Don’t Be A Dingleberry, Go Grab A Homeless Man


Seriously.  If you’re anywhere on the mid to north east coast in this blast out of Hades ass cold weather, be aware of the homeless if you venture outdoors.  

Regardless of how liberal or conservative you are and how jaded you are and how much you think that homeless people “refuse to find shelter” and choose to be sleeping on the streets, if you see a shelter impaired human being, please dig out your little iphone 5 out of your pocket and use your special touch screen finger tip gloves to call one of the local numbers that are providing a pick up and shelter for those who have none. 

Some of these homeless people are our veterans, some are just batshit crazy, some are, of course, junkies.  But, honey, you weren’t so innocent with your legs splayed out in the air in college for half of Sigma Nu and you weren’t so cute wearing those same panties twice in a row last week because you were too lazy to change them when you woke up in the morning, so let’s not play judge about whose life is worth more on days when a pot of your scalding hot ramen water turns into brown fairy fart dust when you throw it into the wind because you ran outside to do it as soon as Linda Shartynipple on Fox 11 news scampered out and did it.  

Here is a list of numbers for the Washington DC area and other cities. If this is not where you live, you already know how to stalk an ex like you’re in the NSA, so there should be no trouble looking up what number is provided for your area (or call 211). 

  • Atlanta: 404-447-3678 for the Metro Atlanta Task Force for the Homeless
  • Baltimore: 311
  • Birmingham, Ala.: 205-252-9571 for the Firehouse Shelter
  • Boston: 617-534-2526 for Friends of Boston’s Homeless or dial 311
  • Chicago: 311
  • Denver: 720-944-1007 for Denver’s Road Home (during business hours)
  • Detroit: 1-800-274-3583 and 1-800-343-4427
  • Fort Collins, Colo.: 719-632-1822 for Springs Rescue Mission and 970-484-5010 for Catholic Charities-Larimer County
  • Kansas City, Mo.: 816-474-4599
  • Las Vegas: 702-369-4357 for HELP of Southern Nevada (from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m., Monday through Thursday)
  • Minneapolis: 612-879-7624 for St. Stephen’s street outreach team
  • New York City: 311
  • Philadelphia: 215-232-1984 for the Project HOME Homeless Outreach Hotline
  • San Francisco: 311
  • St. Louis: 314-802-5444 for the Housing Resource Center hotline (between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., Mon-Friday)
  • Thunder Bay, Ontario: 807-620-7678 for the SOS team (operates between 2 p.m. and 2 a.m.)
  • Toronto: 311
  • Washington, D.C.: 1-800-535-7252 for the Hypothermia Hotline


Illegitimate Child of Lloyd Christmas: What Happens When Your Dad Is A Hair Cutting Control Freak


So this is real life.

My dad, Smokey, cut my hair himself until I was twelve. He would have cut my hair until menopause if he had the chance.

Nobody else was allowed to touch my mane of knotted glory, not even my older siblings’ mother, who owned a hair salon.  She was only given the privilege of washing my hair, combing it out, and blow drying it, but only for a minute because Smokey didn’t want my delicate strands of hair to be incinerated into wisps of burnt DNA flailing in the cross breeze by this new fangled hot air blowing robot some folks had nicknamed “hair dryer”.

This is where I started learning the etiquette of tipping, as Smokey would hand me a couple dollars, when we were finished,  and make me go to the back where Norma, the shampoo woman, had shampooed me. He’d push me forward and remind me to thank her in spanish.

Smokey taught me from a very young age the importance of tipping and acknowledging people for the services they provide, but I was always embarrassed to do it because I constantly fought the urge to just let Norma know that next time I wanted 5 extra minutes of hair washing because when she massaged my scalp I wanted to pee my pants and melt out of my chair like a limp noodle all at the same time because it felt so good so if she could please NOT STOP next time, that would be great.

My dad’s haircuts were pretty good sometimes. But, as with all people starting out, there were the early years where he had not quite perfected his craft.

Smokey Scissorhands must have had some rusty shears back in the day or maybe he was feeling really creative. Who knows. Maybe he just really really liked Jim Carey.

This is what happens when your dad is a hair cutting control freak.

Apparently I am the illegitimate daughter of Lloyd Christmas.

Apparently I am the illegitimate daughter of Lloyd Christmas.

That’s me on the right and my cousin Ashley on the left.

Do you know how traumatic it was to discover my dad may be Lloyd Christmas?


I never questioned the paternity of crazy ass Smokey but I can’t let my spidey senses forget my uncanny resemblance to Lloyd Christmas from Dumb and Dumber.  And Ashley’s shaping up to be the spawn of Harry, so I don’t even know what is going on here.

With the sequel, Dumb and Dumber To coming out, I think my cousin and I deserve a role in the film as the illegitimate daughters of Harry and Lloyd.  If this were to be true, it would explain a lot. A LOT of coincidences.

Like why I had a pet parakeet named Harry, who just straight up flew out of the door one day straight into the blizzard of ’96.

Or why I foolishly popped some random meds in my mom’s mouth while she was sleeping after she said she had a bad headache, which too closely mirrors the scene in Dumb & Dumber when Lloyd and Harry get the hitman to take rat poison instead of his heartburn pills by accident. And I got yelled at too, once she woke up spitting out half melted children’s Tylenol or was it Fen-Phen? Can’t quite recall. Trauma of getting yelled at blocks the memory of which drug I tried to force feed her while she was unconscious.

After this hair cut, Smokey improved quite a bit. I’m sure there were a few other life-altering cuts he gave me, but I haven’t dug up any evidence yet.

When I was 12, he stopped cutting my hair because we got in a fight, didn’t talk for half of a year and I rebelled by getting my hair chopped off to my chin at Hair Cuttery.  My new goal was to no longer channel Llyod Christmas, but to embody Zac Hanson.

I like to call that hair cut MMMchop.

Come glittereffing struggle with me over on Facebook.

Santa’s On My Naughty List


All Santa gave me for Christmas is an upper respiratory infection and asthma-like symptoms. Bedridden, but I’m going to OD on packets of vitamin C today and drag myself across the street to the movies in a vitamin induced euphoric state. SANTA YOU LITTLE SHIT.

This is me, not even 3 or 4 days ago.  Raging at Venice Beach’s Nikkis with an old friend from college. Healthy and unassuming.

I was told I “look latin” in this pic.


As much as I’d like to take credit for channeling Sofia Vergara (iloveyou), it’s called having a perfect internet tan, compliments of instagram’s filters which make me look like I bake naked off the coast of Brazil.

I thought I did good for all human kind yesterday. I donated platelets at Cedars Sinai as I always do every few weeks and I went to Mass at Good Shepherd Church and I scheduled my volunteer work down on Skid Row for Christmas Day.

But no.

Santa did not give two glitterf*cks about all of that. He gave not even one. I cannot fathom the immensity of the f*ck Santa did not give about my do-gooding.

This is me today. Hacking up a lung. Letting last night’s church make up run down my face as I sob at heart warming videos on youtube about Beyonce fulfilling this little girl’s dying wish, which made me totally greatful to have just an upper respiratory infection.

I’m a lonely tinsel-toed, pajama wearing, cookie eating, bacon burning, sick, delirious Christmas effing miracle right now, but I’m happy.


Luckily, Ellen’s a nurse. The best thing about having nurses as best friends is that you get advice that wavers somewhere between holistic and “anything that gets the job done”.


So, after finding a baby diaper large enough to take the hit that Ellen suggests is coming from this onslaught of Vitamin C packets, I am going to drag myself over to the Century City movie theatre across the street and I think I’m just going to sit there all day and try to go to Anchorman 2, Wolf of Wallstreet, The Hobbit 2, American Hustle and Hunger Games 2 and occasionally come out to pour artificial butter oil all over my waning bag of popcorn and to get napkins to wipe off the purple stain arcing over my upper lip from Trader Joe’s Cocoban wine I snuck in in my giant white Louis Vuitton which has seen better days and I’m not sure if it is even real because a client gave it to me as a gift and she didn’t seem too concerned about it.

By the way, if you want a FANTASTIC red wine, grab the Cocoban wine from Trader Joe’s immediately.  It’s 6.99 and phenomenal for that price range and even makes a lot of those more expensive wines seem like the Housewives of Beverly Hills; expensive yet cheap quality.

These movies better be good. Because I can’t handle terrible today. I can’t. I just can’t. The level of can’t I’m on is up here. Hashtag Can’t.

Men Holding Babies. I hate you.


I wish so many guys would stop posting pictures holding children. you know that’s like instant porn for us? Especially when they are not your kids and you’re just showing your “potential father” side? STOP. You were an LA 4 yesterday and now two bellinis, a collared shirt for “special occasions” and a hug from a toddler later, you’re suddenly a 7.5. This is not ok. it is downright trickery and I will not have it. I will not.

It’s like men cant wait for holidays, not because they want to see family, but because the only baby within a 400 mile radius that they wont get locked up for randomly picking up and snapping a pic with, will be around for exploitation. “Oh Hey!!! Karen! I can’t WAIT TO SEEE YOUUU at Christmas and have your special mashed yam noodle eggplant puree tater tots! Oh, speaking of tots, are you bringing little Allen?? Oh, I know he’s been teething and bit your nipple off last week, but please bring the little tyke! I NEEED TO SEND PICS OF US TO THIS LITTLE TINDERONI I RIGHT SWIPED ON TINDER LAST WEEK”.


because it is working. it. is.working.

And those desperate enough who can’t get home to family, are the ones who are taking on the side gig dressed as Santa just so they can grab a pic with random babies across all Westfield shopping centers.


The Strategy of The Knockout Game


So. The new thing that idiots are doing is “The Knockout Game”. You punch some random minding his own dang business in the head who’s probably innocently sexting his life away to someone they right swiped on Tinder and then you come along and bean them in the temple and they are knocked out.

Seriously… What a dumb game.  I mean, yes, it is violent and awful, but it’s just really dumb outside of that.

There’s one requirement. Knock a stranger unconscious. oh.

The games I liked the best growing up had to do with people on teams or the skill of trying to catch someone or at least hiding or even killing each other in video games. You know, on a screen. Sometimes we wrestled?  Sometimes I played Solitaire when I was feeling real real lonely? Sometimes I made my Barbies get naked and make out in a gigantic multi-generational orgy-like kiss with Barbie and Skipper and the set of quintuplets?

But with this knockout game… I don’t know.  Are young people just that uncreative now? Did their parents, teachers and whatever adults are around them consistently, just not cultivate the creativity muscle in them? Did these people just like sit in a white room with a couple wooden blocks their entire lives and this is the best thing they can think up? Whatever happened to teenagers getting pregnant together? Whatever happened to young people taking too many drugs and getting naked in public? Whatever happened to joining gangs and shooting each other over the same 4 blocks of cement and wearing the wrong shade of purpley pink red green tornado brown?  Weren’t these activities ENOUGH?

What is the POINT?

Do you even get points? Do you win?  Are you racing someone else?  Is there a head punching goal?

Is there a glitter fiesta of glory that rains down upon you as your fists of lightening reach their victim?

Do you get extra points for punching yourself in the face?

Do you get penalized if you swing at someone and miss?

Are there teams?

Is there a rally cry?

Is this a strip tease kind of game? Like if you punch someone in the head your partner has to take off an article of clothing and whomever ends up naked first loses? Then you go to a park or someone’s basement and hook up as all desperate teenagers do?

If you are someone who enjoys participating in the knockout game, you should probably start off with Monopoly Junior first. You know, something light, something easy.  To familiarize you with what a “game” consists of, you know rules, goals, points, teams.

Not creeping on people. And hitting them.

If you think this is a game and you think this is fun, maybe unsupervised entertainment is just not for you, boo boo.

If someone knocked me out in the knockout game, I’d be pissed because I already HAVE ISSUES and I do not need my big ass head slamming against a metal pole and creating even more crisis.  Also, I dropped my phone enough this year, I’m on #3 ok, so if you knock me out and I drop my phone, you not only are going to pay my medical bills (and I’m an exaggerator, I mean good god look at my dang blog?!), you’re paying for my phone too and you’re going to have to answer all the idiots that get angry when I say “who’s this” every time I get a new phone, as if flirting two seconds at a bar is enough reason for you to have a permanent contact in my phone.  And I don’t think you want to deal with passive aggressive, effeminate, Peter Pan Syndrome LA boys, ok?

Anyway, the point is, the Knockout game seems so effing boring.  I’m not into violence anyway, but I feel like if I were to participate, I’d get bored fast and things may escalate quickly.

Like…YESSSSS THAT GUY IS OUT!!!!!!  So… now what? That’s it? We just run?  We don’t throw him in the river naked and steal his identity and buy steak dinners at Mastros? or anything? Oh, that’s…that’s murder and identity theft? OH IM SORRY I THOUGHT THIS GAME HAD STRATEGY AND AN EFFING POINT.  WHY ARE WE PLAYING IF THEY JUST LAY THERE.

Well, I hope it doesn’t ever escalate. I’m just saying. How do they not get bored?

I think anyone caught should seriously be publicly embarrassed about how uncreative and unintelligent they are.

I’m embarrassed for them.


When Life Gives You Lemons


When life gives you lemons, you need to effing squeeze those bad boys into all of the baby wounds life has cut you up with that you’re crying about and let the lemon juice burn those little scratches you think are lacerations until you scream because that lemon shit hurts and then once you’re feeling really alive because you just cleansed out your wounds with some powerful shit, wake the hell up and move your fat butt. up, over it, and forward. MOVE FORWARD.

Then never forget how terrible that shit felt so you don’t repeat the same mistakes over and over again.

I love you but move the eff forward.