I’ve always preferred Old Testament God over New Testament God. Smite makes right, I always say.  But that was before I discovered New New Testament God. He’s not a vengeful God or a forgiving God. He’s a fucking bat-shit crazy God. No, no. This chef isn’t the Antichrist. Ronald McDonald still has that gig covered. Look at the lower right corner. That’s breast-milk cheese, the latest greatest thing in New New Testament God’s creation (i.e. Brooklyn). And don’t worry, according to this NYP article, it tastes pretty much like cow cheese. So, you know, the benefits are obvious. Don’t question New New God’s wisdom! Or the way he applied those almond slivers to that cheese ball. His cheese balling is beyond reproach. Amen.

Via Buzzfeed, The All-Knowing.

If I ever see a “no camera” sign on your front door, I promise you I’ll hex your vagina. And if that’s not available, I’ll cast a spell on your ass fat and make it multiply every time you mention kegels — anal or otherwise…

Diamond ice? That’s fancy and punny. I usually make my ice in ziplock bags because that’s what I learned from Martha Stewart during our brief stint as roomies in a South Texas prison. Of course, she’s classed up since then so you won’t catch her rising dirty. That’s a little maximum security bakery humor. Laugh or get shanked.

Sweet Jesus, the mere production of this thing set back women’s rights like 18,000 years. And it’s only been 24 hours, but I’ve already had my butt patted, my boob grabbed and that’s just when I dropped my dad off at the airport…oh don’t worry, that just made me throw up, too.

Surprisingly, these coasters are one of the least offensive things in the Natural Disaster, God-hates-your-hedonism collection. Waaay tamer than the Exxon Valdez Oil Cruet or the Earthquake of 1908-because-it’s-too-soon-to-talk-Haiti Salt and Pepper Shakers. And that’s a fact, um, Jack.

P.S. Please send all your hate mail to Krista. Okaythanks.

When I tire of Red Vines for breakfast, I like to make stuff that only requires adding water and spraying Pam on a griddle. That’s why I love this shit*. And maybe it’s the spinster in me, but I like that I can save the extra batter in the fridge for three whole days…just enough time to knit a new cozy for my cat.

*I know this is such a random effing post, but seriously, Shake ‘n Pour is so good and easy!! (Kind of like your mom.)

This past weekend I went to Gay Bingo followed by Gay Line Dancing. And it really got me thinking about how narrow-minded these napkin rings are. Seriously, they’re like the red states of tableware. Get hip, bitches. It can be boy, boy, girl, girl, too. Or boy, transgender, girl, girl. Or boy, boy, donkeyfucker, girl. You know, whatever floats your boats…

I told my last man-friend that I wanted a trip to Paris for Valentine’s Day. Instead, he got me this Eiffel Tower broom. Yeah. Paris, Paris icon-shaped broom? Same dif. Just like being sedated and operated upon with a surgical blade is the same as me duct taping you to the floor and going after you with a rusty cheese grater. What? You’re the one who wanted a vasectomy.

PS – All of that is a lie. I hate fucking Valentine’s Day.

Remember that crazy son-of-a-bitch in No Country For Old Men? The one that removed his own bullet? I want to be like him. Bowl cut and all. That’s why I’m buying this adorable little sewing kit…to stitch up my flesh after I totally kick your ass. And I will, too. Because it’s 6:38 on a Friday and I’m still at work and someone is gonna pay. And that someone is you. Did I not make that clear?

I think these salt and pepper shakers are just about the cutest things ever. And I totally hate that I like them because it makes me weak and feminine. Oh great, I totally just menstruated.