“Make Life Your Dildo”: Registration now open

The modern world has a yeast infection. You don’t even realize because to you, it’s always smelled like that. The good news: PenPalsOnPills is hosting our first annual women’s retreat, “Make Life Your Dildo”. This weekend-long enlightenment series held in Buellton, CA will include several self-care workshops designed to educate and empower even the most pathetic females out there. If you don’t think this event is for you, then it definitely is.

Here are just some of the cutting-edge activities on the agenda:

Deconstructing the Myth of the Cute Top

Bring your favorite shirt and see where it ranks on our completely objective Cuteness Scale.

You’re not Basic

Delete your Instagram before making an acai bowl. The rest of the workshop is unplanned, as we cannot predict how you’ll fill the time you would have otherwise spent filtering your #eatingclean photo.

Sole Cycle

Ride a road bike uphill alone in Humboldt County, no music or directions allowed.

36 Whiskeys

Develop the alcohol tolerance of a truck driver.

Punt like a Cunt

Play one-on-one flag football against a real-live lesbian. The tournament doesn’t end until you win.

Keynote speaker Cate Blanchett: “Galadriel vs. Bob Dylan”

Award-winning actress explores the strengths and weaknesses of two of her most acclaimed roles, then fights herself live on stage.

Queen of the Ranch

Master the art of Reverse Cowgirl with an introductory lecture on theory, followed by an interactive class and final exam.

The first 10 to register receive a complimentary orange paisley pantsuit and autographed DVD of “Carol” starring Cate Blanchett. The second 10 receive an unsigned VHS of “Elizabeth”, also starring Blanchett. Just email PenPalsOnPills@gmail.com with your credit card information to sign up!

Sponsored by 7/11 brand tampons
*Show your ticket at checkout for 75 cents off a bag of Funyuns

 

Texting acronyms that actually describe life

When was the last time you were actually ROFL? No one’s that funny, and floors are usually gross. We here at PenPalsOnPills encourage you to keep it real, so we’ve provided a list of text acronyms that let you quickly and genuinely communicate to your friends how you’re doing and what you’re feeling throughout the day. Start using them today! Don’t worry if no one knows what you’re saying–that’s what LOL is for. 

SODI–Smiling outside, dying inside

ARLWTTL–At red light, waiting to turn left

DTBWFM–Down to binge-watch Will Ferrell movies

TBTSTC–Too busy taking selfies to care

MILO–Maybe, if the lights are off

SWFMP. WTFD –Still waiting for my pizza. What the fuck, Dominoes

PIHIAHS–Pretending I’m a housewife in Anthropologie’s home section

LOLTGBA–Laughing out loud to get Bryan’s attention

LITDA–Lying in the dark alone

WTCTE–Wanting this conversation to end

TNTF–Trying not to fart

STWS–Sorry, that wasn’t sarcasm

10 things more real than pumpkin spice lattes

If you’ve recently had the pleasure of strolling down the glittering streets of upper middle class suburbia, you’ve passed more than one Starbucks and seen the same hand-drawn chalkboard ad for “The Real PSL”. Perhaps you’ve wondered how a pumpkin-flavored beverage has more Instagram followers than you. Or maybe you’re more preoccupied with the fact that people are walking around drinking liquid pie. Or you’re like me, and the Pumpkin Spice Latte’s self-proclaimed “realness” has led you to question how many other lies you guzzle down each day with a pump of artificially flavored syrup.

  1. Racial equality. Harriet Tubman may have replaced Andrew Jackson on the $20 bill but that doesn’t change the fact that as a white female I could talk my way out of setting fire to a jewelry store then trading its goods and employees for nuclear weapons. Mostly because I’d be talking to the neighborhood watch volunteers, as the real police are busy arresting a black man for taking out his trash after 5pm.
  2. Democracy. In general, I love college. Just not when it’s electoral. Where’s the alcohol? Where’s my voting power? I guess I got to the party too late. Thomas Jefferson would furrow his ginger brow in disdain at the lack of respectable bumper stickers available for this year’s election.
  3. Teen girls’ reactions upon winning Adele tickets on the radio. “Oh my god I can’t believe it. This is incredible.” Is it? We all know you wish they were for Drake.
  4. Unlimited bread baskets at Outback Steakhouse. As it turns out, they ask you to leave after 43 baskets and one Diet Coke .
  5. Ariana Grande’s half-ponytail. It’s always there. I doubt she was born with it. This one’s quite the chin-scratcher.
  6. My neighbor Nikki’s tan. “I was kayaking off the coast of Uruguay last week and it seems I got a little sun.” Yeah right, you’re the color of Taco Bell hot sauce and you hate temperate climates, you spray-painted whore.
  7. Nikki’s husband’s business trip. When was the last time a 7th grade algebra teacher had business in the heart of Bangkok? Someone’s trying to deep-fry his rice noodle in fish sauce, good lord! Or should I say, mee krob!
  8. The Bay Area’s love for NPR. Apparently not everyone is as enchanted by Kai Ryssdal as I am, since STOMP cover bands on Bart received more donations during one instrumental rendition of Toto’s “Africa” than KQED’s pledge drives did this entire month.
  9. Bryan’s restraining order against me. Paper has a really poignant way of burning to dust, doesn’t it?
  10. Retail sales associates. “Wow, that dress was made for you.” Actually it was made for 12 cents an hour by Indonesian children who have no idea I exist. But damn, it does look good on me.

By all means, enjoy the flavors of autumn in a toasty paper cup. Just remember: the PSL is only as real as you make it, and you can actually order it any time of year as long as you’re wearing a velour jumpsuit.

An open letter to men, regarding Chinese takeout

I keep many thoughts to myself while indulging in a taste of the Orient, and it’s not because of the cashew chicken clogging my windpipe.

A girl is at her most vulnerable while consuming Chinese takeout: when alone, the room is likely dark, sunlight blocked by blankets pinned to the walls, limiting visibility. Last-last night’s mascara has seeped into the creases below the eyes on night one, then back into the eyeballs on night two, further obstructing sight. Deodorant has not been applied for over 48 hours, masking the scent of any approaching predator. The DVD menu of 10 Things I Hate About You is blaring the same 15 seconds of Cheap Trick’s “I Want You to Want Me” on repeat, overpowering the sound of an axe shattering the kitchen window.

When accompanied by a man-friend, vulnerability takes on an entirely new meaning. A twist of circumstances has led to us selecting a dining genre that is generally reserved for suburban children on busy school nights, businessmen having airport breakfasts, or self-loathing 20-something women at 3pm on Saturdays. Now that we’re here, let me tell you what I think:

Don’t tell me I “can’t actually eat all of that”. Regardless of what my previous intentions were, now that you’ve made this asinine statement I’m determined to prove you wrong.

If there’s an odd number of potstickers, I get the extra, even if I’m just saving it for later.

Your comment about the saturated fat in orange chicken is almost as unwelcome as your incorrect pronunciation of “General Tso”. I may be just a white girl but I at least have the dignity to verse myself in common American-Chinese dishes, or else keep silent.

Trying to divide our meal into “first” and “second” servings is ignorant and futile. This is an ongoing, overlapping process where beginnings and ends perpetually blur, and if you aren’t okay with that, you can stop after your “first” helping, good sir.

If I want to grip two chopsticks in each hand and shovel noodles at my face in haphazard heaps, let me.

If you think the grease dripping down my chin onto my shirt is unappealing, you shouldn’t have bought me Chinese food. If you didn’t buy me Chinese food, why the hell are you in the room with me while I eat it? Four entrees, two appetizers and a side of rice costs less than $20, so if you aren’t down to cover that, good luck paying for your Uber home, asshole.

And with that, I’m going to open both of the fortune cookies because you have no future and I control my own destiny.

Get the season’s cutest new gear to help you break into Bryan’s house (again)

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Ever since that last time you pulled a Pollyanna and climbed up Winona, that adorable willow tree next to Bryan’s window, jumped and feigned a paralysis in your lower body so he would be forced to carry you inside while waiting for the ambulance, Bryan has been rather mum. The only texts you’ve received have been all “stop contacting me”, and “I’m calling ADT to reactivate my alarm system.” But this week, your heart was revived and raced with the force of twenty underfed, drugged up Irish greyhounds at a racetrack just outside of Dublin in 1926, because Bryan sent you a letter. A LOVE letter. Even though it was signed by The Superior Court of the State of California, you know it was from him. And even though it read something like ‘you, the adverse party, are hereby notified that any intentional violation of this order is a criminal violation. . . [blah blah blah]. . . protection against stalking or harassment. . . [blah blah blah],” you know he loves Jonathan Swift, and therefore it is satire. What a jokester he is, that Bryan!

Since Valentine’s Day is so soon (only 123 days away!!), you should do something nice for Bryan. Wait for him in his bed afterwork, perched atop newly purchased red satin sheets. But first, don’t forget to leave your “scent” on his toothbrush for later- you know where to put it. And hey, while you’re in the bathroom, clean out his hairbrush for him. It was so nice when your mom used to do that for you, and the forgotten follicles will make the perfect stuffing for that little doll you’re making in his image!

Alas, the conundrum: you don’t want to ruin the surprise by letting him know you’ll be there, and he doused that sneaky little key holding ceramic frog that used to be in the bushes by the front door in lighter fluid last year before burning it. Wonder why he did that? Maybe it turned out to be a dart frog- those things are poisonous! Anyways, we here at PPOP know exactly how to get you into Bryan’s house on the down low. We’ve compiled this short list of products to aid you in doing so. Be sure to wear your ‘sneakers’! Hehe!

Vipertek Micro Stun Gun (in pink!)

Bryan’s cleaning lady comes on Wednesdays, and she has a key to the house now because the frog is gone. Tase her from behind and lock her in her minivan. Crack a window if you’re feeling generous!

Household Tool Kit (in pink!)

This one is all sorts of fun! First, you can unscrew the screens on the windows using the cordless screwdriver, and then you can use the hammer to break a window. Later, play some sort of sex game with the level to show Bryan you’re on the same. . . level! If Leila, the cleaning lady, gets unruly, tase her again and use the electrical tape to soften her cries for help and bind her arms and legs.

Leather Secret Mission Gloves (in pink!)

Everyone in movies always does their sneaking in gloves, so why shouldn’t you? And, on the off chance that Bryan gets spooked and calls the cops, there won’t be any fingerprints. It might even be funny to keep them on during sex and call them your ‘love gloves’, cuz god knows you’re not using a condom!

Acepromazine 25 mg (in pink!)

Geraldo Rivera, Bryan’s newly rescued blue-eyed pitbull, seems to have taken a liking to you. In recent weeks, he starts barking excitedly and pawing madly at the front door every time you glance in the sitting room window during your midnight walk. While he sure looks sweet, you don’t want his yammering to put Bryan on alert. And even though he’s done teething, he’s nipped at you a few times when you’ve been squatting in the backyard. It was really your fault though, don’t think less of him- you had the bloody drippings of the nearly raw steak you eat for dinner every night dried on your forearms. Anyways, two or three of these dog tranquilizers should put him out for the night.

*Bonus!* Valentine’s day wouldn’t be complete without a present!! Bryan loves to cook, and you just love everything about that show Hannibal, so why not get him the cookbook written by the show’s resident food stylist? Feeding Hannibal by Janice Poon is available here.

 

 

Shopping for your next wedding? Try a bridal romper

Sure, it’s as balmy as a Louisiana plumber’s buttcrack outside, but if you’re a bride-to-be, don’t sweat it: you can stay cool and totally on-trend with a bridal romper. That’s right! Wedding gowns are so 16th century and it’s about time someone realized it.

I don’t know about you, but my last few weddings were an absolute nightmare because of my traditional dress. The first time, the skirt of my gown had so many billowing layers I could barely dance to Shaggy’s timeless song “Angel” (ft. Rayvon), and I managed to pee on every layer because my bridesmaids — whose sole purpose is to assist in urination — weren’t actually my friends, they were my second cousins, and both male.

Pee isn’t the worst stain you could get on your dress, especially if you’re properly hydrated — more and more brides are choosing champagne over white these days anyway. But don’t get me started on my fourth wedding.

Looks like you got me started. I’m obliged to elaborate.

As I glided down the aisle to the instrumental version of Hilary Duff’s “Come Clean”, I suddenly realized that Yakov, the man whom I was about to wed, was not the one for me. The two days I’d known him had been sensational, but not in the lovestruck way, more in the carnally orgasmic way. Our language barrier hadn’t yet been a problem, but I realized how difficult hosting dinner parties would be when he couldn’t speak or understand a word of English. Who would brag about my scrapbooking talents or narrate slideshows of our trip to Japan? What would the Thornton family say? I glanced at the Thorntons in the pew to my right. Tiffany Thornton was staring me down with the Botoxed scrutiny of a rehydrated raisin investigating a murder. Who would delegate such responsibility to a raisin? I knew it was now or never.

I turned and ran.

At least, I tried to. I would have made my escape, had it not been for the intricately woven train of my antique wedding gown. The delicate lace had maliciously wrapped itself around my diamond-studded stiletto and was ensnared on one of the crystalline spikes. As I spun around, I came tumbling down face-first into the ring-bearer, who in this case was a Clydesdale horse.

Let me briefly explain the Clydesdale, in case you’re wondering. The night before, while planning our wedding, Yakov and I had been watching television and a Wells Fargo commercial came on. If I weren’t such a lady I would delve into detail about the ways Yakov ravaged every hole in my body, but I’ll let you and your imagination have the fun. For a reason Yakov could not explain — at least in English — Clydesale horses made him as horny as a high school Attendance Office secretary. I’m all about consummation, so we booked that damn horse.

Back to Wedding 4: the Clydesdale proceeded to trample me into the ground and I lost the ability to move and speak for a few months. The ceremony continued as I lay unconscious, and to this day I am still reluctantly married to Yakov.

This all could have been avoided if my attire had allowed me to run the way I so yearned to. With a bridal romper, you can dance, skip, and sprint away from your own wedding whenever you please, without the hassle of misogynistic tulle spoiling your chance at happiness.

Interested? Check out David’s Bridal. David, unlike most men, has acknowledged a bride’s right to leap about recklessly on her last day of freedom. I’m most definitely choosing a bridal romper for my next wedding, once I figure out this Yakov situation.

Exclusive interview with neighbor who films me through window

I had the opportunity to sit down with Dylan, my enigmatic neighbor across the street whom I often catch videotaping me from his front porch as I change into my pajamas. Despite seeing his shadowed silhouette several times I’d never had the courage to approach him, so you could say I was a bit star-struck. He strode out to meet me on the curb in front of his house and as we began to chat I struggled to conceal both my fangirl jitters and can of Mace.

How would you describe this film?

I’d say it’s sort of The Virgin Suicides meets Alice in Wonderland. I’m abandoning the societal construction of privacy for a guerilla style approach to the classic surburban America dystopia trope. The plot centers around a young woman who spends her evenings alone in her room watching bootleg movies online, occasionally watering her plant and changing her clothes. The majority of the film is shot through her window to emphasize her isolation, interspersed with my own hand-drawn animated scenes and experimental erotic claymation.

What inspired you to create this piece?

People leave their blinds up, you can see right in. Sometimes when I go in for a close-up tracking shot I’ll see the window is, in fact, ajar, so I’ll just keep the shot going right into the interior of the house and those spontaneous decisions have created some of my favorite scenes. I have the privilege of capturing that genuine shock and terror that you just can’t get from actors, and this raw emotion has inspired me to continue my work.

Who are your mentors?

Oh that’s a tough one. If I had to narrow it down to just one I’d say Boo Radley, Ted Bundy and Ben Affleck.

That’s three people.

What do you mean?

You named three people.

That I did.

Why these three?

If I told you I’d have to kill you. Do you want that? Do you want me to kill you?

No, thank you. What would you say was the biggest challenge in producing this film?

Probably trying to breathe quietly.

What do you think the public’s reaction will be to your film?

It’s hard to say, you know, because I haven’t actually been out in public for almost 18 years. You’re actually the first person I’ve spoken to in 5. Last time was when I bought that crowbar from Ace Hardware. Jared was his name. Great guy. Hope he’s still alive. But to answer your question I think the public will appreciate the community bond I’m portraying here–mi casa es su casa, if you will. That’s actually the working title right now. I hope this film encourages others to break barriers–both societally and physically–in the name of art.

Do you have plans for a next project?

My ankle bracelet limits me to a 500-foot radius of my house, which I view as an artistic challenge. I’m planning an investigative documentary filmed with tiny cameras attached to the collars of neighborhood dogs. People trust their dogs with everything. They think, who will my dog tell? With my camera strategy, imagine what I’ll learn. I’m calling this one “Betrayal”.

Mi Casa es Su Casa is scheduled to premier on Dylan’s MySpace page this fall.

Leggings Aren’t Pants: The Musical! [AD]

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Well, precious readers, its happened. Our first sponsored post. Fear not dull content, for our price is as high as we are on a Tuesday night cocktail of Ambien, weed, and just a dash of that new elephant tranquilizer they’re putting into heroin. Ketamine is for pussies!

Last Thursday (on our Thursday night cocktail of some liquid Valium we put into an emptied container of one of those Vick’s Vapor Inhalers-tutorial to follow- and a small sassafras suppository) Helen and I had the great pleasure of previewing what we consider to be the Off-Broadway, 5-Year-Old-Pair-of-Victoria’- Secret-Period-Panties, Bleach, Blood Stains, And All, version of the ever delightful hit, Hamilton.Premiering in the auditorium of Denver’s Thomas Jefferson High School, this is no philistine piece of work. We were ushered to our seats by members of the school’s Young Feminists Club, but we can’t be certain the school actually knew about the performance, since to enter the campus we had to scale a large fence. Nevertheless, it was a magical night of symphonious satire and casual drug consumption.

A delightful feminist diatribe, the play is ripe with euphonious exposition on the microaggressions faced by females in modernity. It is the story of twenty-something writer and everygirl Liz Nightingale and her first year in New York City: a lyrical bildungsroman about friendships, love, and careers. The eponymous opening number, “Leggings Aren’t Pants!”, discourses on the factions of society who continuously criticize women’s quotidian, zealous wearing of Zellas with blouses that don’t shroud our bottoms and their intent. The motivation behind this denunciation, says writer and director Nancy Seymour-Filmore-Longmore, is the wrath of the ever pesky green eyed monster. She posits: “Clearly, the refusal to accept leggings as pants is an extension of the patriarchy’s grappling for control over women; did you know that in some courtrooms, right now, lady lawyers are disallowed from wearing pants? For me, it all leads back to vulva envy-from the scheme of the Vestal Virgins in Rome to suffrage-men have always been a wee bit jealous that we don’t have to deal with those pesky “wees”! But before I get all feminazi (excuse my French), I will say: its jealousy. Their love muscles just don’t look as good in Lululemons.”

While the play starts out playfully lighthearted, in the thick of it, Seymour-Filmore-Longmore does not shy away from riffing on tampon luxury taxes, the delay of processing rape kits, or the gender pay gap. In our favorite number, the sexual harassment sensation “Don’t Pinch My Elbows And Give Me Back My Bra”, the lights dim and the spotlight is commanded by lead actress and powerhouse vocalist Jenny Frey, who sings alone on stage: “why must you pinch my elbows, when I’m sitting in my cubicle/I don’t find it farcical/how did my bra end up in your desk drawer/this is outrageous, I’m reporting you to HR.

From the plainsong parody “I Should’ve Been A STEM Major” to the funk-fueled dance spectacular “Get It Out, Get It Out (The Clearblue Digital Boogie)”, Leggings Aren’t Pants: The Musical! is the antiestablishment comedy fantasyland we didn’t know we were waiting for. Tickets start at $44.99, and can be purchased on Denver’s EventBrite page. For a chance to win a pair of tickets for next Wednesday’s midnight matinee, tweet the name of your favorite brand of leggings to @nancymourmoremore.

 

Update: Happy news. It has come to our attention that 20th Century Fox has purchased the movie rights from Nancy, and is in talks with Emma Watson to take on the role of Liz.

 

Why my new houseplant is more satisfying than a real man

They say you find him once you stop looking, and I finally know what they mean. There I was, traipsing through Home Depot like any other Saturday afternoon, when I saw him. I knew immediately I had to have him. Since that day, Nicolas* has blessed me with the kind of love you can’t read about in books nor see in films, for no one writes about the relationship of a girl and her plant.

Here are just a few things I love about Nicolas. If I had a balcony I would proclaim my love from above, but for now, let this keyboard be the ledge over which I shout.

He’s always waiting for me by the bed when I come home. The fuzz on his leaves glistens in the sunlight as he tries to catch my eye, but there’s no need, for I’m already looking at him.

He doesn’t ignore my texts. And I know he’s not bullshitting about not having a phone the way other guys do. He definitely doesn’t have one.

He likes everything I cook for him. Nicolas would never tell me I undercooked the pasta or used too much Cream of Tartar in the cookies. I know just the kind of bathroom sink water he likes, and can tell when he’s feeling a bit too dry just by touching his soil. Such a connection is rare in human-to-human relationships.

He’s focused on personal growth. He’s not satisfied with sitting idly. Upward mobility is his top priority. Every day his leaves lengthen, and as if that weren’t enough, he even grows new ones.

He gets along with all my friends. When I bring him out with the crew, there is almost no awkwardness. Sometimes people ask why I brought my plant to the bar, and for those people I feel nothing but pity–they clearly have never known a bond this strong.

I’m not trying to brag, I just want to let all you ladies out there know that it’s possible. It may not happen at Home Depot, maybe not even at Lowe’s, but Target has really upped their Garden Center, so try there.

*None of the plants pictured above are Nicolas, he is too embarrassed I’m writing about him online