[ Disclaimer : This post contains foul language. For those who don’t partake, wrinkle your noses and scroll past. ]

If you’re still reading: thank you, support this blog. If you aren’t –  well, fuck you, and your dog.

Kick back and break out the popcorn. It’s time for a little rant.


It’s the age of the troll.

The keyboard warrior. The entitled feminist. The newsman stroking the flames. The smiling politician. We know who they are. We know what they say.

“You have an opinion, mister? Well guess what – it isn’t welcome here. My fundamental right to talk out of my asshole takes precedence over your boring, researched, clearheaded statements of fact and ingenuity.” 

“I AM the empowered woman – rich, famous, unafraid to talk about my vagina.  But don’t get me wrong: you are ALL empowered women; that is, if you aren’t a farmer, a police officer, a social activist, a teacher, an officer of the army, a taxi driver, an IT professional, a scientist, a diplomat – you know, any of the un-sexy ones.”

“I heard about what happened, we were the first at the scene! But the world doesn’t – and so, good sir, you are screwed. I’m going to put my own spin on it on behalf of dicks I suck in the morning for breakfast. I’m going to change the world by changing the truth, and you – you, the ‘sheeple’ of the world – are going to swear by it.”

“Why, my son, I heard you. You’re saying you have too much power and you just can’t handle it. Well I did a little beggin’ and now you gave it to me. So, now, I have this here whip, and here’s what I’m going to do – I’m going to dangle a nice, juicy carrot in front of your powerless gaze with my fishing rod, and I’m going to tell you what I want. I’m going to stand right behind you, because that’s just how I operate. Then, I’m going to whip you little bitches up; I can guarantee that you are going to make my dreams come true.”

Everyday, I feel like giving it back. It would be awesome. It would be therapeutic.


I want to find “@sixtyniningchipmunks”. I want to go to his house and curse him out, then I want to get online and eviscerate him for the world to see – with my words, of course. I want to call him out, and I want him to feel my pain.

I want to take pictures of my maid (she sweeps floors for a grand a month and keeps three kids in school) and put it in the newspapers : She’s doing more to end gender inequality than anyone I know. I want to show my town the face of the Woman who does, and does, and does, and does, and does some more, but somewhere in the backdrop of our jungle, hidden by our ignorance.

I want to use my average intelligence and my extensive internet research (Wikipedia, Scoopwhoop, you name it) to make myself a bunch of papers I can read out of, and then I want to fire up my video camera and look straight into it with my sleep-deprived eyes. I’m going to contradict every single unfounded accusation, every last pig-headed, sexist statement, every mention of the world “society”, you name it. Then, I want to put this on YouTube and wait for the likes to just… appear.

I want to find that lady who promised me drinking water and garbage disposal. I want to walk down that asphalt road flanked with statues of her favorite dildo, the road she built with our money. I want to gatecrash her son’s fourth wedding or her grandma’s nineteenth baby shower or whatever insanity that warrants such an ostentatious display of wealth, and I want to ask for my money back.

I want to do so much.

But I won’t. I’ll sit here, bitch and complain.

If only calling a bad person a cocksucker would bring some positive change to the world.

If only saying things would equal doing things.

Oh well.