Sorry, it’s just hard to get anyone’s attention around here unless you take your clothes off. This piece of gratuitous nudity is brought to you by journalism, by the way. Specifically local independent journalism. It confuses me when people talk about the death of print media as though it is synonymous with the death of journalism, as if we as a society are caught in an inevitable ebb towards a world where news is 140 characters worth of regurgitated facts and although the media is still certainly massive, the critical analysis and perspective are minuscule if present at all.
But we’re not, even though sometimes it feels that way. Journalism is still a thing. Journalism and journalists’ enduring drive to report all of the facts that are a vital part of the public’s ability to make informed decisions, that will always be a thing. Journalism and the abiding principles that guide journalists to act as watch dogs for the people against government and corporate abuse, that will always be a thing. Journalism and local news that isn’t managed out of Charlotte because Gannett is more worried about stockholder dividends than keeping the people who report the news employed, that will always be a thing.
I’ve never really felt like I fit in to Asheville on account of the fact that I never really feel like I fit in anywhere, but as a city I have always found Asheville’s appreciation for locally-sourced EVERYTHING impressive and refreshing. And we need locally sourced news now more than ever, so I was very disappointed when I found out that Jason Sanford, Mr. Ashvegas himself, along with 7 other dedicated Citizen-Times employees, was let go from Gannett and won’t be around to report the news in that capacity anymore.
I mean what are they going to replace him with? An unpaid intern hitting ctrl-c over highlighted AP News bulletins? Luckily we still have Ashvegas, but I think now that Jason isn’t with the AC-T any more Ashvegas could use a healthy financial injection so that he can put all of his AWESOME JOURNALISM SUPER POWERS to use at their maximum potential. So for the next couple of days I think we should all donate money to Ashvegas. I’m serious. Cancel your AC-T subscription because it’s a candy-ass of a paper anyway, and give that money to Ashvegas so that Jason and company can report local news for here from here.
Plus, I think if we raise enough money I can convince Jason to replace every photo on the front page of Ashvegas with a gif of a sassy llama for a whole day. Like, wouldn’t that be hilarious? If you went on Ashvegas to get news and like there was news, but there was also lots of totally unnecessary images of llamas being all sassy? And then after a day it would all go back to normal and everyone would be like “Hey Jason what was up with all those llamas?” and he could be like “What llamas are you even talking about bro I run a legitimate source for local news WTF is all this llama talk?” but we would know the truth, wouldn’t we? We would know…
Go give Ashvegas your money.
Ever wonder whether or not you’re prepared to wake up one morning and discover that you’re a tiny helpless kitten in a canvas with a bunch of other tiny helpless kittens being transported on the lap of a grizzled trucker to a gas station where you will be sold (“There’s a $10 re-homing fee”) to a stranger who may or may not understand the basic tenets of Not Accidentally Killing Your New Kitten? ME TOO! Thankfully I’ve compiled this list of helpful rules for if and when you accidentally become a 4-week-old kitten.
- OH MY GOD YOU ARE A FRAGILE BALL OF FUR AND MUST REMAIN IN A PAPOOSE FOR AT LEAST A WEEK UNTIL YOUR NEW OWNER ISN’T UTTERLY PETRIFIED THAT YOU MIGHT GET STEPPED ON OR THAT YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO KEEP YOUR TINY BODY WARM ENOUGH OR THAT YOU’LL DEVELOP ABANDONMENT ISSUES.
- Insist on mushy food. If no mushy food is available demand that your new owner chew up crunchies in her mouth until they are warm and soft and then feed them to you like a baby bird.
- Accidentally step in your own poo? That’s okay little bro. Someone will come along and wipe you with a washcloth eventually. Until then go take a nap in that warm pile of clean laundry.
- You’re adorable, so feel free to lick your own anus wherever and whenever you want.
- Pant legs are for climbing. Once you get about a quarter of the way there someone will scoop you up and give you a lift the rest of the distance.
- Laps are for sitting. Don’t worry about falling asleep. Once you pass out the owner of the lap is obligated to remain completely still and quiet until you wake up again because kittens need lots of sleep. EVERYONE ELSE’S NEEDS CAN TAKE A BACK SEAT.
- Enjoy being the center of the known universe. I’m sure things looked pretty grim initially when you were nearly crushed under the weight of your litter-mates in that canvas bag with a gut full of intestinal worms and a desperate need to love and to be loved in return, but now that you have a new owner whose destiny is to become one of those lonely old cat-whisperers with no children and no one to grow old with except a menagerie of rescued animals named after Futurama characters, you’re in good shape as long as you don’t mistakenly get tumbled dry with a load of towels.
HOW SHE GET HER BRA AND PANTIES TO MATCH LIKE THAT?
Today’s Body Positive Mirror Cellphone Pic of the HEY GIRL HOW YOU DOIN’? comes to us from the purveyor of fine composition and literary appreciation, J of My Raven-like Writing Desk fame, who is totally fucking over it with negative emotions of a chemically induced nature.
After a month of feeling “less than” thanks to horrible medications, I decided to take control and start being sexy again. And see? It worked!
We’re glad to have you back, madame. Do not ever stop writing or being scantily clad. These are fine ideas if I may say so myself.
If you would like to submit your unclothed self-portrait to be part of a Body Positive Mirror Cellphone Pic of the Day, email me at PluckyChickenBlog@gmail.com and I will make you (moderately) famous.
REMINDER: For the entire month of December the GREAT GARDASIL PLEDGE DRIVE of 2012 will be a thing, and you can participate.
Of Monsters and Men may be old news (circa 2011) for most of you hipsters, but when I’m neck deep in the sludge of mid-twenties ennui and intense anxiety about the general size and shape of my thighs, this song elicits all sorts of emotions. Plus I like to pretend that the metaphors for much grander adventures than I’ve ever undertaken somehow apply to my own life, which is comparatively mundane next to houses that talk and ships that will deliver our lifeless bodies home to a welcoming coastline with or without a solid story.
In news only relevant to people who enjoy reading about this sort of thing, I had a spectacular meltdown on Thanksgiving Day that could only be quelled by combining Vicodin and Klonopin with the vodka salad that is my mother’s version of the Bloody Mary. I spent the first half of Thanksgiving dinner smiling and pushing food around my plate and replying with polite, content uh-huh’s and it’s-so-great-to-see-you’s (but most importantly NOT CRYING) and the latter half in a vegetative (but somehow still completely upright and in control of my own bowels) state. It was marvelous and there was no crying. Lots of crying beforehand, but then none during the actual dinner with family portion of the afternoon. And then lots of sleeping when it was over.
And then I got rid of my scale, because if you didn’t already know this about me, I have this crippling preoccupation with my body and how it looks in clothing and not in clothing and from various angles because there is a part of me that believes the message that the consumer culture in this terrible world is working desperately to bore into the brain of every little girl within range of a tv or the interwebz: That my entire worth as a woman, as a human being, as a sentient creature on a pale blue dot floating along in the vast emptiness of space, is determined by how my body compares to a dangerously out of reach standard of beauty.
I have been letting the angry, flat little robot that lives in my bathroom tell me how I feel every day, often twice a day. I have been letting it determine whether I am a success or a failure at life and whether I deserve to have breakfast or not. I have been allowing it to convince me that no one I admire will ever admire me back, that no one I love will ever love me back, and that nothing I do will ever be good enough unless the angry, flat little robot says so. The angry, flat little robot that lives in my bathroom knows everything that anyone could ever need to know about me, which is a number that is subject to change.
And now the angry robot has been banished to my mom’s closet. It won’t stay there. I have a plan for the angry, flat little robot.
You’re welcome, ladies and gay men.
Today’s Body Positive Mirror Cellphone Abs of the JESUS CHRIST LOOK AT HIS FUCKING STOMACH come to us courtesy of my friend Scott who bravely volunteered his abdomen for your sexual objectification. So go ahead, ogle Scott’s 6-pack. Put him in your fap bank. We’re all about being ecumenical and inclusive here.
If you would like to submit your photo to be a Body Positive Mirror Cellphone Pic of the Day, shoot me an email at firstname.lastname@example.org and don’t be skerred, you sexy, sexy bitch.
Looks pretty accurate to me.
If I were a four-star general and the head of the CIA with a bad-ass last name that makes me sound like I at some point may have been the emperor of Rome, you know who I damn sure wouldn’t want bouncing around on my four-star penis? My biographer. Specifically, my biographer who writes fanfiction about my military exploits and looks like one of those girls from high school who did a lot of slut-shaming and always had an in-season Coach bag and the dirtiest gossip. In fact, I’m almost certain that the boss battle in Level Don’t Fuck Up Your Illustrious Military Career And/Or Your Marriage in The Game of Life is basically just not having sex with things that aren’t your wife. You run around for 2 minutes with an 8-bit throbbing erection avoiding inserting your dick into electrical outlets and farm animals and unhinged biographers while an 80′s synth-pop soundtrack plays in the background.
I’m not a huge fan of monogamy personally because I know (and am willing to admit publicly) that I’m kind of terrible at it. I have no illusions about my inability to bump uglies with only one person for the rest of my life. Armed with this knowledge, I can go about keeping my work life at work and my fuck-like-a-rabbit life somewhere else. If you can’t do that, if you can’t beat the boss at one of the lowest levels of The Game of Life and be the dick slangin’ playboy over the weekends without any of it bleeding into the part of your life where people depend on you to make judgement calls with your big head and not your little one, then yeah, feel free to step down and let a grown up handle your shit from here on out.
Body Positive Mirror Cellphone Pic of the Day (and context for that random-ass fairy tale thing I wrote earlier)11/12/2012
So I wrote a fairy tale earlier for what probably seemed like no goddamn reason (Does one need a reason to write an existential crisis-fueled fairy tale featuring an incredibly transparent Mary-Sue and a genie modeled after Lafayette from True Blood?) and now I’d like to offer some context, because context will provide my readers with the insight they desperately need to understand why I
am completely fucking unhinged all of the sudden WROTE A FUCKING FAIRY TALE OUT OF THE BLUE.
I am a delicate little flower, and I am so not even kidding right now. I am never more than one internet troll’s “Her thighs are chunky” or “Her bottom teeth aren’t straight” away from spending 12 to 14 hours buried in self-loathing, red velvet cake ice cream, and kitty snuggles. It’s not because I’m a girl and it’s not because of my hormones, it’s because I’M A FRAGILE-ASS DANDELION WITH FRAGILE-ASS DANDELION EMOTIONS AND I AM FUCKING WORKING ON THAT SHIT, OKAY?
So maybe somebody mentioned, in passing, that everybody loves redheads because they’re sexy and exotic and the current thing in interwebz fetishism (right behind bacon and Shark Week) and maybe it poked a tiny hole (GAPING WOUND) in the Mylar balloon that is my delicate emotional state because it used to be blondes and then it was redheads and after we’re done posting those super annoying redhead demotivational posters on Facebook and counting every freckle on Kari Byron’s nose, the world will fall back in love with blonde chicks again. “I have a weakness for brunettes,” said no one ever.
And then I read that whole paragraph back to myself out loud and realized that I sound like a whiny candyass.
As you were. That is all.
This original fairy tale is based on a joke, and an unfunny one if I may say so myself.
Once upon a time (that’s how this thing is gonna roll) a brunette was walking along a dirt road when she noticed an amber glint just off the shoulder. Something was lying in the grass, and because this is obviously a fairy tale she didn’t mistake for a discarded Bud Light bottle. She did what a fairy tale character would do and bent down to pick it up for further inspection. It was a lamp of the traditional fairy tale variety, and it was dirty (as they often are for the sake of the plot) so she used the sleeve of her sweater to polish off the grime because shiny things absolutely must have their grime polished off. No sooner had the brunette’s elbow grease brought out the weathered brass sheen in the lamp’s side than a genie popped out, rather unceremoniously.
“Hey there pumpkin. What’s good?” said the genie. The brunette’s stomach momentarily left her abdominal region and took up a brief residence in her throat. It wasn’t until after the initial shock wore off that she was able to eek out a reply.
“Are you… uh… like a crazy person or something?”
The genie looked at her, indignant.
“No, doe eyes. I’m a genie. as in ‘I AM THE GENIE OF THE LAMP AND YOU SHALL HAVE THREE WISHES BECAUSE THOSE ARE THE ARBITRARY LAWS OF THE FAIRY TALE UNIVERSE’ and you would save us both a lot of time if you made with the wishing. I ain’t got all day. I got genie shit to do.”
“I can get down with that,” said the brunette, suddenly completely okay with this whole scenario. “Do you want me to go ahead and start?”
“Waitin’ on you, shoog.”
The brunette thought, but not for long. Everyone has after all probably already been through the “What would I do with three wishes?” scenario in their head at least once.
“I want a big beautiful house,” said the brunette. “With a HUGE yard and a privacy fence and a water feature that empties into a koi pond!”
“All right, all right, simmer down butternut. I can give you all of that,” the genie assured her.”But, if I give you a big beautiful house with a HUGE yard and a water feature that empties into – What was it, a koi pond? – I have to give every blonde and redhead in the world the same thing, only twice as big and twice as extravagant.”
“Um, okay. I guess that’s cool.” the brunette replied, puzzled.
“Awesome. I’m glad we’re on the same page, tulip. Now let’s get that second wish rolling so I can get out of here in time for the bingo game at the community center.” said the genie, checking his watch.
“For my second wish I want a man. But like a really, really good looking one with a good job and not a whole lot of emotional baggage.”
“DONE,” declared the genie. “But remember, every blonde and redheaded chick gets exactly what you just asked for, twice as nice. Rules are rules, fluffyhead.”
“Wait, are you serious right now? What the actual fuck, genie? These are supposed to be my wishes!” whined the brunette.
“Slow your roll, hotness. It’s not like you’re coming away empty-handed and you still have one wish left, so make it count.”
The brunette furrowed her brow and thought and thought and thought. The hamster wheel was spinning faster than it had ever spun before. The genie flipped his wrist over, looked at his watch and raised his eyebrows. Finally, the brunette looked up with and with a determined expression and announced her third and final wish.
“Genie, I want you to take that stick over there and beat me half to death.”
The genie’s jaw dropped.
“I know you didn’t, you simple bitch,” he said. “Did you seriously just wish for all of the other blonde and redheaded women in the world to get beaten to death? HOOKER THIS AIN’T NO GAME! Where is your sense of perspective?”
The brunette looked sheepish and bit her lip. The genie continued.
“Listen, pretty skinny white girl, I know this is difficult for you to understand because you don’t yet grasp the magnitude of the advantages you’ve been afforded in a world that is incredibly kind to pretty skinny white girls, in a country where people of color are still battling institutionalized racism, in a media climate that essentially demonizes fat people, but I need you to take a second and check your pretty skinny white girl privilege. I handed you not one, not two, but three opportunities to help the people around you who are disenfranchised, suffering, facing obstacles you may never encounter in your entire life simply because of who you are, a mere accident of nature, and you use them first to advance your own interests and then to tear down people you perceive as a threat. Shame on you.”
The brunette was pouting now and sobbing softly into the sleeve of her sweater. She sniffled, and that’s enough alliteration for one paragraph.
“Is it too late to change my wish?” she squeaked.
The genie gave her side eye, then replied, “I can give you a do-over, but you need to make a better decision this time, little bunny.”
The brunette looked up.
“For my last wish, I would like you to take that stick over there and smash the bullshit paradigm that creates an acceptable climate for discrimination and cruelty and allows for value judgement to be made on an individual based on attributes that in no way denote their worth as a human being,” said the brunette.”And that includes people of all races, sizes, and abilities.”
The genie smiled. He cracked his knuckles and rubbed his hands together.
“Now you’re cookin’ with gas, precious.”