Because it seems like itâs totally up to us!
Wrote some tips for avoiding (or at the very least, maybe reducing by 3 percent?) sexual harassment in the workplace for The Belladonna Comedy.Â
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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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⣠Chile in a Photography âŁ
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@smethanie
Because it seems like itâs totally up to us!
Wrote some tips for avoiding (or at the very least, maybe reducing by 3 percent?) sexual harassment in the workplace for The Belladonna Comedy.Â
Thursday is a big day here because itâs when the garbage truck comes. Itâs a whole thing. We forego listening to music in the morning so we wonât miss the crescendoing sound of the truckâs engine as it approaches. We peek out the window often, waiting. We get our shoes ready. But today, today we werenât even supposed to see the garbage truck. I mean, itâs WEDNESDAY. So imagine our surprise (you only have to imagine my surprise, really, as his is pictured here) when a chance combination of taking a lesser-used route on our morning walk and heading out later than usual resulted in us happening upon the garbage man on his Wednesday route! Believe me, it was EXCITING. We walked alongside him, watching him work for long enough that I started feeling a little stalkery. And also a little nauseated from parading alongside a truck filled with hot garbage. But oh man, to this little man, weâre having a great day. tl;dr: My garbage man likely has probable cause to take out a restraining order against me.
I LOVE MY FAT DISGUSTING PIG-WIFE
Iâm Josh, and I love my fat disgusting pig-wife.
Iâm a freelance author and lifestyle blogger. My wife is a fatass and tub of lard. I met my wife Charlotte at the county fair when I mistook her for one of the prize hogs and started feeding her corn out of my palm, careful to keep my fingers curled in so that she wouldnât gnaw off the tips of my fingers. About a full four minutes into feeding her, I realized she wasnât actually a hog, but was actually a very fat yet somehow sexually attractive woman! We quickly fell in love, even as she never kept her eyes off the corn. Weâve been inseparable ever since, partially because I always have a little bit of corn in my hand and sheâs always sniffing and licking it. Sheâs so cute like that.
I love my fat butterball wife, disgusting curves and all. I love the way she really fills out her sty. For me, there is nothing sexier than this woman right here: thick thighs, big booty, bunch of chocolate sauce in her hair âcause she fell asleep in her sundae, contact lenses made of Necco wafers, sometimes eats out of the recycle bin if sheâs too tired to get to the fridge. This gorgeous girl I married fills out every inch of her jeans and is still the fattest one in the room. But hey, thatâs just me. Iâm a feminist, and so is my big-as-a-house revolting wife.
As a teenager, I was teased for being attracted to things that didnât even look human, like women fatter than a size 4 and big rocks and like those old timey bikes with one big round wheel. Then, as I became a man and started to educate myself on issues such as feminism and farm animals, I realized how many men have bought into the lies of the media. A woman doesnât have to be tall and thin to be beautiful! A woman doesnât even have to have a name or personality! She can just be a shapeless blob with no distinguishing marks about her like a pile of condensed milk. Thatâs how I feel about my gorgeous, disgusting wife Carly. Wait, is that her name, âCarly?â That doesnât look right. Whatâs her name? Definitely something with a C. Iâd ask her, but her mouth is full right now, as she is eating Thanksgiving dinner in August.
Sure, my wife isnât going to be on the cover of Cosmopolitan, except when she sits on it because Iâve lined her kennel with issues of Cosmopolitan. Because when she sits around the kennel she sits aroooound the kennel. Which is fine! But Cindy is so kind. Cindy has the biggest heart of anyone I know. Even her heart is plus-sized. And I love it for that. Whether my wife is finding an old bagel tucked underneath her cute side rolls or devouring a whole chocolate fountain even the metal parts before the guy we rented it from comes to take it away, sheâs always being true to herself. Sheâs always just being Claire.
Guys, rethink what society has told you that you should desire. A real woman is not a porn star or a bikini mannequin or a movie character. Sheâs perfectly unique. She has stretch marks. She has big flat teeth that she uses to bite you if you try to cut when sheâs waiting in line for soft serve. She has cute little dimples on her booty that she fills with hard candies and bouillon cubes to keep for later in case she gets hungry at the DMV. The twelve teats that run vertically down her front might not all be the same size. Sheâs real.
Girls, donât ever fool yourself by thinking you have to fit a certain mold to be loved and appreciated. There is a guy out there who is going to celebrate your turgid sausage of a body for exactly who you are, someone who will love you just like I love my disgusting wife Chappie. I love you, honey!
A memo in which former FBI Director James Comey details an interaction he had with President Trump was publicized on Tuesday. In it, Comey claims the president asked him to drop the investigation into Mike Flynn. While the Flynn memo is the one getting all the attention, Comeyâs other memos are equally as shocking: Department âŠ
Hereâs a thing I wrote for National Lampoon this week.Â
Iâm homesick often, although I donât really even know where it is Iâm homesick for. I yearn for a medley of once-inhabited addresses, past paths traversed with the familiarity of routine.
From the deserts of West Texas, I lust for the grey New York skyline, to be among a throng of people rising from beneath Grand Central, a pulsing mass of coats, scarves and suitcases bobbing in unison while staring at glowing screens. I fantasize about the way sunlight and shadows flirtatiously dance through the branches of Connecticut oaks and maples; pines and hemlocks. About the smell of freshly cut grass. Of any grass at all. I miss the way everything glistens as if encased in glass after a Massachusetts ice storm and the crispness of the air as you fill your chest with it. I feel fondness, even, for the long-abandoned paper mills lining the river of my hometown â dilapidated smokestacks jutting into a temperamental New England sky from the brick landscape below.
More than being homesick for the places I've been, I yearn for the places Iâve yet to go. For the unbridled possibility of addresses Iâve yet to inhabit. I don't know what the future holds (because that's how the future works except for people the likes of Miss Cleo - RIP), but I'm doubtful these deserts will hold me forever.
For now, I'm trying to stay present and to soak it all in, to gather pieces to put in the pile for future reflection. Wherever I end up next, this will be what I'm homesick for: The beauty of the Franklin Mountains against the brilliant Texas sky. Of unapologetically loud flowers blooming amid angry thorns of threatening cacti as if to say, "Yeah, we grew in a pile of sand and rocks, barely drank any water AND we look fabulous. We ain't playin'. Touch us and we'll cut you."
Iâll ache for the nights weâve spent watching the sun descend into the horizon, the skyline that stretches from our back yard to New Mexico saturating with vivid saffron and gold, magenta and plum.
There's so much uncertainty. In the country, in the world, in our individual lives, but please remember to soak in the good parts, to be present, to not miss the beauty. And also, check out these pics of pretty flowers I took.
The past week has been a nightmare but thankfully I have the best snuggle buddies.
Brotherly love because my god with this week
My Heart is Broken
Informing my children of what transpired last night was as difficult as watching the country I love so much declare its preference for an openly xenophobic, racist, sexual predator with the temperament of a toddler in need of a nap rather than elect a qualified and experienced woman. I saw something break in my daughter's eyes as I told her America picked the man she's heard devalue girls like her to lead us, and I saw the doubt in her eyes while I assured her of her value and that she still can be, do anything she sets her mind to. My heart is so heavy, and I've had to block so many people on Twitter who've lobbed hateful, disgusting comments at me since last night, seemingly emboldened by his win. I can't even imagine the pain and hatred people of color, immigrants, members of the LGBT community and Muslims are wading through this morning. In validating a racist, xenophobic, misogynist who devalues education and basic human decency we have validated the behavior of those like him, we have validated racism. We have validated men calling women pigs. We have validated men pointing at our daughters and declaring them their future sex objects. We have validated beliefs regarding opposing religions that contradict the very basis this country was founded on. To my white, straight cis friends: Please be vigilant in listening to the fears of those not afforded the privileges we so often take for granted. Listen, support, love and work to protect. And let's fight like hell to make it better; to BE better.
Iâm SO with her and SO counting down the hours until I can take another Valium.
Did my part to swing Texas blue. Get out there and VOTE!
He probs doesn't care about not having any hair of his own because of how proficient he's grown at grabbing and ripping out handfuls of mine.
Actual Conversation With My Kid
Me: Says something about Biggie
8-year-old son: Who's Biggie?
Me: A rapper.
Son: Like from Jurassic World?
Me: Not a RAPTOR, a RAPPER.
My Pussy Story
Yes, it appears 8-year-old Stephanie paired an oversized sweater featuring Scottish terriers with pink zebra print leggings.
The first time a man talked to me about my âpussyâ I was 8 years old. For those who can only assign value to a woman based on how she relates to various men, I was someoneâs daughter, sister, niece and aunt (my parents were way old when they had me).
I was a child. I loved Barbies and longed for a trampoline. I made elaborate mud pies in my backyard and kicked serious ass at the BMX course in California Games. My favorite food was grilled cheese. I had seen exactly one R-rated movie: La Bamba.
It was recess and one of the two girls I was playing with had to pee. We were on the school playgroundâââone of those badass sprawling wood ones with towers, swinging bridges and a tire swing. Separating the playground from the school was the large field where we played capture the flag and kickball.
The teacher stuck with recess duty gave us permission to walk back and use the schoolâs bathroom, as long as we stayed together. Rather than let us run across the field from the school to the playground, our teachers always made us walk in an orderly line on the sidewalk that ran along the street at the edge of the field.
My friend had finished peeing and we were walking back to the playground on the sidewalk. All three of us were carrying pencils with Dixie Cups pinned to the erasersâââgames we had made in class. Dangling from each pencil was a pompom on a string. The goal was to flip the pom into the paper cup.
So we were walking, talking excitedly and flipping our poms into our cups when a car came to a crawl on the street next to us. There were several men inside.
âNice toys,â called the passenger, leaning menacingly out the window, motioning to the pencil games clutched in our hands. We walked faster, and tightened closer to one another. The car continued riding beside us.
âI said âNICE TOYSâ,â he repeated, demanding our attention, demanding a response. We mumbled âthanksâ and gave weak smiles, quickening our pace more still.
âI bet you have nice pussies, too,â he sneered. He howled with laughter, accompanied by the driver and back-seat passenger, and the car peeled off. We ran the rest of the way back to the playground, three poms swinging wildly; six shoes pounding asphalt.
We huddled inside one of the playscapeâs towers and debated what to do. I didnât even know what the word pussy meant beyond its feline definition, but I could tell it was bad.
âIt means vagina,â my friend with older siblings and paper thin walls said. I gasped.
Do we tell the teacher what had happened? Should we tell our parents? None of us felt comfortable reporting what had happened. We were afraid and despite having done nothing wrong, we were ashamed.
We decided to tell no one; to do nothing.
Except one of my friends couldnât live with the silence and several days later told her mom what had happened. Her mom called the school and our parents were contacted. That night my mom summoned me to her bedroom, where I sat on the edge of my parentsâ bed, avoiding her eyes.
She asked if it was true. I said it was. She asked again, and told me the vice principal said the girl who reported it, my friend, had âa tendency to fibâ because victim blaming is nothing new.
She told me if she found out I was lying, I would be in serious trouble.
We three girls were called into the vice principalâs office one at a time to recount the story. They sat us on the chairs in the hallway as we waited our turns; the chairs usually reserved for the trouble-makers, for the bad kids. I had never sat in those chairs before and my eyes, which I kept focused on my feet, welled with tears as I imagined what everyone who passed by must think.
I knew I had done nothing wrong, but it sure felt like my fault. I wished my friend hadnât told her mom and gotten us into this mess because at 8 years old I learned that keeping quiet would have been easier; that telling meant risking getting in trouble.
So years later when I was waiting to cross a street and a stranger reached his hand up my skirt and squeezed my ass, I did nothing beyond whirl around in fear. He winked at me and trotted across the street in the other direction, leaving me feeling violated and ashamed.
And when a man in a crowded elevator groped with purpose as he pressed by me out the doors, I jumped, watched the doors close and tried to control my terrified breathing the rest of the way to my floor.
Every time a man demanded a hug, just as Billy Bush demanded of his colleague Arianne Zucker, I politely obliged. When he held on too long, too pressed-into-me, I learned how to giggle and duck away.
When I decided enough was enough and reported a male coworker who hugged too long, hovered too close and asked if I had ever considered getting a âboob jobâ because Iâd âlook good with one,â I was told âthatâs just how he isâ and âboys will be boys.â Except, like Donald Trump and Billy Bush, the coworker wasnât a boy. He was a grown man who made me terrified to do my job.
Mr. Trump, you say that you never actually did the things (sexual assault) you bragged about doing in that video; that itâs just âlocker room talk.â Many of your supporters have backed this up, claiming gals just donât know what itâs like to stand around with the bros in towels talking about grabbing pussy without consent. Former Republican presidential candidate and snoozefest surgeon Ben Carson said, âThat kind of banter goes around all the time.â
But hereâs the thing: Women? We know these things you call locker room talk have been done to us. Weâve been groped and kissed without our consent. Weâve been grabbed by our pussies. Weâve had our bodies used to make us feel afraid and ashamed.
If itâs just locker room talk, then why is it spilling out of our locker rooms and onto buses, playgrounds, street corners, offices, women and girlsâ bodies? If boys will just be boys, do girls and women just have to be their victims?
If bragging about sexual assaults you never actually committed is just locker room talk, just a man thing, then whoâs doing all this assaulting?
And if we allow a man who boasts about violating womenâs bodies to become president, a man who points at a young girl and declares that one day, heâll date her, how many more boys will grow into men who shout out car windows at young girls about their pussies?
(Originally published on Medium)
I taught my daughter how to shave her legs a few weeks ago like some sort of cheesy coming-of-age movie.
I taught my daughter how to shave recently and then wrote a thing about it.Â
We've known each other, beyond inhabiting opposing ends of the same umbilical cord, for six weeks now. In those six weeks he's taught me just how much the human metaphorical heart can stretch and swell and also the insane amount of gas that can pass through an infant's digestive system.
Each week in Give A Little Bit, weâre talking to funny people â comics, writers, cartoonists, senators â about the first time they got a laugh. This week, Stephanie McMaster talks about being Agent Scully, banned households appliances and making out with brains.
Your first bitâŠ
I took myself way too seriously when I was younger. I wrote awful overwrought poetry and had dreams of writing the great American novel â something thick and serious. I was in drama club and school plays and I always hoped for roles involving tears and over-the-top emotion and was frustrated that I kept getting cast in the comedic relief roles. It wasnât until we did this play called The Case of the Missing Gym Shorts in high school and I was cast as a crazed Romanian lunch lady who, in a Scooby Doo-like twist ending, turned out to be Agent Scully from the X-Files (this was a real play I suspect my theater teacher found the scripts for in a bargain bin somewhere) that I began embracing my funny side, I suppose. I played into the role and reveled in the laughs I got from the poor parents and family members who were forced to sit through that piece of theatrical shit to begin with.
Your writing process isâŠ
In terms of writing jokes or standup material, when I sit down and try and focus on writing, it feels forced. I generally think the jokes are best when they come to me. A lot of my writing is inspired by my life or whatâs going on in the world, so the jokes come to me naturally while Iâm in the shower or driving or pretending to listen to my kids and Iâll jot them down and then sit down later and polish and refine. For longer pieces..
CONTINUE READING
I chatted with Bit Comedy about my time as a Romanian lunch lady, how suspected devil-worshipping shaped my childhood and why I want Augusten Burroughs to bite me.Â
Even though we've never met and you have your big head jammed uncomfortably into my bladder and will be the reason I don't sleep for more than two consecutive hours for the next several months and I REALLY don't like your plans for the destruction of my vagina, I'm pretty fucking crazy about you and can't wait to meet you in less than three weeks.