A few weeks ago, I was taking a walk by my house and a random lady started yelling, “Jenny! Jennnnnyyyyyy!” from her porch. I looked around to find this Jenny character she was getting so excited about, but I was the only one on the street. “Jeeeeeeeeeenny!” she yelled again, waving her hands madly to get my attention. I just shrugged and shook my head in what I hoped was an “I’m not Jenny” sort of way, and kept walking. Huh, I thought, that was weird.
Then, at the airport last week, I noticed a middle-aged couple staring at me intently from across the terminal. I sidled up a little closer, leaning against a decorative plant to improve my eavesdropping abilities. I heard the woman say to the man, “That looks EXACTLY like Jenny.” He squinted at me for a second. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “It does!” My plane started boarding before I could ask them what has suddenly become the definitive question of my life: Who is Jenny? Keep reading »
Dear Cipha Sounds, Rosenberg, K. Foxx and Old Man Ebro,
Every morning, my alarm goes off at 7 a.m., rousing me from sleep. I hit the snooze button, and then 10 minutes later, hit it again. When the third alarm finally goes off at 7:20, I pry one eye open, then the other, and haul myself out of bed, heading straight for the radio. See, my day doesn’t properly start, doesn’t get off on the right foot, unless the second sound I hear (after the alarm) is my favorite morning radio show, The Cipha Sounds & Rosenberg Show on Hot 97. Cipha Sounds, Rosenberg, and K. Foxx, along with my boo, program director Old Man Ebro, you all are quite literally the reason my ass gets out of bed on time in the morning, and you ensure that my day at least starts off on the right note.
Seriously, I fucking love you guys. Let me tell you why. Keep reading »
Hello. I get soooo many emails from you. Sooooo many emails that go straight into the trash. Especially around holidays that are considered very Frisky friendly. Valentine’s Day! Yes, I’m well aware that it’s right around the corner, waving at me. Mocking me. I know that it’s your job to pitch products on behalf of your clients. Lots of stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. Stuff that I would never use or care about or write about. But still, you send it. Sometimes, every once in a while, that stuff is GREAT. So, thank you. That pair of jeans that Pacific Sun sent are one of my favorites! And the “Girls” branded Klean Kanteen water bottle is the Christmas present I wanted but didn’t receive.
The rest of the stuff … not so much. I have 12 male masturbators and a stack of New Age love and sex books (titles including Spiritual Lovemaking, Beyond Soul Mates, and I Saw Your Future And He’s Not It) taking up space at my desk. I’m hard pressed to throw out a book, but what do I do with it? I’ve been opening up to pages at random and reading passages to my co-workers. Keep reading »
Dear Charlotte Allen,
By the time this open letter posts on The Frisky, half the internet will have already ripped you a new asshole for your offensive, error-riddled article published in The National Review, in which you shared your “observations” about what went wrong at last Friday’s Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre. But I don’t care. I’m going to tear you a new one too. Keep reading »
On Monday, conservative pundit Ann Coulter tweeted her support of Mitt Romney with the following: “I highly approve of Romney’s decision to be kind and gentle to the retard.” In response to her use of the R-word, John Franklin Stephens, Special Olympics spokesperson and athlete, wrote Ann an open letter. We’ve received permission to repost it here.
Dear Ann Coulter,
Come on Ms. Coulter, you aren’t dumb and you aren’t shallow. So why are you continually using a word like the R-word as an insult?
I’m a 30 year old man with Down syndrome who has struggled with the public’s perception that an intellectual disability means that I am dumb and shallow. I am not either of those things, but I do process information more slowly than the rest of you. In fact it has taken me all day to figure out how to respond to your use of the R-word last night. Keep reading »
Dear Tami Taylor, I mean Mrs. Coach, I mean Connie Britton,
Well, I guess I should start by apologizing. I’m sorry for always calling you by the name of a character you played on a TV show that has been sadly off the air for over a year. You are Connie Britton, you are not Tami Taylor, wife of Coach Eric Taylor, mother to Julie Taylor and that kind of funny looking baby, and guidance counselor/principal to hundreds of teenagers in Dillon, Texas. (My therapist told me I should repeat this to myself as often as necessary, until it sticks.) It’s hard to separate you from Tami because Tami is the awesomest and you were so awesome at playing her that sometimes I forget the show was fiction, not a documentary about a place where the world revolves around high school football and a tall drink of sensitive man water named Tim Riggins. Is it okay, though, that I still ask myself, when I’m in a pickle, “What would Tami Taylor do?” I hope so. You, I mean she is so helpful!
So with that apology out of the way, I just want to tell you, Connie Britton, on the eve of your new ABC show “Nashville,” that I love you. Like, I wish you were my best friend, older sister, and first lesbian experience wrapped up in one person, which is really confusing and sort of weird, and it’s further complicated by the fact that I want to be you too. Don’t run away. Stay with me here. Keep reading »