I just saw that Mirena commercial for like the 800th time—and I hate it! There is this one line the narrator says that just drives me insane:“Missing periods or irregular bleeding blah blah blah…Happily, if you change your plans, Mirena is easily removed.”

I hope a bad taste filled your mouth just now–and not because you haven’t brushed your teeth in years. The Mirena people used “happily” as a transitional word! Why the hell would they do that?! WHY?!? Just the thought of it makes me want to vomit. However, I won’t because there is an even worse birth control commercial than this one…I’m talking about the Yaz ad.

Birth control commercials were always lame, but the Yaz commercial is so cheesy that if you garnished Lindsay Lohan’s rotten crotch with it I’d probably take a bite. Yaz claims that it will help women have “shorter, lighter periods,” and to tout this benefit the commercial features strong, empowered women doing strong, empowering things while a version of Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It” plays in the background.

The whole “in yo’ face, menstrual cycle” thing is so stupid. The commercial makes it seem like periods are some kind of apocalyptic catastrophe that cripples women. Oh no, I’ve got my period! That means I can’t become a doctor or climb Kilimanjaro! I’m not gonna take this anymore! I am going to take Yaz! And while I’m at it, I’m going to use an uzi to kill a spider!

I know periods are inconvenient and can make your vagina smell like a seafood buffet, but it’s not so bad that it warrants an aggressive feminist campaign. And I believe this even though I am experiencing pre-period cramps while typing this very sentence. It’s uncomfortable and increases the the number of times I poop (three times today)–but it’s not going to prevent me from doing anything other than swim in shark-infested waters. Yet, after watching the Yaz commercial, you’d think going through a natural, biological cycle is equivalent to losing the right to vote.

I was recently commissioned to catch the stray cats that suddenly appeared in the area en masse. Being the resident Crazy Cat Lady, I avoided this job because the thought of taking cats out of their comfort zones and putting them into animal shelters made me depressed. However, my attitude has since changed…rather than write about it, I decided draw it out instead.

It started out like this…

And Kitty was like this…

And then these Hater Cats showed up…

And were all like this…

And then they did this…

And this…

Which caused me to do these things…

In case my artwork is too awesome for you to grasp, starting from the top left and going clockwise, I am (1) throwing water on the cats and chasing them with a broom, (2) spraying pepper spray outside my door, (3) placing oranges around my doorway (because cats don’t like oranges), and (4) scaring the cats by rattling an Altoids container full of quarters and shaking a plastic bag.

 The End.

    The only time I ever made a New Year’s Resolution was when I was an egg living in my mother’s ovary. One day in 1981,  I realized that being a 100 micrometer circle was a waste of my potential when I could instead be an awesomely awesome being of awesomeness.

    At first I was going to put off being born until January 1, 1983, because I thought it would be easier to start life on the first day of the year instead of on one of the other 364 days. But then it occurred to me that by delaying my plan, I’d have to continue being an egg for awhile longer. And not just any egg, but a potential-wasting-egg who was voluntarily sitting in her own uselessness! The horror! Rather than waste any more time, I drop-kicked the next egg in line, became a fetus, and was born January 7, 1982.

    The moral of that true story is: New Year’s Resolutions are lame, and the only reason why people wait until January 1 to improve themselves is because they are trying to justify their present laziness.

    That’s right, resolution-makers, I said you’re lazy. You know there are things about you that should be changed, but you don’t want to put in the work. However, because giving up before you’ve even started makes you look like a loser, you excuse yourself by deciding to wait for the new year before you expend any time and effort. That way, you can continue sitting on your ass and indulging in habits that you admit are bad for you–but without guilt because you think that planning to change someday in the future, i.e. January 1, is the same as actually changing.

    Well it’s not the same, and you would have known that if your logic didn’t reek of rotten testicles. People like me, whose logic smells like fresh clean testicles, all know that if a person thinks she is capable of affecting change in the future, then she’s capable of doing it now. You can go on a diet, save money, drink less, smoke less, whatever, starting today instead of continuing to eat, spend, drink, or smoke more than you already know you should. All you need to do is quit your b*tching and just do it. *Insert NBA star with a Nike endorsement.*

Happy New Year!

Apologies to the five people who read this blog–I’ve been too busy trying to save the world from evil. And let me tell you, it is tough work trying to get Nintendo to ship out more Wiis, Senator Mitchell to tell us how his romantic novel “Baseball Players Love Needles in their Butt” is coming along, and Britney Spears to show up for a court-appointed deposition. But the dirty work is paying off–except for the deposition thing. Give me a break, people, you know it’s impossible to get crazies to things they’re supposed to do!

Anyway, I’m taking a break from my righteous antics to study for a final–but I’m taking a break from that to share one of the funniest hypotheticals I have ever read:

Grandmother files a personal injury suit in state court against Red Riding Hood, who lives in another state. The juridsiction has no long-arm statute. In order to get Red into the jurisdiction so process can be served on her, Grandmother sends her a letter saying she is very ill and begging for a visit. Grandmother is, in fact, in robust good health and can bench press 300 lbs. Red comes to visit. Just before her arrival, the process server, B. B. Wolf, pretending to be Grandmother, dresses in her nightie and sits in her bed eating bon bons and watching Wheel of Fortune. When Red shows up, she says, “My, Grandma, what big hands you have!” Wolf responds, “The better to serve you with!” and slaps the court papers into Red’s hand. Red files a motion to quash the service on grounds of fraud. Will she prevail?

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha x 1 million.

What has two thumbs and is a fan of Xanga’s “Featured Question”?

If you guessed “Sylvia” then BZZT! You’re totally wrong.

I actually find the “Featured Question” thing very stupid. If its purpose is to give writer’s-block-stricken bloggers some topics to ponder, then fine…but what’s the deal with featuring the most trite, over asked questions in the history of the planet? I mean, who hasn’t had to debate about abortion, animal testing, religion in schools, affirmative action, legalizing marijuana, same-sex marriage, evolution, etc. as part of a high school assignment? These types of questions have been asked and answered, then reasked and reanswered a billion times (I’m underestimating, I know)–who cares what your answer is now? There is a 50/50 chance you will say nay or yea, and a 100% chance that your arguments are completely unoriginal.

Rather than read some regurgitated brain diarrhea, I’d like to read some fresh brain diarrhea on the following topics:

1. Have you ever ogled someone you found extremely hot, only to discover (to your horror or pleasure) that this person was actually related to you?

2. What is the consistency and odor of smegma, and how the hell does a guy even get that dirty?

3. Where does the Muffin Man live? Is it “Cadbury Lane” or “Drury Lane”? (Seriously, what is it–it’s driving me insane.)

4. Is House really going to pick a new team, or is his old one going to return to him? (Personally, I like the Chase, Cameron, Foreman trio–but that Kumar guy is hot and I’d like him to stay on the show.)

The new hip-and-with-it trend in communication nowadays is the Open Letter. Unlike plain, ol’ boring letters–which you would compose on a piece of paper with a writing instrument, fold it up, put it in an envelope, spit on the nasty glue to seal it shut, address the front of the envelope, affix $1.00 worth of stamps because you’ve lost track of how much postage costs and it’s better to be safe than sorry after all the trouble you’ve gone through, put it in a mailbox, and then have it delivered to your recipient a few days later–Open Letters are simply typed up on a computer and posted on a website for the recipient to read…along with the rest of the online community.

(Can I get an award for Run-On Sentence of the Day? Because that up there was cash money.)

I know some of you uncool folk are all, “that’s really dumb; you’re so lame, Sylvia, for thinking it’s trendy,” but that kind of thinking is exactly why I teach Coolness Lessons and you don’t. Open Letters are totally hot because celebrities like Roseanne Barr, Candy Spelling, the guy who produces “Girls Gone Wild”, and Adrianne Curry have all done it–and these aren’t just A-list celebrities, my friends, these are F-List icons. And they are at the top of the Stardom List–if you turn it upside-down, of course.

And why not use the Open Letter viewable by all instead of the regular letter viewable by only one? I think it makes a lot of sense, considering the dangers involved with traditional letters. I mean, what if you sent it to the wrong address and had it returned to you? That $1.00 worth of stamps would be wasted, and then you’d have to use another $1.00 to send the letter to the correct address–which might turn out to be another wrong address! And then you’d end up in a vicious cycle of trying to send the damn letter out over and over again–you could easily spend one million dollars on stamps!

It’s even more dangerous for famous people. Like, what if Roseanne wrote Britney Spears a personal letter in which she scolded her for being a horrible mother who was no better than a crack whore on the street, and the media got its hands on it? The letter would be published in various credible news sources, like Star Magazine, for millions of people to read. This would be worse than if Roseanne just posted the letter on her blog, which is only viewed by 3 people–one of whom is probably Britney Spears, right? Otherwise, how would she ever know Roseanne wrote her a letter? You mean she wouldn’t and this is all just a cheap publicity stunt? No, no–you just go to Hell! Roseanne doesn’t need a publicity stunt because she’s too famous for that! She’s known for…hmm…oh! she does that cooking show on Food Network…wait, no, that’s Rachel Ray…

In any event, Open Letters are the way to go if you want anyone to hear you out. Chances are it will be read by someone who knows someone, who knows someone, who kind of knows someone…(100 “who knows someone’s” later) who knows the person you wrote to and will let him or her know about it. That’s not just effective communication, people, that’s effectively ineffectively cool.

Since I am on top of trends, I wrote my own Open Letter so you can see coolness in action. Check it out!

Dear Ronald McDonald:

You are being completely unfair by refusing to put me in your next commercial even though I’ve been whoring myself to you like you asked. You said it would be hot if I dressed up as a sexy Grimace and sat on your lap while you watched Fry Guy porn, so I did. You said that I should toss your new line of salads while singing the “I’m Lovin’ It” song, and I did that too. And when you told me you wanted me to milkshake wrestle all the McNugget buddies wearing nothing but burger patties and a leaf of iceberg lettuce, I did that without complaint and I even won because I accidentally ate the buddies. You know you owe me, Ronnie, and I am going to collect or else I will show everyone the video tape of you, the King, and Jack having a threesome. That’s right, I saw it on your sesame bun table and I took it. It was me!

So don’t bother trying to give me anymore Happy Meal toys because I only pretended to like them, and I don’t want anymore Monopoly stickers because the “free hamburger” sticker doesn’t even include the Angus burgers! Don’t clown me anymore, clown, or you’re going to be sorry.

Sylvia

    Some guy in the Netherlands believes that in the near future robots will become so lifelike that humans may end up falling in love and marrying them. I don’t find that to be a very attractive forecast, but not because of the unnaturalness of robot love. I’m more turned off by the human that would have to resort to artificial intelligence for affection: the online-video game obsessed, socially-inept, Jabba-the-Huts who know everything there is to know about elves and orcs but couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag. Mr. Netherlands knows what I’m talking about; he even said that those “who find it hard to form relationships, because they are extremely shy, or have psychological problems, or are just plain ugly or have unpleasant personalities,” would benefit most from getting down with a robot.

    I’m not taking this guy’s prediction seriously, but if we were ever capable of creating such realistic robots that people wouldn’t look like sexual deviants if they were seen in public with their robot-lover, I’d still have to pass on it. Sure, I could buy a robot boyfriend who was extremely hot and program him so that we’d have the same interests, beliefs, level of intelligence, etc., but I don’t find any of that appealing at all. It just sounds boring. And although I prefer people to support me when I say that I am so perfect that I poop gems and my farts can cure diseases–I appreciate it when someone tells me to my face that he disagrees with me and why. And if he can actually convince me that I’m wrong and put me in my place then he’s automatically way more attractive than some robot. Having an opposing point of view every now and then can be quite beneficial–but don’t try to convince me that the key to world peace isn’t a McDonald’s Happy Meal because I’ll just cut you.

    Besides, women don’t want to have to ask for compliments–we want men to say things because they mean it. Can you imagine the dialogue in a robot-woman relationship?

ROBOT MAN: I love you.

HUMAN WOMAN: No, you don’t. You’re just saying that because I programmed you to. You don’t love me at all!

ROBOT MAN: Yes, I do. And you don’t look fat in those jeans.

HUMAN WOMAN: Liar!

    And then the robot self-destructs because that’s what it was programmed to do when the human woman decides to end the relationship.

   More downsides to robot-human love:

1. Whatever gift your robot gives you will probably have been purchased using your money–because your robot doesn’t have a job (working is reserved for labor robots).

2. People who program their robots to compliment them will eventually stop caring about their hygiene and appearance because their robot lovers have turned into their robot enablers by consistently telling their human “you are sexy” when it should be saying “you are a sow.”

3. Ever seen “The Matrix”? Robots want to look like octopi, not humans, and are going to punish us by throwing us all into pods of goo. What’s worse is that the savior is going to turn out to be some loser like Keanu Reeves. Hell to the no.

    The only robot I would want around me is a slave robot. Yes, I would want an entourage of attractive, male robots who do nothing but cook and clean and whatever else slaves should do. And they should also have weapon-limbs so that they can protect me…oh, and also sneeze candy. Now that would be a kick a** robot.

 Happy Birthday, Loretta!

Remember this?

Before Bishop Museum

After Bishop Museum… 

What I Learned this Week

1. A man can solicit another man for public-bathroom sex just by tapping his foot.

2. There are police officers whose duties include having to sit in public bathroom stalls.

Everyone should know I’m referring to Senator Larry Craig; if you had no idea of what I was talking about, you should just go ahead and die because you’re a waste of skin. Then again, because I’m a  blessing to humanity here is a video that will explain why the senator is embroiled in a scandal–so don’t die just yet. Do so if you still don’t get it after watching the clip.

Just kidding: I didn’t put up the video for educational purposes. I’m actually a really big fan of Keith Olberman’s and just wanted to immortalize his genius.

At this point, I’m pretty sure being involved in a sex scandal is part of a government official’s duties. Any politician who refrains from doing something naughty is not doing their job properly because it means he/she is not taking advantage of the power the voters have given him/her. And it all goes downhill from there because:

not using political power to get into someone’s pants –> pedophilia

It’s scientifically proven…somewhere.

However, Senator Craig’s story is interesting because he was super anti-gay rights: he opposed gay marriage; he did not want hate crime law to cover incidents that were motivated by anti-gay bias; he was against outlawing employment discrimination based on sexual orientation.

So, for him to be arrested and eventually plead guilty for soliciting sex from a man–what could possibly trump that story? NOTHING. Not the mom who let her 5 year-old-son drive a car because she was too wasted to do so; not Owen Wilson’s suicide attempt; not even the follow-up of news coverage that had been interesting before the Craig news broke (e.g. Michael Vick). Not a freaking thing.