Pick Me for the 2013 Rockridge Kitchen Tour

Lately, I have been daydreaming about ways to get more  involved with my neighborhood. The problem is….aside from the fact that I dance on stage in my underwear, rap about balls, and publish  creepy photographs of myself masturbating to my own blogs, I’m actually very very shy. It’s true! So I figured this could be a way for me to get to know my neighbors, share some stories about our kitchen, and offer them samples of my home cooking. I’ll keep you posted if my kitchen gets chosen!


Dear Rockridge Homes,

This serves as my official entry into the Rockridge Kitchens Kitchen Tour. I am a five-year resident of Rockridge, and would like a chance to show off the kitchen of Lawton Estates.  Although our kitchen has not been remodeled recently, we did receive a new stove, and a new fridge in the last year or so, and I think we have plenty of ideas to inspire those neighbors who are looking to do something a little off-the-beaten-path with their own kitchens. As you will see.

I don’t know what a designer would call our kitchen-It’s been called “hobo boho” by some, and “stoner pottery barn”  by others. Do you remember that art student in college who decorated their ceiling with glow-in-the-dark planets, and wore a necklace made of scented eraser stubs? Picture that person 20 years later, with a steady, low-paying job and a flair for finding awesome things off the street and using them to cleverly shape an eclectic space. My decorating philosophy is this: Rather than forcing  any rigid “pre-canned”  design ideas onto my home,  I believe in letting the layout and general tone of the house determine the decor.  LIke, sometimes one corner of the house seems to be crying out for the Color Red. Then, serendipitously, I will find a red woven basket on the street the next day, or a small red ceramic animal,   which I will then place in that corner until the next step reveals itself.

I am proud to announce our home has hosted some of the great unknown artists and designers  of our time, including Samuel David Williams, Taylor Meers, Rachel Smith and Till Krause; all of whom have left behind traces of their personalities, which I believe, has created a very unique style which I hope you, and our Rockridge Neighbors,  will enjoy.


EXHIBIT 1:  Where’s the table?

You’ll notice that we do not have a kitchen table, just a random desk we dragged in from somewhere. Some may see this as a minus in kitchen design,but I think it’s  a plus; the concept of a sit-down family dinner is outmoded in these busy times, and I have visited many people who use their dining room tables to collect junk mail they are too lazy to throw out.  People in our household do not eat together-we either stand in the kitchen, chewing and staring at the  floors,  or we dine in our bedrooms,  in the romantic light of our  smartphones.. This is very modern cutting-edge design. In the future, nobody will have a kitchen table. In fact, in the future, nobody will really even need to eat dinner anymore, because of Food Pills.


EXHIBIT 2: Christmas lights everywhere, everywhere.

In our house, christmas is a year-long holiday. Nothing says “Honey I’m home, let’s have a drink and sing some carols” like twinkling, festive lights. That’s why we have them in every corner of our house–some of the lights are actually working, and some aren’t. This might seem like laziness, but really it’s an intentional choice meant to stir our house guests into a state of alertness. Otherwise, the ambiance is inclined to make them drowsy, or inappropriately nostalgic.


EXHIBIT 3:  Tuna Can in Sink.

This is our mysterious sink tuna can. Though the recycling bin is only three feet away, the tuna can remains,  eternally, bafflingly,   in the sink. Sometimes it disappears for a day or two, then it comes back in the middle of the night.  This  could only mean one thing:  the Tuna Can is a Transient Art Piece, meant to be undisturbed. I believe it’s a statement about the symbiotic relationship between the hearth, and the sea. Some have thought it is meant to  convey the irony of fastiduous living.  Whatever it means, it is probably deeper than any of us could ever realize.


EXHIBIT 4: Very Mostly Clean Floors.

It’s no secret that I did not know how to actually clean floors until I was in my mid-thirties. I used to be a “sweep-around” type of woman. That is, I would sort of hack away at an area of the house with a broom, swiffer, or rag, and hope that everything would be okay, when clearly I was just stirring up dust that would settle again in less than an hour.  Well, I had several life revelations in the last year, and decided to learn how to clean from my best friend, who is Mexican–which is the next best thing to Irish in terms of ethnicities of people who know how to clean properly. Through my friend, I learned advanced techniques of floor-cleaning, such as “Fill a bucket with soap and water” and “Use a mop, not a wet towel” and “Side-to-sidey, not up- and-downey” and “Don’t walk over what you’ve just mopped forgetting you still need a snack from the fridge.” Truly, the fruits of my labor are something I would be honored to share with a group of random neighbors. I could even do a live mopping demonstration, if there is a demand for it.


EXHIBIT 5: Donut Poster.

This is a treasured item in our kitchen, one which people marvel over again and again. Both arresting, and educational. And it gets people talking about what really matters: Donuts. Which is better, glazed old fashioned, or the french cruller? Did you know the buttermilk bar was invented by Edith Wharton?  We get so many compliments about this donut poster, that I really should keep a guestbook for people to  their donut thoughts in, as discussions about apple fritters and eclairs  tend to get more and more intense the more and more people have been drinking. Some people have happy memories about donuts, others share stories of deprivation, loss and shame. I will leave it up to our  Rockridge neighbors to decide where they fall on the donut spectrum.

Thank you for considering my entry-I would be happy to entertain our locals in my kitchen during the 2013 Rockridge Kitchen Tour. I am also a pretty talented amateur chef, and will provide tasty, midwestern-style casserole, and experimental home-made ice cream samples to those who are up for the adventure. I would also be happy to show our neighbors around other fun parts of our house (which I obviously did not include since this is a Kitchen Only event.) as long as they sign a release form first barring any heart conditions or pre-existing mental health issues.

Your Neighbor,

Leena Shirlee



Have you ever been walking along, mentally undressing a fine fine honey, licked your lips and wondered: What type of sex offender might I be if I were one? Am I one? Or am I just an ordinary pervert? OH MY GOD HAVE I SEX OFFENDED SOMEONE IN MY LIFE SOMEHOW? What about that time I winked at a hot muscle-bear as he boarded my subway train? Was he sex offended? What about wearing a shirt that’s too low-cut-am I flashing someone? What about that time I stripped off my clothes,  laid down on the side-walk spread-eagled and sang songs to the sperm clouds until the sun came up? Did anyone feel uncomfortable when that happened?

To clarify, a sex offender is someone who does something for sexual gratification  that will get them beaten up, thrown in jail, shivved, shunned, shamed, swirlied or beaten up in jail while the prison wardens laugh and high-five each other.  They are different from the ordinary pervert who engages in the same activities but with willing participants. (fortunately,in the Bay Area  you can find a theme party for anything that gets your jock off including:
burning man, cane-ing, canning, canoeing, hedge funds, larping, chinese checkers, moms tupperware parties, and deep dreadlock penetration. )

And remember! Not  every sex offender is flashing themselves or offering free mustache rides at the roller rink. Those are very common, but some sex offenders have a more nuanced and dare I say? —poetic approach— that begs further investigation. Investigation which we will undergo as soon as this quiz starts. Which is now.

Question 1: Fill in the blanks. “If you step on a crack, you break your mothers…”

1: Bank account
2: Heart
3: Foot
4: Vagina
5: Sidewalk

Question 2: If you were granted one magic super power for the rest of your life, what would it be?

1: Mind rays
2: Sting rays as friends and protectors.
3: Bug spray shooting from my dick
4: The ability to leap into the sky and briefly assume the shape of abraham lincoln.
5: A giant nuclear cock

Question 3: You are on a nice sunny country drive when suddenly you run over a cute bunny rabbit. What is your reaction?

1: Call your mother and hang up several times.
2: Ask it out for a drink.
3: Take the dead bunny to the casino and lay it down on the blackjack table-rabbits are good luck!
4: Take out that last pack of hotdogs you were saving and have one or two. why not?
5: Put your car keys up your butt, crawl into your trunk, cry, and masturbate.

Question 4: What phrase would you use to define your personal style?

1: Jungle Safari
2: Cutie Pie
3: Dr. No Pants
4: Spermy
5: Armani’s Trenchcoat Mafia Collection

Question 5: If you could go back in time and ask your 3rd grade teacher what he/she thought you would be when you grew up, they would say:

1: Sex Offender.
2: Hot dog Vendor
3: Mortgage Lender
4: Queen of  the Kitties
5: Dead

SIDE NOTE: For those of you wondering if you can protect yourselves against sex offenders, you really can’t, lol!!!  They walk and breathe amongst us, and it’s no good to live  your life in fear. But as a general precaution, there are some things you might want to consider locking up in your hope chest when company arrives:

Sexy shoes
Photos of your mother
hot dogs.



You lurk at bus stops in your trenchcoat with your arms in bandages, seeking out your victim.  Then you approach random strangers and ask them to reach into your pockets to get your bus ticket.


Of course they help you because you’re so pathetic! So wounded!


But what they find when they reach inside your pockets is……..


Ecstasy ripples through your body like a harlequin thriller. You feel lifes manhood throbbing within you, causing spasms of pleasure to explode within every inch of your being. The person then beats the shit out of you and you like it. You go home and clean yourself up, grab some new hot-dogs from uncle  Farley’s sperm-vault and head out to the next bus stop.

Mostly 2’s: HO BRO
It’s true. God hates fags; but mostly because they are the ones having the most fun, and god is the 8th grade hall monitor of fun.  Especially the god who hate fags. And that That is why you keep your “fun”  lacy rainbow glitter panties hidden under your giant football jersey while watching the BIG GAME with your broheims.



Imagine, having all your homies over for a big sausage fest. Beer, balls, and rowdy talk!

You always make sure the bowl of cheese dip is in your lap. It’s so warm, and when your bros dip their taquitos in, and speak homoerotically of the big game! You can feel what it must be like to have a fat cock pulsating with desire in your anus. When you cry out in ecstasy, your bros just think you’re excited about that awesome  play. but only you know the truth!!
Mostly 3’s: THE ARTISTE
How long have you been schlepping around those photos you took of dildos with syringes in them? Has any gallery recognized how deep you are yet? Or do you just get an erotic charge from the looks on peoples faces when they see them? Do you masturbate to your own blogs, read them out loud, reliving your brilliance over and over again, and then send the screenshots of your orgasm faces to your ex-boyfriends to show them how happy you are now?  Nobody has discovered you yet. But they will. You are deeper than us all.

Mostly 4’s: the DOO-GOODER.
On the surface you seem like the girl next door. Bouncy hair, freckles, and an eagerness to help the neighbors carry in their groceries. You believe in recycling and always tell the cashier if they’ve overcharged you.



But under that relentlessly cheerful do-gooding persona is a seething sex offender. This is because you leave upper-deckers in the homes of people you visit. Especially bathrooms that are neat and tidy. Something about the notion of slowly permeating someones perfect bathroom with your smell really gets you off–at first the victim will clean and clean and clean their bathroom, puzzled why it still smells like doodoos after several washings. Then,  after going through dozens of  bottles of eco-friendly cleaners, they get out THE BLEACH!  THEY WILL GO MAD! then….weeping silently in the bleach fumes, they’ll give up and hire a “professional deep-cleaning” service (actually you in disguise!! )  to help out. You can barely contain your ecstasy as you lift the lid to the toilet tank and see your very own  moldy turd floating there in the water. “ “Hellooooo little buddy!” you say as you pull down your dickies and  reach for the shower nozzle. (NOTE: If you invite a compulsive do-gooder to the house, make sure you lock your toilet tank up.)


You haunt bookstores daily, with a tragic sackful of your own pubes in your messenger bag. You pretend at first to be perusing the periodicals. Then you rush to the fiction section and locate Finnegans Wake by James Joyce. You open up to page 87 where James Joyce says““bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthur-nuk!” And leave your pube. You slam the book shut, then rush home to rub one out, thinking of who might find it. Maybe an english-lit student in a sweater vest? Maybe someone’s grandfather, with a face so deeply creased it resembles a giant vagina? Unfortunately, nobody reads books anymore, the least of which a book which requires pondering for any length of time because it makes no fucking sense.



WELLLLLLLLLLLLL. I hope you’ve enjoyed this quiz and learned something about yourself! I’m going to re-read my blogs now and make tender whoopie to myself.



Public Frenemy # 1: Slipper Uggs

Dear Internet,

I have an embarrassing confession to make:  Over the past three weeks, I have worn my $5.00 walgreens Slipper Uggs out to public places. Several times. Public. Places. Slippers.  Several times. And there seems to be no stopping me. If you know me, you can just let this information percolate until it makes sense. If you don’t know me,  let me iterate that I am one of the leading voices of outrage on breaking the “rules of civilization” as I call them.

(note: i have broken all of these rules in the past three weeks)

(also note: i have cultivated a hatred of uggs that goes back nearly a decade)

And what are these Rules of Civilization?

Rule # 1: DON’T BE WASTED AT A PARTY (or anywhere in public really) AND FORCE INTIMACY ON  OTHERS.  I know you feel glib and patsy-cliney  because of the 10 lime rickies you just shotgunned at the party. But that person standing at the table, stuffing their face with room temperature hummus wants to be left alone, trust me. They don’t want to know about your ex-boyfriend dilemmas, or about your masturbating cat.  My best suggestion is keep conversations topical-stick to what you can see and comment about. Such as “I didn’t know campbells actually MADE cream of bacon soup.” or “Is this Tori Amos we’re listening to? I thought she was dead.”  If you think you’re getting Too Wasted (actually… what the hell is a grown-ass person getting “Wasted” for anyway? how old are you?) or that you have to vomit, simply leave the party and thank the host for the complimentary bathroom tea towels as they will match your bath mat perfectly.

Rule # 2: BE GENERALLY COURTEOUS. Don’t belch or fart in public. Try to use full sentences when you speak. Give up your seats for old people and cripples. Don’t be an asshole, etc etc. THINK OF OTHER PEOPLE.

Rule # 3: WEAR PANTS AND SHOES. There was a time when people wouldn’t leave the house until they had cufflinks to match their boots and donned a stetson hat. They would carefully shave with a straight razor to create a nice neat beard. Women would be corseted and sometimes break a rib in the efforts to present a charming hourglass figure.  This is called actually giving a shit about how you present to the civilized world. Do you see anyone breaking a rib these days? What we have is a real lack of commitment.  Hordes of people shuffling slack-jawed through store aisles. Men who’s facial hair grows in terrifying mutant spirals, looking like crop circles made by stoner martians.  Men!  And women!  In pajama bottoms and flip-flops or slippers! The SAME pajama bottoms and slippers they farted in all night long after they ate some old leftovers from the back of their fridge. The SAME pajama bottoms which grazed the bathroom floor while they dropped a duce and flossed and thought of Mark Ruffalos naked penis all at once.

Anyway BACK TO THE SLIPPER UGGS. I got these slipper uggs for my trip home for the holidays to Minnesota. I haven’t experienced a Minnesota winter since I moved to the bay area and I said “ I’ll be EFFED if I let my feet freeze while merrymaking, snacking, and looking at old yearbooks.”  Anyway, these were $5.00 DISCOUNTED at Walgreens. When I took them home, I put them on and holy shit!  It was like my foot was encased in two freshly shorn lambs. And they look like actual shoes! But in fact, have thick foam bottoms. They are totally slippers. But the mind well, it  deceives itself  you know….


I spent the rest of the afternoon squishing around the house in them, wrapping presents, packing my suitcase for the trip home and feeling jolly.  ho ho ho!

Then, the next day, I decided to just “wear them to the airport” because, you know! The security lines would want me to take my shoes off anyway. wanna make it easy on those hard-working security guards. Yeah. And so, I  wore them on the plane.  I wore them on a train! I wore them at the Minneapolis Airport! I SERIOUSLY told myself I’d switch to my snow boots AS SOON as I hit the cold-ass cold.

But I didn’t. I wore them all week long!

 By day 5 or so, the slipper uggs totally conformed to my feet.  They understood me. My slight pronation on the right foot. My tendency to lean on my left instep while I have deep thoughts. My purposeful gait. My habit of breaking into spontaneous inspirational dances.

Then when faced with the decision to accompany my folks to the liquor store/grocery store/white castle, I decided to KEEP THEM ON,  along with my new stretchy pajama bottom pants. (See rule # 3-broken) I figured, well…I’ve got a huge coat on -everybody in Minnesota  looks like a polar-fleece burrito in the winter, anyway…hey, they actually held up in the snow!

I wore them on the trip back home! In the SF Airport! On the Super Shuttle, and at the Powell/market transbay bus stop at 1:00 am. I figured all the people who would be judging me at this hour, are probably having awesome sex somewhere on a tasteful chaise lounge. Only people around were others like me: people who missed the last BART train, winos, and people hunting rats for food.

Well, on New Years Eve(my last day of winter vacation!!) , I actually put on a REAL PAIR OF SHOES  to meet my friend for dinner and a cocktail,  before going to aG’s for champagne. But I packed the Slipper Uggs! Oh yes. I was–at that point–fighting a cold. My left nostril kept closing up. I was stuffy and uncomfortable. I just wanted to go somewhere and change into my Slipper Uggs and feel squishy again. So as soon as we got to aG’s house, I changed into my portable foot-clouds and proceeded to drink hot toddies, squish around the house, and make merry.

I'm the most comfortable looking one in this new years eve photo.
I’m the most comfortable looking one in this new years eve photo.

At about 11:15 pm aG announced we were going to walk to Dolores Park to watch fireworks and ring in the new year. Yay! But…This would mean changing back into my shoes again. And aG lives about 15 blocks to Dolores park.Who’s to say how long they would hold up? 8 Blocks? 8 miles? They are slippers for pete sake! SLIP. PERS.

“But you’re so comfortable” said the soothing voice of squishy comfort. Let’s call her Squishyetta.  “And you’ve been sick. and it’s your last day of vacation. And it’s New Years!”

“No, Squishyetta! What about the Rules of  Civilization? If I let go of this what is to stop me from eating fallen food off the sidewalk?”

“Civilization is just a concept. Embrace your comfort! Be loose!  Wear slippers to the park! Wear them until they dissolve into your skin and poison you with their dormant chemical outgassing and your feet become two mutant wooly claws.”

I posed my dilemma to AG, who is always very wise about footwear. “You know what?” She said. “ I don’t really care. It’s new years! But…I think to be safe  you should ask a homosexual for a free pass. I’d hate to think what could happen to you out there.”

So I went downstairs and pleaded my case to the homosexuals. Not only did they give me a free pass, they provided me with a scarf too! Gay pride is every day where I come from. (Get on board, y’all!)

I made it all the way to the park! I saw fireworks, and finished off the champagne, and stumbled back to aG’s house in my sturdy slipper uggs,  belching and muttering about how “the fireworks all looked like boobs to me.”

The next morning, I awoke to find my friends dog violently licking one of the slipper uggs-yep, there was a big brownish stain on one of them. What the hell? Shame and hangover suddenly washed over me. “I’ve had a huge lapse. I have to start wearing shoes again,” I sniffed. “I need to face the New Year with rubber soles!”

So I wore real shoes home, and to work the next few days…Real Shoes! I put the slipper uggs off to the side while trying to focus on adult matters of responsibility. Things got out of hand! But hey, I was on vacation. (What happens in vegas stays in vegas, etc etc.)

But then, a few days later, my “pesky cold” turned into a full-fledged achey breaky sweaty flu.  Look, I have no boyfriend  in my life to  dress my bed sores and tell me i look hot with a flu afro. But Slipper Uggs were there for me! They comforted me as I, in a fever haze, struggled to set the timer on the microwave and realized I was actually brushing my teeth.  They kept my feet warm while I lay in bed crying and thinking about death. They cocooned me when I looked up my symptoms on line and learned that I don’t actually have the flu- I have Hodgkins  Lymphoma.

Well, I’ve made a recovery.  All is normal again.  Except now I’ve only deepened the intimacy with the slipper uggs going through this recent trauma and all. Yesterday I washed that weird brownish stain out of them, and now they are fluffy again! Like new.   That said, there is ABSOLUTELY NO EXCUSE for me to wear them to Safeway as I did yesterday. I just…did it. And while I was shopping, I noticed them. The shuffling hordes of people in their pajama bottoms and slippers. Barely able to utter a complete sentence. Chugging red bull against a backdrop of supermarket tabloid articles about Kim Kardashions butt. Neck beards akimbo. They are everywhere. I am one of them now!  Maybe Squishyetta was  right. Maybe Civilization is just an Illusion. We think we’re better than the animals, but we’re just farting tubes of flesh, eating snacks and hoping someone will touch our junk. But if Civilization is a construct, isn’t it a good one to keep alive?

Should I be seeking intensive therapy right now? Or, is 2013 the year I replace all my shoes with slippers, and stop trying to fight what is already starting to happen-a slow return to my primordial roots. I guess it is yet to be determined. Happy 2013!

Radioactive Homeless Werewolf. (a story about hot dogs)


Yesterday was one of those really nice, warm February days that make you think “Spring is here!” until you realize there actually is no spring in the Bay Area. There are simply:

  1.  Beach Days (about two a year)
  2. Fog Days (about 300 a year)
  3. Gay Pride (462 days a year)

Since it was neither a beach, nor fog day, I concluded it must be time to celebrate early gay pride by eating a hot dog in the park and ogling gym queens with well-sculpted buns. Fortunately my friend Hungrypants is always game for hotdogs and buns. I could tell it was going to be a special day because I saw ADULT BOY SCOUTS walking out of the subway, into the mission!!


When I met Hungrypants at Dolores park, I looked around with confusion, and  asked where the hot dog carts are today.

“There aren’t any.”

“But…what happened? Are they on strike?”

“Mama. There never were any.”

“What?! Yes, there’s always a hotdog cart in the  park.”

“When was the last time you saw one?”

“Wasn’t there one last time we were here? Yes!  I remember it! that hot dog was really big and juicy-must have been super jumbo kosher. ”

“That was just a sunburned gym queen lying on a bread-colored beach towel and you were high on a  weed truffle.”

“Oh. But what about the time….dang.”


Apparently I live in a magical world, where there’s a hot dog cart on every corner. Do you remember in the 90’s when all those people were having false satanic ritual memories? I think I might have false hot-dog cart memories. And this has happened to me mutliple times, in other locations, and it is my cross to bear.

I see hotdog carts.


Hungrypants said there’s a fancy artisan hotdog place nearby we could go to. What I really wanted was a plain old ground up lips and assholes hot-dog with radioactive green relish….But, I settled for the organic dog bcause it was the only option and I was getting very hungry.

Unfortunately, even with my big appetite, I couldn’t finish my dog and fries. Hungrypants couldn’t finish hers either. So, we decided the best thing to do was wrap everything up, and  give our leftovers to a homeless person.

I grabbed some condiments, a few napkins, and some plastic forks and spoons, and carefully arranged my leftovers into a martha stewartesque display, sure to delight the homeless person of my choosing, and make his or her day special. I fanned the condiment packets. I even added some salt and pepper. I wrapped the plastic fork and knife in a napkin to make a little “cocoon.” I was ready.


We set out on a walk to Dolores Park, with our take-out boxes in hand. After a few blocks of walking, I spotted him!  my homeless man! He was standing on the corner, selling street sheets (san franciscos homeless newspaper) . As I began to mentally rehearse what I was going to say to him, Hungrypants stepped forward and offered him her leftovers. What the!!!!


“What the hell was that?!! YOU STOLE MY HOMELESS!!” I yelled.

“He wasn’t YOUR homeless. Why didn’t you speak up?”

“Because I was rehearsing my approach–I wanted it to be direct, plainspoken, but not patronizing. But you…you stole him away.”

“Relax, there’s plenty of homeless people in this city  to give your hotdog to.”

But I was not so sure. As I looked around, a darkness and confusion filled my mind. Everyone I saw looked to be of dubious planetary origin and economic status. There’s something strange that happens on warm san francisco days in the Mission. It’s as if every child whoever tried to build a time machine in their parents garage using macaroni and tinfoil, actually succeeded and unknowingly beamed an assortment of people from every planet, place, and time, to the outer fringes of Dolores park, all at once.


Incidentally, this is one of the reasons I love san francisco so much. But I didn’t have time for whimsical reflection on san francisco’s diversity….Remember! We were on a mission. A special homeless hotdog mission!

“How about give your hot dog to someone there?” suggested Hungrypants. “All those people look homeless. Just pick one.”

“No! Those people are Vegan Dumpster divers. They’d probably beat the shit out of me and throw my hotdog away. Or…worse…..”


“Okay Okay,” Said Hungrypants. “What about him? that guy is totally homeless.”


“You know, I don’t think you can afford to be picky,” Scolded hungry pants. Okay. What about him?”


“Are you kidding me?” I scoffed. ” That’s a trust fund  hipster, and he’s eating food already!”

“He dug those olives ouf of the garbage, mama. Why are you being so picky?”

“ I wanna make sure it’s the RIGHT one,” I say.

“Oh Jesus. Whats the RIGHT one?”



“Look I don’t know if we’re talking about homeless people or your love life now,” scolded Hungrypants. ….” but I’m giving you to the count of 10 to give that fucking hotdog to someone or I’m going home. Look at the top of that little hill. There he is. Go get ‘em.”

I looked into the horizon, and saw a ruddy-faced man in a beat-up trenchcoat, sitting with his knees pressed up against his face, with his eyes closed.

“Okay damnit.” I said to myself, advancing up the hill. “Here goes. Nothing ventured nothing gained.”


Suddenly the man snapped to life,  bared his fangs,  shot lasers from his eyes, sprouted a wolfman beard,  and began to rock back and forth, groaning and clawing at the air as I got closer.

With one deft swipe of his talons, he took the box away from me and proceeded to consume the entire package,as I ran away in terror.


Stories are really no good unless there’s a lesson. What I learned is, even though sometimes friends will steal your homeless man, they will–after wetting themselves laughing at you—offer their support. Which is why they are the best friends ever.


Bronies: The Other Pink Meat

Dear Friend,

A______ says someone did it to her, and that’s why she did it to me. And why I must now  do it to you. Please understand that it’s the only way to remove the taint on my brain, and go forth and live a relatively sane and productive life.

This is sort of like a chain letter. Except, unlike normal chain letters, if you send it to someone else, you will not get a mysterious amount of money at the end…Nor will you get to meet any members of Def Leppard. If you do not send it, you won’t be abducted by bloody mary, space aliens, leprechaun,  or a poltergeist.  But you will suffer in your own way. It may not be obvious at first, but you will feel a little different. For me, it’s a smell of sour strawberry milk that never seems to dissipate no matter where I turn my head. Alas.

So now without further adieu, I must tell you about Bronies.

What are Bronies? Bronies are adult (generally heterosexual) men who enjoy My Little Pony.  BROS who like PONIES. Bronies. Get it?

They might just watch the show My little Pony:  Friendship is Magic. Or they might collect my little ponies or attend special conventions (called Bronycons)  where they gather with other adult men who enjoy these toys generally only  loved only by 7 year old girls. Creeped out yet? Yes, let’s move forward.

When A_____ told me about Bronies, I did not believe they existed at all. “THERE IS NO WAY,” I said “There might possibly be ONE slot in all of humanity  for a grown-ass man who loves My Little Pony. And that man is probably also living in his parents basement, subsisting on old halloween candy, and has his wall plastered with autographed photos of Jan Brady. “

“They are real! they are a community! look it up online!”

Sadly, it’s true. There are Bronies. And their numbers are many. Contrary to what I thought they are NOT  a self-proclaimed sexual fetish group (like the “pony play” people) but a bunch of fanboy nerds. Which actually creeped me out more for reasons I had yet to discover.




I didn’t have a My Little Pony growing up; I was too busy manipulating and controlling other children to do my bidding. But my sister had one, and friends of mine had them. They were often sticky with kool-aid….drooled on, mane cut off during “hairstylist” games. And there  was always one stupid girl who would get one stuck in her nose or try to give it a bath in her cereal bowl and carry it around with her, reeking like sour strawberry milk:  it  In other words: my little ponies were nasty little germ-filled girly toys. Which are now enjoying a big comeback amongst older males.

“Why did you do this to me?” I croaked to my friend.  “Why, why why did you tell me about bronies?”

“Well, I figured you could handle it. I mean, aren’t you in sex educator training right now? Don’t you watch videos of clown gang bangs and prolapsed rectums in your class?”

“Yeah, but that’s nothing compared to this.” I wept silently, bitterly, feeling my vagina literally drying up and blowing away in small pieces.

It’s true-I’d seen alot in my sex educator class that could be considered, by folks outside of the SFbay bubble, to be over the top. The program was designed to specifically push people’s buttons so they know where their judgments are. I found at the end of the program that I actually might not have a button. There are things I would not do myself. There are things I would rather not watch. But whatever two consensual adults wanna do, it’s all good bro. I felt proud that I had no button to speak of.

Until I learned of bronies.

“Come on, “ said A_________.  “Look at the photo of this one. You know you’d totally go on an Okcupid date with this guy if he messaged you…”


Oh god.  I totally would. And what would that be like? Walking back to his place together, my belly warm from roadhouse whiskey and anticipation of seeing a live penis again. Playfully nuzzling eachother in the doorway…Sharing a midnight snack of grapes and triscuits. Then, he tackles me and throws me onto the bed, like a dime store harlequin hooker. Awesome!! Then, with my legs in the air,  I look up and I see them on his shelf…ponies….with those wide, vacant eyes staring at me–their sparkly manes blowing lightly in the heat of our excited breaths.

“Are you…a brony?” I’ll  ask, feeling as if my vagina just swallowed a silicon gel packet.

“Neigghhhhhhh” he whispers. “Neiggggghhh…”


I’m not the only disturbed one. There’s a bronie backlash online. Lots of people on message boards calling them fags. (oh jesus, yawn, whatever) ….From what I can gather in the research I’ve actually done, the bronies  defend their creepy fixations behind two key arguments: 1: “Oh, so it’s okay for women to like guy stuff, but NOT okay for men to like girl stuff. sexist much?” and 2: “The My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic show is all about LOVE and TOLERANCE–you have a problem with that, you cynical hipster in an ironic trucker hat?”

It’s really hard to argue against these things, but argue I must. Because I think their arguments are bullshit. Here’s my argument: Bronies are socially awkard softieboy limpdicks who (secretly or not so secretly)   want to date, marry, or make out with, a small girlish object (pony/grown woman in animal ears hat/anime schoolgirl/barbie).   Who else would look up to these losers, but a wide-eyed, purple-sparkled nymphette named Rainbowfluff? My little pony is the perfect fantasy girlfriend for a pale mamas boy who is filled with ingrown rage and  has no real authority or power in his life.  I mean, take a close look at a my little pony.


This isn’t just a miniature horse that you’d get with a farm playset. This is a pony princess,  with a long colorful mane, and thick winking eyelashes and lipstick. And every one of them has a tramp stamp on their hindquarters. It’s not built like an actual horse, it’s built like a little girl who just got back from shopping in targets junior ho section. Come on, bro, take a Robert Bly   workshop and get out in the woods and grow a beard. Build a lean-to and shoot some tin cans and transition from your never-ending puberty into manhood.

To be clear, it isn’t the gender-bending aspect that I have trouble with. Y’know, guys who like “girls stuff.”  In my world, gender is relatively fluid. Women can rock power tools and drive trucks and stuff their pants with socks if they want. Men can wear make-up and pumps,  and call themselves Sheila or Babs. I often do not think of myself as any gender at all, and just live my life….. then am suprised when I suddenly begin to menstruate again. “Oh yeah, that’s right…Female….”

My problem with bronies is the growing general trend of sexual little-girlification I’m seeing in our culture. When I think of grown men fetishizing an object that is generally inserted into the nasal cavity of a 4 year old girl, I think closet pedophile. Can’t help it. I calls it like how I sees it. And it opens the associations in my mind to other things: Like, those  trendy womens hats with cute little animal ears on them. I think of cutie pie Lol’catting phraseology, excessive emoticons, and proclamations by GROWN ASS WOMEN of “hearting” something. I think of female genital cosmetic trends (waxing, labiaplasty, vagazzling) that seem to be headed for the ulimate goal: a hairless, shapeless mound of pink harmless flesh adorned with whimsy and sparkles. (Note: the complete opposite of the evil hairy vagina dentata.) In other words: A barbie (or pony!) crotch.  Are men more afraid of powerful women,  than ever? Whatever happened to “I am woman, hear me roar?” Is it now “I am a widdle pony girl, hear me whinny?”  I have no answers, as I only took half a womens study class in college before dropping out. But here are some photos for thought.




“But what about love and tolerance, hipster!?” cries the Brony.  (See above: argument # 2) This is the apparent message in the show “My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.” Touche,  it is hard to argue with love and tolerance. Whoever says “fuck love and tolerance!” But I wonder how many bronies  also play halo or other violent video games obsessively? Are they really taking the MLP “love and tolerance” message and going out and do-gooding in the world? Helping grannies cross the street? Offering a basket of bran muffins to a down-and-out neighbor? If the MLP: Friendship is Magic show  really IS inspiring otherwise crude older men become genuinely kinder, then there may be something to that argument. Studies will have to be done. And I’m willing to retract all the terrible things I’ve said if I can see proof of that. But for now, I’m saying “love and tolerance” is really just a distraction from the truth: y’all are some limpdick creeps.

Look, I am an open-minded gal. Living in the bay area bubble, I open the floodgates to all kinds of behavior, sexual-orientation, gender identity, and “off beat” life choices. Clown gangbangers, you may enter. Genderqueer leather daddies and slaves, you may enter. Trans men and women, you may enter. Radical faeries, size queens, sluts, pissers, shitters, fisters, foot fuckers,  asskissers, sensual hobos…even the “pony” play people who saddle eachother up and ride eachother around, you may enter.

But I have to draw the line somewhere, and now that it’s there I feel comfortable saying this: Bronies, you may not enter. Or, at the very least, you may not enter my  vagina.

“Now that I know about bronies I don’t know what to do. “ I said to A__________. “There’s a taint on my brain now. How can I look at a grown man and not think about the ponies he might have at home?”

“The only thing you can do……. is tell someone else.”


“Then learn to live with it.”

Riding the subway home from A’s house, my  agitation grew  and grew…I couldn’t look at any man sitting on the train and NOT think of a small glittery pony sitting next to him. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, feeling the dustbowl effect on my junk.  If I kept this knowledge to myself, I knew for certain that I’d have a full-on ghost town vagina in a matter of weeks, and any chance of getting laid again would be ruined. (Unless I could find this guy who looks like he’d be an awesome date)

The only Brony I’d ever date.

So this is why I’ve decided to tell you. Perhaps, unlike me, you will not be bothered by the knowledge of Bronies.  Or maybe you are a brony yourself and want to try to change my mind. All I can speak for is the relief I now feel at having unburdened myself.

Thank you.

Cheap Disguise

Truth be told, I am not known for my impeccable hygeine. I do shower regularly, floss, scrub my molars, and now, I have officially stopped wearing clothing that I pull out of a pile on the floor.

However, despite my best efforts, I still frequently find various bits of food that have either fallen onto my ripe busoms, or just simply stayed on my face somewhere because I still, to this day, often neglect napkins. I try, really I do. I know decent folks use them. But when I meet food, it is like that scene in  cumguzzlers III, where they just go at it on the kitchen table in the middle of thanksgiving dinner and all the fancy napkins fall to the floor and noone gives a shit and the turkey winds up pregnant.

Me: Oh yes!!!!! God!!! put your gravy in me NOW!!
Random Friend: You’re getting gravy on your new jeans-here, take a napkin

So, I was on the subway to work the other morning,  feeling foxy fresh, and perusing  San Francisco’s finest publication: The examiner. I was reading some gossip about the mayor, or the mayor’s daughter, or looking at pictures of hot gay cops.  Suddenly, I smelled peanut butter. The few synaptic impulses I have left, began to limply quiver…”heeeeyyyy…..rememberrrrr something about..something…” Then I realized I HAD PEANUT BUTTER TOAST FOR BREAKFAST.

I began to wipe my face with my hand, checking for the blob of peanut butter I was convinced was there. However, I did not find any. I checked my  firm busoms, and my lap, but did not find any peanut butter. However, I did begin to notice other passengers eyeing me in the way special people are eyed. With a slight smile, and a surreptitious search in their purses to make sure they have a: mace and b: a piece of candy to offer me if I start having a full-on spaz attack.

When I got to work, I looked into the mirror and this is what I saw:

In my panic to wipe off the non-existent peanut butter from my face, I wiped the newsprint of the Examiner all over my face, and gave myself a newsprint goatee. I could even see the trace remnants of the gay cop photo on one cheek and became aroused momentarily.

After my horror  and arousal subsided, I realised this was actually a brilliant cheap costume idea, and halloween’s comin up! For those of you like me, who have zero budget for any shit, this is a great way to be inventive. Here are a few newsprint costume ideas you can try this year:

The Flirty  Sanchez

Grandma Peckeroni

Big Poppa

Happy Halloween everyone!