IKEA Monkey

Hunter Moore, who was arrested by the FBI last week for charges including "conspiracy, seven counts of unauthorized access to a protected computer to obtain information and seven counts of aggravated identity theft," is free on $100,000 bond.

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Drawing by Molly Crabapple

When I was 24, a curator I hoped to work with told me: “When you're 30, you'll be really ugly, and your boyfriend will leave you. But I'd still fuck you.”

I turned 30 in September.  

Despite feminism, or logic, I dreaded it—though none of the curator's predications came true.

Age is a weapon society uses against women. Each year that you gain comfort in your own flesh, your flesh is seen as worth less. Thirty, like 40 or 50, is a demarcation line, but a particularly loaded one. Cross it, says the world, and you leave the trifling-but-addictive privileges of girlhood behind. Invisibility this way, ma'am. 

I was still 24 when the same curator refused to put me in a show with female artists in their early 20s. They painted girls of a dewy frailty the curator imagined the artists themselves possessed. “You're not a young artist,” he told me, when I asked to be included.  “Not like them.”  

As an American woman, you may be a girl-gone-wild, or a biologically-ticking-40. But except perhaps for six months after your 21st birthday, your age is like Goldilocks's porridge. Too young, too old. Never just right.

A man's age, on the other hand, is always right. In Letters to a Young Contrarian, a 52-year-old Christopher Hitchens wondered when he would no longer be called an angry young man. Men like Hitchens go from bad boy to elder statesman.

For me, many of the privileges of getting older have been bound up with getting cash. As an artist, I've done better than most.  Each year I've managed to hack together more opportunities, and paint with more mastery, until one day, I realized I was no longer flailing just to stay afloat. Being 30 is sweet. Saying I was 30 I pointlessly despised.  

Thirty is supposed to be the beginning of the end of hot girlhood. Sexual attractiveness is too red-raw basic to deny. It's the one power the world grudgingly grants to women. The half-true caveat is that you're on borrowed time. With care, beauty fades slowly. Youth's juicy smoothness fades fast. As you age you gain clarity. You lose what fucks you had to give. For a woman to have experience, but to not be, as writer Chelsea G. Summers describes it, “a shadow woman, gliding gray and ghostly into that good night,” is dangerous. 

Better to tell women that youth is their best quality—that when their ass starts sagging and their face starts cracking, everything they love will fade away.  

I'd tell myself I'm glad I'm turning 30. “I'm fucking terrified,” I'd confide to friends. They were mostly women older than me, gorgeously continuing to take up space. “Ha!” they'd snort. “Just you wait.”  

Weeks later, I'd be reassuring a friend that her life wasn't over cause she'd just turned 26.

By 30 you're no longer a child. What's often admired in femininity is, as the abstinence speakers say, being as fresh as an un-licked ringpop. White girls particularly (I'm half-white, but aspirin-pale), are imagined to posses innocence. Innocence is supposed to be preserved. 

Innocence is not doing. Not running off to New York. Not drinking whiskey till 4 AM. Not fucking that boy or girl because they make your heart scream electric, then waking up unpunished the next day. Not hacking a system rigged against you. Innocence is a relic of a time when women had the same legal status as children. Innocence is beneficial to your owner. It benefits you not at all. 

I hated being a child. My happiest day was when I left school and started an adult life where I could travel the world, or at least go to the bathroom without a teacher signing off on it. My early 20s, for all their excitement, were a procession of broke-ness and sexual harassment.  But being a grown woman is damn fine.  

“I wish I were a woman of 36, dressed in black satin with a string of pearls!” the nameless second Mrs. de Winter told her fiance Maxim, in Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca. Maxim threw a fit. She'd reminded him of his dead wife, the book's namesake. Rebecca, in her 30s when she died, was all posh arrogance, sex and bravery. The second Mrs. de Winter crept through her home like a ghost.  

Maxim loved the second Mrs. de Winter because she was naive, young, and powerless. Unlike Rebecca, she couldn't see through his line. At any sign that her innocence might crack- a dress, a smile—Maxim turned to sleet. The book plays this as romantic, but even at 13, I got the real message. To be innocent was to be a victim. A woman of 30 no longer innocent. Thank god for that.

At 18, I had the same dopey attraction as the second Mrs. de Winter.  I'd sit at the Barnes and Noble cafe reading books I couldn't afford. Men would ask to sit with me. I was too polite to tell them no. They'd get angry if I wouldn't talk to them. They'd get angry if I did. After conversation, I declined one guy's offer of drinks. He screamed at me: “Why the fuck did you waste my time?”

No one screams at me any more. In November, I walked around Beirut at 3 AM and besides one guy jerking off toward the stars, no one bothered me. Men tell you you'll miss street harassment when it's gone. I don't. 

As a broke 21-year-old, I posed for a music video shoot where my job was to writhe around in a bikini while live crickets fell on me. We agreed for the crickets to be poured on my stomach. The grip instead poured them on my face. The band laughed as I screamed. To them, I was a young, sexy girl, and thus disposable. I forced the booker to pay me extra before I would sign a release.  

In most fields, men have the power. Drinking the countless cocktails with which I solidified professional relationships, I got used to dreading propositions. When I stopped getting them, the delight of being equal, rather than just fuckable, hit me like a kiss.

The only real thing 30 took from me was the sense of limitless time. I can reasonably expect 30 more years of good health. With luck, there will be 9,000 sunsets to get the great work done, before one starts fearing cancer and death.

More and more I hate the men and women who cling to youth's helplessness. Clinging to youth is understandable. Shooting your forehead with botulism can look lovely, or at least help maintain your place in ageist capitalism. But why hang on to that know-nothing, white-girl vulnerability? Staying alive has power. The years should give you competence and toughness along with the battle scars. You've survived. Fuck anyone who would keep life's beauty from your grasp. 

Zora Neale Hurston was one of the last century's great writers. But at 26, poverty and institutional racism had kept her from getting an education. She chopped ten years off her age and enrolled in a Baltimore high school. Hurston went to Barnard and then on to fame in the Harlem Renaissance. She never added those ten years back.  

Hurston subverted many things, among them the system that turns time against women. She had the razor eyes of experience, saying “I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.” She also took an extra decade of youth.  

Like many thrilling things women do—fucking or hitchhiking, being demoniacally ambitious or telling an asshole to stick a chainsaw in his eye—society tells us that growing up leads to ruin. Yes, you get older, but you can also grow tougher, kinder, braver. You can claw out the life you wanted. But as you age, the world will tell you you're less worthy, even if you know that's a lie. If there's one thing society won't stand for, it's for a woman to be content.

@Mollycrabapple

Wind Chill Warning + 2-4 inches of snow = we quit. [ more › ]

Justice Department inquiries into the dealings of New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie's administration, Sen. Robert Menendez and former Virginia Gov. Robert McDonnell represent the highest profile push in federal public corruption cases since the scandal surrounding lobbyist Jack Abramoff nearly a decade ago.

Today the FBI indicted Hunter Moore and an accomplice on charges of "conspiracy, seven counts of unauthorized access to a protected computer to obtain information and seven counts of aggravated identity theft," in connection to his former revenge porn website Is Anyone Up.

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A new video of performance artist/Toronto Mayor Rob Ford has surfaced; in the video, reportedly taken Monday night at a Toronto fast-food establishment, the very drunk mayor rambles and says many swears in both English and in Jamaican patois. If Toronto can’t fire him, they may just install him in a permanent performance space.

The National Post, doing some heavy-duty journalisming, managed to decipher what of what Ford is saying, and to consult with sources in Jamaica to translate the Jamaican phrases. They put together a fairly brilliant transcript and explanation of Ford’s remarks, which may be the best piece of newspaper writing we’ve read so far this year.

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Did you wake up this morning, grab yourself a double-shot of artisan organic free-trade liberal latte, and wonder what news stories out there should be filed under what-the-ever-lovin’-fuck? Good news, because the New York Times Magazine is ON IT. Not to be outdone by Time’s stock photo image of a pants-suit-wearing lady misandrying a tiny man with her sensible pump, the Times decided to go full-on Salvador Dali weird by turning a wrinkled bald Hillary Clinton into a planet. Such artsy!

We don’t understand what exactly the point is here, but we can wonkguess. Hillary is as big as a planet. Or Hillary is taking over the universe. Or Hillary is a fathead who needs Botox. Or, and we’re really going out on a limb here, the media is obsessed with the meme that Hillary Clinton will be your new can’t-be-stopped overlord, so quick, do some BENGHAZI! and find someone to stop her before she becomes president and continues her life-long mission of being Hillary Clinton.

We are still years away from the 2016 election, and Hillz has not even decided whether she wants to be president, but it’s never too soon to start warning America that she will crush all the men UNLESS. But hot damn, we are already so sick and tired of all the will-she, won’t-she, she-better-not journamalisming. Surely, Serious Media, there are other things you could be discussing, like artisanal toast or Justin Bieber’s life of crime or how Radiant Orchid is the new black or JESUS H. CHRIST, anything — anything at all — that is more relevant and interesting than HILLARY CLINTON ZOMG! Because, like we said, the next presidential election is still years away, so we’ll have plenty of time for wall-to-wall ZOMG! coverage if/when Hillary decides she would like to president us. And then, yes, media, you can go crazy and dig up all those golden oldies about how she lesbianed Vince Foster to death with her headband and how she does not bake enough cookies and what does her cleavage-y v-neck say about her leadership qualities and how often does she sleep with her husband, Mr. Hillz, and all those super-relevant issues. But until then, maybe give it a rest?

[TPM]

Follow Kaili Joy Gray on Twitter, and get your own planet.

From Chicago

[Photographs: Nick Kindelsperger]

A bento box promises a seemingly contradictory experience: an array of wildly different options, all of which are meticulously and thoughtfully organized into compartments. It's a feast, but an orderly one. And to be very literal, you simply cannot have a bento box without the distinctive container.

In some respects, bento boxes sort of resemble school lunch trays. But whereas the trays are meant to keep food apart (lest the gloopy creamed corn interact with the lifeless, limp broccoli), bento boxes display the diverse collection of dishes as equals. Forget about a main and a side dish, the bento box is all about balance, and every element is important.

There don't seem to be many absolutes, but I uncovered a few unwritten rules. There is a protein, often fish or beef, which is likely grilled. Rice is there more often than not. Crisp and slightly sweet pickles are usually accounted for. But a lot is up to the restaurant's whim. Some serve crispy and tempura fried vegetables, while others go with a tart and assertive salad. (A few go with both.) Sushi popped up at a number of places, though it never felt like the highlight.

I should also mention that before the box ever hits the table, there's a bowl of miso soup. Most I tried were bland and unexciting, but a few places lavished attention on the staple, and I was stunned by how restorative a bowl of miso could be.

I didn't set out to find the absolute best bento box in town; because each is so unique, it's kind of impossible to compare them all. I'd honestly be happy with any of these options. But there are a couple that genuinely stood out. If you want make sure to try the offerings at Sumi Robata Bar and Slurping Turtle.

Click on the slideshow to see all eight.

• Bento Box at Sumi Robata Bar
• Bento Box at Slurping Turtle
• Cocoro Gourmet Box Salmon at Cocoro Restaurant
• Salmon Bento Box at Arami Go
• Spare Rib Bento Box at Union Susi & Barbeque Bar
• Roasted Salmon Bento Box at Lockwood
• Shrimp Bento at Bon Bon Sandwiches
• The Pinto Box at Sepia

As a performer, playing stiff and awkward seems to come naturally to Will Forte. It informed several of his characters during his tenure on Saturday Night Live, his appearances as Randy on How I Met Your Mother, and even “Fortin’ With Will” on Tim And Eric Awesome Show, Great Job! It takes little to turn him into a square everyman, and his laconic character in Alexander Payne’s Nebraska showed his stiffness can work in more dramatic settings.

Forte shot Nebraska after Run & Jump, the debut feature of director Steph Green (who earned an Oscar nomination in 2009 for her short “New Boy”) and Forte’s first foray into full-on drama. This time he’s a stiff American neuropsychologist named Ted staying with the family of a man in Ireland who’s suffered a rare type of stroke. After a month in a coma and four months of rehab, Conor (Edward ...

One word to describe the dreamy, floaty, stunning haute couture gowns in the Elie Saab collection shown in Paris today: GOREGOUS.

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In keeping with the hallowed conservative tradition of saying incredibly dumb stuff on Martin Luther King Day (really, why should it be any different from any other day?), a candidate for the Florida House of Representatives took the opportunity Monday to go on the Twitters and call for the hanging of Barack Hussein Obama for treason and stuff:

As Americans honored the memory of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. on Monday, a Republican candidate for Florida House District 68 said President Barack Obama should be hanged for war crimes.

“I’m past impeachment,” Joshua Black wrote on Twitter. “It’s time to arrest and hang him high.”

But you see, Black is talking about a proper judicial procedure, not lynching, and he is a black person himself, so it was not a “threat,” it was a “call to action,” and there is nothing offensive here, you bigots.

A fellow Republican candidate, Chris Latvala, who’s running for a different House seat, immediately replied,

“You aren’t seriously calling for the killing of Obama are you? … I know you are crazy but good heavens. U R an embarrassment.”

Back was not daunted, heroically explaining that “Execution is the appropriate punishment for traitors. #BenedictArnold #ReadAmericanHistory”
He also told Latvala not to be such a buttinsky: “Don’t you have a race? Don’t you have a primary? #MindYourOwnBusiness?”

Latvala fired back,

“I make it my business when so called GOP candidates become an embarrassment to my beloved party.”

It was all pretty exciting, really. Latvala also suggested that maybe Black was a member of the reality-challenged community:

You need to go take your medicine. #TinFoilHat #Crazy #TheSecretServiceWillBeKnocking

Did this worry Joshua Black? It did not!

I don’t do drugs. Not intimidated by the secret service, or #criminalpoliticians like you.

And just to clarify, he thinks that Barack Obama should get exactly the punishment for treason that was meted out in the olden days: A trial by the Senate and a jury, and then hanging, just like they did to Benedict Arnold.

It’s really quite impressive when a #ConstitutionalConservative advocates double jeopardy and thinks that Benedict Arnold was executed, when in fact Arnold died in London in 1801.

For the sake of novelty, it appears that Black’s contention that Obama is a traitor is mostly about the use of drone strikes, including strikes against American citizens, although he’s also willing to throw in Benghazi as well. And maybe abortion, which is just like Hitler, and so on.

Black’s Democratic opponent in the House race, incumbent Rep. Dwight Dudley — is a nerdier name possible? — said that while Black has every right to criticize the president, calling for his execution is maybe a little out there:

“It’s dangerous and unbecoming for someone who wants to lead to call for such violence and extremist action,” he said. “Wow. I’m stunned.”

For his part, Black did issue this clarification and apology today:

Well, I need to make this clarification:

I was wrong about Benedict Arnold. I apologize for the confusion.

In the last few minutes, Black has reportedly resigned from the Republican party. What that means for his candidacy remains unknown.

We are really torn on this — we hope that Rep. Dudley keeps his seat, but when we think about the entertainment value of Joshua Black actually holding office… nahh, we wouldn’t even wish him on Florida. Maybe Sean Hannity can bunk with him while he’s house-hunting.

[Tampa Bay Times / Twitter]

Follow Doktor Zoom on Twitter. He would just like to point out that he got through this whole post without a single “hung” pun.

LONDON — A 29.6 carat blue diamond, one of the rarest and most coveted in the world with a possible price tag of tens of millions of dollars, has been discovered at a South African mine by Petra Diamonds.

The trend of women's magazines using curse words on their covers continues: Cosmopolitan's February cover screams "52 HOLY SH@*!T SEX MOVES: Let the Games Begin!"

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Stéphane Rolland's spring 2014 couture show was, as WWD puts it, the site of a stampede — Kim Kardashian was in the front row, and photographers flocked to her in a state of mild frenzy. But the real star at the event (no offense, Kim) was the collection itself — Rolland said that each piece was meant to "challenge the limits of space," which they did, to breathtaking effect.

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Last night's return episode of SNL featured the newest cast member, totally normal regular everyday SNL hire Sasheer Zamata, formerly of the Upright Citizens Brigade. As with all brand new cast members who might not be prepared not to say "fuck" on live television, Zamata played a limited role on the show, her most notable appearance, according to the Associated Press, being the Rihanna impression she did during a — wait for it — BET sketch. To be honest, though, an early 90s reboot of Blossom based in Barbados sounds pretty Netflix-worthy.

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If  you’ve visited the cookie aisle recently, you might have noticed the proliferation of both year-round and seasonal Oreo flavors. We always thought that “Oreo” was the best Oreo flavor, but we must be less sophisticated than the rest of the American public. What’s Nabisco’s new addition? Lemon.

As with most novelty food items, we learned about these cookies from The Impulsive Buy, a blog that covers the crucial snack beat. The site actually reviewed a similar limited edition Oreo, the “lemon twist” cookie, last year. It’s not clear whether this is pretty much the same thing or a different formulation: you can twist all Oreos, can’t you?

SPOTTED ON SHELVES – Nabisco Lemon Oreo [The Impulsive Buy]
REVIEW: Nabisco Limited Edition Lemon Twist Oreo [The Impulsive Buy]

bread & butter

Marvin Gaye’s Family Wins In “Blurred Lines” Copyright Case http://t.co/baAUak4r6f

— The Source Magazine (@TheSource) January 16, 2014

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Last week, a Swedish judge ruled that a man who proceeded to have sexual intercourse with a woman who was screaming "NO" so loudly that she went hoarse was not guilty of rape. People were understandably upset. And so, today, the judge wrote an op-ed clarifying that what he MEANT was that rape really depends on whether or not the rapist feels like they're raping someone. Much better!

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The two former Fullerton, California, police officers accused of beating a homeless man to death were found not guilty on all charges Monday. The beating of Kelly Thomas, who suffered from schizophrenia, was captured on videotape, but an Orange County jury was not convinced by the prosecution’s case that the cops had acted excessively. Because they were cops, of course, and because Thomas was just a homeless guy who, instead of complying with multiple contradictory orders, kept flopping around and trying to breathe while six cops piled on him, too bad, so sad, no big whoop, law and order hooray!

The verdict is “controversial,” in that even the Daily Caller described it as a “shock” following the detailed testimony showing that Thomas died of injuries suffered at the hands of cops. When commenters on Free Republic are calling the verdict a travesty, then you know there’s something seriously screwy.

The trial was the first time that Orange County cops have ever been charged with murder in the death of a suspect, and it’s unlikely that the cops would have even been charged if the killing hadn’t been caught on videotape. Now the jury has agreed with the defense that the two former cops, Manuel Ramos and Jay Cicinelli, were just doing whatever was necessary to subdue a violent, out-of-control drug addict, which apparently includes punching suspects repeatedly in the face with a taser while they beg for help.

Thomas was confronted by Ramos and Cicinelli outside a restaurant on July 25, 2011; a restaurant worker had accused him of trying to break into parked cars. In the videotape (graphic, not safe for work or lunchtime or humanity), the police can be seen taunting and threatening Thomas, who appears to be confused but trying to comply; somehow, to the jury, it looked like he was resisting arrest instead of getting the shit beaten out of him.

Ron Thomas, Kelly’s father, said that he still hopes that the Justice Department will file federal charges against the former officers, adding, “I’ve never seen something so bad happen to a human being, and have it done by on-duty police officer … And they can walk away scot-free.”

Persons expressing surprise at this basic fact of American life are advised to pay closer attention.

[LA Times / OC Weekly / The Blaze]

Paul Callan says the rule is: "If you are going to shoot at the king, you'd better be able to kill the king."

When reigning two-time Worst Company In America champ Electronic Arts released the hugely anticipated SimCity game in April 2013, it unleashed a hornets’ nest of bad publicity by not only requiring that players be online in order to use the game but also grossly underestimating its ability to deal with all of those users trying to play the game at the same time. Many owners of the game were unable to play for weeks until EA resolved the issue, but the company stood by the ill-advised decision to require an Internet connection. Now, ten months and ten updates later, it’s finally relenting.

In a post on the SimCity blog, the company confirmed that the next update to the game will finally allow players to enjoy the game without going online.

“When we launch it, all of your previously downloaded content will be available to you anytime, anywhere, without the need for an internet connection,” reads the blog post. “We are in the late phases of wrapping up its development and while we want to get it into your hands as soon as possible, our priority is to make sure that it’s as polished as possible before we release it.”

No specific timeframe is given for the release of the update. A group of volunteer testers will be getting hands-on with the new offline mode to make sure it works correctly. Because the worst thing EA could do at this point is to release an offline mode that doesn’t work correctly.

In the middle of the initial SimCity firestorm, an exec at the studio that produced the game said that the idea of offline play was rejected “because it didn’t fit with our vision.” Apparently that vision has been corrected.

[via GameSpot]

This will probably come as a big surprise to regular readers of the Wonkette: A minor Republican elected official has gotten himself in the news for sending a racist email joke! Yes, it is astonishing, we know. This time around, it’s Norwalk, Ohio city council member Bob Carleton, who sent this hilarious satire on modern education to a whole bunch of people in December, for the lulz:

My name be Eboneesha Hernandez, a African-Hispanic-American Girl who jus got a award for bein the bess speler in class. I gots a 47% on the spelin text and 38 points for being black, 10 points for not bringin drugs to class, 10 points for not bringin guns to class, and 15 points for not getting pregnut during the cemester. It be hard to beat a score of 120%.

White dude sit nex to me is McGee from Jaxon Mizipy. He got a 94% on the text but no extra points on acount of he have the same skin color as the opressirs of 150 years ago. Granny ax me to thank all dimocrafts and liberuls for suportin afermative axion. You be showin da way to true eqwallity.

I be gittin in medical skool nex an mabe I be yo doctor since Barrac takn over da healfcare in dis contry.

It is humorous, because The Blacks sure have funny names! Also your Spanishes.

Now, you probably think that the next step in this story will be a non-apology-apology of the “Sorry if anyone was offended” variety, but that’s where Mr. Carleton, 71, has so far defied expectations. When asked about it by the Sandusky Register, Carleton thought it over carefully and said,

“In hindsight, I can see how it can be interpreted as racist … but that wasn’t my intent when I sent it. I thought it was humorous.”

You know, with some interpretation, if you look at it from just the right angle, maybe it could be interpreted as racist. But come on, it is primarily just funny, isn’t it? And a hilarious satire on absolutely real education policy and the oppression of white people, too.

Norwalk Mayor Rob Duncan said, “This is nothing that we would condone or endorse,” but added that there’s nothing he can do about it, since Carleton “is technically not part of the administration. He is part of city council so we really don’t have authority over council.” So it’s totally out of his hands, and far be it from the Mayor to find too much fault with Carleton:

“I think I know Bob well enough and I don’t think he would do anything malicious and intentional. But I think the content is unacceptable.”

But not sent, you know, in any intentional or malicious way. More just that accidental kind of unacceptable racism, like when the help overhear you reading the email aloud and laughing at it.

In any case, just to be on the safe side, Mayor Duncan sent out a memo reminding city officials to please not send out racist emails anymore. Swift action taken, problem solved. Besides, The Blacks only make up 1.9% of Norwalk’s population, so at most this was offensive only to a bit over 300 people, most of whom probably can’t read anyway because of the public schools, haw haw haw. Besides, if anybody’s racist, it’s the people who would disparage a nice old man on the city council who never meant to offend anyone, and who probably has several very good black friends who thought the email was hilarious.

[Toledo Blade via Salon]

Follow Doktor Zoom on Twitter. He’ll never forward racist emails, because he accidentally deleted his contact list.

Via @BTtrey4 comes this harrowing look at golfer Stewart Cink’s underhat, a place that apparently hasn’t seen the sun in over a thousand years.

I’m not sure how Cink managed to get a farmer’s tan on the upper half of his head, but he took off his hat and I can’t even come up with an appropriate pop culture reference for it. Remember in the Batman movies when the Joker had to pose as a regular guy, so he’d put flesh-colored makeup on over his scary clown face? That’s happening on top of Stewart Cink’s head. It’s like a guy who tans naked and only covers up the tip of his junk. Stewart Cink is White-Ass Wally from Josie and the Pussycats. Dude’s gonna get pushed into the mud by bullies after the tour and end up killing them with lightning.

Check it out and make your own comparisons:

PUT YOUR HAT BACK ON.

h/t to LAF

The race for the title of the Best Song of 2014 begins today, as bodybuilding rapper Constantine, AKA Big Con, is kicking open the doors to our brains with this incredibly inspirational music video for his new song “Get Swoll.” Featuring Kyndra Kennedy, “Get Swoll” is all about fighting back against your personal demons and the sweaty-armpit bullies of the world by using those problems to inspire you in the gym and “EXPLOOOOOOOOOOOODE!!!”

Joined by fellow bodybuilder Rich Piana, Big Con flaunts his new riches and success, as well as “plenty of p*ssy, plenty of cash,” while also explaining the dangers of wielding such powers without having a positive focus in our lives. I think it’s safe to say that “Get Swoll” is the frontrunner for the most inspirational song that we’ll be gifted with this year, and I’m totally not saying that out of a crippling fear of having my head stomped.

Cara Delevingne was born into a very prestigious and wealthy British family and has used the combination of that notoriety and her looks to become one of the most famous models in the world. She’s also only 21, which means that she does whatever the f*ck she wants and behaves however the f*ck she wants because money and fame and all that crap. Meanwhile, Michelle Rodriguez is a famous actress who loves to party way beyond her limits and also recently revealed the shocking news that she’s bisexual, so it’s only natural that these two found each other and kissed in their courtside seats at last night’s New York Knicks game.

All I can think while looking at these photos of them behaving like total A-holes for the cameras is poor Miguel Cotto. Of course the professional boxer is the schmuck that gets to sit next to Cara and her eCig while he’s just trying to have some fun with his son. I can almost picture Miguel asking them to settle down and Michelle responding by threatening to kick his ass before she puked on her shirt and fell asleep.

All in all, this is still way more entertaining than an actual Knicks game right now.

(Images via Getty)