GoFundYourself

This morning my coworker was telling me about her relative who just set up a gofundme for grad school. This is someone who is over 30,  has a husband with a great job, is financially stable, and so on. I'm getting tired of this.

So I decided to start my OWN GoFundMe.

Help Me Fund You:

I need money to give money. Kickstarters, gofundmes, indiegogos, the list goes on. Sick pets, health problems, creative projects, education and even vacations people WANT AND NEED. All the money I collect will go to various other campaigns to help others help themselves. Thank you!

Help spread the word!

 P.S. Things like cancer or fires = exceptions. DUH! Otherwise, FUYA.

Go F Yourself!

Positive Affirmations -- With Cojones!

I AM GRT. What doesn't say FUYA more than a bumper-sticker-plastered backend with an EXPLOSION of positive affirmation type sayings and underneath it all, swinging with each bump in the road, a pair of bumper nuts! The sheer ridiculous of it all was overwhelming.

FUYA! BECAUSE SOMEONE IS GRT DAMMIT!
 

Love Thy Neighbor

I’m a member of a community website called Nextdoor where you can read stuff/post about your “neighborhood”. I have found out some very interesting things about the people who live nearby and what goes down in my hood. For example, the post office truck got robbed one afternoon at 2pm right down the street from my house. I would never have known about this and other burglary type incidents that seem to happen quite regularly, if not for Nextdoor. I also wouldn’t have known that a large number of of my neighbors seem to be douches. A post about a car in a driveway blocking the sidewalk turned into an all out war -- pages and pages of comments. It was those of us who didn’t really give a shit if a car blocks the sidewalk vs. those who need more than a wheelchair-sized open space to roll their rollerblades, jog their jogging shoes and tread their asshole-ness on. Another thing my “neighbors” like to post about are things for sale. This is how I discovered that someone who dwells in my area, had a $10K couch they were selling. Seriously? Not only the monetary splurge in having a couch that expensive, but the utter decadence in having space for the ginormous beast!

--Beth

Home Sweet Home

I stumbled across an image from Trump’s penthouse on Fifth Avenue by accident. Really, I wasn’t even looking for this shit. The eyesore found me and I had to investigate further. A couple google clicks away and I was greeted with a Palace of Versailles pukefest. An eyeful of endless gaggy gold. Obnoxious oversized chandeliers dripping from ceilings. A disgusting dazzle of muted oranges and beige. Gold goblets full of orange juice at an ornate breakfast table.

GAG.

I cannot think of anywhere more uncomfortable looking. It doesn’t look like the kind of place where you can kick off your shoes and watch TV while enjoying a twelve pack and a pizza on the couch with your dogs.

It also reminded me of this hilarious article I saw on “McMansions”. The article alone is a total FUCK YOU ALL to overdoing it with the casa! Gotta love it.

Let’s hear it for the tiny house movement! Living in your RV! Yurts!

And to anyone who actually thinks Trump can relate to the average American and their daily struggles after looking at his living conditions -- FUYA!

--Beth

Goop Goes Gwenyth-Free

I recently read an article about Gwenyth Paltrow leaving her blog GOOP so it could brand itself sans-Gwenyth. If you aren't familiar with GOOP, it's no suprise. Unless you are a mom with money -- big MONEY -- you wouldn't have much of a reason to check it out. I surfed around it once and was SO GROSSED OUT.

This article on Gwenyth's GOOP exit is so funny, and sooooo in the spirit of a FUYA. Why is Goop gross... well...

--Beth

Fuck Off! I Hate You! Your Band Sucks!

Just got a button machine and have been having a blast making buttons. Took a slew to a couple of shows and sold a bunch.

And the hot sellers are...

--Beth

The Midas Touch

I was walking by and he said, "I need some money. Can you give me $20?" He was sitting on his gold bicycle.

$20!

I gave him $5 and a wink. Because I liked his style.

--Beth

STOP BLIND PATRIOTISM!

This July 4th weekend I was driving through East Oakland, headed to a BBQ and there she was... on the corner. Holding up her handmade sign.

 

She was alone. I wondered how long she'd been out there. "FUCK THE 4TH. BLACK PEOPLE WERE STILL SLAVES" her sign said. And she was holding it proudly, she meant it man. It really took me by surprise. I looked at people in cars around me... there were blacks and whites. NO one was honking or giving her any support. Everyone looked like they had the same reaction I did. Say whaaaat? Hmmm... yes, black people were still slaves back then. Hmmmmm....

She was... all alone.

FUCK YOU ALL was just oozing off her. I wondered how long she'd been there, and how long she was going to keep it up.

It reminded me of a Halloween costume idea I had years ago. I was going to dress up in a red white and blue star-spangled cheerleader costume, complete with Uncle Sam hat, and carry a blind person's cane. I'd call myself BLIND PATRIOTISM. But I never got a cane so never did it. I hear they aren't easy to come by, unless you're blind.

But back to the sign woman... there wasn't any blind patriotism going on here. Hell no! Power to you sister, I respect your passion.

--Beth

What Would Wendy O. Do?

When I was 12 years old a boy in my 6th grade class, Mike Henle, told me that he could beat me at baseball any time. The rules: he'd get one other boy as a teammate and I could get as many girls as I wanted as teammates. Many days after school, me, Jenny, Lupe, Lydia, and all the other little girls I could round up would be out at K Street park, huffing and puffing, trying our darndest to kick those boys asses.

Mike always won. (He was a really good baseball player, dammit!) Although I was always disappointed, it didn't slow me down. Around the same time, I bought this shirt that said "GIRLS LIB". The i's were dotted with little baseballs. You can't really read it in this picture, but here I am wearing it:

I don't know why but it's ingrained in me. I've always felt this overwhelming urge to fly the feminist flag.

So here we go: I am a woman. I drive a van. I love vans. When on roadtrips in my van my boyfriend and I will switch off behind the wheel, help get each other snacks and both keep the tunes rocking on the stereo. So when I read a recent column in the vanning magazine SLOWLY WE ROLL, pathetically titled "Riding Bitch with the Vanner Babes", I couldn't help but groan and roll my eyes. Even if it was meant to be tongue in cheek, it irritated the fuck out of me. It's been a long time since the 50's chumps! The intro to the column dripped with cringeworthy bits that I found totally demeaning to women.

So to any vanner dudes out there who agree that a "righteous vanner babe riding bitch" should be keeping the "inside of your rig nice", keeping the "drink tray stocked with a cold one" and whose main job is keeping the "tunes cranking" while you are being a "Van Man" I say FUYA!

See you on the road motherfuckers, where I'll be in the driving seat!

--Beth

Where is She Now? The Decline of Penelope Spheeris

I have always thought a DECLINE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION: WHERE ARE THEY NOW? would be amazing. I mentioned this to filmmaker Penelope Spheeris when I interviewed her in '98 for Punk Planet magazine. And again when I met her at a Women's film fest in SF in the early 2000s. She always said she would never do a WHERE ARE THEY NOW? for various reasons. One being that the folks from her first two movies thought she made a bunch of $$ off them -- but she didn't. So she didn't think they'd be in another film for her.

Early this year I was thinking about it and decided to make a DECLINE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION: WHERE ARE THEY NOW? website. Figured I don't have time or resources to make a movie but I COULD make a killer website and go through each movie and do little head shots with quotes... and links to what people are doing NOW. Thought it would be hilarious. Especially some of those in the Decline #2 The Metal Years who claimed they were GOING to be rock stars and make it big.

So I made the site. Started watching the movies and filling it out.

Then I saw in the paper that Penelope Spheeris was coming to SF to show Suburbia and Decline #3 and do a Q&A. Cool!

I went to the show and met her while she was selling and signing posters in the lobby. Told her about my website I'd started and was immediately met with a very defensive "YOU CAN'T DO THAT." She told me that she is working on a WHERE ARE THEY NOW? movie. WOAH!!! I had NO idea!! I have always wanted to see that so was VERY stoked!! She was not however, stoked on my project. I told her that I'd send her a link and that it was just a website, maybe it would help promote her product. Talked to her daughter a little too, who was also there with her, and is working for her mom now. (Her daughter Anna put together the recent DECLINE box set that just came out.) They told me to send them an email via Penelope's filmmaker website.

So I did.

In the email I sent her links, wrote what I thought was a very nice and heartfelt, genuine email -- expressing my love of her movies. I told her I'd like to continue my site but of course would take it down if she objected as I'd never want to piss her off. Told her it was a labor of love (labor is right, it was a painstakingly time consuming site to fill out) and I wasn't making money off it or anything.

A few weeks later I got an email and letter -- from her lawyer. Telling me to take site down. So I did.

I feel really bummed that after talking to her AND sending the email to her, she (or a fucking assistant) couldn't have just sent me an email back herself and asked me to take it down.

I guess because I considered myself a kindred spirit, not a douchebag.

I am realizing now though that I am not a kindred spirit... because I would not have treated someone like that.

I feel disappointed. Not in having to take the site down, I said I'd do that. But in how she "replied" to me.

Fucking Hollywood. Bleeeech.

--Beth

Here are some screenshots of the website template I made... it was gonna be funny! Was gonna cover everyone who got interviewed in all the Decline movies. 

--Beth

Child Abuse Takes on a Whole New Meaning

Years ago I saw a documentary on Shiloh Pepin, known as the Mermaid Girl. She was born with her legs fused together. A rare condition called sirenomelia. She didn’t have a uterus, a bladder, a large intestine, a vagina or rectum. She had her first kidney transplant when she was two and had more than 150 surgeries in her short lifetime. She fought hard to live, but died at age 10, spending the majority of her time with doctors.

Shiloh was spunky, cute, funny, and full of life. She was also very miserable most of her life and suffered terribly. During the documentary, there is an interview with her mother, who is crying. She said that she knew Shiloh would be born to unthinkable misery (she knew about the condition but decided not to abort). She admits that in selfishness, she wanted to have a baby, and so she did.

I don’t understand why this isn’t child abuse. Yes, Shiloh was extremely lovable and even led an admirable life. But it’s bullshit to make someone suffer so, when it could have been prevented.

When I saw the story online last week about the baby boy born with his brain outside his head, I felt sick. He’s already lasted longer alive than doctors predicted. But what kind of “life” is in store for him? 7-month-old Bentley Yoder is alive and kicking and has undergone surgery to place his brain back into his skull. As with Shiloh, his mother knew what was in store for him but had him anyway. 

Is it really worth it? I say the CONS outweigh the PROS in cases like this. 

Think about it... what if it was YOU who was going to be born with a defect like fused legs or a brain blobbing outside your cranium. If you had a choice, would you CHOOSE life? 

Nah, I didn't think so.

--Beth

(Unless a Navy Seal parachuted out of a helicopter to pluck him from the icy ocean waters during a hurricane) Your dog is NOT a RESCUE

Full confession: I once purchased a puppy at a Beverly Hills pet store. I didn't plan it -- the circumstances involved a husband high on cocaine, a marriage hanging by a thread, and the age old subconscious attempt to save said marriage by "having a baby." This dog turned out to be the love of my life however (RIP, Pablo) so I can't say it was a mistake but I WAS always embarrassed by the question "Where did you get him?" 

I have also had and loved dogs I adopted from the Humane Society. Never once did I refer to them as "Rescue Dogs" and the recent obsession with this classification drives me fucking nuts! Unless you found your dog starving in the woods with one foot caught in a bear trap, you did not rescue him. You wanted a dog so you went out and picked out a dog. Yes, you have done a good thing by choosing your pet from an animal shelter but I guarantee your dog gives you more love, laughter, and life enjoyment than you can give it. When pet owners need to qualify their dogs this way, it says more about their desire for a moral pat on the back than it holds any actual meaning about that pet. 

My wardrobe consists almost entirely of things I buy at thrift stores but I do not say I wear "abandoned clothing." Likewise, my apartment rental is not a "liberated vacancy." And the son my parents adopted at age 5 out of the California welfare system was not a "rescue boy." 

Now stop being so pompous and just enjoy your damn dog!

--Heather

Fuck You Media Scare Tactics

Last night, I woke up in a cold sweat realizing that I had NO IDEA how to escape if someone zip tied my wrists together. But then this appeared in my Facebook feed. Thank god for the internet. I feel so much better now.

Everyone needs to know this:

Here Is How To Escape If Someone Zip Ties Your Wrists. This Is A Life-Saving Technique.

TRENDZIFIED.NET

 --Heather

PICTURE BELOW MAY APPEAR SMALLER THAN IT ACTUALLY IS

I'm not a very traditional gal so it will not surprise you to hear that I do NOT endorse the giving of pre-marriage engagement rings. Besides the negative environmental impacts of the diamond mining industry, I abhor the judgement that comes along with them as women compare size and men go into debt for the cost of the future brides "rock."

But my normal dislike of this practice has been ratcheted to an all time high with the spectacle of Mariah Carey's ridiculous engagement ring from her billionaire husband to be. Price estimates go as high as 10 million dollars. Again, TEN MILLION DOLLARS. Yes, your fiance can afford that ring but why would you possibly want it? How can you seriously wear that (or more often, keep it locked away in your safe) when that much money could literally change the lives of thousands of people? 

Oh, Mariah. Poor, poor Mariah. When I look at that ginormous diamond on your finger, I do not think you are rich in love. I think you are poor in self-esteem. This ring is not a symbol of love and commitment. It is statement of gross consumption and self-absorption. You are not the role model for little girls' romantic dreams.

Romance is your billionaire boyfriend putting a quarter in the machine outside the grocery store and giving you the ring that came out in a little plastic bubble because he was overcome by emotion and knew he just had to propose to you that VERY SECOND. And more romantic is you looking at that ring with love just because it was presented to you by the man you adore and wearing it even though it turned your finger green.

But what do I know? I don't believe in this shit.

-- Heather

I DON'T GIVE A PISS!

“Hey, Pete, I’m out of toilet paper. Will you pass some over?”

“Sure…but don’t ask me for a tampon!” jokes the boy in the toilet stall next to mine.

It was 1987, I was 18 years old, and I lived in a college dorm with unisex bathrooms. We brushed our teeth, emptied our bowels, and washed our hair side by side in a gender blended atmosphere. Bathrobes and towels covered our private bits but real privacy was scarce. And it was all perfectly NORMAL.

Thirty years later, I cannot believe the political attention and moral outrage now being given to the people with whom we will or won't share our public restrooms. My comfort level or lack thereof is the same whether I am in this shared space with a strange man OR an unknown woman. In fact, the less known they are, the less self conscious I feel. Contrary to the intimate bodily functions taking place, this is not an arena for intimacy. 

Going to the bathroom is not a sexual experience (for most of us.) To those who worry about sharing this space with an opposite gender bathroom mate, I say: get over yourself! We go there for a lot of reasons: to pee or puke, wash our hands and wipe our butts, put on make up, take out tampons, smoke cigarettes. Generally speaking, we do NOT go to the bathroom to meet people. 

So stop creating controversy over this simple and daily necessity of life. I have plenty of other stuff to worry about besides who is taking a piss next to me. Like who didn't replace the toilet paper roll!?!

--Heather

Shaving for Non-Beginners

Starting at the age of 11, I have shaved my legs every day for the past 37 years.  This means that I have shaved my legs more than 13,500 times.

I have shaved my legs in a sink of cold water in the bathroom plane of a transcontinental flight. I have shaved my legs with no water while camping. I have shaved my legs in college dorm bathrooms, four star hotels, and at home in the dark when the power has gone out.

In other words, I am not new to the game of shaving my legs.

Lately however, it seems that the rules of shaving have changed. When I go to purchase a new razor, I am confronted with costly choices of five blade varieties. No longer do my hair follicles need to suffer the single blade assault that used to leave them reddened and irritated. But now, my razor seems to whisk away the hairs by TAKING THE SKIN WITH THEM! Weekly, I find myself sliced, diced, spotted in blood and no closer to the ultimate smooth shave than I was three decades ago.

So I say "Enough!" to the makers of these technologically advanced torture devices. Please leave my simple razor alone, and instead put your laboratory science dollars to work helping me get all that lotion out of the bottom of the lotion dispenser. I need it to relieve my skin just after shaving, and I need it now more than ever! Ouch! Fuck all you razors-on-steroids. I'm over it! FUYA!

--Heather

It's Not You, It's ME

HAPPY V-D From Fuck You All!

--Chocolate hearts by Heather

Selfie Hos

So we started another blog dedicated to our least favorite people.

SELFIE HOs.

Check it out: THE SELFIE WHORROR PICTURE SHOW.

I mean, come on guys, it's not cute, or sexy, or endearing -- it's fucking embarrassing when you post endless selfies of yourself on facebook.

GIVE IT A REST, ALREADY.

FUCK. YOU. ALL.

"Will soooooomebody pleeeeeeasse push me to MaaaacDonald's??" (screamed loudly: 7am)

It's 7am and I am barely halfway through my coffee. I am en route to work and hoping to get there before the next downpour while waiting for the bus outside of the 24th Street Bart.

And here she comes. "Will soooooomebody pleeeeeeasse push me to MaaaacDonald's?" Five or six times at full volume. She's across the street and halfway down the block but I still hear her. Everybody does.

She's in a wheelchair and has a good 200 feet to go, to get that egg mcmuffin at the glorious golden arches. She's pretty scrappy and missing shoes.

I exchange some awkward glances with other standbyers.

Uh... I don't think so. Thank god someone took care of it for us. Cause I know I wasn't in the mood, it was too early and cold for this.

But she had no shame. Go get it girl! And FUCK IT ALL, SHE NEEDED HER MAAAAC DONALD'S!

FUYA!

--Shawn

FUCK YOU ALL Coffee Mugs... And More!

FUCK YOU ALL is now swagalicious.

Coffee mugs. T-shirts. Shower curtains.
Duvet covers. Clocks. Rugs.

I mean, who doesn't need a FUCK YOU ALL throw pillow?????

WARNING! WARNING! NIPPLE ALERT!

Recently, I went to visit a friend in prison (yeah yeah, that's a different story.) Well versed in the institution's visitor dress code, I made sure my pants were not too tight, my shoulders were not exposed, and nothing was sheer. So imagine my surprise when I was flagged out of line and told I would need to go put on a bra because my nipples were showing. And by showing, I mean erect... because it was 42 degrees in there!

If you've read my previous post about my exceptionally small breasts, you already know that I don't own a bra. But I know that rules are rules so I returned to my car and put on another tank top with a sports bra built in. Back in line and ready to go but... nope, still showing. Back to the car for a second tank top and the added measure of folding them both bandage style over my teeny, tiny bosom. Trussed up like a Victorian maiden, I found it a little difficult to breath but dammit, those pesky nipples were squished into submission!

A week later, I'm increasingly annoyed by this. All over America, prepubescent girls are given the thumbs up to dress like strippers but I need to camouflage my body's natural reaction to the cold? Stories of shaming directed at publicly breast feeding mothers crop up daily while Hollywood stars gain fame with artificially increased breast size. Society (read: men in power) has co-opted female breasts and skewed their function so as to be for them -- taken out or put away as they see fit. But that doesn't mean we with have to go along with it.

So yes, sometimes you may notice my nipples reacting to the weather because that's WHAT NIPPLES DO. And if you don't like it, my nipples and I will poke your eyes out!

--Heather