The Troll



“I’m going to find a troll today” said little Annie Rose McKay

“He’s been bothering me for nigh on a week!”

“I’m going to crush this beastly creep!”

She packed her bag with special care

A knife, some snacks, clean underwear

And set off walking through forest and glade

Her hand curled ’round her trusty blade

(and sucking down vodka-spiked lemonade!)

When suddenly, she came to a clearing

And stood perfectly still, what was she hearing?

‘Twas a tap, tap, tap- the tapping of keys!

And a distant cackle of fiendish glee!

She narrowed her eyes, and scanned the horizon

Her heart beating fast, her blood pressure risin’

“I spy the bridge where the troll makes his home!”

All day on his laptop, always alone

Eating children, and brushing his hair

How’s he get wifi under there?

Closer and closer, the wee lass drew near

Using her anger to conquer her fear

Through the woodsy scent of the knoll,

She smelt smelly socks, the aroma of troll

She came to the bridge, and took a deep breath

Time for the troll to meet his death!

She peeked around the mossy stones,

And there sat the troll, so very alone.

But he was not the beast she had come to slay

In fact her first thought was to run away!

Because before her sat a creature

With stooped shoulders and plain features,

With wispy arms and spindly legs

(Eating a plate of scrambled eggs!)

“Why you’re just a man!” She said with surprise

The man whipped around with fear in his eyes.

“Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me! I’m just a boy!”

“Yes! Just a boy with a favorite toy!”

“A magic computer that I can use

To bother and hurt, spam and abuse!”

Annie thought for a moment about simply leaving

But then she thought of the way she’d been grieving

This boy’s words, sent to hurt without reason

Were the worst forms of internet treason.

And so, I am sad to report,

That Annie did not even try to retort.

But stabbed his heart with her trusty blade,

And went off whistlin’, back through the glade.

I’m told she never shed a tear

In fact made earrings out of his ears!

So let this be a warning to trolls today,


10 things I dislike about Super Bowl Sunday


Hi guys,

Did you notice I typed “dislike” and not “hate”? That’s because I don’t hate it, Super Bowl Sunday. Why would I let myself get that worked up about it? I’ll leave that to the fans. You know, the millions of people sitting on couches, yelling at the flatscreen with hot sauce on their chins? The screen upon which very large, very rich, semi-metrosexual men grapple in a game of no real consequence?

And don’t give me that shit about how you played when you were younger. “But it takes me back to high school! Memories of my youth!” Yeah, yeah. I had fun when I was a teenager too, but I don’t have a party once a year to celebrate drinking Zima and dry-humping.

And if you never played football, that’s even weirder to me. “But they’re amazing to watch!” you cry. “Real life heroes!” Tell me then, how come when the fire trucks come screeching down the street, you never see a cavalcade of F150’s in hot pursuit, slurping beers and cheering while they battle the blaze? That shit’s pretty amazing to watch too. And free.

Here’s 10 more things that chap my ass about this tedious day:

1. The Announcers. I actually had to google this shit because I didn’t know if they were called “announcers” or “commentators” or what. I still don’t know. But I know this: those guys are way too fucking excited. They make me nervous, and not in a “Ryan Gosling’s in line in front of me at Target” kinda way, but a “my asshole is sweating and I feel like I just did two lines of cheap coke” kinda way. I like more serene entertainment. Like feeding ducks at a pond. Or something.

2. The Commercials. Can you say “emotional manipulation”? Jesus Christ. I just saw that Budweiser ad with the puppy and the horse and I was like, whaaassup? What does that have to do with the consumption of below-average American beer? I miss the days when beer commercials would be all, burly guy lifts can, takes a long swallow and says “It’s good”. No matter how funny or cool or heartwarming an advertisement might be, the company that funded it just wants your money. Burp.

3.Wife Beating. Do you know that SBS is one of the biggest days of the year for incidences of domestic violence and child abuse? That’s right. Daddy gets mad when his team loses, especially if he loses money, and someone must be punished. Throw your kids around, tackle ol’ Sally. You’ll feel better in the morning, I promise.

4. Human Sex Trafficking. More seedy underbelly of the Super Bowl! I just learned about this today. Apparently guys drive around looking for girls to kidnap and use as sex slaves at their parties. Silly guys. Everybody knows all you need to get sex slaves is a few sorority girls, a keg of Coors Light, and some ecstasy. They’ll be begging for your boner beer in no time. Duh.

5. Latent Homoeroticism. Football is so gay. There is so much locker room nudity, ball slapping, ass slapping, body to body holding and questionable bending-over- it’s seriously like a bath house. I’m not homophobic, like at all. But it cracks me up because most fans totally are. I mean these guys are the ones that screech “no homo” if their fingers accidentally brush against their buddies’ when they pass them a tall boy. Yet they watch, with rapt attention, two hours of what looks like foreplay for a gang bang.

6. The Halftime Show. Speaking of all things gay. These things are so over-the-top and cheesy they are clearly choreographed and arranged by a team of drag queens. Cue the aging pop star. Cue the teen pop star. Cue the high school marching bands. Cue the falling glitter. Watch them sing a song about freedom because…

7. Patriotism. God, we love America on SBS. So much money. So much violence. So many American flags. The young  man with Down’s Syndrome steps up to the mic, takes a tremulous breath, and sings “Star-Spangled Banner”. There isn’t a dry eye in the house! Personally,  I like to picture the Founding Fathers scoring touchdowns. Probably because it is about as absurd as linking this game to whatever it is we are supposed to represent as a country.

8. Female Fans. I don’t want to make any friends mad, but girl, I just don’t get it. I’ve been to the parties. I’ve been to NFL games with my Dad. I enjoyed the company, but not the game. But some of you act just as wild as the boys! Little jerseys! Team logo manicures! I have asked a few women, and I have yet to have one give me a convincing argument as to why they love this sport. Their mouths are saying “blah blah blah” but I’m hearing “But I look AMAZING in those colors!” If you just want to party, that’s totally cool. But don’t lie to a sister.

9. It takes FOREVER to get a fucking pizza delivered. 

10. Shit talking. I’m talking to you, COWORKERS. It was enough that I had to endure the whole fantasy football season. All that shit-talking, about something that is, admittedly, fantasy. I pretended to ignore you guys but I was tempted to scream “Look over there it’s two leprechauns tongue-kissing!” But now it’s all “I’m going to eat soooo much this Sunday! I’m going to drink sooooo much this Sunday!” I don’t want to be an asshole, but how is that different from the other 364 days of the year, exactly?

Jeez, Debbie Downer, is there anything you like about the Super Bowl?

Yes. The cheerleaders! I love them. They make me feel better about my own life choices. I’ve done a lot of stupid stuff, but I’ve never been an orange person wearing lycra hot pants and clown makeup, just a half-second off beat, sadly twerking to a TLC medley. I mean, ok, I have been, but not on national TV.

Also, hot wings.

Be safe this Sunday!


Two cats, a killer, and Craigslist: Time Travel with Nicki Ep. 2



It all started because I had two cats I needed to get rid of. And by get rid of, I mean give them away to a good home, not drown them in the bathtub or anything. I should tell you right now I am not a cat person. I am a bit of an attention whore and I need animals who will stare deeply into my eyes all day, follow me around, and laugh at my jokes. That’s why I have dogs now. Hell, it’s probably why I have a kid. But cats make you work for their love, and I just didn’t have the time.

It was 2003 and I was living completely alone for the first time ever. I had an adorable loft apartment across the street from a crack house on the outskirts of downtown. It was great. When your neighbors are prostitutes and drug dealers, no one cares if you have your stereo up loud at night. One afternoon I remarked to a fellow I was casually dating, “you know, I think I need a pet.”

The next time he came over he brought two tabby kittens. Obviously, Romeo didn’t know me very well. A sensible gentleman would have brought me a goldfish, or paid for me to go to rehab. But I bought all the necessary cat junk for the little fur balls and promised myself I would be a good cat mommy.

I used to break all my promises to myself.

Fast forward six months. Romeo is history, like many a Romeo before him, and I am dating Johnny Hollywood. (Remember him? The guy who bought me these.) I am spending most nights at his place, because it is nicer, and since he has a severe case of psychosomatic asthma, the cats are not invited. “Well, at least they have each other”, I thought, as I dumped three days worth of kitty chow into a bowl. I would even leave the TV on CNN so they could stay up to date with world events and not feel sequestered.

Two young cats left to their own devices can be real assholes. They shredded my vintage leather jacket. They shredded my Dad’s old Pottery Barn couch. They shit in weird places, like on my pillow and in my shoes. After a month of little human contact and sporadic feeding, they had become mostly feral and had taken to scrounging for old Taco Bell in the trash.

Meanwhile, Johnny Hollywood had invited me to move in. But first, the cats had to go. But where? Hollywood suggested I place an ad on Craigslist. I thought Craigslist was just something guys used to have secret gay sex, but he assured me it works like a charm for getting rid of unwanted pets. I placed my ad (adorable cats free to good home) and waited.

And waited. And waited some more. Two weeks passed. One Monday night, I was sitting at my laptop googling “how to humanely kill cats” when my email notification pinged. It was a message from someone calling himself Andy. He wanted to come see the cats, he said. He and his girlfriend would take them if they were healthy. I texted the number with my address and told him to come on over. Praise Jesus, I thought, breathing in the ammonia scented air, these jerks are out of my life for good.

Less than an hour later, my doorbell rang. I opened the door, and immediately I felt something was wrong.


Ok, it wasn’t that wrong. It was more like this…


He was a youngish white guy. Pasty, thin. Completely nondescript. But even as I was ushering him in, my spidey sense was tingling like crazy. He stuck his hands in his pockets, shrugged his shoulders, and smiled. With his mouth, not his eyes. His eyes were like two dead fish floating in a bowl.

“Hi. I’m Andy. I’m here to see those cute wittle kitties.”

I’m not kidding, he seriously said “wittle”. I started to feel panicky.

“Uh, yeah. Sure, sure. Um, let me go grab them. Uh, where’s your girlfriend? I figured she would want to check them out, too.”

“Sabrina’s at work. She trusts I’ll make the right decision. I always make the right decision. Ha! Well. We just really want…pets. Just some little things to love.”

“Umm, ok. They’re probably upstairs in my room. You just, um, hang out a minute and I’ll go get them.”

So I left him there, leaning creepily against the foyer wall while I climbed the spiral staircase to my bedroom. There were two thoughts swirling in my brain. One: something is up with this guy. He just doesn’t seem right. At all. Two: Once again I have proven to be too stupid to live. No one knows this guy is even here. Who invites some random Craigslist stranger into her home? All that reading up on serial killers, and I fall for the oldest trick in the book.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I stole a glance back down. “Andy” had moved over to the big windows on the other side of the room, and was peering outside through the slatted blinds. I crept into my bedroom and looked for the stupid cats. I finally found them sleeping in my closet, and stuffed one under each arm and crept back downstairs before Andy could locate the knife drawer.

“Aww, there’s the cute wittle guys! Hey, kitty kitty! Hey, kitty kitty!” He cooed in a strange, loud voice. He reached out a pale and flaccid arm toward me. Both cats jumped from my arms onto the couch. Their ears were laid straight back on their skulls. One was actually hissing.

“They’re actually total sweetie pies” I said idiotically. “They just need time to get used to people.”

“Ohhhh, I can tell. I can tell you wittle kitties are sweet. Samantha is going to love you guys.” He was still smiling that weird smile. His hands were balled into fists. A muscle twitched near his eye. I crossed over to the windows. The blinds were always closed, because I lived across the street from a crack house and all. I opened them now, and looked out.  A lone hooker stood on the corner, hot boxing a Newport. As I watched, she ground the butt under her heel and walked away. The street was utterly deserted. No one to bear witness to my grisly murder.

“I thought you said her name was Sabrina.”

“That’s what I SAID.” For the first time, his smile faltered, and he looked nonplussed. “You think I don’t know my own girlfriend’s NAME? You need to clean out your ears. Hahaha!” He reached for the cats again. They darted behind the couch. He threw his arms out wide and smiled a huge crazy smile.

“I’ll take ’em!! This deal is too good to pass up. You said you would give me the carrier too, right?”

“Ummm, yeah, the carrier is included. I have half a bag of food too, and toys.”

“Just the carrier. Samantha already got them food and toys. And TREATS. Lots of treats for my new wittle kitties.”

“Ok, well. Ok. Like, you want to take them right now?”

“That’s what I SAID, isn’t it? I’m a busy guy. I took a break from my important JOB to come over here. Sabrina can’t wait to see these little guys, and I know better than to disappoint my Sabrina.”

My body was buzzy with adrenaline. My butt was all sweaty. I couldn’t think clearly. I just wanted this guy out of my apartment. And I hadn’t forgotten my objective, which was ridding myself of these cats.

“Their carrier is upstairs. I’ll go get it.” I climbed back up the stairs, back into my room, and was in the closet reaching for the carrier when I heard an unmistakeable noise. The light tread of footsteps on my wrought-iron stairs. I whipped around, holding the carrier out in front of me like a lion tamer with a stepstool, and he was in the doorway of my bedroom.


“What are you doing?” I said in a choked voice.

“I just wanted to see what was up here.”

I pushed past him, still holding the carrier in front of me. “It’s my room. Just my room. Do you want something to drink? Let’s go downstairs so you can get something to drink.”

He followed me down the stairs, and for the whole 6 seconds I kept waiting for his hands to close around my throat. They didn’t. I gave him a can of Mountain Dew from the fridge which he slurped greedily while I wrestled the hissing beasts into the carrier.

“Please take good care of them.” I was almost in tears.

“You know I will.”

And with that, he was gone. After I slid the deadbolt, I realized he never even asked the cats’ names.

Oh, man, I hope he didn’t kill my cats.

Oh, shit, I kind of think he killed my cats.

So. That’s the story of the time I met a serial killer on Craigslist. I mean, I’m pretty sure he was a fledgling killer, and I think by now he’s probably killed at least a few people. And what did I learn? I learned to be a little more careful about strangers. I realize most people cover this territory in elementary school, but alas, I took the road less travelled to maturity and adulthood.

I also learned that I am a complete asshole. I sacrificed those poor animals to save my own precious hide. But it didn’t bother me for too long. A week later I was on a flight to Amsterdam with Johnny Hollywood, and Andy and the cats were just another memory shoved down into the vault.


P.S. What do YOU think? Was Andy a killer or was this just my imagination gone horribly awry? Have you ever felt Stranger Danger? How did you deal with it? Tell me all about it in the comments.

P.S.S. Please don’t call PETA on me. I take lovely care of my animals these days.

Nicki and the terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day


I had the night sweats again so I woke up with my sheets sticking to me and my foot was asleep and my mouth tasted like I slept with a dead squirrel inside it and Sadie was yelling from her bedroom “Mama! Ma-maaaa! Miiiiilk! I want milk” and as I sat up in my bed I realized my head was pounding and I thought to myself

it’s going to be a terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day.

As I walked into the bathroom to take a pee I stubbed my toe on Sadie’s stepstool and hopped around on one foot cursing while Sadie stood in the hallway yelling like a drill sergeant for her milk. Most days she is a little ray of morning sunshine but I could tell today was not going to be one of those days.

So we go downstairs and I get her a snack and try to make coffee but I left the creamer on the counter for a whole day and night so now it’s no good and so I put milk in it but I really don’t like it like that but oh well if I don’t have caffeine I might die. But then I’m messing around on Facebook while Sadie watches cartoons and while I’m not paying attention she drinks like half my coffee so now she’s in a bad mood and filled with terrible energy. Meanwhile I have zero energy and I’m looking around at the messy house that I’m constantly meaning to organize and out the windows at the frozen world outside and I realize I give zero fucks about accomplishing anything today because it’s pretty obvious that

it is a terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day.

Now I know this is the point where I could have said attitude is everything and put good energy out there and good things will happen and it’s all about perspective and maybe I could just pray to Jesus but in case you haven’t noticed that’s not really me and sometimes it’s fun to just revel in your own depression so I just wasted time until it was time to get ready for work. And by waste time I mean stalk people I hate on Facebook while avoiding phone calls from people I actually like.

So as usual I didn’t give myself enough time to get ready and the shower water ran cold because my house is old and I’m pretty sure that instead of using shampoo and conditioner I used conditioner twice because my hair felt like an oiled pelt after I dried it. And I had a pimple in my forehead wrinkle which made me muse for a while about how sad it is that I am at an age where I have acne AND wrinkles. And as I was getting dressed I realized I am skinny fat from eating too many baked goods and where is my ass? I guess it’s hibernating for the winter because I can’t find it anywhere so I put on a long tunic and leggings to hide my lack of ass and couldn’t find my favorite necklace and my boots are covered in black snow sludge but fuck it I’m late.

But I had to stop for gas because of course I’m on empty because I have poor planning skills and even though I’m running late I stopped at The Coat Factory to see if I could find a new winter coat because I have a gift card and my parka is ripped up the back and looks very not professional. But even though they are called the fucking Coat Factory all they have are summer dresses, pink and yellow and blue, all hanging there mocking me because it is 7 degrees outside. I finally find one coat that is my size but it is a floor length faux fur with giant golden buttons and I’m sorry but that is just not happening. So I left and went to get a drive-thru burger and fries because I need something to make me happy in this

terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day.

But of course there is a traffic jam on the expressway because humanity is horrible so I sit there listening to NPR and some awful girl is talking about a support group she started so that incredibly rich young people can get together and talk about how hard it is to be incredibly rich and then the news comes on and they are talking about the NSA and privacy issues and I start thinking about all those google searches I did this week about brony porn and adult babies and I get nervous but not too nervous because I spilled gasoline on my boots and I think I’m kind of high.

So I pull up to work only 10 minutes late and find a spot only 3 blocks away so I go inside and clock in and eat my cold fries and burger with soggy bun. And they bought me a new serrated knife to cut lemon and lime slices with and I’m really excited because my old one was really dull and I was always afraid I’d cut my finger off so I slice a few lemons and it’s like cutting butter and I yell out to my coworker Nick “hey look how sharp my new knife is” and promptly slice my finger open. And it’s one of those little cuts that bleeds like crazy so I go in the kitchen to get a bandaid and the chef tells me we don’t have any bandaids and I’m like we’re a restaurant how do we not have any bandaids? And he’s all well we had a huge box of bandaids but they fell into a vat of oil. So I finally use a tampon from my purse to stanch the blood and after about an hour I realize that no one is coming into the restaurant because it’s a polar vortex and apparently people would rather stay home and eat pizza than venture out for fancy food and drinks. So they let me go home because it’s clear that I am in the midst of a

terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day.

And it takes forever to get home in the traffic because humanity is horrible and I stop at the grocery store to buy some fish sticks and everyone in the world is at the grocery store because god knows if we get an inch of snow everyone is confined to their homes indefinitely. But finally I get home and my head is still pounding and when I go upstairs to put my PJs on I realize my lousy pug took a shit in my bedroom and I think about beating him but even when you’re having a bad day violence is never the answer. And I don’t have clean PJs because I didn’t finish the laundry so I put on mismatched sweats and go downstairs and cuddle with Sadie who at least is being much nicer now.

And I was going to write a blog post about the time I met a serial killer on Craigslist but I just don’t feel like it and instead I watch Netflix and I marvel that they have literally thousands of options but most of them are stupid like Cupcake Boss and Extreme Treehouses. So I finally watch some documentary about ancient ruins but I’m not really paying attention because Sadie is telling me a long drawn-out story about fish that is more interesting anyway. And Joe is being pretty quiet because he is having a bad day too I think but I don’t ask because I’m having my me time and besides I’m the only one allowed to have a

terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day.

So finally it’s bedtime and Joe has to cuddle with Sadie until she falls asleep because she’s a daddy’s girl like that and as I’m brushing my teeth I hear a knock at the front door and it’s a man asking if he can borrow a cup of sugar but before I can answer he grabs me and throws me in the back of his stinky van and drives me to this shack in the middle of the woods to be his bitch for ever and ever.

Ok so that last part wasn’t true but I do think about things like that to try and put things into perspective because that would definitely be worse than the day I had. But it doesn’t really work because even though logically I realize my life is better than someone’s who gets raped every day and even though I’m not on death row or a quadriplegic or work in a button factory for a living and all my problems are minor first world problems they’re my problems, dammit, and I can feel sorry for myself if I want to.

So I climb in my big cozy bed and prop up some pillows to rest against and listen to the quiet nighttime sounds of dogs snoring and the furnace clicking on and the wind whistling outside and finally my mind quiets and I feel at peace and read a book until I fall asleep and it is, by far, the absolute best part of this

terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day.

Saddle up! It’s time for a Brony Smackdown!



We are living in the goddamned end times. I just know it. I’m not too religious, but the prophecies of the Book of Revelation are everywhere. The sun is scorching the Earth. Justin Bieber is the Antichrist. Miley Cyrus is the Whore of Babylon. But where are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, you ask? Well, sometimes things get lost in translation.

Because they’re really PONIES.

Can you sprinkle a turd with pixie dust and call it a movement? Bronies seem to think so. If you haven’t heard the term, get caught up.  But the quick and dirty is this: My Little Pony are toys made by Hasbro since the 1980’s. I had them. They were cute and they smelled like plastic birthday cake. In 2010, Hasbro introduced a new generation of the toys and as a handy marketing tie-in, a show called My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Hasbro has a long history of this. GI Joe. The Transformers. Jem and the Holograms. Insipid little cartoons that were basically 20 minute commercials for their products. But this show found an unlikely legion of fans: adult males in their early to mid-20s. Hence, Bronies.


This weekend I watched a documentary on Netflix, Bronies: The Extremely Unexpected Adult Fans of My Little Pony. The film is fan produced, so it’s very pro-Brony and total clopaganda. I augmented my findings with some online research. I’m now sure of two things.

One: I may never have sex again. These bronies have killed my lady boner. The more I learn, the more my vagina gets very sad. She is now in full mourning and will only wear black panties. Even looking at pictures of Ryan Gosling could not coax her out of hiding.

Two: This is not hipster irony. Or even your average creepily virginal fandom. This is, 100%, a religious movement that is growing at an alarming rate. We MUST corral this herd of idiots before it’s too late.

In an informal survey, as many as 12 million Americans identify as Bronies. To put that in perspective, there are only 10 million Scientologists WORLDWIDE. These ponyboys have a MASSIVE online presence, attend conventions, and spread their message of Magical Friendship. They even have their own lexicon. “Everybody” becomes “everypony”.  A fist bump is a Bro-hoof. And their tagline? I’m gonna tolerate and love the shit out of you.


Well, hay, Nicki, that doesn’t sound so bad, does it? I mean lots of parents and even psychologists think the Brony message is a good one. It’s better than all that violent video gaming isn’t it? Better than looking at porn all day?

Do not google My Little Pony Rule 34.

OK, are you back? After your eyeballs finish rupturing, let’s continue. It would behoof you to listen next time. Sure, the porny ponies make up a small part of the fandom, along with the furries and the boys who wear tails that don’t require glue. Psychologists are quick to point out that the vast majority of bronies are white, heterosexual, college-educated males. Some have gone so far as to praise the Bronies for ushering in a new era of masculinity. Some call it the New Sincerity Movement.

Is this supposed to make me feel better? Look, my dismay has nothing to do with worrying about pedophiles living in their parents’ basements. I am really fucking FREAKED OUT that the hope of our collective future is spending their time making cupcake memes and farting rainbows and deluding themselves into thinking that it’s somehow relevant. I’m not having a knee-jerk reaction to gender bending, I’m having a visceral reaction to the utter pointlessness of it all.

And this is not revolutionary gender-bending either. Shit, David Bowie did it 30 years ago with a lot more swagger. At least Ziggy Stardust got laid. And if we’re going to start relaxing gender roles, can we at least start somewhere more significant? Like maybe we can stop calling God “Him”?

And what about this universal love? Are you seriously trying to tell me that we should love everyone, no matter what? “Hey Hitler, are you going to BronyCon?” That’s a terrible message! That’s why the stupid show is marketed to kids in the first place. By the time we reach middle school, most of us realize that the world is filled with assholes and the last thing they deserve is a fucking hug. This is a vapid philosophy devoid of logic.

That’s my problem. This is not….ANYTHING. There is a vast whistling emptiness at the heart of youth culture today. Some say things like Bronyism are a natural response to post-911 America. Some have compared them to hippies during the Vietnam War.

Hand me a beer, ya’ll, because my head is going to explode.

Hippies were fighting against something. Hippies were pushing back against authority. Hippies were trying to build a less materialistic, more free and open culture. Who really benefits from the Brony movement?

Fucking HASBRO, that’s who.

Let’s take a look at this beneficent company, shall we? It’s the largest toy company in the world. Nearly all of their production has been outsourced to East Asia, in factories they neither control nor oversee. We all know how that goes. They decimated ancient Indonesian forests for their packaging until Greenpeace jumped their shit. The state of Rhode Island gave them 1.6 million dollars to create more jobs, and instead they cut 10% of salaried employees. Meanwhile, CEO Brian Goldner just renewed his contract for an obscene amount of cash.

I mean, c’mon. This is the company that thought lawn darts were a good idea. This is the company that still packages Easy Bake Ovens in pink boxes and markets them exclusively to girls.


So while these manchildren are spreading their message of friendship and inclusion, they are sacrificing their gifts on the altar of corporate greed, and urging consumer culture ever onward and upward. Blow me, Bronies.

This is the endgame of twenty years of drugging our kids with Ritalin and food additives. Search Bronies on Youtube. Look at their pasty, living-in-captivity faces. Their doughy, hyperactive bodies. Their vacant eyes. Their utter soullessness.

And nobody wants to say anything bad. Parents don’t want to be anything but accepting nowadays. Nobody wants the kids feeling bad about themselves. But guess what, feeling bad about yourself is not necessarily a bad thing if you are doing something profoundly stupid.

Trust me, I know. I felt bad about myself for twenty years, and then I grew up.

Grow up, Bronies.

Grow. The. Fuck. Up.

Go outside. Have sex with a girl, or a guy. Make some art that isn’t derivative. Read a fucking book. Eat a fucking vegetable.

But mostly, grow the fuck up. You’re not unique, or important. None of us are. We are all just warts on the asshole of the world. At least some of us know it.

I’ve sat through the cults of Christianity and CrossFit, but this is just too much. We are ripe for extinction. We are in fact, devolving.

Every generation has its moment when they pass the torch to the next generation. Not me. I’m hanging on to it until they prove they’re worthy. I’m not letting these dipshits play with fire.

Help! I’ve been Hooked!


Actually, it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t like an anal probe, or anything.

My blog is called The Nicki Daniels Interview and no one has asked me any fucking questions! Until now. Mosey on over to 5×5 with The Hook and read my very first interview HERE. Revel in my awesome and while you’re there, check out the archives to meet some other great bloggers.

This week on the NDI we’re getting back to fun time, ya’ll. It’s been entirely too somber around here and I’m over it! so bookmark this page and come back tomorrow, because I’m delivering the smackdown to the Brony movement.  It’s gonna be a cloppin’ good time! Friday is part 2 of Time Travel with Nicki where I will tell a harrowing tale about the time I met a serial killer on Craigslist.

Shameless plug, over.

Mmmm….fish sticks….

I’m Sorry


Dear Friends,

If you are reading this, it is probably because you read my last post, “An Open Letter to Bearded Hipsters“. This post was published on Monday morning and at last count has been viewed 528,821 times, shared on Facebook and Twitter over 10,000 times, and commented on by a staggering 972 people. These comments were a virulent swirl of beard pride and butt hurt. It is these commenters I would like to address in this post.

I’m sorry. I had no idea how strongly people feel about facial hair. As a woman, I tend to shave and pluck my unwanted hairs, so I guess I never really thought about the deep symbolism and masculine pride men are wearing on their faces.

I made the statement that I am sexually attracted to beards. To those of you who pointed out that this is because I secretly want to sleep with my father, I thank you for your profound insight. You have saved me a fortune in therapy bills. I have done some deep soul-searching, and now realize I also want to sleep with the members of ZZ Top. And Santa Claus. In fact, as long as a man has a beard, consider my vagina open for business. I am also sorry for daring to write on my personal blog about my likes and dislikes. You are all right, that is a completely outrageous thing to do. I am humbled.

For the bearded manly men, I’m sorry for making you feel good about yourselves. Since I wrote this post, I have been introduced to an amazing group of people called “feminists”. They told me that we are living in something called a “patriarchal society” and apparently it’s guys like you that have been keeping us women down for centuries. My mind is blown! Apparently, by me wishing for a more old fashioned guy, I am encouraging the perpetuation of this nefarious system. I have gotten a library card and plan to read more about this. As a side note, I also learned that no means no.

These awesome feminists also told me that by calling a man a “pussy”, I am equating female genitalia with weakness. I’m still on the fence about that one. Honestly, I just thought it sounds funny. Plus I am always bragging about my own freakishly strong vagina, so by that logic if I call a guy a pussy I am actually calling him “amazing”. Hmmm. Food for thought, friends.

I’m sorry that I have not graduated from college. As many of you who are currently taking “Gender Studies 101” pointed out, I am guilty of perpetuating “hetero-normative” stereotypes and even “micro aggression”. Thanks to Google, I was able to figure out what these words mean, and learn more about how to sound cool at parties. Man, I love the internet. Thanks, guys. The world is going to be a better place when you enter the workforce. Be the change, right?

For those of you who told me to stop “body shaming”, I’m sorry. I thought I was actually “face shaming”, but still. Point taken.

I’m deeply sorry for being sexist, or practicing “reverse sexism”. Honestly, I didn’t know that was a thing. I mean, didn’t we just get the right to vote? You’re right, how would I feel if the situation were reversed, and men were telling me what is a sexy way to dress and look. I have never experienced that before, but I can only imagine it would be profoundly hurtful.

For those of you who said I am perpetuating violence, and stuff like this can actually cause hate crimes, I am actually weeping with remorse. I didn’t realize that people don’t think for themselves. People could read that open letter, and since their minds are as malleable as Play Doh, they might actually hurt someone for having a hipster beard. Please don’t hurt anyone, people. I already feel bad enough. I simply cannot have that on my conscience.

To the many, many people who suggested I learn to change my own fucking tires, you’re right. I should probably also learn to feed and dress myself. I’m sorry. Nicki Daniels is a work in progress. Baby steps.

And to the hipsters themselves…where to begin? Yes, I know that hipster bashing is so 2005. From now on I will try to be more on-trend and topical with my disdain. And you’re right, the world IS changing. I will try to keep up. I also now realize that making fun of overprivileged white people is very, very naughty. As of today, I vow to only kick the paralyzed and slap the retarded. By the way, if you guys are looking for some chicks, check out those feminists I mentioned above. They have more enlightened views about masculinity than I do, even if they will keep your balls in their bell jar.

Lastly, I am sorry for blogging in the first place. “They” really will give a blog to anyone. I didn’t realize that writing is a Godlike, sacred power. That every time I sit down to write, I must think: how will this impact every person in the world? Will I offend anyone? Could anyone possibly be hurt?

Sadly, this is impossible. But I really love writing. So, as of Monday, “The Nicki Daniels Interview” will change to “Funtime Happyplace” and will feature my thoughts on navel lint and lots of GIFs of dancing cats.

Hope to see ya there!


An open letter to bearded hipsters


Dear Bearded Hipsters,

YOU GUYS ARE RUINING MY BEARD FETISH.  Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved a man with a beard. To me, they meant strength, power, MANLINESS. Someone who could protect me. Unfortunately, you guys have turned it into a fashion statement. The beard has turned into the padded bra of masculinity. Sure it looks sexy, but whatcha got under there? There’s a whole generation running around looking like lumberjacks, and most of you can’t change a fucking tire.

Look, I get it. I really do. I understand the motivation behind your beardedness. In fact, I even pity you. Thousands of years of evolution priming you guys to kill stuff, and chase stuff, and fuck stuff….and now what? You’re stuck at a desk all day. No battles to fight. No wars to wage. So you assert your masculinity the only way you know how. You brew beer. You grow some hair on your face. I’ve seen you, hipsters, sitting in downtown eateries, with your rock chick girlfriends, dipping your truffle fries, trying not to get the aioli in your mustache. I’ve seen the quiet desperation in your eyes. I know you’re screaming into the void.

But I still hate you for it. You’re confusing me. It’s now on me to suss out who is the real man and who is the poseur. Sadly, I fear most of you are the latter. Before this explosion of whiskers on trendy men everywhere, if I saw a bearded man it was safe to assume certain things about him. Like, he probably owned a hammer. Or washed his hair with a bar of Irish Spring. His beard was probably scented with motor oil and probably had remnants of last night’s chili in it.

But you vegan nancyboys are a different breed altogether. You have your mountain man scruff, but you maintain it. You groom it. With products. A quick google search of “beard grooming products” turns up literally thousands of articles explaining how to have the most lustrous beard possible. Take this one from Philadelphia Magazine, where they tested TWENTY DIFFERENT VARIETIES of beard oil. The result of this intrepid testing?

“I’m talking softer, more manageable whiskers that hold their shape better and smell nice, besides. Doesn’t sound so bad put that way, does it?”

Yes. Yes it does, you GIANT PUSSY. Am I reading “Cosmo”? What the fuck is going on here? Betty White has bigger balls than you. Look, I know I sound harsh, but I’m actually trying to rein myself in. A beard is meant to keep your face warm. Seriously, that’s it. You guys had your warm beards so you could go out and hunt us food, and we had our boobies with warm milk to feed the young’uns. That’s why I love beards. It is a natural, physiological response. I want a man who can keep me safe. How did it all get so twisted?

I don’t want to go back to Cro-Magnon days. I’m glad we have more gender equality and I like not having to worry about being eaten by larger creatures. But I am calling for a moratorium on the hipster beard. I demand that you reach for a razor if any of the following are true:

Your beard is accompanied by a bowtie or horn-rimmed eyeglasses. Why on earth do you want to look like Sigmund Freud? At least he could blame this strange look on his massive cocaine problem. Sometimes a cigar is just a douchebag.

You grew a beard to be “ironic”. But you don’t exactly understand what “ironic” means, or why having a beard would be ironic if you did.

You take time off from your entry-level graphic design job only to attend South by Southwest, take your French Bulldog to the vet, or lie on your futon and weep.

You do not know what an Allen wrench is, but can explain, in detail, the difference between a macchiato and an Americano.

There is an existing Instagram photo of you wearing a knit beanie and chewing on a stalk of wheat.

How’d you do, boys? Better go get your moisturizing shave gel. It’s time to stop playing at being a man. But don’t throw all those perfectly good whiskers in the trash. Give them to your upcycling, DIY girlfriend and let her decoupage some photo frames, or something. But please, just get rid of it. Another trend will soon come along to occupy your technology-addled attention span. And me? I have some beard-ogling to get back to.

Thanks in advance,

*UPDATE* If you were offended by this post, please read my sincere apology here.

Time Travel with Nicki: Ep.1 “The Fistfight”


Becky Braun wanted to beat me up because she was jealous of my new perm. It was 1986, I was in the fifth grade, and the permanent wave was EVERYWHERE. Everyone from my parents to my MTV idols were rocking crowns of massively poufed and hairsprayed curls. In retrospect, it is hard to believe that people were paying good money to look like electrocuted poodles, but at the time, I wanted one. Desperately.

My mom was a hairdresser who worked out of a tiny salon in our basement. On lazy afternoons, our little Cape Cod house would slowly fill with the wafting fumes of chemicals and cigarette smoke as she coiffed the manes of friends and neighbors. After months of begging, it was my turn in the chair. I watched as she tightly wrapped my baby-fine hair in the brightly colored plastic rollers and applied the stinky solution. After what seemed like 7 hours, she rinsed me, dried me, and voila! I was a fucking ROCK STAR.

Kind of like this, but not really.

Kind of like this, but not really.

I didn’t think I could look any hotter, but then she came at me brandishing a large can of mousse and worked a giant blob of the stuff into my hair. She showed me how to scrunch it to define the curls, a move I proceeded to do every 30 seconds for the next 3 months. My once-limp locks now stood out from my head in a frizzy halo, and were as crispy to the touch as a can of Pringles. It was magical. I couldn’t wait to go to school.


I set off on the walk to school breathless with anticipation. It was a bleak winter day, but the sun was shining in my soul. My Prince and the Revolution backpack bounced on my shoulders in time with my steps. I would be the first one in my grade with a perm! I was naturally petite, and had skipped the second grade, so I was already in awe of my classmates and their budding boobs. Now they would see who the real woman was! And I hoped rabidly to catch the eye of Ryan Jr. Ryan was the coolest kid in my grade, with soft blonde hair worn long on his neck and fuck-me eyes. Well, as fuck-me as an 11 year old’s eyes can get.

Kind of like this, but not really.

Kind of like this, but not really.

I had no idea the day would end with the first butt-kicking of my life. And I was utterly clueless that this beatdown would come at the hands of Becky. I had actually tried to be her friend. She was new to my school that year, having recently moved from Germany. I was looking to exotify my circle of friends, and a Girl From Another Land was just the thing. I did wish she was a little more attractive, however. She had a stout farmgirl body, and a homely, grim face with a soft down of mustache on her upper lip.

Kind of like this, but not really.

Kind of like this, but not really.

Her house smelled like dirty clothes and burnt food. Her parents were never home, and we were supervised instead by her older brother Henry, who had a bad case of adolescent acne and an even worse case of what I like to call “rape eyes”. After he tried to wrestle me in a way I was not at all cool with, I never went back and our friendship fizzled. I decided to wait for a friend from France, and she decided to wait and kill me.


Later that afternoon, in math class, I got up to sharpen my pencil for the 87th time. You see, Ryan Jr. was in the classroom across the hall, and from the vantage point of the pencil sharpener I could see him perfectly. I glanced across, and lo and behold, he was looking right at me! I fake-dropped my pencil, and as I stood back up, I whipped back my hair in a perfect Lita Ford video move. Now he was not looking, but staring. It seemed my hair was already changing my life.

I floated back to my desk, on which was a small square of yellow paper. A love note from another admirer, perhaps?


Your ugly. Your hair looks stupid. I am going to kill you after school.

Your enemy,

My first thought was to tell our teacher Mrs. Horngoggles. But I had already noticed that in between swigs of gin from her thermos, she had been giving me bitch looks as well. With her beady eyes and female pattern baldness, she would not be my ally in this matter.

I knew this was one of those defining moments. I could be a scaredy-cat, or I could be the new, bepermed and badass Nicki. I chewed on my eraser, and wrote.


No. YOU’RE ugly. I will fight you after school.

Your enemy,

P.S. Germany is stupid because Hitler lived there.

I glanced back to watch her read my note, her unibrow raised in surprise. Suddenly my bravado dissolved in an ocean of icy terror. What had I done? I needed weapons. A silk robe like Sugar Ray Leonard. A boom box to play my theme song. I needed time to actually learn how to fight. For the rest of the day, adrenalin pumped through my small body as the seconds ticked by like hours.


Finally the bell rang, signaling the end of the day. The news of the fight had spread like jam on Wonder bread, and instead of scattering off in different directions, THE ENTIRE SCHOOL FOLLOWED US HOME.

Kind of like this, but not really.

Kind of like this, but not really.

I was carried along in the crush of bodies. Everyone was yelling with excitement. Becky was walking ahead of me, leaving me in the curious predicament of running to catch up with someone who wanted to kill me. Finally, about two blocks away from my house, she turned to face me. She dropped her coat and backpack on the ground. I did the same.

“OK” said Becky.
“OK” said me.

I thought there would be some more name-calling, or at least someone would yell our heights and weights into a microphone, but before I could blink, three things happened.

She punched me in the stomach.
She kicked me in the vagina.
She grabbed my hair.

Oh, helllll no. It was enough that this bully who had 7 inches and 50 pounds on me was trying to hurt me. But now this bitch was trying to mess up all that careful scrunching? For the first time in my young life I felt BLOODLUST. A clean, pure rage that made me feel invincible.

Actually, EXACTLY like this.

Actually, EXACTLY like this.

I came at her like a tornado, landing punches wherever my tiny fists could reach. I grabbed at her hair but it was coarse and greasy and I couldn’t hold on. She smacked me in the mouth. I smacked her in the chest. Around and around we went, for what felt like hours but was probably more like two minutes. Becky was winning, but all this time the kids were chanting my name. It seems everyone loves an underdog.

Maybe Becky could tell I wasn’t going to stop until I was dead. Maybe she got bored, or afraid an adult would pass by. Maybe she was bummed out that no one was cheering for her. But finally, she disentangled herself from me and walked away, her shoulders slumped.

I had a bloody lip and my vagina was radiating waves of agony, but I turned around and saw something that took away my pain like a shot of morphine.

Ryan Jr. was holding my backpack and coat.

Ryan Jr. was holding MY fucking backpack and MY fucking coat.

And he walked me home.

And he sat in my living room with his friends and ate cookies with me.

And all that tussling had given my hair tons of body.

It was the best day ever.

I felt even better than this guy.

I felt even better than this guy.


That, friends, was the day I grew my ladyballs. I also learned some valuable lessons. I learned that physical pain can’t kill you. (Unless, of course, it kills you.) A few scrapes and bruises are less wounding than the shame I would have felt if I didn’t stand up to her.

It was also a powerful lesson in what it means to be a strong woman. The fairy tales always show the Prince slaying the dragon to win the heart of the Princess. But in my life? Sometimes it’s the other way around.


*NOTE* This is the first of what I plan to be a regular series here at the Nicki Daniels Interview. I will randomly pluck a memory from the vault and share it with you. It’s fun to blog about my life now, but I hope you will enjoy this peek into the past and begin to understand how I got to be the crazy beast I am today. Over time, I hope to have sort of a jigsaw puzzle memoir. The stories will be true inasmuch as my damaged brain can remember, but names will be changed for the obvious reasons.

Dear Jesus


Hey buddy,

So it’s that time of year again! I know you think I’m really ballsy, writing you directly every Christmas but all I’m doing is cutting out that fat, jolly middleman and giving you the respect you deserve! If you really are almighty, you need to get that joker in line. I mean, you died on the cross and all, and every year on your birthday who are all the little kiddies freaking out about? It’s just not fair. I know you’re above that sort of thing, but if I were you I’d be pissed.

And I know you get aggravated because the only time you hear me utter your name is when my dog shits in the kitchen. And I know you think I’m a big hypocrite spending the whole year menacing people from behind the wheel of my Subaru and then asking you for shit come December, but I’ve made some changes, Jesus, and I think you’ll be glad to hear about them.

I’ve given up nearly all my vices! All I have left is sugar and caffeine. Ok, I know you saw me take those bong hits earlier but that was only so I could feel closer to you. I’m really trying to be healthier, and be happier, and spread joy throughout the land! And, here is a little spoiler alert, Jesus, but I have big plans for 2014. Stay tuned because it’s going to be pretty fucking cool.

I’ve also become much less materialistic. I’m not writing you to beg for a coat made of unicorn fur like I did last year. I’ve matured a lot, and now I want things that money can’t buy. Just a few little tokens of affection from you to me. Things like…

MERMAID HAIR. Please, Jesus. I want long flowing Mermaid hair so bad. My own hair is shitty. It is coarse yet fine, straight yet curly. It will not grow. I know I can get extensions, Lord, but I refuse to pay to have someone else’s hair sewn to my head. I know I am already terribly vain, but someone with the lustrous, silken head of hair that you possess could never understand this terrible longing. If it could be waist length, wavy, and auburn with copper highlights that would be just super.


857 Facebook fans can't be wrong!

857 Facebook fans can’t be wrong!

I need these like the flowers need the rain. I know that they are made of beef lips and mechanically separated chicken, but they are fucking delicious. One day they just weren’t at the grocery store. I heard the factory burned down. Now you came back from the dead, for Christ’s sake, so surely you can magic a few jars of these puppies back into being. I don’t know if you have internet, Jesus, but there is an actual Facebook page called Bring Back Penrose Hot Sausages…and it has 857 likes. I’m sure at least some of these people go to church. So if not for me, do it for them.

TIPS FOR JESUS. Surely you’ve heard about this “Tips for Jesus” guy. If you haven’t, Lord, click here. This guy is just randomly going around tipping servers and bartenders like thousands of dollars. What I’m hoping here Jesus, is that you can give this dude a nudge in my direction. Because let’s face it, I’m sure some of these lucky winners are real assholes. I work in this industry and there are a lot of real ass clowns. But you know I am basically a good person. You know my schedule, Lord, let’s make it happen.

A PILLOW DAUBED LIGHTLY WITH THE SWEET ESSENCE OF RYAN GOSLING. YES, Jesus, I know I’m married. My thing with Ryan is not sexual. I admire who he is as a human being. He kind of reminds me of you, actually. He’s always there when people are in trouble, breaking up fights and helping them chill out. I don’t need to touch his skin or anything. But see, I sleep with a pillow between my thighs and it just would be sort of cool if that pillow had been rubbed all over The Goz. And by sort of cool, I mean amazing. C’mon, JC, this is the big one!



I’m not just adding this as an afterthought to suck up so you give me all the other shit. I know you’re smarter than that, Jesus. If it is true that you know me better than I know myself, then you know that this big bad world hurts my heart. I have trouble trusting people. I don’t trust my government and that really sucks. I know that every day people all over the world are just getting fucked, and I’m sick of it Jesus. I know this is more like a miracle than a gift Jesus, and I know you’re sick of me always bargaining with you. But I will promise to do what I can in my little world if you can take care of the big picture. Does that sound good? I think so.

Well, that’s about it for this year. I know you are admiring my restraint. Thanks for making me be alive. Most of the time, it’s pretty fucking awesome.

Oh, and one more thing. Happy Birthday, Jesus.