Category Archives: Seriously…WTF?


On Tuesday, I walked to work. Along the way, I smelled the following: ramen, eggs, and semen.

It was so nauseating that I was afraid I might be you know what… but really, it just happened because semen-smell at 8am is just fucking disgusting. Especially pre-coffee.

City living at it’s finest, right?


Ways to Torture Your Dog

Way back when this blog was just a baby (as opposed to the slightly larger baby it is now), I did a post on the “Ultimate Pet Accessory” — which was nothing more than dog anus jewelry. I am unhappy to report that 186 Etsy-loving dog owners no longer have to tolerate “Mr. Brown Eye.” Good for them.

Since then, I’ve stumbled on a couple other ways to torture your poor pup.

Exhibit A:

“Hey guys! I have, like, the BEST idea! You know how everyone, like, luuuuuuvs those little purse dogs? What if we make that, like, a real thing? I mean, like, what if the dog, like, WAS the purse? We could it a ‘PuppyPurse®!’ OMG it’s the best idea eva!!!!!!!1!”

At least, I imagine that’s what the ditzy blonde who invented this is thinking. I mean, really, who looks happy in this picture? (Hint: It’s not the dangling one.)


Exhibit B:

This is a clip-on device that enables your pet to post “tweets” to Twitter via wifi. It’s called Puppy Tweets. Your pet will tweet whenever it moves, barks, or naps.

I’m not kidding.

This may be a sign that the end of the world us nigh.

And the best part is, your furry friend will trust you completely when you snap this on his neck! He loves you unconditionally!

(obligatory photo credit)

Or maybe he just doesn’t know any better.

Poor pup. Too bad it doesn’t tell you when your dog just ate the trash or peed on the rug, though. Then it might actually be… you know…


I often wish I was a dog (I mean — no job, no responsibilities, someone to take care of your every need? SWEET!), but today, well… I’m just not so sure.

Lying recipes

Mmm, I LOVE a good cookbook! The ones chock-full of gorgeous full-color glossy photos of mouth-watering meals just begging me to throw caution, money, and time to the wind to replicate them.

Of course, I KNOW that the food looks so damn good because it is professionally prepared by a chef, then artfully arranged by a food dresser, then captured by a trained photographer. Since I’m none of these, I know my dinners will never be worthy of an 8×10″ glossy. But it will least look appetizing and bear SOME resemblance to the photo, right? I like to think that if I was thismuch better at everything, my food would look like their food.

Well, unless the recipe is lying to me, of course. Yes, LYING. Full on, complete and total deception, by a photo of something not at all resembling anything that could be produced by the described cooking process. An example, you ask?

My brand new Weight Watcher’s cookbook has this gorgeous and tasty-sounding recipe for Pork Marrakesh, made quadruply attractive by utilizing my best friend, the crock pot. Pork, dried apricots, cinnamon, what’s not to like?

Looks fantastic, no? Those perfectly browned pork chops! Those tasty caramelized red onions! Delish!  I couldn’t wait to serve up this gourmet, attractive dinner to my man!

But, um, wait…

THAT’s not what I ordered! Disintegrated pork and completely unrecognizable onions? And what’s with the thick sauce? There’s NO sauce in the professional photo! Admittedly, I did leave this in a *bit* longer than specified, but extra time is just a blink in the eye of a crockpot. I may have forgotten the cilantro, but that’s also not the difference. Duh.


1) The food in the photo was not cooked in a crock pot. Period, end of story.

2) Never trust the gorgeous photos. You’ll just be disappointed in the end.

And the kicker? This mush tasted like crap.

*sigh* Live and learn.

The Ultimate Pet Accessory

You really must be kidding me. Etsy, you’ve done it again.  First the sausage light switch cover, and now this.

Yes, that is jewelry for a dog’s anus. You know, to boost their confidence by covering unsightly anatomical features. “No More Mr. Brown Eye?” Honey, you should not be allowed to own pets.

For more disturbing hilarity, check out her website, Yes, Rear Gear. Pay special attention to the “About” section. Oh my, oh my.

Seriously misjudged marketing

Victoria Secret, what has become of you? I expect sexy, curvy, appealing women gracing the pages of your catalog, women who are so alluring that I have to hide aforementioned catalog from my boyfriend. But today, what do I see?


What the hell are you selling here? Some miracle drug to stretch your torso? Shoulder enhancers to make you look like a linebacker? Surely not that godawful top!

Oh, oh yes, the jeans. Those saggy, foot-eating, sorry-ass jeans!

This poor woman. I’m sure she’s stunning and gorgeous, but instead she looks up looking like a freakishly proportioned waif.

No wonder the jeans are on sale!

And then, there was a sandwich

When I was a kid, my sister played B Team soccer, which meant that my family spent our weekends traveling around to watch her play. The most — or only — memorable trip took us to Willits, California.


“Gateway to the Redwoods,” my ass. Willits is an armpit.

Money was in short supply in my family back then, so Mom and I drove up and down the one-block main street trying to find an affordable hotel, which, incredibly, was impossible to find. We finally found the cheapest one, and when Mom asked if there was vacancy, the lady replied, “Oh, you have daughtah? I give you clean room.”  One night spent sleeping on top of the covers to avoid the cooties and not touching the walls for fear of asbestos poisoning taught me that you never pick the cheapest place just because it’s the cheapest. Big words coming from a total skin-flint like me.

This week I went to Portland on a work trip, and, of course, but put in the cheapest option — University Place, located on PSU’s campus.

People, please believe me when I say that you do NOT want to stay there. I could handle the total inefficiency of the climate control, the minimum level of comfort, the crappy decor, and the overabundance of men and seeming total lack of women in the building. I could have gotten over the fact that my room was as far as possible from the lobby in an empty-feeling hotel, causing me to double- and triple-check the locks on my doors. What I couldn’t handle was the utter lack of cleanliness.

I walked into my room expecting a boring, bland, uncomfortable room. Instead, I saw a sandwich. A SANDWICH, unwrapped, with several bites taken out!


Ok, no, this wasn’t THE sandwich — but take this one and wrap it in cellophane and put it in your supposedly virgin hotel room, and you’ll get the picture.

I took a deep breath and, not wanting to be a overly uptight person who is too aware of her consumers’ rights, threw the sandwich away. I ignored the lumpily-made bed, too, as well as the coke can full of cigarette butts on the balcony. I warily eyed the giant wet cleaning sponge in the shower, but knew I could deal. When I found that the soaps had all be used, however, I lost it.

The staff handled it gracefully and quickly ushered me to a new room that smelled strongly of cleaning supplies — what a welcome scent at the time! — but believe me, next year, the cheapest option will not be an option.