Our friends at staple design released this BP Pigeon shirt in recognition of how much irreparable damage BP has done. Personally, I hate pigeons, and sometimes secretly wish they didn’t scatter so quickly beneath my moving tires. But only our higher powers should decide that. BP has done more damage to our Gulf Coast marine life than we can quantify. I think this t-shirt is a humorous ode to the catastrophe. Poop on BP. Email us to reserve yours. (email@example.com)
Not only do I hate BP, I also love how freaked out Jenny gets when pigeons flap up a storm in front of her. Help put the Gulf, guys, and support scared-Jennies everywhere.
does the swacket your selling have the snap button closures?
No, I have one of the first swackets ever made, so it does not come with any of the snap closures. The fabric isn’t really suited for it since it’s so loose and drapey anyway. It closes very well with a tuck or wrap.
“When I visited the Planned Parenthood in Rochester, a 29-year-old pediatric resident came to watch the nurses counsel patients about their options but chose not to see an actual abortion. “I don’t know how I personally feel morally, and I’m never going to do one,” she said. “So if it could bother me if I saw one, then what’s the point?””—The New York Times is full of gems today, including this lovely quote from a doctor who doesn’t really want to be a doctor. You set the bone, you stitch the wound, you the terminate the pregnancy. You are a doctor, so it’s time to get your priorities straight and realize that your priorities ought to be your patient’s priorities.
Welcome to the inaugural edition of Anathema, Acrimony’s in-house magazine. Our magazine is home to our editorial musings, and soon will be filled with articles, interviews, and all other things Acrimony. Beyond the plethora of photos and stylings lay our true obsessions for the unusual, the atypical and the absolutely unique. Here is where we hope to bring these obsession to life.
REBLOGGING THE FUCK OUT OF THIS. CLICK AND BEHOLD.
“But in a move that infuriated victims’ groups and put United States bishops on the defensive, it [the Vatican] also codified “the attempted ordination of women” to the priesthood as one of the church’s most grave crimes, along with heresy, schism and pedophilia.”—Great job, guys. Keep up the good work.
I’m 45. Am I too old to get all 30’d up? If not, what’s the best way to achieve this state? Or is it one of those “If you have to ask…” things? Thanks.
Oh, hell no. Only in these, your twilight years, do you actually get more propers if you start up on that good country hop. You can even call it “medicine,” it ain’t no longer just some ass hole at the bebop bodega suckin’ a one-hitter with a black knit cap down over his eyebrows. It’s classier to smoke the older you get, see. Can you imagine if Ralph Lauren fucked a jay up at James Bond’s house? That would be the Ultimate Moment of Humanity. OK, James Bond ain’t real, so maybe just think of Sean Connery in his place, and you get a similarly good idea.
Anyhow, what I like to do to “30” if I ain’t “30’d” in a while is just hit a nice glass one, with some ice water. Deep pull, wait three minutes. See how that feels. Repeat as necessary. Don’t try to be a hero your first time back in the seat.
”—Raymond Q. Smuckles is the man you ask for advice when you don’t want to ask other men for fear of seeming like less of a man.
Recently, book publishers got some good news. Researchers gave 852 disadvantaged students 12 books (of their own choosing) to take home at the end of the school year. They did this for three successive years.
Then the researchers, led by Richard Allington of the University of Tennessee, looked at those students’ test scores. They found that the students who brought the books home had significantly higher reading scores than other students. These students were less affected by the “summer slide” — the decline that especially afflicts lower-income students during the vacation months. In fact, just having those 12 books seemed to have as much positive effect as attending summer school.
This study, along with many others, illustrates the tremendous power of books. We already knew, from research in 27 countries, that kids who grow up in a home with 500 books stay in school longer and do better. This new study suggests that introducing books into homes that may not have them also produces significant educational gains.
Tiffany’s facial expression was some sort of expressive portmanteau of a wince, an eyeroll, a grimace, and a chortle. Pronouncing the word “quirky” with such finality provided a good break in her story so that she could take a bite of her sandwich.
"What does one do after that? That’s kind of the Point-of-No-Return, right? Like, I know that’s when I mentally padlock my labia shut.”
Tiffany nodded approvingly.
"He told me he had just finished doing some freelance editing for a short film," she replied.
"Jesus, I don’t know where you manage to find guys who are both unmitigated douche bags and are too poor to even warrant a gold-digging lay.”
"Thanks, Shells, you always tell me the truth. Even if the truth is that I should turn my lingerie drawer into some sort of museum, since I definitely haven’t had a reason to go in there lately."
Chelsea listlessly picked at her salad — the roasted beets were kind of bland — and tried to come up with something nice to say. She couldn’t, though, because the only thing she could think about was where to find a little glass vitrine to give Tiffany as a gag gift. No occasion was coming up in the near future, so she filed the idea away for later use.
Their lunch dates had become increasingly less like lunch dates and more like therapy sessions. Really, really depressing and slightly fucked up therapy sessions. But they weren’t that therapeutic. The problem lay in their mutual inability to tolerate the sleazy dudes that were naturally drawn to attractive, career-driven women in their late 20s who weren’t willing to settle for the first man who offered them a fence, picket or otherwise. They had agreed that this was the problem at their previous lunch date last month, which they had after Chelsea’s non-starter with—
"Jack called me last night," Chelsea muttered, cocking an eyebrow up at the ceiling. She was trying to look away while still keeping an eye on Tiffany’s face, looking for some sort of reaction.
Tiffany seemed nonplussed, but she could seem like a lot of things. She could seem sad for Chelsea when a one-night stand (predictably) failed to produce anything concrete, while in actuality she was completely unsurprised by the poor foundation that a drunken fuck offered for a meaningful relationship. But Chelsea needed her to seem sad, so that’s what she did. And right now, Tiffany assumed that Chelsea needed her to seem happy at the unexpected call.
"What do you mean, ‘Oh?"?"
Shit. Too loaded. She could’ve had gone for “Really?” or “What? When?” or even the completely noncommittal “Oh my gosh”. But, no. She reached for “Oh?” The subversive sense of judgment lingered for a moment, but dissipated as quickly as it came.
"Nothing happened. We talked for a while and I thought he might ask me out on a date or something—"
A short sigh, which she promptly drowned with a swig of coffee.
"—But he just said goodnight and we hung up."
Tiffany reached over and put her arm on Chelsea’s; she felt Chelsea bristle for barely a moment, but then Chelsea’s whole frame melted just a little.
"Why aren’t you eating your salad?"
Chelsea sat up straight again and surveyed her plate: frisée, baby greens, a scattering of candied pecans, the vinaigrette slowly slipping off the salad on to the plate.
“Parents bring me their children now and say, ‘What can I do with him?’ And I tell parents, ‘Be glad your kid’s rebelling,’ because think of the people who were the stars of high school — look at, what do they do now? I looked in the yearbook and they say, ‘Interests: (they say) Doing things around the house.’ That’s so depressing. Just hope that your kid is a bad influence on others. I mean, don’t you have to ask yourself, wouldn’t you rather your kid be a drug dealer than a drug addict?”—John Waters
“Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them — Ding-dong, bell.”—"Full fathom five" from The Tempest by William Shakespeare