Robert Mueller Confirms Everyone in Spin Class Is Looking at You

Following a subpoena of Jackie Whittier, on bike 37, Special Counsel Robert S. Mueller can now confirm that everyone is, in fact, looking at you during spin class.

Sources close to Mueller state that Mrs. Whittier (yup - she just got married!!) provided extensive details of your performance, including when you finally caught up to the beat out of the saddle, but had obviously removed all resistance. Jackie also provided details about the visible upper back fat in your new Ivy Park sports bra, and compared you to Pumba, of Lion King fame, on three separate occasions over the course of the deposition.

When asked for comment, your mother said, “I never imagined she would have good form, so I guess it’s for the best that I got my hips replaced last month and I couldn’t actually see it live.” Pouring herself a Vodka Soda, she continued, “Did you know a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc has 1200 calories?”.

Mrs. Whittier’s deposition follows initial speculation provided to the instructor by Amanda Franklin. After Jason Fly screamed “That’ll do Pig” while staring dead-eyed at you, Ms. Franklin felt the weight of being the weakest in class, and also the 50 lbs she lost in 2 months, lift off of her. She looked around to see the rest of the pack silently staring at you while listening to a trap remix of O Holy Night.

Mueller also discovered that your husband wants to leave you, but won’t out of feeling of obligation, and that you’re not your best friend’s best friend.

Noting the sudden influx of corroboration for things she thought were exclusively in your head, your therapist mused “Never even my thirty years of treating upper class white women have I been proven so stunningly wrong. I truly thought she was just a chronic narcissist with an oral fixation, but evidently everything she has ever feared is accurate and based in concrete evidence.” She went on to plug her new book, A Lord of the Flies Interpretation of Your Ayurvedic Yoga Class.

Let's Extrapolate Wildly: My Horoscope This Week

If your mojo’s been in slow-mo or chilling on the downlow, things should perk back up this Thursday, November 15, as heatseeking Mars marches into Pisces and your steamy eighth house for the rest of the year.

My complete lack of sex drive has literally nothing to do with my cocktail of SSRIs and the current state of democracy, but instead with the location of Mars (!). Now that the lazy red bitch is out to catch a fish dick in my eighth house, I’ll be falling asleep on top of a brand new collection of butt plugs instead of different restaurants’ chicken parms. What a sexy bitch I will be! Watch out world.

I’ll be listening to a lot of Aaron Tveit covers of Bruno Mars songs. Maybe I’ll get a job involving some kind of boa at a cabaret bar. I’ll take this opportunity to sexually corrupt a beloved Community Board Member. I’ll most certainly contract a new and very interesting strain of HPV.

Once I’ve slayed all the dongs below 14th street, my raw sexual magnetism will drag me, as if on a #HoCloud, to Dorrian’s on the Upper East Side. There, wearing my old volleyball uniform, I will regain and subsequently re-lose my anal virginity to my high school boyfriend (who is now a cop).

Things will settle down in your friend circle, and if you’ve been on the outs with a sibling or neighbor, it’ll be easier to bury the hatchet now.

I’ll find out this week that everyone really does like me. My insecurities will all melt away and I’ll learn that every negative feeling and self-doubt I’ve ever had is simply internalized sexism and a gluten sensitivity.

My neighbor, Tai, will calm the fuck down. On Thursday, I’ll go drink tall boys and listen the The Wiz soundtrack on my roof and, instead of calling the cops of me and saying I’m an intruder, she’ll bring up a blunt and a meatball sub. We’ll work together to plan a “Wizards and Sluts” party in Club Basement (the laundry room) for this weekend.

All the neighbors will come, including that bitch Serena. Serena’s even cuntier sister (Aly) will have finally flown home to Indiana following her messy divorce from Sean Gordon. This will give Serena an air of excitability. At the party, she will teach everyone how to play Kings “Indiana Style” and catch my new and very interesting strain of HPV (!).

One tiny proviso for Friday: That day kicks off messenger Mercury’s final retrograde of the year, which will start in Sagittarius and your passion zone and end in Scorpio on December 6...Go easy on any makeover magic while messenger Mercury has his foot on the brake.

Even though I’m going to be super horny, I will be completely incapable of communicating effectively and none of my decisions should be trusted. Look at me - I’m the Rush Chair of your fraternity now.

I’ll completely ignore the makeover advice for the next 3 weeks and instead opt to blow my life the fuck up. I’ll post things on IG about Mercury in Retrograde and use it as an excuse to buy hideous Fendi sunglasses that I can’t afford.

I’ll decide that leggings with holes in the crotch are actually a stylistic choice. I’ll put a cigarette out in my eye so I can continue wearing a sexy gold eyepatch after having an ADA complaint filed against me for appropriation.

I’ll cut off the left side of my hair and dye the right side Spotify logo green. Aly Gordon will move back from Indiana and we’ll open a pet grooming store. The Community Board Member I banged will shut it down for public endangerment and generally being icky.

Fin.
**Horoscope excerpts taken from Elle

ELECTION SPECIAL: Doomsday Insurances I'm Seeking Today

A lot of things are up in the air right now. Today is a big day. A lot of things might happen. I’ve always been a Girl Scout (lol - no, I mean OCD riddled narcissist with a distrust of both authority figures and the concept of reality), so I like to be prepared.

Below are a list of insurances I’ll be frantically pursuing over the next 24 hours. The list is frantic and spans forecasts and fears for both myself personally and the greater world. This is largely because the latter is quite possibly a construct I invented, as are you!

And, I know what you’re thinking. You don’t want insurance. This is just a list of doomsday scenarios you’ll dream about tonight after a wet dream about Beto O’Rourke (god willing). Well, to that I say, I don’t really understand insurance because the industry makes no sense, so, here we are.

I am publicly declaring, in front of the internet and Holy Ghost of Joan Rivers, that I would like a payout of poppers and obscure jewels, (what up serendibite), to either myself or my next of kin in the event of any of the following:

  1. Drowning in a bathtub of Campari, Lush bath bombs and my own tears.

  2. Complete ennui, but KFC eating ennui, not sexy French ennui.

  3. The surgically precise slicing of all my tampons, for reasons I don’t understand so DONT ASK ME.

  4. Loss of any remaining interests, as exhibited by a lack of excitement to finish the new Sabrina.

  5. Prozac, white wine and face masks are all declared forms of birth control and are outlawed.

  6. Wildfire Insurance. Sure, i live in NYC, but I’m pretty scared I would find a way to set one.

  7. Complete psychotic break resulting in a Single White Female thing happening between me and Megyn Kelly.

  8. The world opens up to reveal the literal hellmouth, and even worse, I can’t even summon a quippy Buffy reference.

  9. I Freaky Friday with Susan Collins.

  10. Even my book club won’t stay sober enough to pronounce the word patriarchy.

  11. Everyone gets really into pineapple and also Lindsey Graham does a blood oath on Fox News ruining witchy fall energy for the rest of us.

  12. Lenny from Of Mice and Men comes to life and serves on the Supreme Court. This sparks an existential crisis as to whether I’d rather be a human woman or a good fat activist.

  13. I stop breathing for 7 minutes and forget all the lyrics to Kinky Boots. Subsequently, I don’t get into Heaven on election night (a BDSM bar on West Broadway).


Fin.

Let's Extrapolate Wildly: The Fact that I just Googled "Food to Cook During the Game"

Today, I sat at a desk in harsh lighting, not hungover at all, having gone spinning and eaten fresh produce, and googled “food to cook during the game”.

I don’t say this for attention. I say most things for attention. This also is not a lie. I only lie if I think the lie is more likely to make Nicole Richie like me more. I think we all know that is not the case here.

Note the use of “during”. I don’t want to cook something for the game (or whatever). I’d like to cook while “the game” is happening. There’s a disturbing lack of knowledge and detail in the query. Knowing me, I’d like to just go ahead and assume “the game”, (is that the word I used?), is a 4 episode binge of MTV’s Scream. But, alas, the evidence just isn’t clear enough. I guess we’ll just leave it at “the game” (word’s lost all meaning).

Obviously, I’m a tragic drunk bitch (TDB) looking to compensate with peak domesticity. Despite what appears to be a complete lack of knowledge of what “games” are on or what people eat (besides chana masala and gin), I’m evidently excited. I clearly have an inflated sense of self and a can-do attitude. Good for me! But what happened?

Maybe I drank too many Anheuser-Busch products last weeked. I do love a Marlboro 27 and a Bud Light Lime at breakfast. But is this the price I must pay?

Maybe it’s an Idle Hands situation. Maybe the lifetime of systemic patriarchy has entered my subconscious and my fingers just want to lose a bunch of weight and be married to Kevin James.

Maybe I just really want to eat 7-layer dip. My body has registered that it’s been 20 whole years since I vomited a ton of it on my uncle’s couch during the Stanley Cup finals of 1999.

Maybe I have Dissociative Identity Disorder. The other me,  some bitch named Nikki, wrote her name with a heart over the ‘i’ until she was 18. Her stepfather played (poorly) for the NFL and voted from Trump. She’s a really good wife and has never thrown up from either alcohol or bulimia. She drinks 2 Brooklyn Pilsners at “the game” and sometimes, when the mood is right, calls her husband “daddy” in bed.

And maybe, somewhere, Nikki is sitting in bed, relaxed without any benzos, positing in her journal why her search history includes “can you die from an undiagnosed Staph Infection” and “tampon lost in vagina”.

Fin.

How To: Frame his Ex-girlfriend for Tax Evasion

We’ve all been there. It’s getting serious with that guy you met at that Cinco De Mayo party last month. And then - you see it. An IG post from 2014 with some bitch named Allison.

So what do you do? Follow the easy guide below to get yours, girl.

Befriend the Bitch

Find her on Facebook. Figure out where she hangs out. Steal her dog and then manufacture a complicated give it back scenario. It’s a classic. You’ve all seen Lifetime.

Take an Accounting Class online

Meanwhile, get out and learn girl! It’s 2018 bitch, women can do almost anything these days (lol - kidding). But seriously, you can still legally take an accounting class. So get on it, you disgusting slut. Your Art History degree isn’t helping shit right now!

Share a Secret to Earn Her Trust

Give her a little nugget of your secret past. Tell her about your eating disorder in high school or that you once shot a man in the Dominican Republic for attention.

Seduce That Guy from High School who works at tech support At TurboTax

His name’s Jake. Give him Syphilis. After he finishes, reveal the tape you took on which he admits to being a “subby bitch”. Have him block her email address from their site. Detail is key.

Artificially inseminate her with a turkey baster at a sleepover

Be the only friend attuned enough with her to guess that she’s pregnant. You’re now the obvious choice to take her to her abortion. Girl, it’s smooth sailing from here on!

Get her a little drunk on pink wine and offer to do her taxes

If she wavers, make a passive aggressive comment about the fact that she still hasn’t promoted her incompetent assistant. Communicate a fear that she doesn’t support women in business. Wear a Times Up pin.

Lie rampantly on her tax forms

Put a party hat on the forms and rent a Katherine Heigl movie like they’re your best friend. Dip them in anthrax. Shred them. Turn the pile of anthrax shreds into papier-mâché in the shape of your new boyfriend’s dick. Mail it to the tax place, I guess? Idk.

Call your boyfriend

Tell him you’re really into anal now. Buy a multi colored wig and knock him unconscious. Smoke a cigarette and cry a single tear in the mirror.

You’ve done it. I’m so proud of you. Let’s go get martinis and talk shit about our coworkers.

Fin.

12 Non-gendered Wedding Gifts to Subtly Imply you Don’t Support the Wedding-Industrial Complex

1.     Scented Candles
2.     Framed Portrait of Andy Garcia
3.     First Edition copy of The Bell Jar
4.     Bread box filled with bees
5.     One year subscription to ‘The Nation’
6.     A variety of disparate Trucker Hats
7.     A case of Four Loko
8.     Red Lobster Gift Certificate
9.     Carton of Newports
10.  Needlepoint pillow with any Lil John lyric
11.  A handwritten note analyzing the role postmodernism in The Canterbury Tales

National Team Jen Closure Day - How Are You Celebrating?

Disclaimer - I realize that we shouldn’t be pitting two strong women against each other and neglecting to criticize the man that was unfaithful. But you know what, I’ve held onto this shit since I was 12 years old and I am not a gutter feminist in a lot of other ways. So just give me this, plz.

Also, this article isn’t going to be very good. It’s a holiday, I’m giving this thing ten minutes just to spread the word.

—

In 2016, Team Jens had been a minority discriminated against for over a decade. I remember the first time I expressed my adoration for Jennifer. Words like “basic” and “Friends isn’t funny” were thrust at me. I felt alone. I felt ashamed.

Angelina Jolie, a woman who had previously made out with her brother and wore a vial of Billy Bob Thornton’s blood around her neck, had somehow incepted everyone into forgetting. She became a false idol. And don’t get me wrong, we all love Gia. But stay in your lane, bitch.

I stand here - unashamed. I think Friends is the best show ever created (although, in retrospect, problematic - I KNOW). I think Jennifer Aniston is one of the most likable people on earth. I won’t hide any more. As of September 20th, 2016, I will not hide.

Today marks the second anniversary of the news, a day I take off work as one of my most sacred holidays. I rally all Team Jens to come out of the shadows. Take off work today. Eat an ice cream cake in bed while you watch Picture Perfect. Use this time to contemplate the nature of ‘having it all’.

Watch The Object of my Affection, watch Office Space. Masturbate to Mr. and Mrs. Smith. You can finally do so without feeling guilty. Enjoy it. Finish your day with “The One with the Cast of Night Court”. Have no shame.

We are not alone. We have value. In hoc unitatis vigemusque.

7 Instances of Cultural Appropriation that are Inadequately Discussed

1.     Girls without eating disorders doing cocaine
2.     Pregnant women weighing less than 144 lbs
3.     Girls besides Rebecca Higgins, from my 7th grade class, liking horses
4.     People not named Brad and Sarah living in the 1990s
5.     People without IBS claiming “it was an emergency”
6.     Thin people saying that the room is too hot
7.     People that aren’t Lauren Conrad crying

4 Novelty Cocktails to Impress at your Next Coven Circle

1.     Ryan Murphy: Pour a glass of lukewarm Pinot Grigio over ice. Float the tears of a straight man.
2.     “Look at my Witchy Hat” Mojito: Mix two parts rum, one part lime and a sprig of basil. Shake aggressively, showcasing the structural integrity of your wide brim witchy hat. Pour over ice and serve with condescension.
3.      “Light as a Feather” Spritzer: Chug half a bottle of Gin. Stir a martini shaker of oxygen and then ask people to carry you around.
4.     Sabrina’s Sweet Tea: Stir cat hair in a PBR. Garnish with an olive and serve.