I liked the governor who bought hookers

New York State governor David Paterson has proposed an "obesity tax." He says:



I completely agree that public health programs should promote nutrition and healthy eating as way of avoiding long-term health issues. However, avoiding heavily processed and artificial foods in my own health-related decision. Diet sodas are full of chemicals like phosphoric acid and artificial sugars. Sure, they have fewer calories, but I fail to see how drinking a beverage sweetened with sweetened lab chemicals is a better choice than a natural soda flavored with cane sugar or a no sugar added juice. I should not be monetarily punished for not drinking diet.

Thoughts I've had while writing quizzes about children's books

*Monarch loves building sand castles!

*I had the chance to mention both underwear and vomit in this quiz, but I thought it would be inappropriate...I'm getting older.

*"Playful Little Penguins" would actually be "Dead Little Penguins." Sure, they rescued the stranded baby seal in the book, but in real life baby seal would've tried to chew them in half and mama seal would've succeeded.

*Ballet kitty, quit being an insufferable whiner. Deal with the purple slippers.
*These five little monkeys would've gotten slapped upside the head if they were human children.

*Picasso most likely tried to nail the girl with a ponytail.

*Hey Ted and Betsey, way to make a story about an ancient Mongolian race ethnocentric by talking about your irrelevant adventures in a minivan!

*What's the difference between "supermoto" and "motocross" racing? Very little.

*Matt and Maggie are rats. Their friend Fergo is a gopher. The rest of their classmates are humans...it's kinda like in the Bernstein Bears where Brother got named "Brother Bear" before he had a sister in that way that it makes little sense.

*Sabertooth! Megatooth! Hindenberg! Random series!

*If it features talking animals, then the book is most definitely not "realistic fiction."

*Why do the obnoxious know-it-all girls in books always have frizzy hair and glasses?

*These kids' pet dog is a better student than them! Their parents have terrible genes!

*Why did Lucy Goose run into the woods? Her parents didn't love her.

*I have resisted all urge to mention unicorns or werewolves, but I just found a way to make "attacked by river pirates" work for a fake answer.

*Parasites are the new cookies.

Things I despise more than I should...

Chapter 67: GUY FIERI



All I can think when I see Guy Fieri is: Who the hell lets you leave the house, let alone go on TV looking like that? I get it, your schtick is cooking low brow food, but you convey that by grinding pretzels to coat fried chicken and appearing on TGI Friday's commercials. You don't need to wear bowling shirts have bleached spiky hair with a dark goatee like you're the singer from Smashmouth. (And no one, including the guy from Smashmouth, should look like the guy from Smashmouth. When they first came out, they were one of those bands that got equal play on the alt rock and poppier stations...which means the band ends up playing on light rock stations and recording covers for high school movie soundtracks).

When forced to watch "Guy's Off the Hook," I was crossing my fingers that the Food Network had a new fishing show. But instead, I got to watch Guy wear sunglasses on the back of his bleached head rile up the crowd in his studio kitchen before he did anything. It was exactly like a lead singer refusing to start the set until the crowd cheered to his satisfaction. And as I thought, "Guy might as well be playing the F***ing air guitar," he started playing air guitar.

While reminiscing of his childhood pretzel stand, he said his dad still called him "Huck Finn" for making his friends work while he went on rides at a carnival. Nice literary reference Fieri family, but Tom Sawyer got his friends to white wash the fence. You fail. Oh and don't menacingly point bottles of mustard at the camera, like you're trying to douse me in it. It's not funny. Buy some mustache dye.

I am no longer a raccoon

During my insomniac binges, I've always joked about being part raccoon. But I spend very little time eating garbage and catching fish, so I've decided to make a list of ten other nocturnal animals I am more like than a raccoon. (note: I wish I could be a cuttlefish because they're so cool, but sadly I can't. I'm a terrible swimmer, don't move gracefully, have bad eyes, and am not made of calcium carbonite. The only thing we had in common was when they watched TV on a science video).



10. Pangolin: If I were a tropical, insect-eating mammal, I'd totally be covered in scales and destroy trees to find my food.




9. Red-eyed tree frog: I can be a flashy dresser when I want to be, and my eyes do turn red easily.



8. Owl: I be smart monkey. And vomit easily!




7. Black-Footed Ferret: The ferrets are super endangered, and there aren't many Kileys in the world.



6. Sloth: I understand the importance of upside down time and having a couch you can do it comfortably on.



5. Ocelot: I already was one. And my hair matches their fur.




4. Luna moth: I tend to wear and buy things in the color green frequently.



3. Cat: When I do sleep, I prefer to be folded up into a little ball.



2. Badger: My eating habits mimic those of the weasel family.




1. Shrew: Bitchy woman jokes aside, I have to eat frequently and am temperamental.

My favorite genre of TV show is "Abstinence only"

I'm sure that when LCD Soundsystem were talking about Daft Punk playing at their house they actually meant "a fundamental baptist family in Arkansas cooking breakfast and practicing violin."



"17 Kids and Counting," the Duggar's show on TLC, is my new TV obsession. I don't think they're bad people, and I like that they are a close-knit, loving family who financially support all the chilluns they pop out. But they've forsaken individuality for numbers. All the kids are homeschooled and play violin and piano. Except if you're a girl, the girls also have to play the harp. On the show, they don't talk about stuff like "Jimmy's really into dinosaurs" (I bet they don't believe in dinosaurs) or "Joanie's such a good artist" (though I have seen them play with crayons on the show).

According to their Web site, Michelle was on the pill when she and Jim Bob first got married. Then they decided they were being selfish and would have as many children as God saw fit, because biology has nothing to do with it.

Macgyvering my injuries

As I bled profusely after slicing my knuckle on a can of beans, I was happy I'd done laundry within the last two weeks because I had a clean towel to wrap around my hand while I debated the need for stitches. Going to a store with medical tape and proper splint making materials would've required putting on real pants, so I went for the next best thing: plastic knives and electrical tape.



Several weeks later, I have a pretty awesome new scar.

On power tool storage in Manhattan

I want a cow now

I can't stop watching this clip from "The Soup."



I'm glad she does get her cow, but I am terrified by the amount of spray tan she's wearing.

Ode to Asbestos

Ode to Asbestos

Ode to asbestos-
You come in so many natural forms:
Chrysotile, amosite, crocidolite, termolite, anthophylite, and actinolite.
I want to rub them all on my face.
You come in so many colors: Blue, white, and brown start your spectrum.
God’s rainbow after the flood must have borrowed your hues.

Oh asbestos-
You clothed the Greeks and built Rome so strong.
I want to wear one of your togas in a house of your transite slabs.
Your shingles and felt protect your flooring tiles below.
This acoustical plaster you created will amplify my calls of your praise.

Oh asbestos-
What I haven’t learned from your chalkboards!
Use your spackle to fill the holes in my life.
Mesothelioma is a small price to pay for your friable gifts.

Oh asbestos-
Your vinyl may be for walls and paneling, but let me wear it as pants!
I write this on your thermal paper and will post it with your adhesives.

Oh asbestos-
Your insulation keeps me as warm as the suit I need to remove you.

VOTING IS NOT JUST FOR GEEKS

Remember the episode of the Simpson's where Bart runs for class president after being nominated by Sherri and Terri (the purple haired twins)? From there, Bart rallies the popular support from the students in Mrs. Krabappel's class by promising more asbestos in the air, easy answers, and anarchy. He wipes Martin's campaign poster across his ass in front of a cheering crowd.

By election day, Martin looked like Lisa did after she drank the water at Duff Gardens, and Bart declared a victory party under the slide when Mrs. Krabappel announced the opening of the polls. As Bart passed out cupcakes to thank his voters, Nelson tells him voting is for geeks, Sherri and Terri say they didn't vote, Millhouse and Lewis say they forgot. Bart says, "Somebody must've voted." Then Millhouse says, "What about you Bart? You must've voted?" Beads of cartoon sweat run down Bart's face as he sprints back to the classroom to vote for himself, and the bell rings before he can get there. The polls were done. Martin and Wendell clutch each other and shout hooray for Martin's win. Bart demands a recount, and Mrs. Krabappel joyously shows him the only two votes cast in the election, and both were for Martin...and this can happen in real life too.

There's about 20 days until the election. EVERYBODY HAS TO VOTE. Obama may be leading the polls right now, but DON'T GET COCKY. HE HASN'T WON IT YET. There's still a lot of room for error, and you can help avoid that. Gauging by his classmates reactions, Bart should've kicked Martin's ass. But Bart got full of himself, and his classmates failed to simply write a name on paper.

Cautious optimism is fine, but don't pass out the victory cupcakes now. There are still debates left, and swing voters can change their minds by November. But more importantly, POLLS MEAN NOTHING. The only way to win an election is with VOTER TURNOUT. DON'T BE MILLHOUSE. DON'T EAT VASOLINE ON TOAST. VOTE. DON'T FORGET. TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS. Even if you are voting for the candidate who called his wife a "trollup faced cunt" in front of several reporters, get out there and vote. I may not agree with your opinion, but I respect our differences. Every vote is important! VOTING IS NOT JUST FOR GEEKS.

A ven diagram exposing modern threats 1, 2, and 3.

My friend K10 and I were talking about the problems plaguing this great nation of ours, and I drew this ven diagram to share the results of our discussion.

Lowering your standards in the BKLYN

This is the view out of my bedroom in my old apartment. Yes, that is my roommate's bedroom.

Using an adorable kitten as part of commentary on sex ed!

Kittens love looking a pictures of maps made of condoms. And kittens also hate people who don't believe in educating about proper use of condoms and all of the ways to avoid STIs, like the clap or the baby. (until you're ready for the later).

Slinky, slinky...

My favorite part of watching gymnastics on TV has always been how much the announcers use the word "apparatus," because that word just makes me giggle for no reason. That and "poodle."

Yeah, I'm really going to respond to that...

In Portland, strangers making conversation with me, especially on public transportation. In high school while I was walking around downtown, dudes would usually yell that they liked my long hair, some far less wholesome yells. But catcalls from the west coast got nothin' on the catcalls here on in the east. It's summer, so more people are out and about at weird hours, sharing all kinds of interesting thoughts with me. So with that, I bring you an old compilation of the top ten things that have been yelled at me while walking in Brooklyn and Manhattan.

10. "Hey Mommyyyyyyy.../psssst"

My neighborhood is mainly hispanic, so I hear these two classic, standard catcalls daily. Not gonna lie, it is reassuring on days when I think I look like shit. I also occasionally get offered help with my shopping bags. "Hey Mommyyyyy" is always hilarious, and the whispered whistle plays into my fantasy of being molested in a dark alley by that guy selling letters from a trench coat on "Sesame Street."

9. "Say 'Goodnight.'"

The same overweight man is always sitting in a wheelie chair outside his bodega. He says this every I walk by, except the time I was on the phone. Then he said, "Lady, stay off the phone."

8. "You dropped something." "What?" "Your dignity."

Apparently what thirteen year-old hood rats say when they're bored in Central Park. Maybe they saw my friend and me hiding in trees and jumping off rocks? I should've hit back with the equally witty, "You dropped your pocket."

7. "Me llamo."

Which translates to "I call" in Spanish, meaning I got dibbs-ed. One day I also got a long rant in spanish where all I could pick out was something about him asking if I wanted his salami. The answer was of course "Hell no!" but I went with my usual tactic of ignoring.

6. "Hey Cowgirl! Where's your lasso? I'll take you for a riiiiiide. Come on cowgirl! You can lasso me!"

Just what every girl wants to hear when the subway line she needs to take is down in the middle of the night! His friend finally said, "I wonder if she can hear you." I yelled, "I heard you." This started another round of "Well, you wanna go for a ride? You can rope me, I'll be your saddle." I did want to take a ride...in a taxi far, far away where my gold cowboy boots and I wouldn't get harassed.

5. "Hollywood star! Seriously!"

sunglasses+dress+heeled boots= movie star. OBV!

4. "Hey ladies..."

Nothing noteworthy about the words, except the fact that it came from a four-year old boy.

3. "You don't need to speed up, we see better girls than you everyday!"

I'm sure you're rolling in bitches, guys selling knock-off perfume from a stall on Canal Street.

2. "What's up Velma?!?"

This wasn't even on Halloween! It was walking to the train at 3am on Friday night. Some guy in a station wagon yelled out the window as he drove down Metropolitan Ave. I yelled "F*** you, I'm not a cartoon character!" He said, "Why you looking like one?" I said, "Why are you an asshole?" Someone new comes up with the Velma comparison weekly, as if I haven't heard it. It doesn't bother me anymore, because I do have a short bob and wear glasses, but any dude yelling at me from a car is getting a earful back.

1. "Heeeey! You textin' me?"

From a NYPD officer sitting in his car at the intersection I was crossing while looking at a text. My response, "Yeah, you f**king wish!"

Things I despise more than I should...

Chapter 58: MICROSOFT FEATURES ON SLOW COMPUTERS

Few computer-related things fill me with more rage than the office assistant in MS Office. Chase your butterfly away, little kitty. You can turn yourself into a bike googely-eyed paperclip? That won't help me if I get the blue screen of death. I know you're trying to help, but I still wish there was a "maim" option when I right click to make you go away.

Also, I'd like to know why Internet Explorer has a pop-up bar to brag about it just blocked a pop-up.

Oops! The belles are liberated!

I'm sorry, cab drivers, for walking on June nights wearing shorts or a dress to meet my friends at a bar. I realize feminine clothing must mean I'm a damsel who wants you to save me from the distress of a peaceful walk during the time of night where I don't start perspiring as soon as I leave the house. I'm sorry if I live in a neighborhood where no one wears shorts or skirts longer than mid-thigh. I usually flip off cab drivers when they try to give me an unsolicited ride, or put together a choice string of obscenities. But one night, a stealth cabbie attacked. I was a two blocks out of my apartment, walking not too far from the BQE off-ramp. I saw several cars out of my peripheral. One came from out of nowhere, driving way slower than the rest. The car pulled up right next to me, and said, "Hey."

"NO," I yelled. He kept driving next to me.

"NO," I yelled again. He wouldn't go away. I turned my head slightly, preparing to yell again, this time slightly turning my head. The car was not yellow and didn't resemble any sort of Lincoln. It was some kind of newer Honda/Hyundai/Saturn, and the driver was leaning over his passenger seat to lower his head to see me out of his passenger window. His symmetrical payot ringlets bounced in front of his full beard and he wore a white shirt under a black suit jacket. Holding some kind of book in his hand, I'm pretty sure in Hebrew, he crouched down his head lower and asked me, "Hey, where you going?"

"Far, far away from you," I yelled, keeping my head straightforward. He continued to mutter and drive slowly next to me for about ten more feet, I kept storming down block. A second after he drove off, I stopped dead in my cowboy boots and said, "eeeeeeww," out loud.

If not covering my hair with a wig and wearing skirts above my ankle make me a tainted harlot to someone, I guess they could confuse me for a hooker if while I was clad in my gold cowboy boots, halter top and short shorts. But I can't ever understand masking my inner scumbag with any sort of pious exterior.

Less people on the west coast...

...means there's more room for giant rock candy in Tacoma, Washington.

Dearest L train...

Dear L Train,

I gave you two dollars. I could've bought taco. I could've bought a pack of gum. I could've bought a 40. I could've bought a laser beam ring from a vending machine. But instead, I gave you my money because you could drive me two stops from Manhattan to my house. I was patient with you when you ran slow, because I knew you'd at least get there. As you approached my stop, I was dreaming of the shower I was going to take, thinking about how I'd be in bed soon and get some sleep before reporting to Snoopy in a few short hours. You kept approaching at the same crawl, I stood up when I saw a sign for Lorimer street, and you sped up halfway through the platform.

You did not stop. You did not open your doors. You kept accelerating, then slowing down, then speeding up. I gave up my dream of a timely shower and felt like I was in that river scene in the original Willy Wonka, then I started singing "Going up the rails on a crazy train..." in my head. The other passengers kept swearing and hoping.

But you failed us.

Apparently, I was supposed to understand your garbled, mechanical voice as you pulled into Brooklyn at Bedford Avenue saying that was the last stop until you let me out nine full stops in from Manhattan so I could hear a twelve year old girl with a nine year old's voice make out with her boyfriend and talk about their moms waking them up. She had hickeys all over her neck. If there had been a bucket drummer anywhere near me, I would've shanked him with whatever I could find. Instead, I waited 20 minutes for another train that didn't even run express stops.

I want my two dollars back.

I went to the future

And breakfast foods bury the dead.

Smithsonian Institution of Parenting

Oddly enough, the bin of piranhas didn't even have a Sharpie on cardboard warning.

Modern Party Planning

In early high school, my dad told me three ways to tell if I was at a good party:

1. Windows are throbbing from the music being too loud.
2. There is at least one dog running through the house.
3. There are people passed out on the woodpile.

Sadly, by the time I started going to parties that would end in splinters in the face, woodpiles were out of vogue. (Even growing up in Oregon). It's taken me years to come up with a list of possible modern equivalents for number three. My list so far is: dining room (or basement) dance party, at least one of your friends thinking they are in a different building than reality (i.e. convincing self you are in a cottage as opposed to a tiny apartment), noise complaints from up or down neighbor (passive aggressive notes get double points), or peeing outside due to no hope for using the bathroom.

I may need to expand the number of the modern list. But I do know that every time I see a dog at a party, I pet him in between his ears and think, "I'm at a good party."

Color this, bitch.

She wanted to be a “pretty mom.” She wanted people to find out her kids were in kindergarten and second grade and say, “I can’t believe you’re old enough to have an eight-year-old.” Her skin was smooth and her hair healthy and she always wore sundresses with big straw hats. But not old lady at the beach type get-ups, more like the kind that say, “I read the fashion section of Vogue and Oprah for my casual summer ideas.”

For being as calm and reserved as she seemed to be, her kids were rowdy. But I did like her daughters. Whenever the three of them came to the restaurant I was working at, it was in the dead hours of the afternoon. The girls would come up to the counter, spin on the stools and tell me stories about monsters that turned people into pies. Talking to Izzie and Christa was considerably more entertaining than talking to my ghetto fashionista co-worker about shoes or colored jeans. Pretty mom liked to pretend Izzie and Christa’s stool spinning bothered her, but she’d simply passively tell them to come sit back down from the comfort of her booth.

One day, Pretty mom actually stopped at the counter on her way back from the bathroom to ask the girls to sit back down. I busted out my no-fail trick with children: I told Izzie that if she went and sat back down, I would bring her some crayons. Izzie’s eyes lit up. Pretty mom rolled hers and said, “Oh are you a baby?” Christa got really excited too and asked me, “Can I color too?!” Pretty mom said, “Oh I have two babies?” I said nothing, but thought, “OH lady, your kids are getting the big box of crayons.” When I brought the 24-pack of Crayolas to the table, Pretty mom said looked at the girls sheepishly and apologized for them. I looked at her and said, “Hey, I’m 23 and I still color.”

I watched the girls color. I thought about visiting family in Texas when I was in middle school, the trip when my sisters and I convinced our second cousins to get kids menus at restaurants and color with us. Every time I waited on Pretty mom after that, I brought out the crayons for Bella and Rosie. My mom didn’t teach me much about being pretty or dressing up, but she taught me a lot about coloring.










Note: I know the technical “big box” is the 64 pack, but the 24 pack in my possession was the big box compared to my other option of a seven pack of crayons.

Next up, hair extensions.

Last Friday was apparently fake hair day in Brooklyn. While riding my bike down Myrtle from Bushwick to Park Slope, I saw an orthodox jewish boy wearing a gigantic grey beard and two very white guys in an SUV wearing rosta hats, complete with fake dreads. I waited until the next night to rock fake hair when I dressed up like Frank Zappa for my friend's "Come as a dead musician party." Sadly, I couldn't find anyplace open that sold fake mustaches after 8pm on a Saturday night. Due to waiting till the last minute, I had to go with facial hair plan B: Wet and Wild eyeliner.



I think I used a slightly too obscure reference, but it's very rare I get the chance to dress up as a rock star and artwork with a beard simultaneously.

I've got a cigarette...

Maybe Tilda Swinton is channeling her inner spicoli minion.

Clamato, eh?

A few glasses of cheap wine, a can of sparks and a broken bloody Mary into the night, I was fixing bloody Mary number two. Number one had fallen onto the ground, smashing my friend’s pint glass and covering my shoes with vodka, tomato and the spices I scrounged from his kitchen. I made number two right in the bottle of tomato juice. Ever so delicately, I hammered ice cubes into the bottle with my hand. A guy with long hair smiled at me while selecting a drink from the dregs of the liquor supply. I smiled back and went back to fixing my drink. I could feel he was still standing there, so I looked up again. He was staring at the bottle. “You totally had Tool and pink Floyd patches on your backpack in high school,” I thought. (Not that I didn’t). I also thought he didn’t get out much if he was so fixated on me destroying ice cubes so I could have a frosty drink, with minimal broken glass.

“Clamato, huh?” he said.
“Makeshift bloody Mary, “ I said.
“With clam?” he said.
“What?”
“Clamato has clam juice in it,” he said.

According to the official Clamato website, Clamato was created in 1969 as regular tomato juice with a little flair—which were spices and clam juice. Drinking Clamato is essentially like having Manhattan style clam chowder through a straw. The juice is the key ingredient in the bloody Cesar, Canada’s most popular cocktail. (Essentially a regular bloody Mary with the power of clam and oregano). Budweiser created Cheladas, which are Bud or Bud light in a tallboy combined with none other than the world’s most popular bivalve infused juice. Clamato’s website seems surprised by the beverages success, claiming it created a whole new market for juices called “Seafood blends.” According to my research, the only other brands in the market are Friskies, Whiskas, and Meow Mix. I have no idea who else is selling seafood juices to humans. In fact, up until that party, I had no idea Clamato even existed.

“You’re shitting me,” I said to former tool fan. He told me to read the label. I looked at the ingredients, and dried clam broth was listed right before red dye number 40. “Fuck! I thought that was just the brand of juice like V8 or something. You just ruined this for me,” I said.
“Oh don’t be like that, you liked it before I said anything,” he said.
“I guess…” I started at the bottle.

Normally, I’m neurotic about reading labels because I try to avoid artificial and unnecessary ingredients (high fructose corn syrup, anyone?). My guard was down that night; Clamato was the only brand of tomato juice the bodega had. Picking out drinks while you most of your brain is still in afternoon nap phase apparently means you ends with orange flavored paint thinner to wake you up and liquid fishy vegetables in an attempt to make yourself feel healthy. I’m not allergic to shellfish, I’m not kosher, and fish is the one meat I still ate occasionally. But I’m so the opposite of adventurous with seafood; if it had tentacles or lived in a shell it creeps my shit out. My new found aversion to my drink reminded me of the episode of “Who’s the Boss” when Mona’s chowin' down on something, raving about delectable it is, and when she finds out it’s dog food she starts spitting and making vomit noises. “I can be above this,” I thought. My taste buds were drunk anyway.
“Oh fuck, there’s a picture of a clam on the label,” I said to my friends Set and Amanda, who were already dying laughing at my Clamato. I could only picture liquid clams. I was above it. I set the bottle down on a table and finished the rest of my vodka straight.

Hooray for recycling

I'm restarting my old blog, Alpha Wolverine, as k.wolverine. So to start, I'm reposting the only two entries from my previous blog...

Maiden Voyage:

Top Ten things people have yelled at me while riding my bike in Brooklyn:

Since moving to Brooklyn, biking has become my main mode of transportation. I live in and commute to work through neighborhoods where the fellas just love to yell things at girls. Honorable mentions: Some orthodox jewish kids throwing rocks at my roommate and I as we rode to a party/ hey rider/ I like your bike.

10. "Hey mommy/beautiful/cutie!"

I know nothing screams sex appeal quite like my work pants that are two sizes too big and my super cool helmet, but it's really great to get reassurance before 9am.

9. "Hey, wait, sexy!"

Sorry delivery truck driver, I had to get to Target and buy muffin pans.

8. "Watch it, Bike-O!"

I responded, "You watch it, walkie!"

7. "Hey I'll take a ride."

I'm not sure what he was gesturing at, but something tells me I've never been drunk enough to even consider taking it around the block."

6. "Nice titties!"

No explanation needed, just a note that I either need to move or wear a trash bag when I go out.

5. "Heeeeey...you got something on your neck...you got somethin on your neck...I'm just joking...c'mon..."

I was waiting to cross the street and there was one other guy there. He was close enough to see the mole on my neck and remembered that girls really like it when strangers compliments on

4. "Move Bitch, get the f*** out the way!"

I did, even though their beater was in my lane.

3."Awwww, take me witchoo!"

Oh yes, stranger of the daylight, hop into my basket and let's ride off together along the JMZ tracks and get splashed with mysterious subway water, which will later cause us to have matching skin legions.

2. "You can do it, hipster!"

You're right, I can stand on my pedals to travel up hills. Thank you for noticing. I've also gotten, "Pump those legs, girl!"

1. "You don't like yourself very much, do you?"

I was riding toward traffic and as I passed a parked delivery truck and the driver quietly asked me about my self esteem from the window. I've also gotten "Are you f***ing retarded?" while riding toward traffic.

Reason #407 why my homestate rules:

I grew up in Oregon. While living there, I never developed any sort of loyalty or hardcore fandom to a college sports team. But I think this video converted me to being a Ducks fan.