funny blogs

Family Time

One of the most basic tenants of being an Oreo is that you do not spend time en masse with other browns and blacks. If you do things like go to Renaissance Faires, oboe conventions, regattas and while collar office spaces, this is fairly easily accomplished. The one time it’s a real bugger to work around is when ~~you’re guilted into~~ you decide to go visit people you’re related to…and they live in the South.

However, like most of the jams that Oreos find themselves in, there are ways to mitigate the damaging proximity to melanin that one must experience during obligatory small talk fests with people who share your genetic code.

It should be noted that Oreos prefer getting marmalade and not jam. (source)

It should be noted that Oreos prefer getting stuck in marmalades and not jams.
(source)

I just got back from such a trip and wanted to share with you my tips and tricks for not seeming quite so black when you’re in the company of a whole buncha black folks.

Pack Appropriate Reading Material

Hundreds of people will walk past you on the plane, so make sure you aren’t holding something hella ethnic like Oprah’s magazine or those Beatz headphones. Instead, try a copy of The Harvard Business Review or Epitaph for a Peach. Why relax when you can use journalism to fend of judgement and remind yourself of how poetically you’re not thinking about all that you’re not achieving.

Pass Through Airport Security Without Unloading All Liquids

The airport is a place where it is defs not okay to be brown. One the last three flights I’ve taken, my boyfriend has managed to get through security with razors in his bag while I’ve been accused of having too many toiletries bags and had my hair inspected as though I just got back from a missionary trip in the barrio and they wanted to make sure I didn’t have lice.

But this time was different. Maybe it was because they figure no one on their way to Raleigh Durham would be up to trouble. Maybe it was the fact that it was a red-eye and we were all tired. Or maybe it’s because the fact that I just totally forgot to take a couple of bottles out of my bag looked like such a boss move to them that they couldn’t bring themselves to do anything but let me go.

Stay At A House Where Slaves Used To Work

If you’re gonna go to the South on a trip, you might as well go to The South. Instead of staying in an RBP-tastic place like La Quinta or The Hampton Inn and Suites, I chose a delightful little B&B. That was built in 1847. In the Confederacy. That was owned by a rich legacy family. Which means that once upon a time, it’s very likely that a house girl made the bed that I refused to while I was there. (Well, not the same bed. This bed was too comfortable to be 166 years old.)

I’m in there somewhere. And always will be

Identify Favorite Patterns

There was another bonus to the ex slave resort. And I’m not talking about the awesome wainscoting or the gladiolas or the awesome sitting room where yes, I claimed that I had the ‘vaypas’ so I could sit in the awesome chair. This place also had the same toile pattern that appears on an ottoman I just bought. It was like the house was calling to me from afar. I wouldn’t have been surprised if at the end of the trip, my vision rack focused on a photo from 1864 where I stood grinning with the rest of the house staff while a voice over reminded that I was a guest and I’d always been a guest…

Spend An Hour Or So Discussing the Pros and Cons of the Artistic Director and Conductor of the Local Philharmonic

In case you were concerned that I didn’t come by my Oreoness honestly, you only need to meet my uncle and aunt. I hadn’t seen these people in a decade. But instead of catching up about ourselves (boring), we threw on a classical hits CD, talked about each movement and shot the shit about who brought out the best in what movements (totally not boring!)

Make Small Talk re: Who Has Better Summers, Scotland or Switzerland

Trick questions. It’s Basque, obvs.

And just as soon as I finish paying off student loans, I hope to always be here.

Stuff Emotions So Deeply That You Feel Full Enough to Refuse the Fried Chicken

RBP are known for their clever comebacks, snappy repartee and their delightful disses and dozens. So when a parent decides for the 10,000th time to describe not just you looked like at birth, but your afterbirth at birth, many RBP would have something to say that would stop that conversation in its tracks. But where’s the challenge in that. Anyone can walk out of a room, set some boundaries and decide not to engage in inappropriate conversation topics. But it takes real skill to sit and endure. To smile and nod. And to not get all up in someone’s business about it. And that is a skill I’m proud of. In large part because it really does turn your appetite enough that you can honestly say that no thank you, you’re fine with just the roll and you don’t need the okra, greens or pecan pie. … okay, maybe a little pecan pie.

You’re also not going to want to eat ham salad again. Not after that story.
(source)

When was your last trip home? How did it go? Any advice for next time?

How to Sleep Better at Night

Last week, when it was approximately Day #871,433 of waking up with a crazy stiff neck and tight back screaming at me, I figured it was time to do stop relying on bedding from Marshalls and handle my back and body pain like an adult. So I did.

If you’re having neck or back pain, I suggest you follow these easy steps.

1. Ignore symptoms as long as possible. You have other things do with your time besides go to the doctor. There’s that pile of clothes you’re going to keep thinking about putting away. That book you’re contemplating reading. And that Law and Order: SVU marathon is not going to watch itself.

2. Rule out problematic treatment options. Look, you could “go to the doctor” or “work with an occupational therapist to figure out what daily habits have ruined your spine” or “kick your cats out of bed or at the very least don’t be afraid of moving them so you’re not sleeping in a cursive m shape” or “try to calm the eff down for one minute and stop letting the needless anxiety twist you into knots and win.”

But those things take time. You don’t have time (see Step #1). You need results. Preferably that you can walk to. That you don’t have to deal with an overburdened medical office staff for.

3. Walk to the conveniently located Relax the Back store. It’s a nice day outside, enjoy it.

4. Awkwardly test pillows while a salesperson stares at you pretending to sleep. Heads up that you don’t need to tell them that to accurately recreate your sleeping conditions, you’ll need to remove all your clothes and add one glass of wine (okay, maybe 2), but you do need to be okay laying on a bed while someone looks at you with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. It’s kind of like going to the doctor. Or on a second date.

5. Balk at the prices of this pillow that you love and makes you feel like a dream. But fuck it. You’re already here. What are you going to do? Try another store? Go back to Mervyn’s? That’s all the way across town. You’ll spend a bunch of money on gas getting there, so even if the pillows there are cheap, you’ll have spent the same amount of cash anyway. What? You drive a Leaf. Whatever. Just take the damn pillows and go have lunch.

6. Toss the new pillows on your bed. Don’t worry about getting ride of the old one. Just leave them there. If they’re thin and crappy enough, it’ll be like they’re not there anyway. If the old pillows are big and fluffy enough, then you’ll look like you live in a Crate and Barrel catalog.

7. Curl up on your Lovely and let the cats sleep on the new pillows while falling asleep in your usual fashion. Sure, this won’t exactly cure your back problems but you can rest easier knowing that you tried. And at least the cats aren’t at your feet anymore.

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How do you sleep at night? Let us know in the comments!

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Diary of a Mad White Black Woman: Fried Chicken Confession

Dear Diary,

I apologize. I am abject. I throw myself on the mercy of the court.

I would never have cooked it if a dear friend hadn’t asked. And I would never have eaten it if it wasn’t ~~so amazeballs deliciou~~s… I mean… ~~close to my face~~… I mean …the only way I could have saved those orphans. Yes! That was it! It was the only way! I swear!

I asked myself after eating if I felt more black. I replied to myself that no, I did not. I only felt ashamed…which is basically the same thing.

There are, however, some times when it’s okay to eat of the chicken… and sometimes I get it right…ish

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Making Friends… Sort of

Not sure that the newest member of my blanchetourage appreciates exactly what he has in this Oreo! (my apologies in advance for what is, apparently, a bootie pop)

Need to grow your blanchetourage (hopefully with better luck than I’m having)? Click here to find out how!

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Oreos A – Z: G, H

A little set of rhymes to keep Oreos on their best behaviour.

G is for Gallup
A survey we hate
Why do they look so confused
When we check the box for our race?

Just because we cross out “–ther” and scrawl in “–reo” is no reason for them to get snippy
(source)

H is for Horse
Like you probably thought I would say
Everyone who loves ’em
Throw your hands up and say “HAY!”

Don’t look at me like that, it wasn’t that bad.
Plus you love hay. So whatever.
(source)

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What Not To Say When Everyone In The Room Shouts The N Word, Then Suddenly Realizes You’re Also In The Room

Zumba. I love it. Especially on nights like tonight.

Zumba is actually tricky for an Oreo. During the dance-style group exercise class, some of the moves can come dangerously close to looking like popping and/or locking. So as a good Oreo, I always try to stiffen up a little on some of the hippier moves so as not to frighten the other dancers or myself.

What I feel like when I work out

And then tonight, something wonderful happened. I don’t know what the song was (Sondheim didn’t write it, so I was at a loss), but everyone else in the room did. As we danced, they sang along and sang along and sang along. Suddenly, a group n-word was dropped.

I couldn’t have been more thrilled.

Usually, when there’s an RBP in the room, people would shy away from one of the most offensive words in the English language. They’d think twice about shouting out in unison a word that has probably gotten people killed. At the very least, it’s gotten people into debates on Oprah’s couch–which for an Oreo might be a scarier place than the business end of a revolver. Normally, if an RBP was in a room, people would maybe try to be polite.

But not with me there. It was like they didn’t think I was black at all!!

Unfortunately, as quickly as my happiness was upon me, it disappeared. For seconds after they said the word, they caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and everyone looked embarrassed. No one sang along for the rest of class.

What I look like when I work out

My apologies, ladies (and you, one rockin’ gent) for sullying tonight’s good time. I will work on my pointe and hopefully blend in much better next time.

Granted, some of the following did go through my head, but thanks to my Oreo training, they stayed inside and my outside voice never took control:

What the effing eff??! Why do you all know this song???!
What the effing eff???! Why did you include this song in your playlist??!
I might need to speak to management about this.
I’m concerned you might not understand some basic points of everyday etiquette
You’re right, it is ~just~ a word after all, you stupid whale cunt.
*sobs*

Any of those responses would have seemed really RBP-like. Sure, the growing ulcer in my stomach might one day take over my entire digestion system. But I’ll look darn good while I’m convalescing. Yay, Zumba!

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Day 3/4ish – I’m Just a Girl, Standing in Front of Store Where Julia Roberts Said She was Just a Girl…

(PS: For those of you keeping score at home, yes, I’m back in the states. Told ya on Day 1 I wouldn’t update this travelogue in any sort of organized fashion. And I am an Oreo of my word).

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Attended the largest street party in Europe…and left shortly before it became absolute mob madness. The Notting Hill Carnival is definitely something that would have been a blast if I had companions at moment. When I got there, it felt very much like Halloween in West Hollywood. Everyone in the streets, lots of drinking and both men and women wearing very few clothes. I have never seen so many women’s bottoms in my life!!

Though, great ideas for Halloween costumes.

The English seem to have a different standard of body-shaming than we do in the states, or at least LA. The video above is some of the best of the best looking folks, but there were a good number of people who I’m sure had sparkly personalities, but maybe could have done with bigger sparkly bikinis. To be fair, most people couldn’t pull off the dearth of clothing featured on the street that day. Myself included. There are plenty of things I look lovely in. Floss and carpet swatches are not among those things.

While I’m watching this parade of self-esteem exercises, the imperfect human in me thinks this is great and is glad to know that while I’d never allow someone to stick a sparkly triangle onto my front butt and then parade around the streets, but that if I did, there is a place that would accept me. And that place is Notting Hill, London, UK.

For reals, though. Pasties technology has come a long way! It’s muggy in this city and the fact that none of those ladies’ codpieces got moist and slipped right off is pretty spectacular. I imagine they use similar adhesives on space shuttles.

The English also have a different attitude toward partying. Included in the brochure I was handed at the mouth of the event was a note about how to most effectively get drunk (neat Rum), a post script saying that the gaggles of scary lads with their sagging pants are just there to have fun and chase girls, so please don’t mind them and an invitation to go ahead and grind up on someone because that’s what Carnival is about–dancing with strangers.

I feel like in the US, the brochure would have pretended that only sluts get drunk and/or dance and that there would be no boys with saggy pants on the grounds because they would have been arrested upon arrival just for good measure.

The only knowledge I’d had of Notting Hill was the movie Notting Hill, so it was nice to see the street alive and real. It would have also been nice to see Hugh Grant, but the samba bands were pretty spectacular.

By the time I left, the crowd was shoulder-to-shoulder and mostly drunk. I can see how this would be an amazing place to be with a group of friends. Alone, though, it started to feel a bit like the one Mardi Gras street fest I went to. I was young then. And willing to get beads. At first it was silly and fun, but by the end, I was being lifted off the ground by strangers. Not okay. I’m sure nothing like that happened in Notting Hill last night, but I felt like I had enjoyed as much as I needed to. So I found the prettiest park I’ve ever seen, I sat there and I wrote a bit.

It’s pretty here.

Now having a cup of tea and I think I understand why I didn’t like tea before. I never drank it with milk. Or actual sugar. Or from leaves. Always bagged tea with no milk and with Splenda.

I’m realizing that it’s very possible that I actually only like milk and sugar; but never mind that. This tea is amazeballs.

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Day 2/3ish – What Happens in the Sky Above London…

You’ll think this picture is sweet until you read the first paragraph of this post.
(source)

I’m pretty sure the mother and son who sat next to me on the plane on the way over here were sleeping together. This was days ago, but I know they’re in this city somewhere. I hope I don’t run into them again. Except that I kinda hope I do.

They first sat behind me even though, per their conversation that I overheard, they were meant to sit next to me. About 10 minutes later, a guy told them that they were in his and his husband’s seat. The Mother and Boy moved to the seats next to me and the boy said, loudly enough to be heard over the drone of the engine: “Uhhh, did you hear that guy say ‘husband’? He’s a guy and he called that other guy his husband.” Then he turned around and looked at them.

His attention was stolen, however, by a very tall guy who took the edge seat on the other side of the aisle from me. To be fair, the guy was very tall. Nearly 7 feet. To also be fair, sure, he’s tall. But that’s it. Just tall.

“Wow!” The Boy yelled again. “That’s guy’s tall! Have you ever seen someone so tall? I haven’t seen anyone that tall. He’s so tall.”

And I get it. It’s interesting to see things we haven’t seen before. I myself have been blown away by the number of full body burkas I’ve seen in London. But after your eyes take it in for about a second, it becomes imperative to think: “Yes, there are people who aren’t like me. Ah, well, back to my life.” … Unless those people who are different from you are an incest couple. Then you include them in your travelogue and talk about them at parties. Open incest is interesting. Height is just the luck of the genetic draw.

The Boy then pulled out a gallon-sized bag of Famous Amos cookies and said, “Whatever. As long as I have these, I’ll be happy.” Then he looked in the bag. “They’re all gone already?” Then he kind of started to cry.

Breakfast of champions. And creeps.
(source)

It should be noted that by “boy,” I mean a man of maybe 25 to 27 years old.

To console the cookie-less kid, the Mother gave him a hug and offered to tuck him into the seat so he could sleep. The Boy barked orders at her to move his pillow, move his blanket, move his pillow back, take the blanket off, tip his hat the other direction, pull the blanket up by his ear, NO NOT THAT EAR, JESUS! Each time, the mom didn’t punch him in his lazy face. Instead, she just took her orders and cooed at him. Then, right before he fell asleep, the Boy grabbed the Mom’s hand and held it. The way you might if you were, I don’t know, sleeping with that person.

Their hands curled around each other like vines on a post and there they drifted off.

A few hours later, we were all awake and the woman was drinking a gin and tonic. Sure, it was nearing noon where we were landing, but it was like 9 a.m. back in our own time zone. Though, I supposed if I were fucking my son, I’d need a drink at 9 a.m., too. She also had a grip of bruises on both of her arms above the elbow.

Later in the “afternoon” the Boy woke up and said a host of other very pleasant things like: “I know I’m fat, but I only like thin girls. I can’t help it.” And: “Marcie said that if she was 32 and still not married, she wants my sperm. I told her she can come and get it now.” Mom just listened and laughed along. Which was the best course of action because every time she would start to do anything for herself like read or watch TV, the Son would take it from her – rip the book out of her hands or change the language on the TV to Chinese.

All these events were punctuated with odd moments of sweetness. Like when he told her that he was really glad they were all taking this trip together. That it was nice that everyone was at an age where they could enjoy it. They both smiled sweetly like regular people and it was just enough for me to think that I was nothing more than a cynical jerk who can’t appreciate families who are close. But then the Mom teased the Boy by saying: “You know, I should make you and your sister room together.” And in my head, I screamed “YES, YES YOU SHOULD!!” and when the trolley came by, I ordered a glass of red wine to get through this “afternoon” of family love.

Now yes, it’s possible this wasn’t a Mom and Son. They could have been an Aunt and Nephew and the part of their family two rows behind us could have been an Uncle and Niece and not a Father and Daughter. Either way, they shouldn’t have been holding hands that much and the adults should have roomed together.

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As uncomfy as listening to them was, it wasn’t nearly as bad as what this woman went through. She woke up to find her seat-mate’s hands in her shirt and fending off a request for a kiss.

I think this is the firs time I’ve ever been unnerved by someone on a plane. I hope it’s the last.

What are your worst airplane stories? Let us know in the comments!

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A Smattering of Things I Should or Should Not Have Been Thinking During My First Couple’s Massage

The first time someone said to me: “Hey, have you tried one of those Chinese foot massage places,” my first response was “of course not because I don’t hire prostitutes.”

For some reason, when you put a culture name in front of a verb, it takes on a whole new meaning.

“Dancing” = okay, sure that sounds fine.
“Latin Dancing” = now I’m hot and bothered. And there’s a rose in my mouth.
(source)

But Chinese Foot Massage is about a billion times better than any prostitute could ever be. Unless that prosti threw in a CFM during whatever else s/he’s doing.

Here’s how it works: You sit in a room full of a dozen or so very large, very comfy recliners. Your pants legs are rolled up and your feet are dropped into a bucket of scalding hot water. You kind of want to scream, but you don’t want to look like a pussy about it. I mean, if that 80-lb Mandarin octogenarian next to you can handle it, so can you.

And you can.

After a few seconds, the herbs or magic or chlorine or whatever is in that water takes over and it just feels goooood.

While your toes are soaking, the nice masseuse starts the rub down. They rub your head, your face, your neck, your arms and your shoulders before pulling your feet out and starting up. They spend a lot of time down there and they must be doing something right because you start feeling like you really need to fart, but you don’t want to be a jerk about it.

Then you realize if that 80-lb Mandarin octogenarian next to you can let one slip, then you can too. So you wait for them to leave to get a towel and you do.

They come back, dry off your legs, turn you over and rub you down top to bottom again. And if you’re me, when they get to your bottom, there’s a tittering of Sino-Tibetan language and then some laughter. And that’s okay because it just feels so dang amazing.

The whole thing lasts just over and hour and costs $15.

Yes. $15. Let’s hear it for folks having been indoctrinated in factories.

I took my Lovely to my favorite local CFM place this weekend and noticed for the first time that among the recliners, there was also this curtained room.

“What happens in there?” I asked the host.

“Prostitutes,” I kinda wanted him to say for good measure. But he didn’t. Not even to humor me. Instead he said “oh, we focus more on your back and neck than the feet.”

I’d never gotten a massage behind a curtain and I had just finished a couple Irish Mules, so I thought this was a great idea. Lovely didn’t argue. So behind the curtain we went.

“Okay, take off your clothes,” the host said. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

Mind you, just on the other side of this thin sheet of linen were people. Strangers. Regular folk who were just there to get their feet rubbed and who had no idea that nude little me was going to be running around 2 feet from them.

You never know what’s behind the screen. It could be me.
Or Pauly D.
Either way, my apologies.
(source)

But I had just had a couple of Irish Mules, so I thought that was fine.

We disrobed, in walked a dude and a girl and they went to work. And so did my brain. I know that you’re supposed to “relax” during a massage or at some point in your life. But that’s just not how I do. Instead, I do like this:

Not sure how I feel about the heart-shaped face hole on this table. What if I had come here with a girlfriend?
Oh, good, I get a girl masseur and he gets a guy one.
Not that I’d be upset if he got a girl one. I’m not the jealous type.
Am I the jealous type?
Oh wow, she just climbed right on my back. That’s fine.
I wonder if that guy is standing on Lovely’s back?
Is it wrong that I don’t get jealous?
How much am I going to tip?
Why can’t I get the timer on my AC to work?
Maybe my cats will be fine if I don’t leave the AC on.
Why am I trying to kill my cats??
I wonder if my cats and his dog will get along.
I should really write something about the election.
Probably just gonna blog about this massage instead.
Is she still kneeling on my hamstrings?
And oh, is she stretching my Achilles’s tendon with her toes??
She has really dextrous toes.
Is he stretching Lovely’s Achilles’s tendon with his toes?
Does that make me jealous?
No really, I should write about the election. It’s nuts out there. “Legitimate rape, wtf?!”
Eh, a list piece’ll be fine.
Should I have booked a hotel in London by now?
I’m sure I’ll find something.
If I don’t find something, will I have to stay at a hostel?
If I stay at a hostel will I be robbed?
Oddly enough, Hostel 2 had a decent plot and really beautiful set design.
Why the eff did I watch Hostel 2??
I think I know someone who watched The Human Centipede. I’m at least doing better than whoever that was.
He and I are both nudey on these tables. Should I be feeling sexy right now?
Because wanting to fart is not sexy.
I think if I felt sexy right now, this would be come prostitutey.
Kinda wish I couldn’t feel her breathing on my face. Really like having my face touched though.
I love living by the Oreo code, but seriously, why are there never any ethnics here?
…I mean apart from all the Chinese people who work here.
Do other ethnic people just hate luxurious comfort?
Awww, Is he snoring?
Holy shit, I just thought snoring was cute. I’m in trouble!
I wish there was a way to sleep and also make out at the same time.
They could totally hack off my arms and legs right now and thanks to this warm towel on my face I’d have no idea it was coming.
I wonder if that would make it hurt less or more.
Pretty sure you’re not supposed to be thinking about getting hacked to bits during a massage.
…Or speaking to yourself in the third person.
No, c’mon, I can totally use this time to come up with some really cool, pithy piece about this ridiculous election.
Or just come up with a coupla jokes about prostitutes and call it a day.
Is it problematic that a couple of the songs I most like to belt were sung by prostitutes?
Probably no less problematic that the role I most want to play is a man’s role.
I wonder what else she does with her toes.

Spoiler alert: I was the only one of us who got climbed up on and toe’d.

I hope he’s jealous.

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Is there CFM where you live? How do you not spend 100% of your time there if there is? If there’s not, how do you relax?

Let us know in the comments!

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Wherein I Write A Letter That Is Unlikely To Be Answered

Dear Dryer,

You had to go and do it again, didn’t you? Seriously, you couldn’t let it go just this once. You just had to make a point, exert your will, control this situation, get the last word in and piss me right the eff off.

These beautiful Mossimo pants, which were once a pleasant size 8 are now, despite my having dried them on your “delicate” setting, a stomach crunching size 4. Thanks, dryer! There’s not a Target on every corner. It’s gonna take me days to replace these. Days! Oh, what’s that?? I should just order something online so I don’t even have to leave my desk? Whatever. Ease of acquisition is not the point. What is the point is that you’re a dick.

You mess with Target clothes, you mess with the Mizrahi. And you don’t want to see the Mizrahi when he’s angry. PS: He’s always angry.
(source)

I see what’s going on. You want me to think that there’s something wrong with me. That my metabolism has suddenly stopped and that I didn’t deserve Friday’s donuts or today’s burritos. That marathon training and Zumba are lost on me. But you’re wrong, dryer, you’re wrong! This isn’t about my shortcomings, this is about your inability to communicate!

And seriously, wtf?! If this is what you do on “delicate,” what horrors do you inflict on people who dare to dry their clothes on the “regular” cycle? Is the latter setting there just in case people want a creative way to make doll and dog clothes? Or do you just want us all to hate ourselves and go bankrupt, one pair of now-too-tight slacks at a time?

You know, it’s this kind of passive-aggressive behaviour that keeps you all alone in that room with only Washing Machine to keep you company. Notice how everyone in the apartment complex only hangs out with you for a few seconds at a time? Yeah, it’s because you’re an asshole and we’re all just using you. There, I said it. I wanted to be nice, but I just can’t anymore.

Don’t think that you’ve won just because your assholery has caused those pants to be the last pair of my pants that fit. I’m still ahead of you! I have skirts, Dryer. Three of them. And 2 work-appropriate dresses. TWO! And I can wear these items with various scarves and jackets in such a way that my coworkers will have no idea that I’ve sported the same 5 articles of clothing every week for the last 6 months. They may occasionally have their suspicions, but only you and I will know the truth. And I, like the elephant you’d like me to believe that I am, will never forget your transgression.

Good memories and super adorable! Also they can crush you with their thoughts.
(source)

See if I waste my shiny 2012 quarters on you from now on. It’s rusty 1950s coins only from now on.

If you do find yourself with something to say, you know where to find me.

Signed,

TheOreoExperience, AKA, The B in apartment 14 1/2

Yeah, Dryer, I know it doesn’t rhyme, okay?! Jeez get off my back!

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