It’s a good thing this isn’t life size or, you know, you’d need a microscope to see yours. Oh wait, this isn’t a dick…

In the style of “My Favorite Things.”

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Rain on my glasses, smalltalk, and proposals;

Fast cars and loud bars and stinky disposals;

Your face, DVD players, and tangled up strings;

These are a few of my most hated things!

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Rouched sleeves on t-shirts and dogs without leashes;

slow walkers, loud neighbors, and warm, sunny beaches;

overwrought novels and actors who sing;

these are a few of my most hated things!

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Yes, your poem bites!

No, you can’t sing!

People are “whos,” not “thats!”

These are a few of my most hated things;

And it’s not the pants, you’re fat!

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Happy New Year, assholes!

Hey party people! Just putting the finishing touches up for the mega-rager I’m going to be throwing tonight. I’ve got my Feminist Kill Joy banner up, the bras are crackling merrily in the fireplace, and the menstrual relief tea is brewing on the stove. Yep, it’s beginning to feel a lot like  Post-Sexism Neo-Socialist Utopia! And don’t you worry about getting bored. I’ve got activities a plenty. First, we’ll be pinning the pubic hair on the vagina(I would have gotten witty with the game name, but using euphemisms for vagina steals our power), then we’ll be pushing real hard until our leg hair grows, and then we’ll be taking back the word “cunt.” Be there or be square whatever shape you want because no one tells you what to do!

There are at least a couple of good reasons not to have a hot tub installed at your home. Number one: it’s not the 70s. But if you just can’t resist the urge to soak in a warm vat of diluted urine and spilled wine coolers, not to fear. The Hot Tug is here. (Hold your applause.) Now you can take your show urinary tract infection on the road white-trash lake to remind your neighbors of the urgent need to circle-circle-dot-dot give themselves a douchebag shot. It a public service, really.

Something tells me these feet belong to a very lonely woman that probably eats a lot of Dinty Moore Stew.

I don’t know who you are, pleated-jeans.com, but I know who you’re going to be — the father (or other mother) of my unborn child (or adopted dog).

The only thing worse than my phone ringing is an actual human at my door. So, yeah, let’s add annoyance to injury with a mega-tool-tastic piano doorbell. Jam your Chopsticks or Heart and Soul or whatever other song you learned at Church Camp, then pray to your god that I’m in the mood to kill you quickly.

I was reading Apartment Therapy (don’t get any ideas, you keep reading BHG until you finish the whole site, young lady / man) when I ran across this photo of a candle app. I was like, “This can’t be an actual thing. Someone is making mischief in the Photoshop.” Wrong. I couldn’t be bothered to click through to read the whole article, so I googled it. It’s real. Owning this app should make you a leper. Like saying “OMG” out loud. You should be declared legally dead and escorted by a mourning procession of your friends and family to an isolated colony where you can live out the rest of your days in a cave reading The Bible by your precious candle app. Unclean!

This is one way to keep your coworkers out of your lunch box. Another way is to fill the lunch box with pirañas. Less practical, but very dramatic. A third way is a decoy lunch laced with ipecac. I find a few hours of violent vomiting really makes an impression.

A few weeks ago we posted about how Bret Michaels is designing his own pet-wear. It appears that Steven Tyler’s emaciated corpse wants in on that. Well, not S.T.’s corpse, per se, but Puppylocks, makers of fine feather weaves for your pooch. Which is great, because I’d hate for there to be a totally played-out trend that our pets can’t enjoy. And just because, here’s a picture of a 90s cheerleader bow the groomer slapped onto my wolf hybrid. It’s all fun and games until someone gets their face eaten.