An Introduction to Shivery McPickles: Duggarmaniaphobia

Hi kids. Shivery, here. We've not been introduced. I really apologize for that, but there's been this bag of Natural Cheetos on my counter and a Top Chef marathon on for the last, I don't know, three years of my life.

But I've broken loose. And I want to tell you a little bit about myself.



I have never aspired to hate rich people. In fact, I'm related to a few of them. I can appreciate the fact that people who work hard and are persistent get rewarded with success. Here is my plea to all of the richies who are, doubtless, pouring over this blog with unbridled concern for what I have to say to them: Please don't be an asshole about it. Please don't tell me that you are at the epicenter of the recession. Please don't ask, as I've just heard a man query on a Bay Ridge Lexus commercial, "Is it Lexuses? Or Lexii? I have four."

Excuse me, sir, is it lobotomies? Or lobotomii?

I mean, is the worst thing about this that he is the most repugnant, self-satisfied, grammatically clueless TWAT in Brooklyn? Or is it the brash, blatant, go-fuck-yourself air of societal and ecological irresponsibility?

Which really brings me to the meat and potatoes of what I want to talk to you about. And by meat and potatoes, I mean Roast Beef Curtains.


I heard the news today that the Duggar clan was expanding and I thought to myself, Michelle Duggar probably squeezes out another child every time she rolls over, sleepless, in bed and thinks about what could have happened if she'd just finished college and not married the walking bag of sperm twitching in his sleep beside her.

As it turns out, Michelle has managed to ward off Jim Bob's constant jabbing for long enough to let her brand new daughter-in-law have a bit of the pussy-flapping glory. Joshua Duggar, the eldest Duggar child, and therefore least FUCKED in the J-name department (I'm looking at you, Jinger), has managed to inseminate something not related to him.

In case you've been hiding under a rock for the last few years (or, possibly in the cloaking folds of Michelle's hoo-ha) here's a Duggar primer: Jim Bob and Michelle were "normal" young people. They lead a heathenous life, sploshing around in the sin of human flesh (by this I mean, used contraception). One day, Michelle's birth control took the day off, she got knocked up, and I believe, miscarried. This course of events led young Michelle and Jim Bob to decide that God hates birth control. God loves it when you screw your spouse until they don't even have the energy to update their hairstyle for two or three decades, but only if you're succumbing to his will in the process. Oh yeah, God has a total boner for your obedience. The Duggars decided to throw caution to the wind and have as many children as God wanted them to.

Not to bore you, but let me posit a theory: Has anyone considered that "God causing you to miscarry" could just as easily mean he doesn't want you to contribute 18 screaming, drooling, shitting, new religious wackadoodles to the universe?

Jim Bob Duggar is a rich asshole. Or, at least, he would be, if he didn't have 18 fucking kids. Instead, they all eat Campbell's soup every night, ride to church in a TOUR BUS, have a TV show and generally infuriate the shit out of me.

The Lexii guy and the Duggars are the same kinds of gaping assholes to me (although not Michelle, I don't think you can impregnate an anus... yet). Whether you want four cars, 18 kids, 6 houses or a $28 million chair, you are CONSUMING CONSPICUOUSLY. Does our planet, stretched to the absolute breaking point (I promise, no more vag jokes) need 18 more garbage-machines? Does anyone else find this totally fucking irresponsible??

Just in case anyone has any concerns as to whether or not Joshua Duggar and his new bride Anna (20) are planning on following in Ma and Pa D's footsteps:

When asked on the Today show if they were planning on following tradition and naming all their kids according to a certain letter, they said they'd been thinking about the letter M. Hmm. Mathusela? Mattathias? Mmmdirt-nap? Go take one.

Teabag Obama!

I have no idea how these people don't know the true definition of "teabagging", but I'm glad they don't. This clip made my entire week.

Can I even express my level of envy over Rachel Maddow's ability to say "teabag" so many times on air? And in such a knowing, "I can't believe I'm getting away with this" way!

I heart her.

But seriously, can we discuss for a minute?

How is it that all of these Republicans that are doing this "teabagging" have no idea what the implications are, yet a lesbian without a TV in the wilds of upstate Massachusetts and one that has likely never even performed the act know the definition? This is crazy. Get with it Republicans, you have no idea of the delights you're missing out on!

But back to the video, as our friend Chris"Topher" put it:

Shut.
The.
Fuck.
Up.

Indeed. And special thanks to Mo for pointing this gem out.

Doga: Because You're an Asshole.

Yes, you read that right. Doga. As in, with dogs.

Yoga. With dogs.

Allow that to sink in. Grab that letter opener, jab it into your eyeball until it's more gelatin-like than you'd wish.

Now try again.

Doga.

It didn't work for me either.

Highlight, anyone? Oh, there is a doozy of highlight. Get this:

“A stuffed animal — but not even a dog-shaped stuffed animal — was used by the instructor,” she said. Owners struggled to get their very real dogs to replicate the stuffed-animal poses, she said, and bags of treats were used to get the dogs to change positions. “It was lunacy,” Ms. Apro recalled. “Peanuts, my retired racer greyhound, didn’t participate at all. Instead, I did downward-facing dog while he ate the most treats he’s ever had in a 60-minute period.”

Very true, Ms. Apro, it is so terribly strange that it didn't work. Because it's a fucking dog!

And while we're on the subject of "lunacy," Ms. Apro, let's discuss how you actually brought your dog into doga, that implies you were under the impression that it would work. It's a fucking dog!

I'm not sure if my point stuck. Let me try one more time. It's a fucking dog!

For more on this latest unbelievably, incredibly, mind-blowingly true fad, follow me down the rabbit hole.

Thanks to Mr. Flood for the link. I think we can all agree with his sentiment that it's "stupid stupid, not dope stupid."

P.S. You're Terrible.

Important question for today. How do we define close-minded? Is it not allowing gay marriage in your state? Harboring racist thoughts? Hating Muslims for no reason? Or simply shutting down that which is foreign to you regardless of the impact it makes? All of the above clearly suffices. But then, so does Kate Ahlborn.

Kate is a Harvard graduate, Upper East Side inhabiting, Vanity Fair blogger. Here's what she has to offer the world of the interwebs:

Somehow it happened that in all the years I've lived in New York City, I'd never been to Brooklyn. But when I heard that choreographer Noémie Lafrance had a new show opening in Williamsburg, I decided it was as good an occasion as any to venture beyond Manhattan for the first time.

First off, to say you've lived in New York for years and never have been to Brooklyn is disgraceful. I've lived here for less than six months, most of which found me broke as dirt, yet I've already been to Brooklyn (obvs), Manhattan, Harlem, Staten Island and Queens. AND I'm lazy.

Additionally, "somehow it happened in all the years..." Let me assist you. "Somehow" it happened because you're a pampered, sheltered and unadventurous person.

So on Tuesday night, I boarded the L train (heading away from the West Village) and made my way to hipsterville.

I know Williamsburg gets all the buzz, but Brooklyn isn't just W'burg. In fact, I might even argue that W'burg is more an extension of Manhattan than Brooklyn, much of that due to train availability from other sections of Brooklyn. For instance, the easiest way for me to get to W'Burg is by taking the train from my stop at Atlantic Center (Brooklyn's central hub if there is one) into Manhattan, changing trains, then heading back to Brooklyn.

Perhaps my tweed J. Crew jacket and Tory Burch ballet flats weren't the best wardrobe choice for that day, but I overcame the fact that I was a total Williamsburg misfit and hoped my foreigner status wouldn't be glaringly obvious to the natives. (It was.) After narrowly escaping death by skateboard on the Bedford subway platform, I made my way to a rickety building in what felt to me like Brooklyn's outer banks. (It wasn't.)

Oh, Kate. Poor, poor Kate. Skateboards! Who would imagine? Such things don't exist in the wilds of Manhattan!

You'll find that if you venture to Brooklyn Heights, Ft. Greene, Park Slope, Brighton Beach, Coney Island, Sunset Park, Carroll Gardens, Cobble Hill, Prospect Heights, Windsor Terrace, Red Hook (outer banks! scary!) or the Fulton Mall. But that's right, she won't. So she won't discover that the borough has contributed much to the art, music, film, theatre and food scene in New York over the past several years. Not to mention Notorious B.I.G.

I left the rickety building slightly shaken up and eager to get back to Manhattan. After this experience, I'm fairly certain that's exactly where I belong.

Right. Because Manhattan has no rickety buildings. Or hipsters. Or artists. But you're right. You do belong in Manhattan. Stay right there on the Upper East. We'll enjoy the rest. Because of all the places I've ventured to during my life in NYC, the one place I've yet to go is the UES. I've been there once. I'm not missing much. Unless I feel the sudden urge to view those lovely tweed J. Crew jackets.

"After this experience, I'm fairly certain that's exactly where I belong." Kate, for once, we agree. Stay there. We'll enjoy the rest.

Hostess Cupcake Redux.

Not sure if you heard. Lohan and SamRo broke up yesterday. Via Twitter.

Lindsey Twattered that Sam should stop doing drugs.

Sam responded with this photo:

















And now I respond, "Samantha! Wasting a cake with lines of coke? And lines of coke on a cake? And in this economy?"

There Will Be Snacks, There Will Be Snacks.

9.12.08. Shivery McPickles and Fred Swayze decide to pursue their lifelong dream and move to NYC.

9.15.08. The stock market died.

With a shrug of the shoulders and a "fuck it" attitude, they moved anyway.

They landed in Brooklyn. More specifically, Park Slope. Where people push these:


After several months of job searches, they landed jobs.

McPickles works in Midtown. Where people buy these:

Fred works in DUMBO. Where people drive these:

The sheer WTF? produced on a daily basis by the ostentatious belongings of others makes them angry. They chose to express this anger in the form of a blog. This blog. Here is the Mission Statement:

For decades, we found ourselves in an unhinged financial environment that coddled the wealthy, where fat-cats preyed on the working class, bilking them out of even the simplest life while doling out millions in payoffs to the sickeningly rich, atrophying executives, binging on non-existent wealth all in the name of capitalism.

And now we get to watch that era die.

That's what we're here for. As America folds in on itself, reverting to the needs versus wants society we always should have had, we get front row seats. Tuck in your napkins, because it's time to snack on the rich.

So welcome. Andrew Bird once sang, "There will be snacks, there will be snacks." We agree. Also, poop jokes from time to time.