why is Justin Beiber still a thing? And who is Harry Styles?

I know you're probably thinking, "Whoa, Allie, where is this coming from?"

Well, dear reader, in case you didn't catch on from the title of this blog, I'm a barista, and it's summertime. This means that instead of being locked away in school for eight hours a day, these little monsters are coming to the unnamed coffee establishment I work for and making me question how long I could survive in prison.

Let's set the scene, shall we? Two teenagers in a BMW pull up to the drive-thru window.

Barista: Hey, how are you?

Teen 1: (to Teen 2) Oh. Em. Gee, Tiffakneeeee, you have to watch this video Brian just posted on Instagram. He's sooo stupid but sooo Hoooottttt!

Barista: It's gonna be $9.30.

Teen 2: (Stank face given from passenger seat) Umm, I'm gonna need you to separate those drinks for us.

Barista: Okay, so the first one is gonna be $4.66. 

Teen 1: (Searches for money until Miley Cyrus song comes on radio. Turns up radio.) Miley has turned into such a slut. Did you see her video? You can totally see her pussy.

Teen 2: Ratchet bitch.

Barista: (Making mental note to Google Miley Cyrus video) Okay, it's gonna be $4.66.

Teen 1: GOD, hold on! I'm still trying to find my money. 

Teen 2: It's whatever. Just put the drinks back together.

Barista: Okay, so it's gonna be $9.30.

Teen 2: I want you to put  $3 on my card and the rest in cash. (Tiffakneeeee proceeds to  hand over an Amex, a rolled up $5 bill and handful of change.)

Barista: (Hands them their drinks) Have a good one.

Teen 1: (To Teen 2) God, that took long enough. And they didn't even put enough whip cream on it. So dumb. (Pulls away).

Do you see what I have to deal with? These little sub-humans are the reasons I come home and drink boxed wine. Where's the "It Gets Better" videos for the adults who have to deal with these little fuck-heads on a daily basis? But if it's any consolation, you can kinda see Miley's vag in that video.

Now seriously, what the hell does "ratchet" mean?

Shocker: Sydney Leathers Does Porn [NSFW]

Here I was feeling all bad about it being two years since I graduated from college and, lo and behold, Sydney Leathers does porn to make me feel better about myself.

Good looking out, girl!

If you don't know who Sydney Leathers is then you probably have a life and haven't been entirely consumed with the Anthony Weiner "I like to wag my dick at co-eds" scandal.

Let me catch you up: Leathers is the 23-year-old political science student, who engaged in a six-month online affair with the NYC mayoral candidate. Leathers then took the 15-minutes of fame that Carlos Danger's junk afforded her and spun it into a sex tape.

The video produced by Vivid Entertainment, responsible for nearly every pseudo-celeb sex tape out there, does not contain any actual sex. Leathers is shown posing nude and pleasuring herself.

And who can blame her after all that hot Anthony Weiner action? Homegirl probably has a lot to sexual tension built up.

So, good for you, Sydney. I'm sure this won't end badly at all.

Warning: If you don't want to see a young woman do things with an American flag that she will regret for the rest of her life, turn away now.

I'm nearly certain this is what Betsy Ross had in mind for the flag.

Oh Sweetie, That's Not Right.

If you're like me, listening to people talk about things they know nothing about is hilarious. That's why I watch Fox News when I'm in need of a good chuckle. 

But even better than an episode of The O'Reilly Factor is this clip of Miss Utah giving her opinion on income inequality at the 2013 Miss USA pageant last night.

You're right, Marissa! We definitely need to figure out how to create education better.

But don't worry, sweetie. While you may not have been able to answer an inane question from a Real Housewife, you are genetically superior to probably everyone who is blogging about you. To be honest, I'd stop dating men if you wanted me to. No questions asked. 

So don't worry about this little bump in the road. It was still a better answer than this.

Oh... and next time, just blame the Republican Party, that's what I do.

Throwback: Road Trip to Chicago or How I Almost Killed My Boyfriend.

I am getting ready for another road trip to Chicago to visit my manfriend's family. Since I am currently unable to focus on anything besides packing,and planning ways to kill him at hour 12 when he starts cry/singing the song "Tiny Dancer", I thought I'd leave you guys with a throwback blog about this same situation. Enjoy.


There is something relationship-affirming about taking a road trip with someone. Maybe it's because you have no way out.

Here I am, nearly 500 miles away from home passing through some hick-ass town that has no cell reception, and more than likely no indoor plumbing, and I have to hope that he will not kick me out of the car after listening to me reenact my Twitter feed for the last 3 hours.

That's trust.

I don't talk about my significant other on here very often (primarily because I'm not entirely sure I won't be trading him up for a newer model soon), but his entire family lives in Chicago, which means we take the 18-hour trip at least once a year.

Every year after the labor-like excursion we swear we'll fly. We'll take a train. We'll fucking teleport. Anything other than spending a full day in our car, which is the automobile equivalent of a studio apartment with a bathtub in the kitchen. But our overall poverty makes us forget, and every year we pack ourselves and our 80-pound English bulldog into out two-door sardine can and get on the road.

The first few hours aren't bad. We laugh. We sing. We talk. We catch up in a way that two full-time jabs prohibit. But something happens along the way--about hour six. There is a shift. A change of energy--that takes two seemingly reasonable adults, who like each other and turns them into maniacs. It's like a mother-fucking Real World reunion. We are carnivorous. It's Hunger Games set in a Toyota  Yaris.

HIM: Change the music. If I have to listen to Adele start her period one more time, I'm going to kill myself.

ME: (turns up music) Don't worry, I will kill you myself if you ever FUCKING TALK ABOUT ADELE LIKE THAT AGAIN!!!

It's at this time when my hatred for him as at an all time high, I have to trust.

I have to trust that if I get out to pee/catch herpes from a truck-stop restroom, that he will not sell me to the first truck driver he encounters for a souvenir keychain. I have to trust that he will not run us into the side of a mountain just so I will stop asking him about his high-school girlfriends. I have to trust that he will not turn into Chris Brown after listening to me sing the Wicked Soundtrack through the entire state of Kentucky.

You all know I like to give horrible relationship advice, but here is the best advice I will ever give anyone questioning their relationship. Take a road trip. If both parties come back alive, then it's solid.

We made it to Chicago, by the way. But next year, we're teleporting.

Hillary's Vagina is Under Fire and Other News You Might Have Missed.

Sometimes you can't keep up with all the hard-hitting news, so I decided to compile a few of this week's most compelling stories.

Pete Santilli, some bullshit online radio host, said earlier this week that he wanted to shoot Hillary Clinton in the vagina. Santilli said,  "I want to shoot [Clinton] right in the vagina and I don't want her to die right away; I want her to feel pain." 

Little does Santilli know, that's actually just a day of light masturbation for Hillary.

Reports are circulating that Beyonce and Jay-Z are expecting their second child. While it hasn't been confirmed yet, Kanye West has already announced that Beyonce is the best pregnant lady of all time.

Sorry, Kim. He's gonna let you finish, though.

Kai, the hitchiking, hatchet-weilding internet sensation, is the suspect in the murder of a New Jersey attorney. The homeless 24-year-old was arrested Thursday, but suggested on his Facebook page days before that he was sexually assaulted by the attorney.

Well there's nothing funny about sexual assault or murder so let's remember a simpler time...

Shame. He seemed like such a stable guy.

Abercrombie & Fitch CEO Apologizes for Releasing His Face on the Public.

People are still pretty heated about what Abercrombie & Fitch CEO, Quasimoto, said about overweight, unattractive and generally "uncool" people.

And then even more people got pissed when they found out about this video of a guy giving Abercrombie & Fitch clothes to homeless people.

And while I understand that both of the aforementioned topics could invoke some anger, I think people are missing the bigger problem.

This fucking dude is trying to tell people that they're not attractive enough to were his clothes.

This douchecanoe is trying to live out some middle school fantasy of being popular, because he looks like a melting candle.

This guy shouldn't make anyone feel anything, except thankful that your face doesn't look like that. And that no one on the internet will make memes of you like this.

Or this.

Yeah, fuck him. I'm going to go get a cookie and shop at Old Navy.

As Long as Angelina Jolie Doesn't Remove Her Lips, I Don't Care.

My blog is slowly but surely becoming the place where I defend celebrities. This was not my intention, but some things are just not okay. I recently went to bat for Kim Kardashian and her pregnant armpits--you can read that HERE. But today I feel the need to defend a chick who gets to bang Brad Pitt on the regular. Yes, it is bizarre.

Unless you have been living under a rock, you've probably heard that Angelina Jolie had a preventative double mastectomy, after finding out that she was a carrier for the BRCA mutation, which exponentially increases a carrier's likelihood of developing breast and/or ovarian cancers.

In layman's terms, she got her lady lumps removed, after finding out that there's a damn good chance they were going to give her cancer.

So why does it matter? Well, it probably shouldn't. But ever since Jolie's Op-Ed piece in the New York Times was published Tuesday, many people have been quick to form opinions about her decision.

"She's being ridiculous", "Have a little faith", "Anything to get some attention", were all comments I've read on varying social media sites. By the way, all of the above-mentioned commenters are women. Let's all mull that over for a moment, shall we.

So once again, why does it matter? A famous woman removed her breasts in hopes that she wouldn't suffer the same fate as her mother, who died at 56, after fighting the disease for a decade. She then wrote about her decision in hopes to use her platform to shed light on the subject. The End.

She did not say that every woman has to run out and get genetic testing or remove her breasts if the results come back positive. Her piece was not a form of legislation that would be written into law forcing universal mastectomies. She wrote her story. A story that many women share.

My best friend was 22 when she was tested for the BRCA mutation. As a girl, she watched her mother battle, and ultimately overcome, breast cancer. Her mom was barely in her 30s. A few years later, she lost her aunt to the same disease. She felt as if she already knew her fate.

My friend carried that fear with her for years, but when she became a mother, she decided to be proactive. She refused to have her daughter watch her fight cancer. If the test came back positive for the faulty gene, she was going to have her breasts removed. No questions.

They are not what make me a woman, she said. I would rather not have breasts, than live every day waiting to get cancer. I want to live.

The test came back negative.

But what if it hadn't, what if she had the same story as Angelina Jolie. Would it be okay for people to tell her she was being ridiculous? Or that she didn't have enough faith?

It wouldn't have been okay to me. Or to her children. Or any of the people who would have held her hand while she fought a disease that didn't know that we needed her to live.

So what makes it alright to criticize what another woman does to her body? What she does with breasts that have betrayed her.

It may not be everyone's decision, but it was Angelina Jolie's. And at one time, it was my friend's.

And I can't say if faced with the same situation, it wouldn't be mine.

That's not a lack of faith. It's faith in your choices.

It's faith that you are still whole, even with missing pieces.

My Mom Might be a Witch and Other Mother's Day Revelations.

My mother is a magical woman.

I'm not being nice. I think she might actually be into some form of witchcraft. Low-level stuff, I assume, probably like hour one of The Craft.  

My mom's obsession with the supernatural began with Charmed. Yes, the Shannon Doherty show about the three bewitched sisters who fought off other-worldly creatures in midriff-bearing tops. They were powerful. And my mom was impressed.

"I just wish Piper and Leo would get their shit together," she would say with a sigh.

"Who?"

"Piper and Leo!"

"Who the hell are you talking about, Mom?"

"Piper and Leo! From Charmed!"

Yep, she was on a first name basis with three TV witches and expected me to participate in her insanity. 

These conversations happened all the time. She likened herself to the fourth sister, emotionally supporting them from the other side of the TV.

"I know her," she would yell when she saw one the actresses in something other than Charmed.

When Shannon Doherty was killed off the show, she was heartbroken that network executives didn't come knocking on our door offering her the replacement role. And it might have even been a possibility, had she not been watching the show on TNT ten years after it originally aired.

Yep, she was on a first name basis with three TV witches who stopped being culturally relevant during the Clinton years.

She eventually moved on from Charmed when she caught herself quoting an entire episode. It lost its mystery. And she was losing touch with reality.

Next on the playlist was Ghost Whisperer. Then Roswell. Then Supernatural. Basically any creepy show that was mildly popular 5-10 years ago that aired on basic cable was her jam. 

Now, I don't know why my sweet, loving mother is so consumed by the paranormal. But I can only assume, she's a witch.

Or on her way to being one. Witchcraft 101, if you will.

The real question is: Will she be a good witch or a bad witch?!

And if she's a bad witch, how long will it be before she drops a house on me after I've talked about her being obsessed with horrible television and witchcraft, on the internet, on Mother's Day?!

I love you, Mom. And for Mother's Day, I really hope Piper and Leo can get their shit together.

A long-ago Mother's Day, before
the dark magic took hold.

My Life as a Barista: A Photo Album

Sometimes at work people order things like this.

Or this.

And I'm like.

But they don't care. I'm sure I've played more part in people getting

 Type 2 Diabetes than every ridiculous Pinterest dessert ever made.

Speaking of Pinterest. There is no mother fucking Starbucks Secret Menu. I'm not

 saying I work for Starbucks (ignore above cups), but if I did I'd be ready

 to castrate the next person who came in asking for a

 "Bleeding Zebra" or "a one-eyed Asian."

Okay, so not everyone is bad. But for every ray of sunshine, there is some dude

 missing at least 4 teeth expressing his discontent for the word "macchiato." He

 will then proceed to explain that he's "not a homosexual and therefore

 cannot use the word espresso." True Story.

This usually leaves me feeling like this.

Or this.

But then I remember it could be worse. I could be doing this. 

Or this.

Eww. Thank God, I'm not doing that.

Plus, sometimes my fellow baristas leave little surprises. Like Bon Jovi's head

 popping out from my drive-thru camera.

And it's like he's reminding me that I'm halfway there. Whoooaa, living on a prayer. So who am I to argue with Bon Jovi and his glorious hair? And that

 makes me feel better about being a barista.

Well, kinda.