I’m in the mood to write a present-day sequel to Pulp Fiction centered around Butch and Fabienne’s nineteen year old daughter.
Her name would be Emmanuelle, and the main story would revolve around her cross-country revenge quest to retrieve her father’s gold watch after it is stolen off his arm the day he’s murdered during a robbery at his Big Kahuna franchise in Knoxville, Tennessee.
Jules, still on his righteous path to “walk the earth,” becomes Emmanuelle’s unlikely mentor as she learns about her father’s shady past, and her journey of self-discovery turns into a bloody rampage through the streets of Los Angeles when she figures out how Butch’s murder is linked to Marcellus Wallace’s crumbling criminal empire.
She eventually finds the watch (a potent symbol of the American Dream, each generation sacrificing to pass it on as a birthright.) Of course, she finds it damaged beyond repair and realizes that it’s just a useless hunk of metal she never even wanted in the first place.
It all works out in the end when Mia Wallace, now a powerful TV executive, offers Emmanuelle a role in the remake of Fox Force Five.

I’m in the mood to write a present-day sequel to Pulp Fiction centered around Butch and Fabienne’s nineteen year old daughter.

Her name would be Emmanuelle, and the main story would revolve around her cross-country revenge quest to retrieve her father’s gold watch after it is stolen off his arm the day he’s murdered during a robbery at his Big Kahuna franchise in Knoxville, Tennessee.

Jules, still on his righteous path to “walk the earth,” becomes Emmanuelle’s unlikely mentor as she learns about her father’s shady past, and her journey of self-discovery turns into a bloody rampage through the streets of Los Angeles when she figures out how Butch’s murder is linked to Marcellus Wallace’s crumbling criminal empire.

She eventually finds the watch (a potent symbol of the American Dream, each generation sacrificing to pass it on as a birthright.) Of course, she finds it damaged beyond repair and realizes that it’s just a useless hunk of metal she never even wanted in the first place.

It all works out in the end when Mia Wallace, now a powerful TV executive, offers Emmanuelle a role in the remake of Fox Force Five.

1. In the interest of getting the fuck out of Los Angeles as quickly as possible, I took the 5 up through the Central Valley. It’s an ugly drive, but I made great time. Crashed with friends in Marin. Grilled out. Smoked out. Passed out. I got a lazy start the next day, but finally made it up the 101 through redwoods and rocky beaches to Oregon.
2. Woke up early and went whitewater jet boating through the Rogue River wilderness. The day was wet and majestic. I saw punk-as-fuck bald eagles, a goofball sea lion, a herd of elk, an adorable family of otters, a ridiculous pile of turtles, and most amazingly, a deer and a bear eating berries out of the same briar patch. Fuckin’ nature, man.
3. Digs at the Jupiter Motel. Dinner at Doug Fir. Drinks at Union Jacks, where I got hit on by a dreadlocked lesbian stripper named Pantera who swore it was her real name. (Her mom apparently had a thing for/with Phil Anselmo.) The next morning, I brunched at Pine State Biscuits and briefly attended the Soapbox Derby at Mount Tabor Park as my Portland-flavored ironic hipster experience. I walked into Powell’s and signed a copy of my book, which felt like checking an item off my bucket list. After dinner and drinks at Clyde Common at the Ace Hotel, I felt like I’d done Portland properly.
4. Scored a last-minute room at the Crater Lake Lodge. (That never happens. They made me promise not to tell anyone.) Ate a weed krispie treat and hiked down to the bottom of Crater Lake in my Chanel sandals (definitely not the recommended footwear.) Fully clothed and high as fuck, I jumped off the cliff rock into the freezing cold lake. It was baptismal. The jump was terrifying, the water was delicious, and the plunge was the most refreshing thing I’ve ever felt in my life. I got to watch the sunset over the rim during the hike back up, and there was a roaring fire waiting for me back at the lodge where I feasted on bison and a bottle of pinot noir.
5. The lake was too beautiful. I needed a buffer of ugliness and shit before heading back to Los Angeles, so I decided to poison myself by driving to Reno. It worked. I tried to get in the mood to play a little blackjack, but all I could do was smoke a few cigarettes and watch morbidly obese gamblers feed bills into the Dolly Parton themed slot machines. I nearly choked on the metaphor.
6. The drive through the Sierras was gorgeous. I wasn’t quite ready to go home yet, so I pulled off at Mammoth, rented a little motor boat for twenty bucks, and got caught in the rain out in the middle of Lake Mary. It felt like the perfect way to end my trip. The rest of the drive was one long exhale as the mountain range receded into urban sprawl.

1. In the interest of getting the fuck out of Los Angeles as quickly as possible, I took the 5 up through the Central Valley. It’s an ugly drive, but I made great time. Crashed with friends in Marin. Grilled out. Smoked out. Passed out. I got a lazy start the next day, but finally made it up the 101 through redwoods and rocky beaches to Oregon.

2. Woke up early and went whitewater jet boating through the Rogue River wilderness. The day was wet and majestic. I saw punk-as-fuck bald eagles, a goofball sea lion, a herd of elk, an adorable family of otters, a ridiculous pile of turtles, and most amazingly, a deer and a bear eating berries out of the same briar patch. Fuckin’ nature, man.

3. Digs at the Jupiter Motel. Dinner at Doug Fir. Drinks at Union Jacks, where I got hit on by a dreadlocked lesbian stripper named Pantera who swore it was her real name. (Her mom apparently had a thing for/with Phil Anselmo.) The next morning, I brunched at Pine State Biscuits and briefly attended the Soapbox Derby at Mount Tabor Park as my Portland-flavored ironic hipster experience. I walked into Powell’s and signed a copy of my book, which felt like checking an item off my bucket list. After dinner and drinks at Clyde Common at the Ace Hotel, I felt like I’d done Portland properly.

4. Scored a last-minute room at the Crater Lake Lodge. (That never happens. They made me promise not to tell anyone.) Ate a weed krispie treat and hiked down to the bottom of Crater Lake in my Chanel sandals (definitely not the recommended footwear.) Fully clothed and high as fuck, I jumped off the cliff rock into the freezing cold lake. It was baptismal. The jump was terrifying, the water was delicious, and the plunge was the most refreshing thing I’ve ever felt in my life. I got to watch the sunset over the rim during the hike back up, and there was a roaring fire waiting for me back at the lodge where I feasted on bison and a bottle of pinot noir.

5. The lake was too beautiful. I needed a buffer of ugliness and shit before heading back to Los Angeles, so I decided to poison myself by driving to Reno. It worked. I tried to get in the mood to play a little blackjack, but all I could do was smoke a few cigarettes and watch morbidly obese gamblers feed bills into the Dolly Parton themed slot machines. I nearly choked on the metaphor.

6. The drive through the Sierras was gorgeous. I wasn’t quite ready to go home yet, so I pulled off at Mammoth, rented a little motor boat for twenty bucks, and got caught in the rain out in the middle of Lake Mary. It felt like the perfect way to end my trip. The rest of the drive was one long exhale as the mountain range receded into urban sprawl.

One of my fans just sent me a pic of her freshly inked “Stay Wild” tattoo. I fuckin’ love it!

One of my fans just sent me a pic of her freshly inked “Stay Wild” tattoo. I fuckin’ love it!

80’s-era Axl Rose in handcuffs? Check. Back seat of a police car? Check. Voyeuristic photographer with a perfect shot? Check.
Looks like today’s blowjob fantasy is complete.

80’s-era Axl Rose in handcuffs? Check. Back seat of a police car? Check. Voyeuristic photographer with a perfect shot? Check.

Looks like today’s blowjob fantasy is complete.

*72
amandasmind:

Saw this at respectables a few weeks ago here in west palm beach.

Nice.

amandasmind:

Saw this at respectables a few weeks ago here in west palm beach.

Nice.

This video smells like herpes and bong resin.

Is it wrong that I wanna blame Lena Dunham for this greasy hipster aesthetic? Probably. I blame Lena Dunham for a lot of things that aren’t really her fault, like cronuts and internalized misogyny.

Plus, I really can’t stand this rancid flavor of stringy haired indie-bro.

These scraggly douche mops are always lounging by the hotel pools in skinny jeans and leather jewelry. They’re the ones in town from some crusty fuck corner of London or New York who talk endless shit about LA while picking their toenails right in front of you. Then they wanna hit on you by aggressively trying to trade sunglasses. No thanks, dude. I don’t wanna catch head lice from your neon wayfarers, and if you don’t like it here, you can fuck off back to the gloomy pale underbelly of whatever urban jungle you find most authentic.

Whatever. If you ignore the band, I guess this is a decent little tune. I don’t suppose anyone minds a bunch of gap-toothed dirt squirrels flopping around with their tits out. If rug burned knees and cheap lingerie are your thing, then hey, who am I to hate on a good time?

Nobody else is being honest about it, but the real reason folks are manufacturing outrage over this Rolling Stone cover is because Tsarnaev is looking kinda fuckable.
According to the traditional narratives, we’re supposed to be dehumanizing this swarthy foreign terrorist. Monsters are meant to be grotesque, and here he is looking like some sensitive singer/songwriter. How dare Rolling Stone allow him into a cultural space reserved exclusively for rock stars?
Please. It’s no accident they used a photo of the kid where he vaguely resembles that one-night-stand every sorority girl fucked on a foam mattress in some youth hostel that summer she backpacked through Europe.
The editors knew exactly what they were doing. It’s deliberately provocative. It was intended to elicit an uncomfortable reaction, and it seems to be working.
This is mainstream media trolling at its finest. 

Nobody else is being honest about it, but the real reason folks are manufacturing outrage over this Rolling Stone cover is because Tsarnaev is looking kinda fuckable.

According to the traditional narratives, we’re supposed to be dehumanizing this swarthy foreign terrorist. Monsters are meant to be grotesque, and here he is looking like some sensitive singer/songwriter. How dare Rolling Stone allow him into a cultural space reserved exclusively for rock stars?

Please. It’s no accident they used a photo of the kid where he vaguely resembles that one-night-stand every sorority girl fucked on a foam mattress in some youth hostel that summer she backpacked through Europe.

The editors knew exactly what they were doing. It’s deliberately provocative. It was intended to elicit an uncomfortable reaction, and it seems to be working.

This is mainstream media trolling at its finest. 

Tampons Confiscated, Guns Still Allowed At Texas Capitol

I want so badly to show up at the Texas Capitol with a .50 caliber revolver loaded with tampons and be all like, “Your move, Tex.”

Keep it up, you condescending twat waffle.

Every time you start one of your spoon-fed, middle-brow opinions with the phrase, “as a mother,” all I hear is a mooing sound that reminds me you’re a fear-based consumer with stretch marks.

Motherhood is not a badge that validates your dumb fuck arguments. Your world view has not suddenly become more sophisticated now that you’ve squeezed a tiny shrieking version of yourself out of your vagina.

"As a mother" doesn’t score any points with me. You were an idiot before you gave birth, and you’re still an idiot now.

Schadenfreude of the Day

A conspicuous number of the married couples in my life are starting to get divorced. This isn’t a surprise. It’s right on schedule.

I called it years ago. I knew this shit would happen at a ridiculously high rate to all my idiot friends who got married between 2008 and 2010, especially the ones coasting on the fumes of their extended adolescence right as the economy took a shit all over their dreams. You know, the clueless souls who didn’t have anything better to do with their lives, so they figured they’d solve all their problems with a bunch of big dumb weddings.

I spent three years biting my tongue in a bridesmaid dress, letting everyone have their temporary high, hoping against hope that none of my friends got knocked up before the novelty wore off and they finally woke up one morning horrified at the thought of spending the next half century with the first one-night-stand who bought them breakfast.

Well, that morning has long since past, and the forces of matrimonial inevitability have brought forth the great crumbling of 2013. It’s ugly out there, and if I danced to that godforsaken Jason Mraz song at your wedding, it’s safe to assume your marriage is fucked.

It’s the kind of thing that would be funny if it weren’t so sad, because these days when a marriage implodes that shit turns into an interactive social media soap opera. I’ve spent hours looking over my BFF’s shoulder witnessing the intimate, gory details of divorce splayed out on public timelines that read like a Nora Ephron screenplay in reverse.

Not to sound terribly voyeuristic, but this is the first time I’ve ever really been tempted to sign myself back up for Facebook.

Horrible, I know, but I’m a sucker for tragic comedies.

Yeah, Robert Pattinson really did give me his electronic cigarette at the Beyonce concert tonight. When I asked him for a lighter, he thought I was fucking with him. Honestly though, I assumed it was a one hitter until he showed me how to use the damn thing. Bizarre little moment, and of course, he’s a total sweetie.

Yeah, Robert Pattinson really did give me his electronic cigarette at the Beyonce concert tonight. When I asked him for a lighter, he thought I was fucking with him. Honestly though, I assumed it was a one hitter until he showed me how to use the damn thing. Bizarre little moment, and of course, he’s a total sweetie.

Dear Voters in Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Mississippi, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, and Virginia,

Hey y’all. Now that the Supreme Court rendered Section 4(b) of the Voting Rights Act unconstitutional, all of you will now be required by state law to present a photo ID at the polls.

I know you’re too busy planning what side dishes to bring to your 4th of July barbecues to give much of a shit about fair and free elections, but these new voter ID requirements cooked up by your Republican state legislators are a blatant and transparent attempt to disenfranchise underprivileged voters.

That’s a super shitty thing to do, but I’ll tell you what, in the spirit of compromise, how about we make ourselves little deal?

If you guys agree to enact new laws that demand the exact same registration and photo ID requirements for every firearm transaction in your freedom-loving, gun-worshipping redneck of a state, we’ll let you keep those shady-ass photo ID requirements at the polls.

Think y’all can handle that? Jesus would want it that way, I promise.

Bless your hearts,

The Coquette

Every time I see Rick Perry’s grinning idiot face, I hear the Dukes of Hazzard theme song in my head. I know it sounds silly, but he doesn’t even seem quite human to me. He’s more a cartoonish monster built from the spare parts of characters from that show.
He’s got the dumb-fuck huckleberry charm of Bo and Luke Duke, Cooter’s magnificent lack of sophistication, the bloated power of Boss Hogg, and Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane’s limited understanding of the law. The only Hazzard County character he’s nothing like is Daisy, which is unfortunate, because Daisy Duke is a third-wave feminist icon who could rock the shit out of some cut-off jeans.
Rick is very much the opposite of a feminist icon. Hell, if the contemporary American patriarchy could be condensed down into one thick skulled white dude, you couldn’t ask for a more perfect specimen than Texas Governor Rick Perry. The man makes George W. Bush seem urbane by comparison, and that’s fucking scary when you consider how much executive power he tosses around as a pro-death penalty/anti-abortion evangelical shit-kicker.
Yep, Rick is an obvious villain. A bumbling one, but still very dangerous. He’s a neanderthal with media training, and he’s got just enough political savvy to do some serious damage to the reproductive rights of millions of Texas women.
Ugh. I hate being reminded that he exists, but the ugly truth is that he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. He’s probably gonna run for governor again, and he’s almost definitely gonna run for president.
Come to think of it, maybe he should have a small place in history. If Hillary Clinton is gonna win the presidency in 2016, there’s no one else I’d rather see her destroy on election day than Republican nominee Rick Perry.
Mmm, yeah. That would be fucking awesome.

Every time I see Rick Perry’s grinning idiot face, I hear the Dukes of Hazzard theme song in my head. I know it sounds silly, but he doesn’t even seem quite human to me. He’s more a cartoonish monster built from the spare parts of characters from that show.

He’s got the dumb-fuck huckleberry charm of Bo and Luke Duke, Cooter’s magnificent lack of sophistication, the bloated power of Boss Hogg, and Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane’s limited understanding of the law. The only Hazzard County character he’s nothing like is Daisy, which is unfortunate, because Daisy Duke is a third-wave feminist icon who could rock the shit out of some cut-off jeans.

Rick is very much the opposite of a feminist icon. Hell, if the contemporary American patriarchy could be condensed down into one thick skulled white dude, you couldn’t ask for a more perfect specimen than Texas Governor Rick Perry. The man makes George W. Bush seem urbane by comparison, and that’s fucking scary when you consider how much executive power he tosses around as a pro-death penalty/anti-abortion evangelical shit-kicker.

Yep, Rick is an obvious villain. A bumbling one, but still very dangerous. He’s a neanderthal with media training, and he’s got just enough political savvy to do some serious damage to the reproductive rights of millions of Texas women.

Ugh. I hate being reminded that he exists, but the ugly truth is that he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. He’s probably gonna run for governor again, and he’s almost definitely gonna run for president.

Come to think of it, maybe he should have a small place in history. If Hillary Clinton is gonna win the presidency in 2016, there’s no one else I’d rather see her destroy on election day than Republican nominee Rick Perry.

Mmm, yeah. That would be fucking awesome.

Tales From Whole Foods

     I screamed and spit simultaneously. “Ugh! I can’t believe you just made me swallow. Fuck you, asshole!”
     “Ha! I thought you liked it raw,” said the resealable bag of Kool Ranch Organic Kale Chips.
     “I feel violated. You’re horrible. I’ll never get the taste of you out of my mouth.” The gluten-free vegan superfood pretended to ignore me, fully expecting that I would eventually take another bite, but there was no way I would ever make that mistake again.
     “Whatever, bitch,” sneered the kale. “I’m too good for you anyway.”
     “Get the fuck out of my face, you revolting pile of pretentious hipster cabbage!”
     “You’ll miss me when I’m gone!”
     “No. I will not miss you, kale chips. You’re just another disgusting health snack fad. In a few years, no one will even remember that you existed!”