one hundred things to hate before you die

Mama June and the Human Boo Boo


If little boys are made of snips, snails, and puppy dog tails; and little girls are made of sugar, spice, and everything nice; is Mama June made of selfish choices, receding gums, and cookie crumbs? Every time I see a story about her, I pray for retroactive abortion (hey, if people can pray for things as frivolous as a football game, why can’t I pray to unclog America’s toilet?). The fact that this mush mouth, pedophile-loving, illiterate, human Big Mac is able to reproduce, proves that there’s no God, and that apparently you can defecate from your vagina. Yes, I’m saying I’d like to hop in a time machine, thwart the conception of June, and stop the cycle of future disability-collecting, scooter-riding, Spam-eating, pedophile canoodling morons who are overpopulating this country, and subjecting children to their damaging ways.

On the one hand, I feel badly for her daughter, Honey Boo Boo. And I don’t advocate making fun of any child. It’s sad that she’s being raised by someone who puts men, food, and fame before her children. On the other hand, I realize she’ll likely grow up (assuming clogged arteries and a go-go juice induced stroke don’t take her first) to be an adult that is the tobacco spitting image of her mother. It’s hard to root for people who name their food before eating it—especially when said food was found dead on the side of the road. Who looks at the gore of death and thinks “Mmm, stew”? Who swaddles a bloody carcass in a blanket and cradles it like a baby while telling it how good it’s going to feel in their “big fat belly”? Who looks like a deformed, fatter Bruce Vilanch and thinks, “I should eject babies from my birth canal like a Pez dispenser and force them into the beauty pageant circuit.” And I don’t care what a child looks like; putting her in a beauty pageant is disgusting and irresponsible (unless her Marilyn Monroe impression is uncomfortably seductive. Then it’s just a waste not to share that with the world).

In Mama June’s world, it seems that beauty is simply based on an “I don’t care what y’all think” attitude rather than kindness, personality, healthy choices, reality, and not dating your daughter’s molester. Walking around overly yet unjustifiably confident doesn’t make you beautiful (in most cases, it makes you delusional…or Justin Bieber). But it seems nothing can stop this shameless fame monger from parading herself and her family in front of the cameras.                     

            Her first show, Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, was dropped by TLC when it came out that June was dating Mark McDaniel—the molester of her daughter, Anna Cardwell. After serving time for the crime, she welcomed him back with open arms (but that’s only because she can’t actually close them). “Aww, he’s rehabilitated. It doesn’t matter that my daughter is scarred for life. He deserves another chance because I’m a mangled amoeba in stretch pants who will serve my kids up on a silver platter” … (or in her case, a Styrofoam plate) … “just to get attention from a man—even if that attention is all just a ruse to get to my babies that I claim are priority number one in my life.”

So, WE tv decided the world can’t live without this maternally vacant procreator and gave her a show called From Not to Hot. Really? We’re so politically correct that we can’t even call a pedophile protector gross? We’re worried about hurting her feelings? Worse yet, we have to pretend she’s hot just because she dropped a few pounds? I don’t think she’s so much hot as she is sweaty. Her eyes always seem half shut (unlike her corn dog shoot) and before her makeover, her teeth looked like a ramshackle staircase stuck to a wad of gum. Now she smiles and it looks like a refurbished staircase painted in Wite-Out…stuck to a wad of gum.

When a guy dates a girl, he’s told to look at her mom to get an idea of what she’s going to turn into. Like that riddle is hard to solve. Before she hit 30, June looked like a haggard, diabetic grandmother whose only exercise was thumbing through a Finger Hut catalog while farting out the remains of her Shake-N-Bake feast. I guess what I’m saying is, she’s quite a catch…for someone with enormously strong arms. Let’s just hope when Boo Boo reaches dating age (which is 7 where they’re from…so I may be a little late), suitors don’t judge her by her “mama” and that she doesn’t follow in her lumbering footsteps. I know I’m being hopeful though, especially since I recall catching a few episodes back in the day. I mean, they needed subtitles for people to understand them…IN THEIR COUNTRY OF ORIGIN! A drunken Jackie Chan would be easier to understand than these garbled hillbillies. What’s ironic though about the subtitles is that most of the people watching probably can’t read anyhow.

the dirt on clean comedy


I used to write a comedy blog for an online magazine called Spotlight. I never claimed to be an expert on anything (except mocking Kim Kardashian on Twitter and losing at least one follow a week as a result of my musings). The point is, I’m simply sharing my opinions on comedy. Does that mean I’m right? Yes, of course. But it doesn’t make me a "full-blown" expert. An expert is "a person who has special skill or knowledge in some particular field". A full-blown expert is a person who has special skill or knowledge in some particular field who has received fellatio to completion”. Duh.

There’s a view regarding comedy—perpetuated by people who wear horn-rimmed glasses, and middle American housewives—that only clean jokes can be smart and funny. First of all, any joke, whether clean or dirty, can be smart and funny… as long as it’s written by a Jew. Secondly, I’m not a Jew but I’ve been mistaken for one on several occasions (not for my joke writing ability, but for my lack of athletic ability). In addition to touting clean jokes as smarter, many also say dirty or edgy jokes are an easy laugh.

How is it easier to get a society full of uptight, politically correct, personality censors to laugh at a joke outlining the hypocrisy of religion versus a tired joke about how women are smarter than men? Am I right ladies? (Insert image of male comic pandering to females in the audience with a contrived subservient delivery, or a smug housewife comedian with hand extended, palm facing upwards with other hand firmly planted on hip).

How is a joke about your wife yelling at you for using the “fancy” towels (oh boy, is he in trouble now…what’s this silly fella going to say next!) smarter than a joke that ties childhood obesity into fuel economy? (RIP Greg Giraldo). Meanwhile, the guy who does the joke about accidentally using the fancy towels almost always implies how he used it to take care of business (and, uh oh, he forgot he threw it under the bed so by the time wifey found it, it had rigor mortis. Cheap laughter ensues) because the missus won’t give him any nookie until he takes the trash out without being reminded. Boy, did she show him or what? But, back to the point of this horrible example. In my opinion, that joke is dirtier and grosser than any joke that might have a swear in it or perhaps a humorous (not mean-spirited) racial reference. Who wants to envision some slightly overweight, partially balding, super white guy’s special sauce? I’m gagging just saying that phrase.

If I work with another self-congratulatory, generic white guy who calls his wife “the sheriff” (if she doesn’t have a badge, a moustache, and pull black people over for no reason, she ain’t the sheriff), who smirks with delight after “killing” (unfortunately not himself) with a set that included a medication side-effect joke and a “kooky” story about his 3 year old, I’ll probably take a Viagra, then call Angelina Jolie instead of my doctor (yuk, yuk, yuk) and jerk off on the decorative pillows. Similarly, saying something gross or shocking that has no wit to it just for the sake of saying it usually isn’t funny either. How many times can we see a blonde, self-proclaimed drunken bimbo talk about how “wrecked” her “pussy” is and act like “Wow, she is so groundbreaking. I’ve never heard that sassy honest talk from a pretty gal before.”

I’d rather get a lukewarm reaction doing jokes that are real to me than get raucous laughter doing jokes that play to the bland simplicity of the majority. I’m not saying that all clean comedy is safe and generic. Jim Gaffigan is a perfect example of a clean, non-edgy comic who is hilarious, original, and clever. And I’m not saying all edgy comedy is unique or groundbreaking. What I’m saying is I used to have a crush on Daryl Hall—and although he was a straight-laced singer, it made me feel very dirty inside (that’ll teach me for not rinsing that cucumber first).

When I work with clean comics, I don’t preach to them that being politically incorrect is better. I don’t toot my own horn (unless I’m really lonely and Emmanuelle happens to be on Cinemax in the background). Yet, often times they feel compelled to explain to me how they’re style is the “right” style, and how the bookings are better when you work clean. This usually includes a story about the thousands they make doing cruises and corporate gigs.

Somehow making money while trapped with a bunch of *cafones in Flip Flops who refer to a floating buffet as classy is not my idea of making it (but working in mildew-smelling basements and mirrored banquet rooms is). I also have no desire to tell lighthearted jokes about the crazy drivers in (insert your city name here!) before Stan gives his presentation on the benefits of presentations.

I don’t dislike clean comedy. I dislike clean comics who think they’re on a higher plane…and who do jokes about planes. It’s all about being funny regardless of what your style is. Don’t think you’re better than me because you didn’t have any racial inferences in your act. I don’t think I’m better than you because I did. If you’re regularly giving unsolicited advice, maybe it’s not because you’re trying to convince somebody else that your right, maybe it’s because you’re trying to convince yourself you are.

*Cafone (pronounced ga-vone) is an Italian word describing a classless, uncouth, or boorish individual  

frown town


Every time I go to my car mechanic, he says to me, “You’re always smiling. You’re always so happy.” And I say, “Yeah, I always pretend to be happy.” And then he comes out from behind the counter like a big, cuddly predator on parole and says “give me a hug” as he “adjusts my headlights” and gives me a Gorilla Monsoon airplane ride (that’s common practice when getting your tires rotated, right?).

But back to “you’re always so happy.” I’m not always happy, but I don’t blame the rest of the world for my inner turmoil (which is probably just trapped gas). I’m not rude or mean to people for no reason and I don’t walk around with a sourpuss (not that my privates are any of your business). Granted, most people make me want to cobra clutch them (two ‘80s WWE references in one rant: You’re welcome!) within five minutes of meeting them, but I still try to be friendly, smile, and give them a chance. Apparently, this isn’t the norm. What seems to be the norm is a bunch of adult crybabies who feel that their horrible life experiences are justification for treating strangers with the disdain usually reserved for a redheaded stepchild. Outward rudeness and hatred towards strangers is senseless (unless it’s towards a redheaded stranger, then it’s understandable).

How is it that these masters of misery are always in jobs dealing with the public? Everywhere you go there’s an employee that makes you feel like you’re bothering them at the job you’re supposed to be bothering them at. Last month I had to go to the hospital to pick up some records. The woman at the reception desk made eye contact with me and stared at me until I reached the counter. What happened next is mindboggling. She didn’t smile or change her facial expression as I stood in front of her. She didn’t greet me; she just continued to stare at me with a look of annoyed disgust on her face. Had she just eaten (and/or smelled) Indian food? Did she just watch a Reese Witherspoon interview? Did she suddenly catch a glimpse of herself?

I don’t like to make fun of people based on their looks, but once they act like an asshole, it’s carte blanche. Of course, what accentuated her ugliness even more was her lugubrious demeanor. At first, I thought she was on the phone because she had on a headset, so I didn’t want to interrupt her. But when she continued to angrily glare at me, it wasn’t until she rolled her eyes and let out an agitated sigh followed by “Uh, yeah can I help you?” that I realized it was my job to greet the greeter. I said, “I’m sorry. I thought you were on the phone.” This time she grunted (or maybe she was clearing her throat after choking on a bit of self-hatred) before growling, “Whadaya need?” When your face looks like a cross between a grouper; a komodo dragon; and the product of inbreeding, shouldn’t you be trying to detract from that with a pleasant demeanor and a friendly smile? (A scuba diving helmet probably wouldn’t hurt either) I guess I wouldn’t smile either though if my teeth looked like paint swatches from the Sherwin-Williams Pee Pee and Poo Poo collection.

Can you believe this is who was hired to greet people coming to visit their ill friends or family members? You walk in upset and worried, and now you have to be made to feel like you’re imposing on the receptionist by expecting her to do her job—a job that involves looking up a name and providing a room number. She can’t do this with a smile (and without Fanta, Fifty Shades of Grey, and pictures of her Orange Tabbies strewn all over her workspace)?

It’s not just the receptionist at the hospital either. I’ve encountered this at doctors’ offices, restaurants, and most recently, a retail store. I’m not sure if I can say the name, so I’ll just call it “Blowe’s.” But they all have that attitude like, “Ugh, why are you bothering me?” Well, I’m bothering you genius because you’re the idiot who signed up for this job—the job that includes working with the public. I’m sorry you had a shitty childhood and your absentee father started another family with his new, younger wife, while your tear-soaked face was buried in your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pillowcase every night. How about becoming a petty thief or an erratic yet lovable substance abuser like the rest of the troubled kids? Or how about becoming a goddamn great actress like me? Smile when you feel like crying; laugh when you feel like screaming; and always smile and laugh while you’re repeatedly stabbing somebody. Remember, it’s all about the polite presentation.



If you’ve never watched the show Hoarders, DON’T! You will become addicted. You will start hoarding episodes on your DVR that force other recorded shows to be buried deep within the saved shows list. As you watch the episodes, you will find they are so intriguing that you just can’t delete them even though you will never watch them again (or even remember that you have them).

I couldn’t fall asleep the other night so when I stumbled upon a Hoarders episode, I thought, “this will help me fall asleep”. Um, not quite. Six hours and six episodes later, I was stuck like glue to the TV (kind of the way important papers from the ‘80s and take-out containers are stuck like glue to a hoarder’s walls and floors). You wonder why I was sucked in, why I couldn’t shut the TV off. When a six foot tall bearded guy decked out in a terry-cloth sweatband (I know, I really don’t need to say much after “sweatband”), a sleeveless khaki vest-shirt, and almost short-shorts who still manages to look like a biker says, “I have one too many rats” how do you say “well, I think I’m going to hit the hay now”.

First of all, isn’t one rat one too many rats? This guy had (drum-roll please…) over 2,000 rats! The best part was the fact that these rats didn’t emerge and multiply as a result of his hoarding, these were his hoarding. He kept them as pets. They were in the walls, on the floor, on the counter; they were everywhere (just like God…except he doesn’t leave excrement on bedspreads).

If you’re not familiar with the show, they always send out a psychologist (along with a cleaning crew & professional organizer) to help the hoarder. Every time the psychologist would speak to this guy about the rats, he would let out this kooky sounding yelp and start sobbing. And the craziest part of it, he was one of the more “together” hoarders of the series. He didn’t fit the hoarder mold (usually, part of the hoarder mold is mold). He appeared to have all his teeth, he didn’t have a waddle to his gait, and he wasn’t combative. He was cooperative and immediately acknowledged he had a problem. It usually doesn’t go that smoothly.

Enter Hannah—my favorite hoarder of all time. It wasn’t her hoarding style that wooed me; it was her down-home, old-fashioned abusive charm. Add in a mush-mouth; a walker powered by two of the most flabtastic arms I’ve ever seen; and a crippled goat, and you have the inspiration behind the saying “what the fuck?”

These people never think they have a problem either. They all say the same thing: “I am not a hoarder, I’m a collector”. Really? I wonder how much brittle cat feces and unpaid electric bills with Tang stains go for on E-Bay. Do you think it’s a problem when you’ve “collected” yourself out of your own home and into an unheated trailer that doubles as a chicken coop? Nah, of course not—that’s completely normal—especially when all the chickens have scoliosis from being cramped in cages like day laborers in Toyota Celicas.

I hate it when it’s time to get to the “clean-up” and they allow the hoarder to sift through each item ONE BY ONE. I’m pretty sure you could throw out their toilet and they wouldn’t miss it, or even notice it was gone. It’s kind of hard to miss something you haven’t seen since Joan Rivers had her original face. When you have so much crap that you have to walk through your home like a SWAT team sneaking up on a meth lab, chances are you don’t have a detailed inventory list of your “items”. If you do have an inventory list, what are the chances you could find it anyhow?

Here are a few tips to figure out if you’re a hoarder:

  • You have to rake your house
  • The only pathway in your house requires you to launch yourself from the top of the staircase to get to it
  • Your dining room table is also your curio cabinet, file cabinet…and the cat’s litter box
  • Your knick-knacks consist of Precious Moments figurines, miniature teapots, and cat carcasses
  • The only garbage can in your house is your house
So next time you find yourself debating whether or not to throw out an expired bottle of Anacin because you “might need it someday”, realize you are one disability check and two estranged children away from becoming a hoarder.



When I used to work with the public, people thought nothing of saying things to me like, “Oh my God, there’s nothing to you. I bet you don’t even eat!” “If you turn sideways, you’ll disappear.” “Wow, you are so skinny, you must be anorexic.” (I wanted to say, “Wow, you’re so rude. You must be…a cunt!) I don’t recall any witnesses who were offended by the slew of insults I was forced to swallow (and regurgitate, because, that’s what skinny people do). Nor do I recall any advocate groups rushing to the defense of this badgered, bony banker. Would these people ever go up to a fat person and be like, “Holy shit you’re HUGE! You must have sleep apnea—and really chafed inner thighs”? Of course, they wouldn’t because that’s not “politically correct”, but somehow, berating a stranger for not having a cruise-ship-buffet-body is.

I’m not saying people should be made fun of or treated poorly; I’m saying it’s hypocritical to be vindictive towards people of below-average size yet protective of people of above-average size. Overeating and anorexia are both eating disorders, but one is coddled and sympathized with; the other is Tori Spelling. And for the record, I’m not contradicting myself here because, I’m not picking on Tori for her size, I’m picking on her because she seems like a vapid, materialistic mooch who thinks her kids are photo ops rather than actual people. 

So why do obese people get a free pass? Why do average sized people have to sit back and take it when bombarded with insults for not being fat, but an activist group is formed any time there’s a supposed fat-shamer on the loose? There’s special parking and free healthcare for obesity, but how many times have you seen an anorexic person pull into a handicap parking spot at the grocery store? (Ok, maybe that’s a bad example since they probably don’t buy groceries)

And God forbid anybody criticize a fat person for their poor health choices (especially when they pass them onto their children) or you’ll be labeled cruel, unsympathetic, mean, and worst of all, skinny (ouch, that stings…maybe because I don’t have enough meat on my bones to absorb the hit). Isn’t it “mean” to feed your kids shitty food all their lives and not teach them about proper nutrition so they don’t have hypertension, diabetes, and irritable bowel by the time they’re 12?

Going through life as a scrawny female with fun bags that are more like tea bags hasn’t been a picnic (especially since picnics involve food and apparently, according to most fat people, skinny people don’t eat)—but I certainly don’t expect special treatment because of it. Do you know how humiliating it is to look like an X-ray in a tube top when you go to the beach? Until I discovered razors, my arms looked like brown angora-coated toothpicks. But nobody worried about my feelings when pointing out all these revelations to me. “Oh my God, thank you for telling me! I had no idea my Auschwitz-esque upper body wasn’t a turn on.” Thank God for honest strangers otherwise, I’d be walking around with a sassy look on my face and my hand on my protruding hip declaring, “I’m fine yo! Haters be frontin’” just like my plus-size counterparts. Oh wait, I couldn’t do that because then I’d be a stuck-up showoff rather than a confident hero of people who probably eat too many heroes. A heroes’ hero. 

            I love when fat comics do a bit about their weight and always have the cliché about the “skinny bitch” friend who goes to lunch with them and wants to smell their food because the “miserable” skinny bitch doesn’t eat; she lives vicariously through her “live life to the fullest” happy-as-a-clam (wrapped in bacon) chubby pal. I’m not offended by the skinny bitch term but it’s unoriginal and expected. It doesn’t pack the punch that it used to when comics started saying it 30 years ago. However, everybody in the audience howls with laughter and does the “good for you” fist-raise to express their approval. Well, they attempt to raise their fists in approval but many of them are excessively large, and attempting such a motion could cause great rotator-cuff damage and shortness of breath.

It’s getting old hearing large women brag about how fantastic their bodies are and that they’re “real.”  I’m so sick of the rhetoric: “Real women have curves. Men want something they can grab onto.” Um, isn’t that what my throat is for? I guess I’m a pretend woman because I don’t have enough rolls on my body that can be renamed curves to make me feel better. Would it be acceptable if I said, “Real women have visible rib cages”? Or, “Real women can control their cholesterol without medication”? Or, how about, “Real women don’t grunt when pooping”? How about saying, “Real women come in all shapes and sizes and nobody is better than anybody else because of their ability to lose a pair of panties in their ass.”

I’m petite but I have areas of my body that curve. Can I now run around bragging to everybody that I’m so sexy and curvy? I think not. How about being humble regardless of your size and not criticizing people who happen to have the opposite weight problem if you’re not willing to take criticism about your own? Society (i.e. delusional millennial feminists) encourages overweight women to exclaim how proud they are of their bodies, how happy they are with their curves, how sexy they are for having something to grab onto—and everybody cheers them on no matter how obnoxious they are. But if a thin woman were to exclaim how pleased she is with her body, or that she thinks she looks fabulous, people would criticize her for being a conceited bitch (because she is! Who the heck likes a braggart?)

In almost every issue of the tabloids, there’s a picture of Tara Reid’s spine. The picture caption is always a hurtful, insulting remark about how thin she is, but it’s always followed with a comment implying concern for her health. Really folks? Are you really concerned for her health? Is she having trouble breathing? Wiping? Walking? Ok, walking maybe—but that seems more booze related than weight related. Meanwhile, one of the biggest stars (pun intended) to come onto the scene recently is Chrissy Metz. I don’t think she deserves to be made fun of but I do think if we’re going to purport to be concerned about a celebrity’s health, perhaps she’d be a good candidate. Instead, everybody ignores the elephant in the room (pun not intended) and gives her that “good for you” bullshit. I didn’t know that building somebody’s self-esteem could unclog arteries, reduce your risk of stroke, and take pressure off of your knees.

I have some very overweight friends, I have some average-size friends, and they’ve all made insulting remarks about my physique. I’ve never done the same to them (I usually just insult their careers or love lives). People have always commented on my appearance, and continue to comment, but it doesn’t matter. Here’s the bottom line: I don’t care if you say stuff about skinny people. But, if weight is not an equal opportunity topic, maybe instead of spitting out your rude thoughts, you should eat your words (after you deep fry them and dip ‘em in high-fructose corn syrup).

footprints in the sand colored carpet


I hate being invited to a party and being told to take off my shoes. You know what’s grosser than dirty shoes entering your home? Feet! You’ve got your bunions; calluses; corns; fungus; hammertoes; extralong toes that don’t match the other toes; the crooked toe that rests on top of the other toe; flat feet; fat feet; brick feet; feet that could’ve been walking around barefoot outside or on their own filthy floor before coming here; and feet that some secret perv at the party is going to be mentally cataloguing for his fetish fantasy later. What about somebody who may be missing a digit or two? “Sorry Frank. We didn’t know you had your big toe amputated.” (Oops, now everybody knows Frank’s a diabetic with no self-control who’d rather have a toe chopped off than give up Mountain Dew—but at least their floors are clean).

If I’m invited to one more gathering and told to remove my shoes upon arrival, I’m going to have taps permanently installed on my feet so I can prance all over your floors like a toddler being bullied by Dance Moms’ Flabby Lee Miller. “Remove my shoes? No prob…5,6,7,8 (tap tap tap tap tap tap) …this way to the kitchen?” Have you ever noticed that the people who have this rule never tell you in advance? So, not only do I feel exposed and scrutinized (sounds like a Harvey Weinstein documentary), but now I have to be subjected to other people’s feet who were also blindsided by this demand. I’m not interested in getting familiar with somebody’s hygiene at a “congratulations on your promotion” party as they unveil talons that look like a tray of Fritos Scoops.

When I’m invited to a party, I try to show respect by dressing up (depending on the occasion). Most of my dress pants are too long (because the rest of me is too short) so I wear heels to keep the hem from dragging on the floor. It’s inconsiderate to expect me to ruin my pants—and ultimately look like a slob—just because you don’t want to mop, you’re afraid of scratches, and because you believe you’re going to get sick from floor germs. Unless you’re licking the floor, or licking your fingers after caressing the floor (why the hell are you manhandling the floor?), how are you catching anything from peoples’ shoe remnants? I’m a frequent tinkler and you want me to walk barefoot into your bathroom and risk stepping in something left behind by another partygoer who had bad aim (or bad guacamole followed by liquid diarrhea that expelled like a spray tan)? And if I did step in something, now I’m traipsing it through your house for others to spread around. I bet G.I. Germ Stopper never thought of that!

I also don’t want to get to your house and watch other unsuspecting guests awkwardly struggle to remove footwear. People are holding each other for balance and putting legs in positions they don’t belong. There’s always an unwanted panty shot you can’t unsee, and somebody always ends up piling their smelly Jesus sandals right on top of the brand-new shoes you bought specifically for this party that suddenly feels like a preamble to a cult suicide pact. The only time I’ve seen a large group of shoeless people is in a documentary about religious cults, or Bolivia.

Please don’t invite me to your home and then tell me to remove my shoes. You’re basically telling me “my floor is more important than your comfort. I don’t care if your feet get cold or you get crap all over your bare feet, but I do care if you get crap all over my incredibly easy-to-clean hardwood floors and stain-resistant carpet.” How uptight do you have to be to obsess about the cleanliness of something that’s meant to be walked on in the first place? How about instead of requiring guests to remove their shoes, just give them wings when they walk in so they can float around your house to avoid contact with anything.  

Besides the fact that it’s incredibly rude and imposing to insist your guests remove their shoes, it’s just plain gross. Feet are ugly, and for some reason the hosts’ feet are usually the ugliest: big fat pale toes that are so white you can’t even tell if there’s a toenail on there. Bare feet are for the beach, the bed, and the shower. Bare feet don’t go with any outfit. Who puts on a pair of khaki cords (besides nerdy white men who look like Vermont lesbians, and Vermont lesbians) and says, “You know what would look great with these slacks: My forest green fleece Eddie Bauer vest and a callus-ridden hammertoe.”

Have you ever been subjected to one of these affairs? Doesn’t it feel so bizarre when you’re standing in a kitchen amongst a group of frumpy, shoeless white people eating seven-layer dip and sipping Merlot while talking about their escalating oil bills and what a “hoot” their cat Tony is when he watches Big Bang Theory with “mommy and daddy”? And for some reason, they think lawn-care is a “hot-button” topic (“that branch missed Lloyd’s mower by thismuch”). All you can think is, “Whoa, slow down there. Bare feet, and stimulating conversation? Did somebody open the gates to heaven because that’s where I must be right now!”

When you invite guests to your home, their comfort should be paramount to your own. If it isn’t, then don’t have people over. If you’re a shoe gestapo, what’s the most fun we could possibly have at your house anyway? Let me guess: a zany game of pious Pictionary? A walk down memory lane recounting the lovable quirks of late, stubborn aunt Stella? And giving me a pair of slippers (that God knows who else wore) is not a solution; it’s creepy. If I haven’t snuggled on the couch with you for an Impractical Jokers marathon, there’s no reason you should be familiar with me in loungewear.

Life is meant to be lived; rules to be broken; shoes to be worn; floors to be walked on; and uptight people are meant to be shaken, not stirred.