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57 posts tagged tuesday meditations

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

Rebecca Leib

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,


Letter to the Old Black Man Riding a Horse Down Hollywood Boulevard

First of all, BALLER.

Second of all, let me introduce myself.  I’m Rebecca Leib.  I’m a writer.  You may know me from such publications as Art Ltd., Beautiful/Decay and-


You’re riding a horse. 

Fuck it. 

The first thing I noticed about you was your sheer height.  You see, not many people ride horses around these parts.  I’m pretty sure you are cognizant of that, unless you are insane.  So, who knows?  It would not be the first time I openly admired a person who is categorically insane, but it would be the first time that I did so and said person was in command of a 2,000 pound animal. So, kudos to you!

By your dreadlocks and your homeless-yet-equestrian-appropriate garb, you seem like the kind of guy who likes to be comfortable, but also take risks. 

I admire that. 

There is a thin line between looking like a Rastafarian crossing guard mountee and a Goodwill discard pile, and I’d say you were skirting that line but for your impeccably-kept saddle.  Where did you get such a nice, English-style saddle?  Saddles will run you a couple thousand dollars, and judging by the thickness of your facial hair and your minimum attention to dental hygiene, I would say that you perhaps could not afford such a grandiose expenditure.

…Did you kill a man and take his saddle?

I’m sorry if I sound assumptive.  I don’t mean to judge your life, your lifestyle, or how you wish to be perceived by the wide array of sex shop workers and patrons on this street. 

I surely don’t mean to call you insane, unless you are that. So…are you insane?  Are you a prophet from some book in the New Testament that I wouldn’t have recognized because I’m a dirty, dirty Atheistic Jew? 

I mean, I assume you are religious, from the backpack you’re wearing and the gigantic cross dangling out of it.  

But again- maybe I’m just being assumptive.  I don’t mean to be.  In a world where fucking apeshit crazy people on horseback and super, hypersexy comediennes in flannel could be friends, by god, WE WOULD BE.  But for now,  you have inspired me.  I leave you with some famous poetry modified to fit in with my life from one of my favorite hobbies, modifying famous poetry to fit in with my life.

This one’s Robert Frost.  You may know of him, or perhaps you are carrying around something of his in your dirty backpack?

"Stopping by Hollywood on a Smoggy Evening." By Robert Frost BUT ALSO AND REBECCA LEIB

Whose limo dispatch buildings these are I think I know.   
His house is in Franklin Village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his limo dispatch buildings fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the Loteria and Trader Joe’s  
The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and Trannies Trannies Trannies.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I P90X,   
And miles to go before I P90X.
You’re Welcome.

Tuesday Meditations: Welcome to the Clan, Drink Ninjas

Hey motherfuckers-  I bet you’re pretty flummoxed that my column is on a Monday and not a Tuesday, as promised by my actions as well as the title of this column.  I bet y’all are quizzically murmuring to yourselves in your dark, cavernous, tastefully decorated rooms wondering, “Is she crazy?” 

Short answer: Yes. 

The long answer: Also yes. 

You see, I’m reporting from Wisconsin (as  often I do) and by the grace of god (and drunk) go I.  Why have I been perpetually wasted for the past 48 hours?  Well,  an old fisherman once told me, when Leibs get hitched, shit goes down.  And that fucking fisherman is CORRECT.  My cousin got married this weekend, so NATURALLY a lot of drunk, Jewwy angst was let loose on the sleepy, God-fearing town of Carmel, Indiana, where my cousin’s bride is from.

Carmel, Indiana Not Actually Pictured Here

Day 1

I get in on a red eye to Wisconsin around 8 am, grab two bloody marys at the airport (2 fucking fifty? It would be a crime if I DIDN’T) and get picked up by my parents.  I’m wedged between my uncle and my unshowered brother so naturally I have to drink a little bit more from my tin flask I smuggled through in my carry-on.  We drive through the beautiful, flat fall countryside and I keep my buzz going by smoking some weed behind the Panda Express at the O’Hare Oasis during a pit stop.  When we get to the hotel, I grab a drink at the hotel bar,  take a five minute refresh nap, kiss my grandmother on the forehead and get back to drinking at the rehearsal dinner, where we let the slow shitface boil.  My brothers and cousins are in full fucking force,  drinking through the meal,  closing the open bar and setting the Renaissance Inn’s countertop on fire.  The bartender is WEEPING.  Fifteen of us get kicked out of the hotel bar after shattering a Dale Chiluly Glass sculpture and go outside to break into a Cheer Squad Bus.

We steal 13 bag lunches from the bus and pass out in our respective hotel rooms, covered in Cheez-it dust. 

Day 2

Wake up and work out after a breakfast of 2 jagerbombs and a Diet Sprite.  My parents are shopping or some shit.  After lots of dirty looks from the night before,  we gather together and go- to a local bar by the Steak N’ Shake to take the edge off with Whiskey Sours and about 15 jugs of flirtini (champagne, vodka, schnapps, seven up).  After they run out of Flirtini mix and after one of my cousins fills an ashtray with her own vomit,  we leave for pictures. 

Then, the wedding.

After the wedding we huff some glue we found in an adjacent skatepark and get some sweet apps.  I’m not super hungry because I’ve done a couple of lines with the bride of another wedding staying at the Renaissance, but I can’t say no to mac n’ cheese on bread.  Everbody’s all up ON MY NUTS about why I’m 28 and when’s my wedding date,  and I understand this question because I’m awesome,  but I let everyone know  in the form of a heartfelt,  BOMB-ASS TOAST that I mean business and that  THAT IT WILL TAKE A VERY SPECIAL MAN WHO CAN HARNESS THIS POWERFUL, SEXUAL ENERGY. Still, the 21 year old bartender will do for tonight,  and after 30 jack and cokes the dance floor becomes MAKEOUT CITY, population WEEPING BARTENDER. 

I can’t do the makeoutz for long because my grandmother needs to use the restroom, so I escort her there and on our way back we run into a herd of deer who implore us to take more jagerbombs.  Of course, I never do Jagers without my bros, so THE LEIBS start drinking these FUCKING BEASTS RIGHT BACK INTO THEIR MOIST, LEAVY HOLES.  And we don’t stop there- after making sure every Indiana woodland creature SHOWS SOME GODDAMNED RESPECT,  the least drunk of us decide to take a small hanger jet BACK TO THE STEAK N’ SHAKE.  Naturally, I feel uncomfortable driving under the influence but my second cousin takes the wheel and though she’s an unsteady flier she gets us up but then we CRASH INTO THE WEDDING RECEPTION HALL.  Good thing for us,  we don’t ruin the wedding because though the shitty Indiana reception hall gets decimated, everyone is okay and we find 3 million dollars worth of  UNTOUCHED GOLD buried beneath. 

In short, welcome to our family, Libby. 

I’m exhausted. I need a drink.

You’re Welcome,


Tuesday Meditations: My Credit’s For Sh*t, and I’m Ugly

Yeah,  I know. As my cats face begins to heal, grim reality sets in. 

Tuesday Meditations: ‘Birthday Reflections’ by Rebecca Leib

Looking for the perfect birthday present to give the one you love?

How about the perfect Yom Kippur gift? 

How about the perfect birthday/ Yom Kippur gift for Rebecca Leib?!!

Look no further.  She is here to help…(and you only have 4 days!)

Tuesday Meditations: ‘My Mom Runs My Life’ by Rebecca Leib

After Rebecca Leib yearned for a date with Michael Stagliano last week….and has yet to hear back- Rebecca’s mother decided it was time to take action! 

Rebecca Leib’s MOTHER signed her up for Ok Cupid dating site!  HER MOTHER!!!!

See her profile (written by HER MOTHER)  here:

PS:  Her online profile really was written by HER MOTHER!!..but you will get to date Rebecca. 

Tuesday Meditations: ‘Relating to Others is A Bitch’. by Rebecca Leib

Rebecca Leib broke her foot, and through her pain and prescription medication haze- gained perspective. 

One loss lead to another gain.

Tuesday Meditations: ‘A RESPONSE!’ by Rebecca Leib

Hey all. Remember a couple weeks ago when I applied for The Bachelorette?

Well, I got a response!  I GOT A RESPONSE!  It’s from the desk of Lacey Pemberton, which I hope means that she wrote it (but I can’t be sure- we can never be sure). 

In response, I said:

Dear Ms. Pemberton (if that IS your real name),

Thank you so much for you semi-prompt response.  How are you?  I’m fine. 

I appreciate your candor when assessing my qualifications, but I have to object- I DO have face and neck tattoos, and though I didn’t specifically mention them in my application,  they still exist.  It’s on you that there was no section of the application that said “please alert me of notable body art.”  In fact, my neck tattoo is the Insane Clown Posse quote “Blasting in Instance/ With precision I strike on bitches on any teraine and distance” in Verdana font. 

My face tattoo is of a moth. 

I consider this somewhat discriminatory, so you may be hearing from my lawyers.  But I’m not a malicious person-  I do in fact wish the best of luck to you, Lacey (may I call you Lacey? Or do you prefer Miss P? Or maybe you don’t like Miss or Ms. monikers, and just go by Lacy Pemberton.  Either way,  we’re now friends.)

Thanks for the balloon,

Tuesday Meditations: ‘The Death of Bromance’ by Rebecca Leib

Sometimes, people ask me shit.  Like,  “hey, can you pass the Tapatillo sauce?” or,  “hey, can you not take the handicapped space in the Starbucks parking lot?” Or even, “do you mind not watching anime porn on my cousin’s computer?”  

For all of these, a resounding no.  But even more so, I get asked, “hey, Rebecca, is bromance dead?” 

This, more than the rest, rings false to me.  No, gentle readers.  BROMANCE- or the act of being bromantic- is certainly not dead.  Not in the least.  Not in the slightest.  

It goes a little something like this:   

Manhood Camping Firequest. Lookin’ for a 100% for real bros to share/experience manhood in all its glory. This is for real, I don’t want to waste my time or yours. 100% JO and manhood, no sugar added. I AM NOT GAY. Don’t even think this is a sex thing, it’s all about manhood.  
Looking for bros to head into the woods and bond by fire, experience life as men once lived it, JO circle, and fire/vision quests.  
Gonna need some basic things/skills, I don’t want to be slowed down by fools:  
- must be in reasonable shape, if you get winded walking then stay home  
- desire to be a man among men  
- not afraid to wield a blade  
- crystal, I’m not sharing mine  
- must be able to make a fire  
- gloves  
- a knowledge of native vegetation (knowledge of psychotropic fungus a plus)  
- knowledge of modern music  
- protective/splash resistant eye wear  
- 5 - 10 of those clip things that rock climbers use  
We are gonna need a mobile music device, ipod or something. I’m bringing the music for the firequests and visionquests, Nickleback’s The Long Road. I only have it on CD, so I’ll have my discman as a last resort, an ipod would be nicer. Just sayin’.  
Dont’ want to see: 
- bad attitudes  
- gay/homoerotic behavior, this is a manhood thing. I AM NOT GAY.  
- cock rings, can’t keep it up w/o help, you aren’t gonna make it on this quest  
- firearms, there’s gonna be enough guns going off and spent shells to pick up  
- the nerds/dorks/lames/and anyone less than 100% into manhood.  
If you are serious, then I promise you this will be the trip of your life. It will change the way you think. I’m serious, and I AM NOT GAY. To see a group of bros being men, a JO circle by a camp fire. The charge/energy in the air. Crystals get jacked, no lie. You will slip into a different frame of mind, you will feel electric.  
Last outing, we had a group that was so charged we attracted bears. It was no deal, nature knew man was in the forest, the crystals gave us the confidence to own those bears. I saw it, I was there.  

So you see?  Bromance is not dead. It exists elusively,  like an albino lioness, amongst straight men with crystals and clippy things who like to jizz together into a smoking, smouldering campfire.    

From one believer to the next: I invite you to respond with nude photos at this address:

You’re Welcome,



Tuesday Meditations: ‘Shit I ate in China’ by Rebecca Leib

(and Thailand, and Macau, and the Philippines, and Inner Mongolia) 

I think you’ll agree with me when I say that the worst part of having friends is that you have to sit through their f*cking vacation photos.  It’s all bullshit that nobody but your mom cares about.   

OR IS IT?   

Some of my income is made through making lists about food.  EVERYBODY LOVES LOOKING AT FOOD.  I f*cking always love looking at food.  I don’t care if I’ll never eat it, I don’t know the person who made it, or if it stimulates my olefactory senses.   

I f*cking love food.  I have since I was a kid.   

So here’s a smorgasbord of crazy and not so crazy shit my body sustained itself on while I was Asian-ing out all over the place.  Bon Appetit, motherf*ckers.   

Bow Ze,  or steamed buns.  Draw it out in Chinese and it means whore.   

Lots of KFC.  My bro had stomach problems so we went there a lot.  The Chinese love it like we do, only with more mayo and chicken parts. 

Quail eggs and Ramen, and lots of it.   

Peking Duck, the specialty of Beijing.  Why is it called Peking Duck, you ask? Because stupid white people misunderstood the name of Beijing when they came over to rape its people of their culture, only to help burden the Chinese people again with communism.   

Miscellaneous fried shit on sticks 

Hot Pot, the specialty of the Schezuan Province.  It was super hot, and made my body parts very hot.   

Miscellaneous fried shit in dishes 


Muslim Bread Stew 

Soda that costs a fraction of a cent. Mmmm….tastes like menthol!   

Weird fruit 

A goat 

A sticky bun and red sauce. Just kidding! That shit was put out for Buddha. 

A scorpion. It tasted like a bad Mcdonalds French fry, but I had to tear off the stinger so it wouldn’t sting me going down.   

Miscellaneous fried shit in small paper sleeves 


You’re Welcome, 



Tuesday Meditations: ‘The 27 Club.’ by Rebecca Leib

Hey dudes,

I’m in Chengdu, China fresh from the Panda preserve. And no, I’m not shitting you.  Anyhow, I assume you’re sorta sick of my Chinese political rantings, and LORD KNOWS I don’t have time to write another long-winded post (beer is calling) but I did notice something as I hacked into American news sources: Amy Winehouse has died! 

This was sad.  And, imminent.  And, strange.  Remember Back to Black?  I do.  I had Winehouse’s first album on my old ipod when I first moved to Los Angeles, and trying desperately to reconcile my long distance relationship with a fantastic dude who lived in Chicago, would run to it hoping I would run out my frustrations and gain some f*cking perspective on my ‘ol life. 

But I digress. 

You see,  Winehouse is the newest member of what many deem “The 27 Club,” a circle of ill-fated musicians who met their end at the age of 27. This is of particular interest to me as I love music like most red-blooded humanoids, but also because I’m 27.  Thankfully, my medicrity and functional alcoholism protects me from flirting with the 27 Club, but I still feel a f*cking particular kinship. 

The 27 Club had a statistical spike from 1969-71.  The founding member was ex-Rolling Stone Brian Jones, who was found dead at the bottom of his swimming pool in 1969. Presumably, he slipped in after doing a shitload of booze and drugs.  A lesson? Don’t run poolside, especially after half a bottle of Crown Royale and with no lifeguard on duty.  Next came Jimi Hendrix (sleeping pills) and a month later, Janis Joplin (heroin- but on a side note my mother met her before her death in a Des Moines hotel elevator).  Jim Morrison was found in July, 1971 in a bathtub (heroin).  His girlfriend,  Pamela,  died also at 27 but was considerably less famous and definitely less talented (heroin).  Twenty years later,  Kurt Cobain died at 27 (gunshot, a month after attempted overdose). 

And now, Winehouse.  Sure, she probably wasn’t as respected or famous  (but perhaps, due to the onslaught of social media and mass pop culture, as notorious) but she was f*cking talented, and I’ll miss that shit. 

Anyhow, back to Asiatic life, with a brief pause to the music powers that be.

 拜拜 and you’re welcome.

Tuesday Meditations ‘Manila’ by Rebecca Leib

Hey Dudes! Here’s coming at you from Manila.  If you’re dumb, that’s in the MOTHERF*CKING PHILIPPINES! It’s no Shangri-La, but at least they have FREE PRESS HERE (I’m looking at you, China).  They also have the famed fast food Chain, Jolli-bee, of which there is a branch in East Los Angeles. 

What do they promise?  Well, don’t take my word (because it shouldn’t be trusted), check out the website for yourself:  Yes, folks! They promise Rice Meals and Tuna Pies!  THIS IS THE COUNTRY THAT I’M VISITING AT PRESENT.  Other things the Philippines offers?  Why,   a budding electronics and transport industry, active volcanoes and eight-division world champion boxer/CONGRESSMAN (SLASH FUCKING CONGRESSMAN) MANNY PACQUIAO! 

But, I digress. You see, I came to the Philippines by way of Hong Kong, but before that I was in Bangkok, Thailand which was half amazing, and half horrifying. 

Thailand, you’re soooo bipolar. 

1 The whole f*cking country smells like f*cking lotus flowers. 
2.  The King (and yes, it’s a f*cking MONARCHY) has a Harvard Education in Agricultural Studies. 
3.  An abundance of stray tortoiseshell cats

1.  Lack of human rights
2. Ping Pong Shows
3. An abundance of stray tortoiseshell cats

I know what you’re thinking.  HOLD UP, LADY.  How can all those cats be tortoiseshell, especially when historically, only female cats have the distinctive tortoiseshell marking?  Well, I want to talk about the first/second of the three horrifying features of Thailand,  the Ping Pong Show. 

I thought it would be cute.  I thought it would be like porn.  I thought it would be a fun cultural event.  IT WASN’T. 

My brothers and I had this awkward Thai tour guide who hated Cambodians (god damn, all Thai people hate Cambodians, even though they seem to have given Thailand like, half of their architectural ideals).  Anyhow, after the tour she started sort of hitting on my littlest brother, but not really.  Like in a weird 40 year old Thai woman awakward way.  Anyhoo, we ended a tour with her at this gem factory when she asked us if we wanted to go to a Ping Pong show. 

We said…okay. 

That night,  the guide had us meet her specifically away from our hotel and outside of the realm of her tour cronies. We met her on a street after a couple of Singhas and didn’t know what to expect.  I put on makeup and my best cutoffs; the tour guide was still in her 3rd world street casual wear, plus an extra backpack. But there wasn’t a whole lot of fucking time to think about cultural fashion discrepancy; It was about 84 degrees and we were ready to PARTY. 

By minute 5 in the cab, my youngest brother was ready to go home.  Still- we were all in this together.  We went to this alleyway which contained a doorway into another alleyway into another alleyway into some type of wooden bar structure where we paid an 85 year old Thai man  2,000 Bhat to go inside.  We did. Our guide wanted to wait outside but we thought bringing her was the POLITE THING TO DO.  Hey, that’s how Leib’s are- polite and all-inclusive, bitches. 

Inside, there were three stripper poles on a stage about four feet by four feet.  Surrounding the stage were a ton of westerners who were apprehensively sipping drinks- their pale, mottled sking dripping of sweat- and watching a woman pull some sort of paper mache lanterns out of her vagina and hanging them festively on the stripper poles. 

I thought-  is this what the Portugese traders envisioned when they arrived in in the mid-1400’s?

As a bikini-topped thai woman expertly opened a bottle of coca cola light with vagina I thought-  no. 

I want to emphasize that I was watching this with both my brothers, and of the 50-some people in the room, NOBODY WAS ENJOYING WHAT THEY WERE WATCHING.  We were all bound by money, curiosity and pride. It was like chicken or a drag race, only the racers were overweight, clammy white people and the cars were 19 year old Thai women who were writing “welcome to America, XOXO” with their pussies using a sharpy marker.  

BTW, gentle readers, never put a sharpy in your pussy, let alone attempt acts calligraphic in nature. 

Also, don’t ever put razor blades in your pussy, even if you don’t seem hurt.  One woman did this and then used the razors to cut the “weclome to America” paper so that audience believed that the razors were legit.

The problem was, we DID F*CKING BELIEVE THESE WOMEN.  Too much.  Nobody was doubting what they had to do to make this show possible.  There was a rotation of about 5 women,  each warming up the audience with techno-remixes of  popular American songs.  Say,  Creed’s “Take Me HIgher” and that “Pa Pa-Americano” song. They’d do sort of close dancing with one of the poles, like how someone’s dad would dance if his arms were broken at a family wedding or bar mitzvah. Then, they’d wipe down the stage with a rag, a f*cking RAG, and either a.  pull something out of their vagina,  b.  open or complete a task with their vagina, or c.  shoot something out of their vagina,  e.g. ping pong balls or a greased banana.  They would often times try to get the audience involved with the show, because every good performer likes a healthy dose of audience interaction. But to everyone’s depressed acknowledgement, nobody wanted to touch a used vagina ping pong ball or handle a vagina-peeled mango. 

As  the woman did their thing, I realized that not only did they hate what they were doing,  THEY HATED US ALMOST AS MUCH AS WE HATED OURSELVES FOR BEING THERE.  I asked our guide (who was still incredibly nonchalant about the whole thing) if they got paid, and she vaguely said that they got a cut of the drinks sold.  Which is weird- because we all got one free drink and I’ll tell you- NOBODY was ordering shit at that place. As the final act finished-  a well-hung Thai man f*cking a displeased performer in a wide and impressive array of positions, my brothers and I were done.  We followed suit and left with others who had lost their nerve, and headed back to the hotel. 

So,  if you’re ever in Thailand, skip the Ping Pong show.  Even if you really, really hate yourself (and believe me, I hate myself just as much as the next overweight alcoholic jewess comedian living in Los Angeles) don’t go.  Instead,  donate to this very legit anti-sex trafficking org:, which is exactly what I did when I got back, aside from taking a really, really thorough shower.

You’re Welcome,

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