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Tuesday Meditations: My First Year

Hey all,

sorry I’ve been MIA.  You see, it’s really hard to post on this tumblr these days- tumblr”s all kinds of fucked up. So, I wrote something else for a different magazine,  called Slacklust.  Check it out here!

This week, I’m off to NYC and then to Taiwan.  After that, I’ll have ALL SORTS OF FUCKED UP CRAZY BULLSHIT TO TALK ABOUT.  PROMISE!

You’re welcome,


'I spent a lot of money on Mary Kay products today,' I said. In the bathtub. To my cat.

I guess I have a lot of thinking to do, and a lot of payote to do it with.

Rebecca Leib

Tuesday Meditations: A Women’s Right to Chews

Hey faithful readers-

In a scurve and dervish of weed-induced proportions, last night I accidentally ate a whole tub of my children’s bear-shaped muti-vitamin chewables.  Which means two things:

1. I’m feeling really fucking GREAT.


2. The tub of vitamins cost me about 15 dollars, which means that at 250 vitabears per tub,  each little chewy mammal cost me about six cents per piece.  That’s a pretty expensive snack, and- after I sobered up- a responsibility that I did not take lightly. 

Which made me think. 

As I took another bong rip, I started thinking about all the things that I spend money on, and decided to talk to my financial advisor (Nubbins) about my expenditures.

Here is a list of what I spend money on, in order of how much I spend, per month:




7/11 Coffee

Health Insurance


Library overdue fees

Plan B

Paper (8.5 x 11)

RITE AID makeup

Paper (8.5 x 14)

Fancy perfumes

It’s a real wake-up call, folks. I mean,  Lottery tickets and kitty litter don’t even MAKE THE LIST. I guess I have a lot of thinking to do, and a lot of payote to do it with. 

Oh yeah, while I’m thinking, here’s a list of songs about having sex in dance clubs:

Love In this Club/Usher, Featuring Young Jeezy

Get Low/Lil Jon

On the Floor/Jennifer Lopez, Featuring Pit Bull

Sex Beat/Gun Club

In Da Club/50 Cent

You Can Do It/Ice Cube

I Like That/Luciana

Don’t Play With Me (Run Girl)/Dave Banner

Sex Boy/ Germs

My Neck, My Back (Lick it)/KHIA

Laffy Taffy (Explicit)/D4L

You’re welcome,


(to get the playlist on Spotify, go here:

Tusday Meditations: Finding Quality Strip Clubs (A Theory)

Hey gentle readers,

I just went to Jumbo’s Clown Room for my friends birthday, and broke some shit down for him, which I also plan on doing with y’all. We are talking about finding good strip clubs, and what strip clubs really take to be visitable, let alone pleasurable. 

You see, I’m no mathematician, but I AM a genius.  So, I devised a formula that I promptly and drunkenly wrote down and shared with everyone.  It goes a little something like this:

It’s pretty fucking simple-  B, or average numerical cup size (the 34 of a 34B)  plus the average alphabetical cup size, shown here as L, plus H, which is the average length of hair extensions.  L is shown on this scale, and is added in a graduation of tens based on ascending cup size.  When you get into double DD’s, you don’t multiply, but keep adding. For example, 

A Cup=10, B Cup=20, C Cup=30, D= 40 DDD=120

Of course, you have to use your own discretion when determining averages. 

But I digress. No wait- I don’t.  I’m just explaining. Let me continue…

All of this is multiplied by A, which is the ATM convenience fee, and divided by the average cost of a Coors Lite (CL). Then, add the number of times a Britney Spears song is played (VB), and you’ve got a sum. 

So, let’s say you went to a strip club with girls with an average of 34 B cup, 12 inch hair extensions, a 7 dollar ATM convenience fee and a six buck Coors Lite, and you had to endure three Britney Spears dance routines, your formula would look something like this:

(7(34+20+12)/6)+3=  80

I would not go back to this strip club.

A GOOD strip club will put you anywhere from 20-40, but a shit strip club will be in the 60-80 range. 

So beware, readers, and let’s start using this so none of us will be wasting precious titty time. 



Tuesday Meditations: Purim Boner

Those of you who know me know I love a lot of things: RITE AID, Horses,  Indian Food, not pinterest, and tailgating, to NAME A FEW.  But you all must know that I also have a raging hard-on for PURIM. 

What’s Purim, you ask? 

Well, it’s a pretty small-time Jew holiday that celebrates how the Jews got away with doing their own holiday shit in an oppressive-ass Persian empire way back in fucking Bible Times. 

To read more, go here:

Or you could skip all that bullshit and I’ll break it down for you, right here, right now, on SSFB:


King Ahasuerus of Persia had a big fucking feast to celebrate some victory and wanted his slutty Queen Vashti to dance naked for his court.  She said no fucking way, dude, so she gets the boot and King Ahasuerus brings in a stable of new broads so that he can have his fucking after-meal sex show.  One of these girls is Esther, a Jew.  The King picks her, falls in love with her and puts a ring on that shit. Esther is raised by her Uncle, Mordechai, who is also Esther’s uncle but ALSO OVERHEARS A BOGUS PLOT TO ASSASSINATE THE KING!  Never a dull moment in the book of Esther, bitches.  Anyhow, He immediately tells Esther about the plot, who reports that shit to King A.

In a separate but equally fucking bogus-ass incident,  Haman, a high advisor of the King,  goes dick publicly and makes all the Jews bow down to him and shit.  Mordechai won’t, and so Haman- tripping on goyish power- wants to punish all the Jews in the kingdom.  He cast lots or PURIM to determine the day of jewhilation. King A is like, kind of  dickless and goes along with Haman’s idea of his Jew-purge, but then Mordechai gets all depressed and Esther finally holds a big baller banquet where she reveals she’s no shiksa and asks King A to save her people and reveals that Haman was a power-hungry piece of shit.  King Ahasuerus is all like, “what the fuck?” And then Haman has to lead Mordechai around on a fine horse.

Eventually,  Haman is slain. Jews eat this cookie in grim remembrance.

There’s a lot of lessons we can learn from this riveting tale, but just in case you skimmed through my literary genius, I’ll break this shit down for you:

1. ALWAYS dance naked if given the opportunity.

2. Nepotism is the SHIT.

3. Cookies!

4. Never plot to kill your King publicly while wearing a cookie-shaped hat. 

5.  Fuck, I don’t know. This holiday is like a big fucking three ring Jew carnival, so can’t we all just get drunk and eat Hamantaschen in PEACE?

Now, if you’ll fucking excuse me, I have to go put on my slutty Vashti outfit, grab my gragger and get to TEMPLE.

You’re welcome,


Tuesday Meditations: HOLY FUCK, ROSS DRESS 4 LESS.

(a photo essay). 

Hey assholes,

Just letting you know I’m keeping busy writing mad poetry and breaking hearts. But in between doing those things, I’ve decided to expand my horizons. For example, I bought some fucking Tacate Lights instead of Coors Lites this week, and I also started using my turn signals while driving.

And as you all well fucking know, I’m also a woman of the WORLD. In the fine spirit of exploration, I  decided to explore my world past Wilton between Hollywood and Franklin, by going to the Ross Dress 4 Less located three blocks east and one block south.    I took my two friends named Chris with me, too, because there’s a Quizno’s nearby.

Here is what we found, as expressed in photographic likeness:

Neon is a big thing at the D4L.  From tank tops to tank bottoms, these hot colors are BURNING UP THE RUNWAYS* THIS SEASON!**

*Runways = metal racks

**Season = fiscal year

The brush section was vast, and included weird Disney-princess looking pinup-girl themed hairbrushes. 



These I need.

More neon.  I just call mini-socks as I see ‘em, folks. 

Also, Tunics!

ROSS DRESS 4 LESS: Comprehensively providing the worst licorice in one convenient place!

I almost bought this fedoraed Easter Chick with eggs in its back,  but I didn’t have 39.95! : (

Don’t worry, gentle readers. I made do!

D4L had no electronics section, but they DID boast a whole 1/2 aisle filled with dog and/or child clothes. 

And a bra graveyard!

If you visit the D4L perfume aisle,  you’re going to need a rigorous hose-down and possibly a tetanus shot. 


All the while, I thought to myself:  who would buy this stuff…?


With my two friends named Chris safely draining their checking accounts buying ABSOLUTE NECESSITIES,  I decided I felt okay leaving ROSS DRESS 4 LESS empty-handed.  After all, I have a lot of shit to spend my money on, like booze and also booze. 

Needless to say, I ventured out of my comfort zone, and learned some valuable lessons about love, trust and friendship along the way.

You’re Welcome,


Tuesday Meditations (1): I Have A Secret Admirer.

Okay, now I’m not a big Valentine’s Day person, but there’s a lot of Data and requests being thrown my way. So, I submit not ONE, but TWO Valentine’s Day editions of Tuesday Meditations this year!


Last night, I came home buzzed as fuck from a Tiki bar and found this: 

He/She also wrote today’s meditation for me.  Which is strange- considering I also have my OWN Meditation on the docket.  So, you’ll get to read his and then you’ll get to read mine, the real stuff, the orig.  Enjoy. 

"Hello Bitches,

It’s Tuesday and what’s worse than Tuesday besides Monday?  The fact that it is also Valentine’s Day.  And I know if you’re reading this, (why do I say if?  You are: we both know it), then you are chomping at the bit to vicariously express your Valentine’s day rage vicariously through my internet musings/rantings.

But guess what?  No way, not today!  You’re not going to ride my coattails to hilarious cathartic ranting. Because get this… I have a secret admirer!  That’s right!  So if you are a nay-sayer who hates the big “V Day Explosion” that’s because you don’t have a secret admirer and you don’t have a secret admirer because you’re not as fricking amazing as I am.  (And I have the rite-aid rewards points to prove it.  And note:  rite-aid rewards points is testimony to my awesomeness that will hold up in court, bitches.)  Want further proof?  I’m writing this.  And you’re reading it. Nuff said. (But I’ll continue writing because I am extremely generous towards you on this day of love.)

You:  “But, but, but Rebecca, Valentine’s Day is a manufactured holiday made up by evil greeting card companies!”

 Me: “No it’s not. And stop stuttering.”  It’s a day to show someone you love your affections for them in a tangible way.  And if you don’t know someone in your life who loves you enough to buy you red wrapped chocolates at the 99 cent store.  Then I truly and deeply feel sorry for you.  You need to be more awesome.  You: “But, but, but How can I be more awesome?”  Me:  “I will teach you and seriously quit with the stuttering it is not as cute as you think.”  Don’t worry, I’m here to help.  You can start being awesome by reading more of my musings, seeing my shows, and liking my photo journalism expedition into Paris Hilton’s bathroom.

Maybe one day after reading enough of my thoughts you will be witty sharming adorable and hilarious enough to gain your own secret admirer. It’ll probably be a few years though, just to warn you.

What is a secret admirer though, really?  It’s someone who is in love enough with you to leave on your doorstep a candy box, or roses, or a special gift (used books wrapped in red tissue paper).  But not in enough love with you to admit to you who he is.  (And probably not enough to admit it to himself either.)

All in all a secret admirer is pretty pathetic and passive aggressive.  But then again, those have been the cornerstones of many of my previous relationships.  So why not stick this one out.  Beside, I like to hold on to the silver lining—the best thing about a secret admirer: the anonymity of it all.  While I know it is most likely a fellow comic making his way in this world, heading down the same path I’m travelling.  He leaves it unsigned, anonymous, he gives me the greatest gift of all: that I can pretend this gift came from Michael Stagliano.

And that’s what valentine’s day is all about: self-delusion.

Happy Valentine’s Day everybody!”

Not even a “You’re Welcome??!” Jesus.  What kind of admirer is THIS?!! 

Hope I live to see another day,


Did you kill a man and steal his saddle?

Anyone who is to find Christ must first find the church. How could anyone know where Christ is and what faith is in him unless he knew where his believers are?

Martin Luther

Tuesday Meditations: Resolutions Can Suck A Dick

Hey assholes-

Hope you had a swell new years!  I was pretty fucked up, but I distinctly remember bandaging a bloody wound and a sweaty ex getting in the way of my game.  Or was I bandaging a sweaty ex and a bloody wound was getting in the way of my game? Fucked if I know. I love drugs! 

But, gentle readers, that’s neither here nor there. I know you know I know that you know people who always make a lame-ass list of shit they’re going to change for the new year, and then the never fucking do it.  You know, they want to loose 15 lbs or find love or take better care of themselves. 

Well, I want to stay EXACTLY THE SAME. 

And, I want to do it HARDER. 

Here’s a list of Leib’s patented* Non-Resolutions, or shit I ain’t gonna change for fucking nobody, myself included:

*patent pending

1.  My ears.  They ain’t pierced.  And know what? I have enough of your grandma’s clip-ons off of Ebay to last me a lifetime.  The next time you see me in a line at Claire’s will be to get a tiara for your kids’ BABY PARTY, and I’ll be laughing all the way to the register.

2. Dating assholes.  You know what? Dating assholes who manipulate me is one of the THINGS I FUCKING DO BEST.  If I didn’t date assholes, I wouldn’t be setting an example for the likes of young, smart, funny teenagers everywhere, who eagerly hope for a partner who treats them right, listens to their opinions and respects their minds, bodies and souls. 

3.Lying.  FUCK YOU!  Of COURSE I’M DONE DATING ASSHOLES!  I have SHITLOADS of self-worth, and any dude who doesn’t want to date this Coors-lite filled, Rite-Aid loving Piece of Awesome can suck on A FAT RESOLUTION.

4. Drinking lots and lots and lots of Coors Lites. Why quit the one thing I love?

5.  Smoking tons and tons of weed. Why quit that other one thing I love?

So, that’s kind of it.  Oh, yeah, except for this gallery of leather newsboy hats:

You’re welcome,


I’ll have the warm milkshake, please.

Tuesday Meditations: Phone Sex

Is everyone still hungover? I know I am. 

I’m also frazzled because I think I may be the hollywood arsonist.  Don’t know what I’m talking about? Read this shit:

Why? Because:

a. I live in Hollywood

b. have a ponytail

c. like to light shit like crates and cars on fire.

Oh wait- moments after reading this I found out that the arsonist was caught.  Guess I’m OFF THE HOOK, bitches.  Which is a relief because now I can set controlled fires, fireworks or sizzling drums off in peace, without the scrutiny of my peers. 

In light of this, please read my new piece about how I was a phone sex operator for Slacklust Magazine! It gets very sexy. And by sexy I mean graphic. And by graphic, I mean depressing:

Tuesday Meditations: The House That Ego Built

Spending the holidays with Paris Hilton is all it’s cracked up to be,  you guys. 

I know I haven’t written for a while,  but it’s mostly because:

a. I’m too drunk on tuesdays

b. Tumblr sucks and my stuff won’t upload to my own personal page

c. I needed to gain some perspective on the holidays, my own loneliness and these two things with the context of Paris Hilton’s place of residence. 

I want to reiterate: TWO lucky things happened to me this year.  The first is my cat not getting killed, and the second is getting an invitation to Paris Hilton’s Holiday party at her home in Bel Air.  Both things were swift, fortuitous and celebrated with a cool Coors light.

Here’s my experience, in photo essay form, and just like my 9th grade Social Studies teacher would have liked it….


Drunk hot model playing drunk hot Santa in Hilton vestibule. 

Here’s my date (and the only one at the party with glasses) by the valet and next to Paris Hilton’s cars. Can’t you tell that she’s rich? There’s a heat lamp.

One of many personal photographs of the lady of the house.  This one’s my favorite because it reminds me of the native alien peoples in Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles.  I told this to another party patron who looked at me in shock, like I was overweight.  Then I asked her, “geez, how many people have Masters’ Degrees at this party, anyway?”


This is “NoHo,” which means “NO HANGOVER.” If it meant “NO WHORES,” nobody would be at this party save myself, my date Meg, Sofia Coppola and the bouncer.

A Paris Hilton standup next to another picture of the lady herself.  And I’m using lady very, very loosely.

Some shit photographer somewhere said “Paris, I think you can be sexy holding ANYTHING. We’re all out of dicks and diamonds, so here’s a box of calico kittens.  Oh yeah, and I found this wind machine.”

Most satisfying fart ever.

This was the food at the party. I ate more in the first five minutes than anyone at Paris’ holiday party had ever eaten, ever, including drunk hot santa. 

The caption says,  “Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History.” What it should say is “Well Behaved women whose parlors don’t smell like Axe, vomit and Chick-Fil-A hot sauce rarely make history.” Because, you know, that’s kinda true. 

This is just a picture of Paris Hilton made up of other pictures of Paris Hilton.

Here’s Paris herself. I thought she was another picture so I went up to touch her with my grubby Chic-Fil-A hands, but one of her handlers Tazered me.  No worries, though: a thick tube of fat coats my body and protects me from such encounters.


A special moment with Drunk Hot Santa. He was game until he got sick of comedy bits he didn’t understand (<13 seconds or so).


Can you imagine Paris hiring a painter to paint her likeness? I got close, and this piece was done by an ACTUAL PAINTER.  If I was hired to paint Paris, I would have imputed some shit photo of her into photoshop and used some “oil paint” filer, than slapped the whole thing in a gigantic golden frame.  She would have been DELIGHTED.

Paris and Nancy Regan in… “The Real World: French Whorehouse.”

No overindulgent proto-French mansion based upon a random and fortuitous birthright is complete without the framed photograph of Verne Troyer. 

And then I made my way to the bathroom, the only place I really feel at home…

First point of interest, besides the bodyguard: ugly 80’s furniture and Jessica Rabbit statuette.  This was the only piece of “art” that didn’t relate back to Hilton herself, aside from a stamp-sized portrait of Marilyn Monroe right outside of the guest bedroom, just beyond the potted plant that had recently been vomited in.

Of course, the Jessica Rabbit statuette couldn’t draw all the focus.  Here’s Paris with another KITTEN!

SHOCKINGLY, the bathroom was FILLED with mirrors.  I also stole 3 bottles of Paris Hilton cologne for my brother and roommate, both of whom promptly threw out. I didn’t take offense until both showered their bodies in disinfectant and put me in a plastic bubble for 48 hours,  Outbreak-style.

the only protection at the party…

…so I felt obligated to utilize it. 

Happy holidays, everyone.  If you want to see videos of my foray into the pit of vapidity, check out my new Youtube channel at  My year was shit but I hope the next one will be rad. Thank you all SO FUCKING MUCH FOR READING!

See you the 3rd, BITCHES!

You’re welcome,


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