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By Tina Fey
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.
Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget.
But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
Amen.
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Anonymous asked: what did you have for lunch?
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I’m trying to count the ways this will never happen again.
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I think that the Lt. Pike meme should be extended from the amazing photo memes that have been circulating, into the world of poetry; the artistic form of preference for the jackbooted thug. Below is a humble example.
The Road Not Taken - by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY
PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY
PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY
PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY
PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY
PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY
PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY PEPPER SPRAY
And that has made all the difference.
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Some days you are the dog.
Some days you are the deer.
Some days you are the guy in the chinos.
Some days you are the guy saying ‘heh’ at the end.
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The next time you’re involved in a conversation about the degeneracy and moral turpitude of this generation, point your fellow debater at this video which shows that people in the 1930’s managed to overcome the threatening shadow of worldwide fascism and still be super gay. (Video via @severalbees)
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Anonymous asked: Do you reply to these questions? Where do the answers appear? But more importantly, what are you wearing?
1) I do. I just rarely notice I have them. How exciting!
2) I don’t actually know
3) T-shirt; jeans; hang-dog expression.
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Anonymous asked: Why do Brits insult you and then ask you to agree with them? "You're a right tit, aren't you?"
It is based in the ancient anglo-saxon tradition of self-loathing and the protestant work ethic. In short, we often like to hate other people on their behalf to save them the embarrassment of doing it themselves.
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Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim: I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.
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I don’t speak in public much - but I think I have it nailed: if you want to make a good speech, tell the truth as you see it, as simply as you know how. Even if you that means you’re just saying one sentence statements, one after the other.
Because if you don’t, then you can get lost in Trying To Make A Good Speech. And that mostly sucks for everyone.
But if you do, then you will at least tick the basic box: Get to the point.
And if you’re on your game you’ll find that - by simple virtue of the fact that you’re telling the truth and that’s easy - you can find some space between the sentences to add the odd grace note or wry aside. Pchew! You’ll look like a pro.
And, if God smiles on you, you’ll do something like the video above where, it seems to me, around about the 4m30 mark, Louis CK surprises himself at the depth of his feeling and the profoundness of the truth he was speaking.
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Leon Rhodes plays guitar like a psychopath showing you the knife he’s going to use to kill you.
