Say Something Funny...B*tch

Mark your calendars, for at 8 pm, the eve of July 28th at 1744 N. Wilton Place will be a fundraiser of epic proportions! In fact, we want to make it even epic-er than ever, and to do that, we need your help!

Let us backtrack.  “Say Something Funny, Bitch” is a website that was started by Alisha Gaddis in 2010, to bring a group of strong, female voices to the online comedy community. Since then, SSFB has been bringing you articles that were funny, topical, touching, artistic and pictorial (yeah, photo essays, what of it?) and the site has been reposted by blogs like Comediva, Hello Giggles and some weird Australian pro-Paris Hilton pop culture blog.

Unfortunately, Tumblr is getting far too small to house our rapidly growing readership! What we are aspiring to do through this fundraiser is to build a brand new website so that we can keep bringing the world content that is brilliant, hilarious, brilliant, witty, awesome, innovative, feminist, brilliant and brilliant. 

We are looking to raise 800 dollars. That will be the TOTAL cost to build new and world-class website fit to house the musings of our writers: Alisha Gaddis, Bekah Tripp, Rebecca Leib, Laura Mannino, Jamie Brunton, Maggy Keegan, Kate Ruppert, Renee Gauthier, Jessica Glassberg and a plethora of other funny, rotating guest writers!  Please, if there is any service or object you could donate to our cause- anything from a coaching session to a haircut to a date to a drawing to your Beta copy of Tron to that gross wine your weird Uncle bought you for your birthday three years ago…we’d love to take it off your hands and put it in our raffle to hopefully help out our cause!

If you can’t totally no big deal.  In fact, we’re delighted you even read this far (really, we know how busy a handsome fellow or madam like you is!) Please come to the fundraiser, get the word out, or sit and reflect on the inherent irony of gleaning self-appreciation from a mass query (really, we’re just happy you’re reading).  If you do decide to donate a service or object and you have a business or want to advertise with us, we can put you on the poster and hand out cards at the event. Or pass this along to someone you think would be willing to help! Whatever it takes! 

If you can donate a service or object, contact TuesdayMeditations@gmail.com

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,

Rebecca

Hey all- 

So last week I needed to push my agenda and bleeding-heart liberalism on you all, and for that I apologize.  This week has been weird already, but I thought I’d make it even weirder. 

Why? Because I watched Martha Marcy May Marlene.  And now I KNOW ALL ABOUT CULTS. 

Cults are scary, people.  And this movie- an expose on how a cult has critically affected the life and mental health of a beautiful young girl- is an expose into cultitude.  Oh man, AND I’m totally sorry I got into it with the Hayden Law! Turns out, it was not overturned, which is a great thing! I hope some of you readers had a hand in that and called those reps and felt fucking superior to everyone around you.

BUT ANYWAY cults- see, the movie is really into showing how that guy from Big Love (TYPECASTING, anyone? What’s his name, oh yeah I have the internet: his name is John Hawkes) likes to kind of woo the not-twin Olsen into doing all sorts of crazy-ass shit, like stealing and having group sex.  But- she’s like, extremely beautiful, so it’s kind of hard to believe that scene where she pisses her pants and hides her sundress between the boxspring and the mattress of her sister’s lake house. Man- do you think after this movie the Olsen Twins had some weird intervention with Elizabeth, like, just to be like, hey, slow down you fucking ROOKIE? Talk to us when you’ve made New York Minute 2? Maybe.  It’s hard to say. 

BUT STILL- the movie loves to showcase Elizabeth Olsen’s 23 year old rack.  And I’m not gay, but I guess I’m cool with that. Speaking of not gay, I just threw my back out while having sex,  which makes me feel strange, like I’m getting old.  But the worst parts are the texts from friends who are all sensitive to my shit, and send me text like, “are you okay?” and all that. Yeah, I’m okay. I ran a marathon like 2 years ago.  I’ll be fine.  Get a life, right?  And Elizabeth Olsen gets a life, kind of, when she runs away to her sister and her sister’s hot British Husband’s lake house,  which is completely furnished by someone who loves to shop at World Market.  World Market, right? Does anybody buy anything there but sometimes snacks and beers of the world? Also, what’s the deal with WORLD MUSIC? Like, everything is fucking world music, if you really fucking think about it.  And, I do. 

BUT ANYWAY, so I’m driving and thinking about the one and only good thing I got at world market- it was a fucking breakfast hutch pillow for my GRANDMOTHER and how World Music isn’t a genre for anyone but my GRANDMOTHER and then I heard three fucking rad songs, all in a row.  Heart’s “Barracuda,” Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” off The Wall Album and Nirvana’s cover of “The Man Who Sold the World.” Fucking amazing, right? Just like The shorts of Jan Svankmeyer, but not like my Volkswagen Beetle’s dashboard, which is unusually large. 

Anyhow, cults are for crazy people. 

You’re Welcome,

Rebecca

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.

AND

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:

Rent

Drugs

Alcohol

7/11 Coffee

Health Insurance

Groceries

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,

Rebecca

(to get the playlist on Spotify, go here:  http://open.spotify.com/user/129452982/playlist/6cPxCM7yeS4UUMXh47iFKk)

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:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Purim#Purim_story

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

INTERIOR- SOME FUCKING CASTLE- ANCIENT IRAN:

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,

Rebecca

(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. 

I TAKE NO HYGENIC CUES FROM TWILIGHT CHARACTERS. UNLESS IT’S EDWARD.

GET OUT OF MY HEAD, D4L.

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. 

And….scene.

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

Oh. 

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,

Rebecca

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!

TUESDAY MEDIATION 1

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,

Rebecca

Hey fuckfaces,

I’ve been busy as shit so many apologies for the skipped week. Oh wait, I’m not.  Because instead of reading my fucking bullshit, you SHOULD be reading like…the news.  Or at least some creative non-fiction, for fuck’s sake. Or at LEAST this Benjamin Franklin picture with some text on it:

You see, I was at a party the other night. Naturally, I was getting my Coors Light on when an old friend came up to me and told me that there was a website about art and architecture that I should totally check out called “Pinterest.”

Little did I know I was in for a world of LAME. 

First, I had to get an invitation and go through this whole fucking song and dance about my “INTERESTS.”  There was no boxes to check for “binge drinking,” “horses” or “Rite Aid Points Program,” so I was at first concerned, then wary. 

And it was DEFINITELY NOT about art and architecture, unless your artistic standard was that fat chick in your high school who wove her own yarn hats.  Seriously, this site was made for, designed by, and jacked off too a scope of women that range from every unpopular, bottom-heavy “artsy nerd” types who gave themselves bangs and bought n’ wore the bottom halves of Men’s leisure suits to the slightly more popular, boring girls who dreamed of buying the right wicker endtable for their canopy marital bed and shuffled through Taylor Swift quotes to PUT ON THEIR DREAM BOARDS. 

So I guess what I’m saying is that the site was a big hot mess of anthropomorphic baby animals, quotes about Kelly Clarkson’s lowlights and wedding shit. 

BUT-

It also had a TON of shitty tattoos by women, for women, all over their woman-parts.  As many of you know, there are three things I do well in this world:

1. obliterate my mind and body with drugs and alcohol

1.  rock cutoffs

2. write poetry

So I’m going to write the shit out of some poetry, with a special Pinterest edition of my patented “Bad Tattoo Haiku.” But first- I’ve got to get on the INSIDE. 

SO, I MADE MY OWN PINTEREST PAGE.  It’s going to be updated near constantly for the next couple of days, so fucking check this shit OUT:

http://pinterest.com/rebeccamleib/

You’re welcome. 

Rebecca

Hey Senors and Senoritas,

Just back from a fucking awesome weekend, and naturally I’m a little bummed to get back to work.  THANKFULLY-One of my favorite holidays was yesterday, Martin Luther Day! 

Look- his name was painted into the piece! Ingenious!

It was super exciting because  I could reflect upon the fast and impacting changes Martin Luther made on our society, culture and religious views.  He was such an important man to so many people-  protesting injustices with rousing oratori and volumes of writing on civil  and religious inequality. 

I don’t watch a lot of television on Martin Luther day. I get out my copy of the 95 Theses and write a letter to Johan Tetzel, or some years I vary my shit and write a letter directly to Pope Leo X or Charles V! 

I would share these letters, but my thoughts on this shit are extremely personal. 

After a light lunch of chowder,  I’ll switch it up and read some Erasmus, but then I usually get a little worked up and have to nap.  After napping,  I’ll translate books n’ bits of the old testament to keep up on my verses (I prefer Numbers!).

Sometimes I sneak a peek at the television, and it’s good to know that the world seems to appreciate the impact on social justice that Luther had on history. 

Hell- we get a day off for this shit!

I concluded my day with looking at printing presses on craigslist, saying some nasty shit about the Jews and singing twilight hymnals while I slowly simulate apoplectic stroke. 

LOOK:

I know some of you may not celebrate Martin Luther day like I do, but I got pretty burned simulating the sensations of heat and cauterization that come with a properly apoplectic stroke.  So, I ask this of you:  please don’t judge me by the color of my skin, but by the content of my character, ok?

You’re Welcome.

Rebecca