Newly Single Mom Plucks Nipples

APPLE VALLEY, CA – After 14 years in a mostly loveless marriage (and six years since a real, good nipple pluckin’), Juliana Powers, 42, is back on the dating scene and she’s ready to make up for all those lost slut years. “You never know. Maybe I’ll be macking on some hottie and he’ll feel me up,” she says, using slang nobody has used since before the internet. “I don’t want him reaching under my blouse thinking I forgot my loofah up there.”

After nursing her three adorable kids, her nipples aren’t what they were in high school. Nor should they be. Those were girl nipples and Juliana is a woman. A woman who’s birthed life and sustained it with those gummed up, nobby, brownish, pencil erasers of hers. “I hate to admit, I was a little embarrassed by my nipples. So I just kinda let them go,” she says, conservatively.

If letting one’s nipple hair grow to the point of full on hair donuts, the outline of which can be seen through a bra, is “letting them go” then I guess we’re playing fast and loose with how we describe things. And that’s okay. She had shit to do. They’re her fucking nipples. And now they’re ready to shine!

She’s having fun on Tinder and set up a date for this Friday. An adult date. With a man probably named Nick. At night. With drinks. And a fresh condom in her purse. Just in case. “These nipples are primed and ready for action,” she says. “I dare you to try to keep them off the dance floor!”

Ms. Powers nipples will be available for viewing on The Branding Iron dance floor this Friday night after 11:30 or 5 drinks. Whichever comes first. $10 cover. DJ Scurvy on the ones and twos.

Hands-Off Parents Raising Real Asshole

A GUM-SMACKING, PUSSY-GRABBING KNUCKLE-BUMPER

BAKERSFIELD, CA – Behind the big safe bars of the Canaan Estates security gates lives a protodemon with all the psychological traits of a young Charles Manson or Rachel Dolezal or other people that make you question whether the current trajectory of evolution is up. I first laid eyes on the child moments after his mother opened her front door and started to greet me. He yelled, “Duck!” His mother did as she was told. And this little shit chucked a fidget spinner at my face like some kind of redneck ninja star.

SMACK!

I got hit with such a force my whole fifth grade year was deleted from my memory. “You’re it, faggot!” He yelled as he ran off into a house, filled knee deep with broken toys, burnt dolls and homemade nazi memorabilia. “I don’t know where he learns about this stuff,” Lucifer’s mother, Darlene, tells me. “Boys will be boys,” she says. They always say that. As if every boy enjoys smashing lizards with a hammer. Which is what the child is doing right now, out back. Jesus Christ.

Lucifer goes by the name Tristan. That’s a name that doesn’t age well. Which is nice because I can’t see this little monster making it out of high school without some fat kid murdering him for his relentless abuses. Tristan is nine years old and doesn’t know the meaning of boundaries. He doesn’t know the meaning of a lot of words because Tristan doesn’t do homework. “We tried to get him to do his homework,” Charlene says, “but he spit on me.”

And that’s where the story ended.

Darlene believes children are given too many rules and too much supervision. She told me “The Native Americans didn’t believe in disciplining children or giving them boundaries,” she said, wrongly encapsulating hundreds of different cultures (with varying parenting approaches, no doubt) under one, single, lazy misnomer. “We just think it’s more natural to let him discover who he really is on his own. Like the Indians or whatever,” she says. “We’re drawing the line at buying him a bow and arrow though.”

As Tristan jumps out of his mom’s car. A car he has bumped into NEUTRAL to let roll down the driveway, his mom asks him, “Do you want a jacket sweetie?” To which he responds with a middle finger as the car backs away from the house and rolls to a slow stop in the middle of the cul-de-sac turnabout. “That’s not my favorite thing he does,” she says, referring to her 9 year old son ghost-driving her Acura MDX into the middle of the road. “Boys will be boys.”

In First Fathers Day Without Grandpa, Family Unsure Who Should Perform the Ranting About Mexicans

Here lies Captain Buck.

ANAHEIM HILLS, CA – “Well, I’m certainly not,” said Stevman Stevenson, whose middle name was also Steve, which is the weirdest fucking name I’ve ever heard. And it shouldn’t be. Because it’s basically just Steve three ways – aka Threeve, haha – and Steve is a pretty standard name. As far as names go.

His wife is Honduran. And in his mind he thinks that’s close enough that any rants he does about people from any country between San Diego and the Panama Canal will hit home with a ring of truth and “I do not want to take this shit home with me. I’d rather let the tradition die,” he told us before exiting.

Nobody expected Stevman to have the spine for it. They knew someone else would have to carry the torch. But not just anybody.

Donovan made a limp offer. “I guess I can if nobody else jumps in. I just can’t remember what I’m supposed to be mad at them about,” he said like a typical third son, hedging in everything he does. Wanting to be loved and accepted. But never sure if he should follow his oldest brother in refraining. Or follow Kevin.

Kevin Stevenson was a little too eager and his offer was vetoed by grandma. “That’s a hard no. I don’t even wanna know what sentiment you think you understood by my dearly departed,” she said. A little more woke than anyone expected from a white woman from Arkansas in her seventies. She understands Kevin is a conspiracy theorist who spends a lot of time making MAGA memes so the family is well aware of how many times they’ll have to hear the word “rapist” come out of his mouth and that’s just a bunch of explaining someone will have to do for Stevman’s 5 year old. What grandpa did could be explained away with age. There’s no excuse for Kevin. “What the fuck do you guys know? I’m the only one that ever lived with a bunch of ’em,” he reminded his family, referring to his time behind bars.

It all hinged on Marlon. Marlon was a lawyer. He could argue both sides of the coin. His first wife, Maria, was a Mexican-American. They had a bad divorce so there’s the chance he’s bitter. That’s a seed that could blossom into giant oak of a rant. But he’s an immigration lawyer so, there’s that. “I don’t mind them when the checks don’t bounce,” is all he would offer. Most of his work being tied up in the Asian-immigrant market, as it were. And he turned his attention back to his crossword puzzle.

Without the three sons who are right-minded enough to be able to handle the ranting – without embarrassing God for creating our species by virtue of its sheer lack of humanity – it seems as though the tradition might die. Buck – Captain Buck, as they called him – had four strapping boys who were all tight ends in college and all look like it. They’ve all aged well, even Kevin. Though he hasn’t matured the same. They were raised to be good patriots, but only one has any interest in tearing down desperate people. And their children are out of the question as ranters for obvious reasons. They range in age from mid-Millenial all the way down to a two year old who can barely even say Mexicans. They’d just mess it up somehow because they’re kids. And kids don’t understand the nuances of jingoistic xenophobia.

The three wives (Kevin is surprisingly single) look like the type who would jump at the opportunity to get in a good rant. But none of them are feeling it either. “Not since I got into Jane the Virgin,” Trish said. Trish is Donovan’s wife. “That show kinda opened my eyes to other types of cultures and stuff.” They all nod as if that settled it for the group.

They sat there quiet, thinking fond thoughts of grandpa. Even after the hourlong argument over who should handle the annual rants, none of them say they thought fondly about his diatribes against the Mexicans. Except Kevin who started, “Remember that time grandpa said the only thing better than a Mexican is a–?” He was cut off by grandma who knew which joke Kevin was going to repeat. She’s woke enough to know that’s the type of joke you gotta blow the 1950’s dust off of to reveal the context to even understand why it’s funny. And she didn’t really care for Kevin and didn’t want him to get the pleasure one gets from finishing a joke from a husband she misses so dear.

They sat there for a beat before Stevman said, with his dumb name, “Did you guys see the Iranians tried to blow up a Japanese tanker?”

“Fucking Arabs can’t leave us alone,” said Kevin. He was referring to the alleged Iranian (Persian) assault on a Japanese (not American) ship that took place on June 13th, but there’s no sense explaining to Kevin that people from Iran aren’t Arab, the family decided five years ago.

“It was hard enough when he was in high school and we told him there was no Santa,” Donovan told us afterwards. “If we told him not all muslims are Arabs and not all middle easterners are muslim and not all muslims want to hurt people, it wouldn’t matter,” he said. “He thinks the Earth is flat.”

“It’s the only way Santa could deliver all the gifts in one night,” Kevin interjects as if it’s settled science. Donovan performs a long, slow, sarcastic shrug.

The family decided that maybe nobody was right to carry grandpa’s torch. Instead, in his honor, the family chose to have a minute of reflection in grandpa’s honor. Because they loved that old racist. He was a kind man to anyone he’d ever met. Even the Mexicans he ranted about. If he met a Mexican in person they were always “one of the good ones,” he’d say. And so, instead of ranting, they decided to reflect. Reflect and listen. Listen to a YouTube video in the background of Donald Trump’s campaign announcement speech. In Captain Buck’s honor.

“I love that part about how they’re sending the rapists,” Kevin admitted, smiling with a single tear.

High-Powered Executive Mom Can Handle Anything, Except Turning the Lights Off When Leaving a Room

“That’s what assistants are for,” says Serene Matthews.

From the boardroom to the bedroom, a trail of light.

SEATTLE, WA – She runs business development for a national credit card processor and gets paid very well to do so. She’s deftly navigated office politics throughout her 13 year career to make it to the top of her field. Even the trades have written about her. She’s managed to grow her team of direct subordinates to over 100 and they all speak highly of her. Even with a full work calendar, she manages to do yoga five nights a week and is always home in time to eat dinner with her family. “She’s amazing,” her husband Trent says. “Serene can do anything, except turn the goddam lights off.” He took a deep breath and continued, “Why even have light switches?”

After being reminded that their electric bill is well under budget, the solar panels on their roof providing most of their electricity each month, Trent defended his position by saying, “Yeah but still.” Searching for a reason to still be upset he pointed out, “these bulbs don’t last forever. I don’t want our nanny to have to get up on a ladder and swap the bulbs out every nine months. Not to mention, they’re not free. These bulbs cost upwards of $2 a piece.” He then nodded as if he’d said something of value while he continued folding the children’s clothes. “You’re not gonna tell her you were here, are you?”

Feminist Dad Teaches Daughter She Too Can Be a Roofer

“You can do any job a man can do, no matter how shitty the job is.”

PANORAMA CITY, CA – In an age where women are filling boardrooms and executive offices across the world, one man wants his daughter to know, these days, women aren’t limited in what they can do. “It used to be that only men could be roofers, garbage men – Sorry. garbage people, septic tank maintenance workers, and other mind-numbing, dangerous, dirty jobs,” Jesse Robertson, a 39 year old stay-at-home father of two. “I want my daughter to know that those limitations are gone and women are free to do all the shitty work men have traditionally done.”

Washing a plastic Elsa plate while his wife was at work running the Latinx Marketing Program at a major car insurance company, Robertson continued, “I love my wife. And she’s broken through some of the barriers women have had in the workforce. But we haven’t broken down all the barriers women like my little girl might come up against. I still don’t see any female day laborers, asphalt layers or tree trimmers.”

He went on to say women don’t have all the same options as men do to make an income just above the poverty line if they, “weren’t so good at reading in high school,” Robertson says. “Women don’t have the same opportunities men do to make $14 an hour, breaking their back, attaching solar panels to clay tiles on summer roofs in Tucson. Men still fill those positions.”

According to Jesse Robertson we won’t have equality until all the shitty jobs are half-filled with women. “If men can become nurses, women are more than capable of handling HVAC repairs.”

I Am Sick and Tired of Elon Musk Stealing All My Best Ideas

“I’m not meant to be stuck in middle management.”

I WANTED TO GO TO SPACE AND TUNNEL UNDER L.A.

Everyday I sit in my cubicle as Regional Director of the Smith and Jensen Business Solutions Client Retention department – Central Division – and have to read headline after headline of some new thing Elon Musk is doing, that I had already thought of. Like when I went to Anaheim for the big logistics conference and I had to sit in traffic on Interstate 405 between LAX and its endless sprawl of suburbs I slammed my head into my steering wheel and screamed at my windshield “SOMEBODY SHOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS TRAFFIC!” Lo and behold, the VERY NEXT YEAR, Elon Musk comes out with the Boring Co. and starts digging tunnels under California’s most populated metropolis like a goddam hamster.

And just to rub it in my face, he starts selling flame throwers. I LOVE FLAME THROWERS! Ever since I was a kid I was like “Man, flamethrowers are awesome. Nobody would fuck with me if I have a flamethrower. Jimmy wouldn’t throw rocks at me if I had a flamethrower. My dad would mow his own fucking lawn.” In fact, just yesterday I was thinking about how I’d love to take a flamethrower into my boss’ office and show him just how good my ideas are and why I don’t just need to sit and listen during the weekly status report meeting and that my ideas and opinions have value. I’m the one that said we should put a vending machine in the breakroom! Not Tom! But he got the promotion.

When I saw the movie Interstellar I thought to myself “If Matthew McConaughey can go to space, why not me?” I’m capable. I run shit. I’m the Regional Director for Client Retention at Smith and Jensen Business Solutions – Central Division. I should start a space company and go to space and show my wife that she’s not the only one with good ideas. That I have ideas too. I have an idea for a space company. The kind of space company that goes to outer space. Not just the moon. Fuck the moon. I wanna make a space ship that can travel at the speed of light and make important discoveries and become a billionaire because I have good ideas. So, maybe this time, I’d like to weigh in on which color fabric our couch should be. Instead of just showing up to this uncomfortable charcoal monstrosity she sits to watch the Bachelor on.

Tesla was obvious. I would’ve gone with a different name, but at least 8 years ago I thought it would be cool to have an electric sports car that was basically a computer where you could watch YouTube while the car drove you home from the bar by itself. That was MY idea. One day after work, after my boss really laid into me for saving a client that was costing us millions in PR after their CEO dropped an N-bomb on a cable news show, I was at the bar tossing back Old Fashions with my then-buddy Tom. I was telling him about how I wish I could just take out a flamethrower and burn it all down and then just jump in my spaceship and leave when I burped out “I’m pretty fucked up. I wish my car could drive me home.” And then, just like that, I read a headline about Tesla’s autopilot software allowing people to sleep off their hangovers on their way to work. And I don’t get credit for shit.

So, yeah. I’m pretty sick and tired of it. Because while he gets to go on podcasts and smoke pot and go to space and drive in tunnels, I have to show up everyday, to my job at Smith and Jensen Business Solutions as Regional Fucking Director of Client Retention – Central Division.

Mexican Restaurant Servers Want Society to Know Plate is Hot

IT’S NOT JUST THE FAJITAS, FOLKS

LOS ANGELES, CA – Servers representing all Mexican restaurants have released a joint statement warning any potential patrons that the plate they are about to set down is hot. “Be careful, the plate is hot,” Maria Garcia told us as she set down our chile relleno, crunchy taco combination lunch special. “Oh wait. Yours had no cheese,” she continued switching the plates. Servers from Don Juan’s, Baja Sabor, Alberto’s Cantina and Acapulco (the company responsible for spearheading the organization efforts) all wear different uniforms to work, all serve unique combinations of beans, tortillas and meat, all come from different walks of life. But all of these servers have come together for the first time ever to get the messaging out. “Some people don’t realize the plates will be hot, and I think it’s important for people to know,” said Jorge Ruiz from Santa Ana, Ca. who works the lunch shift at Frida’s Tacos in Cerritos. He continued “Every customer is different. Some are great tippers. Some are not. Some polite, some rude. But they all deserve to know their plate is hot. I think that’s important.”

Scientists are still trying to figure out why every plate at every Mexican restaurant is, in fact, hot. Oliver Gonzalez, the lead researcher on the Cato-financed Mexican Plate Study, believes that one day customers will be able to dine at a Mexican restaurant from a plate that will not lead to blistered hands and scalded forearms. In the mean time he says “Until we figure out a way – either through technology, or developing heat-resistant ceramics, or some other solution we haven’t even considered – to keep these plates cool to the touch the way other restaurants serving other fare do,” he said. “We have to take our hats off to the brave men and women on the front line who are handling these hot plates and warning us of their dangers.”

Local Dad Refuses to Close Bathroom Door

Dad poops with door open

WHY WON’T DAD CLOSE THE BATHROOM DOOR?

SANTA FE SPRINGS, CA – That’s the question on the lips of all three Salvo children aged 7, 5, and 2. Victims to the potential hate crime that is their father’s abject refusal to admit he can’t eat dairy. “His first word was ‘stinky,” says Monica Salvo, 39, of their youngest. “For some reason he’s just decided he doesn’t need to close the door when he shits anymore.” Monica continued about her husband, motioning towards him, sitting across the room, beyond the wide-open door of an en suite, deep into his Instagram feed, creating a poison cloud that is slowly overtaking all breathable air in the family’s master bedroom. “The smell is bad, but the sounds,” she says, gagging. “He didn’t used to do this.” She hurried the kids away as what can only be described as slow, punctuated, man-queefs echoed within the bowl, only slightly edged out by his grunts, which were muffled under the palm supporting the index finger in his nose. “Stinky” the 2-year old lets out, complete with waving hand gesture “Why won’t daddy close the bathroom door?” he continues. Monica recalls his sudden disregard for modesty starting sometime during the second trimester of her third pregnancy. “He was trying to be so helpful with the kids. One night he figured out he could read to the older two from the bathroom and put them both to bed at the same time and…” she smiles with a deep fondness before continuing, “that’s why I married him. His problem solving skills.” She allowed herself a blink’s worth of longing before moving on with, “He says he felt so free! And every single time –every [expletive] time!– he solves a problem he creates another one and, now, I can’t walk through my own house with the common expectation of not smelling 40 year old man shit. How do you like that?” she gritted through a forced smile. “You’re potty training the young one, you hear me?!” she yelled back into the distance as we all awkwardly escaped out the back door.

READ MORE NUCLEAR UNIT HERE!

Switch Witch Takes Wrong Candy

WHITTIER, CA – After a long, successful night of trick-or-treating, and with the kids sugar-crashing in bed, Ben Conway, 41, decided to end his Halloween night by relaxing on the couch and ingesting a THC edible prescribed to him by a shady cannabis doctor who operates out of an unmarked retail space in a rundown strip mall in an unincorporated part of South Whittier.

“I got the kids’ candy ready for the Switch Witch to take and donate to the troops via Soldiers’ Angels and sat down to watch Making a Murderer, but when I woke up, their bag of candy was still there. And my bag of 50mg THC sour gummies was gone! Come on Switch Witch! That’s my medicine!”

While the Switch Witch did indeed switch his edible pot candies for a fun toy, Conway says, “The yo-yo I got is cool and all, but I don’t see how it’s going to help with my… back pain? Insomnia? Honestly, I can’t remember what my pot prescription was for. But it sure beats watching Netflix sober.”

Now with the Halloween candy still on the table and the kids asking questions, Conway is unsure how to proceed. “Do I tell them the switch witch skipped our house? Do I explain ‘daddy’s medicine candy’ to them? Do I finish off their candy while they’re at school? I made a pretty big dent in the candy pile last night, if you know what I mean.”

Conway says there’s a lesson to be learned from his Switch Witch experience. “Savory edibles. That’s the solution. The Switch Witch isn’t gonna pinch a bag of THC laced Doritos, or a container of mashed potatoes made with cannabutter. Jesus. I hope those pot candies don’t make it to the front lines,” he added. “As cool as it would be to have our troops, stoned, sitting around with stoned ISIS fighters, scrolling through Reddit, laughing at memes together, it’s pretty unlikely.”

Toddler Enrolled in Spanish Emersion Preschool Can Only Say “Quesadilla”

BEVERLYWOOD, CA – With a desire to give their daughter a broader understanding of different cultures, Devin and Julia Wilson opted to pay a premium to enroll their 3 year old, Alyssa, in an all-Spanish, multicultural class at the local Montessori preschool. “It’s been four months and all she can say is ‘quesadilla,'” says Devin. “This is what an extra $250 a month gets us? We could literally live in Honduras for less than that.”

“She comes home from school, sets her dolls up for circle time, and leads her imaginary class in gibberish. I don’t know what she thinks she’s saying, but it’s not Spanish,” Julia adds. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s cute. Just not $3000 a year cute.”

The immersion class is designed so that students will learn all the preschool basics like shapes, colors, letters and numbers in Spanish. So that, according to most kindergarten teachers, they typically have the benefit of starting Elementary school months behind their English-only learning classmates in grammar, sentence structure and vocabulary. The Wilsons don’t seem to have to worry about that. “Quesadilla. That’s all we’re getting from her,” Devin vents. “Quesadilla. Quesadilla. ‘What do you want for dinner?’ Quesadilla. ‘What’s your favorite color?’ Quesadilla. ‘Who drew on the wall?’ Quesadilla.”

The Wilsons have not given up complete hope on immersion schooling. With very few alternatives in the area that don’t involve nuns, the couple have decided to add Alyssa to the wait-list for local the English-speaking Jewish preschool in the hopes of enlightening her on the culture of Ophthalmologists.