by Nicole Breanne

The boy scouts have a really simple slogan: “Always Be Prepared.” They teach it to 7-year olds. It’s a very simple premise, but it’s so important. So why the fuck can’t a presidential candidate remember that? If you’re going to be on a televised debate when you’re trying to prove you are the best man for the job, maybe you should…oh, I dunno, study your notes? Talk to the half a dozen people you hired to prep you, AND KNOW THE NAMES OF THE DEPARTMENTS YOU’RE GOING TO CUT!

Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself. Last night there was a debate in Michigan (Detroit, what!) and Rick Perry was talking about cutting cabinet positions. This is a direct quote from said debate: “Commerce, Education and the – what’s the third one there? Let’s see…”

Oh, yeah, let’s see…Let me just take a minute to get my thoughts together, not like this is a big deal or anything. Not like I should know this or anything!

He ended up saying it was the Department of Energy, but the damage was done. What’s even better, he thinks it’s no big deal. “I stepped in it, that’s what my wife would say.” He went on to say that he feels this little slip up (little slip up, really?) has made him more human, and people can relate. Look, its no secret, I’m really jaded, cynical, and pretty much bat shit crazy, so forgive me if I don’t want to relate to my President. I don’t want to see the dude and be like, “Yeah, that guy gets me…” ‘Cause if he gets me, he’s got no business running the goddamn country. I know my limits, and maybe these candidates need to know theirs.

Perry then said: “Any time you’re standing in front of however many million people we were and you have a loss of train of thought, sure, it impacts you. But the fact is one error is not going to make or break a campaign.”

That’s true, one mistake won’t, but he’s made a lot of mistakes. He’s no longer a serious (and I use that term extremely loosely) candidate. He’s a joke. The fact that he can’t see it makes it even worse. There’s a bigger issue here then a little brain freeze by Perry. It’s an overwhelming sense that the current culture has that it’s okay to be a fuck up. It’s okay to not be the best person for the job, and still get the job. It’s okay to just believe your own hype.

I blame the internet, and social media. Ugh okay, maybe, I’m just bitter because I’ve been fired from a job where I made really tiny mistakes because I was still learning. But this guy has been a politician for years, and fucks up on a major platform, and he gets to keep his job? I was a freaking secretary and apparently the weight of the company could come crashing down on my typos and inability to format a letter. Guys, don’t even worry about it, I can write letters, I write amazing letters. But my boss was psycho –– I mean it –– I can write a letter! I’ll write a letter right now if I have to! Clearly, I’m not bruised by that experience at all…and do you see how defensive and completely embarrassed I am about this? How I immediately set out to prove that I am capable? Over fucking letters…Yet this dude can FORGET THE NAMES OF DEPARTMENTS live on TV AND then call the African American candidate “brother,” but he gets to stay in the race and just shrug it off, like, “Oh well, I made a mistake. Whoops!”

In the words of my seven-year-old nephew, who’s not even a Boy Scout but still totally grasped this whole debacle, “what a pile of junk.” This whole “Southern boy, awe-shucks, are those my boots under your bed?” act that Perry’s been putting on is getting really fucking old. By the way, that’s not a dig at the South, I currently have a Southern boy’s boots under my bed as I type this. So back off. It’s totally Perry-specific.

The other issue is that everyone is commenting on how he was a front runner, and now that’s over. But why was he a front runner? Well, because the dude’s got bank. That’s what it boiled down to. Money. Not qualifications, not experience, not views, not ethics, but the almighty dollar. I’m getting so disillusioned, and really fed up. Part of me wants to shave my head, hop on my motorcycle, shoot a campaign commercial, and just run on the freak ticket. I’m really good in front of a camera, I know my lines, and I’m sorry but I think I’m a bit better looking Sarah Palin, so I bet I could go really far as long as I don’t have to write my own letters. Oh wait, fuck, it won’t work, I may be at least somewhat qualified in the batshit crazy department, but I’m not a Republican.





by Laurelin

“Please go with me,” my friend Leanne asked. “I really need this job but I can’t go alone.” I was doubtful. I didn’t want to work at that strip club in Providence, she did. But I guess it wouldn’t kill me to tag along. “Just waitressing,” she had said, and I agreed. There was a group of about ten girls and the club manager gave us all a tour of the floor, the back rooms, and backstage. It was a lot bigger than it looked outside, dimly lit with flashing lights, perfect cooshy chairs lined a perfectly strobe lit stage, and a DJ announced each girl as they started to dance, looking more beautiful than anyone I had ever seen. When it came time to fill out an application I shook my head, but the manager touched my elbow and gave such an encouraging smile that I thought, “well, maybe.”

She called exactly a week later, saying I had a job. My friend didn’t get a call, and even though I felt terrible I also got a bit of a rush. This was so… dangerous. Not my style. I was still in college, in a sorority who’s motto was “Be womanly always.” This was womanly, I guess. Naked womanly. I was all in. The manager met me at the front door and walked me in, showing me to my dressing room and handing me my waitressing uniform. It was the most wonderful thing I had ever seen — black lace up knee high pleather boots with lace up matching pleather booty shorts and a black and red striped lace up corset. It all fit like a glove. I looked at myself in the mirror with what seemed like millions of movie star dressing room light bulbs making me glow. All I could hear was the pounding of my heart and I stepped out of the room and into the dark.

I don’t remember when I went from nervous to confident, from being the new girl to being the girl who commanded the room. Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and a few shifts a week turned full time. I was still in college and making more money than I knew what to do with. I knew every man that set foot into that club, and I knew their stories and what they drank and what they wanted to talk about, especially what they wanted to hear. These men were lonely, whether it be a wife or girlfriend who had settled into routine too quickly, or if there was no one really in the picture at all, no friends, family, just us, just me, a regular girl transformed by a life of strobe lights and glitter.

Soon I wasn’t just waitressing. There were backrub girls too, and when I saw how much money they were making, after one year I was ready to make the switch. Looking back now I still can’t believe it. Armed with scented baby oil gel I ruined these guys, sending them home slimy and smelling of lavender. One year of work turned to two, and then to three. Back rubs and waitressing were now supplemented with foxy boxing and hot oil and whipped cream wrestling on Friday and Saturday nights. The money rolled in, and every single shift I was smiling. I walked out on the stage to my fake name and I worked the room. I wanted to be there. I loved this act, this secret person, this girl who knew just what to say to walk off making a man feel like a million bucks while really, he was just giving it to me.

I remember the night things started to change. My boyfriend had come to visit, and instead of me being able to visit with him like usual I was busy in the champagne room. I had been in there with a customer for over two hours, and I was drunk. The dancers hated when the guys took me in — I didn’t dance or take off my clothes — I was never am entertainer. This night though, my boyfriend had brought someone for me to meet. “Laurelin, out of the champagne room, you have a guest on the floor!” the DJ announced and I squealed, grabbing the bottle of Moet Nectar and running to see who it was. There was my boyfriend and a man, standing at the stage waiting for me. I stumbled walking up to meet them; champagne and I didn’t always agree on walking in a straight line.

“Laur,” my boyfriend said, grabbing my hand, “meet my Father.”

I stood there, trembling, my confidence and buzz falling into my stomach. I was suddenly aware of how I looked — white high heels, naughty nurse uniform with my ass and frilly red shorts hanging out, too much makeup and a fake orange tan. My fake eyelashes suddenly felt too heavy and I saw myself as this man did, a used up drunk girl who couldn’t even stay and talk because I had to go back into a room and spend time with a man who was old enough to be my father. I couldn’t even shake his hand, one was full of champagne and the other clutched a diamond necklace that man had bought me.

What was going on? I left my boyfriend and his Dad at the stage with a handful of ones, and when I was finished with that work shift I scrubbed my face until it was red. I wanted to see my freckles again. I tugged and combed out my hair until all the curls were gone. The dressing room was exactly the same, with all those shining movie star light bulbs and I really saw myself. Too tan, too thin, the line between me and the girl I created at my club so blurred that I wasn’t sure who was who anymore.

I went home that night with my boyfriend and his Dad, and I know that his Dad still has the t-shirt I gave him from my club. He loved it, loved me and everything about that night, but I was horrified. I went in the next night, done up like always, and I put in my two weeks. The manager looked at me like I was crazy. “You’re our best girl!” he said. “I know,” I said. “But I need to get out of here. It’s time.” He gave me a hug, and those last two weeks were the saddest and happiest of my life. I said my goodbyes and on my last night we had a fantastic party. It’s been seven years since then, and when I walk into that club I still know everyone. The men, the drinks, the stories. It’s impossibly sad, but part of it will always be home. As I drove home to my boyfriend’s house on my last night at the club I turned the radio on, my eyes filling with tears. This was really the end of an era. What now? Where did I go from here?

“Boston” by Augustana was playing on the car radio, a song I had never heard: “I think I’ll go to Boston, I think that I’m just tired, I think I need a new town to leave this all behind, I think I need a sunrise, I’m tired of the sunset…”

“Boston,” I thought. “That sounds nice.”

[..]

by Blogbot

Artist / SG Member Name: Oliver / Ortegart71

Mission Statement: My work is an only-spare-time-thing, I do it to recreate from work, from the noise of this world, to make time stand still for some moments.

[..]

by Daniel Robert Epstein

It’’s possible to forget just how damn funny Donald Sutherland is. He’’s been in some of the funniest movies of all time and it shows when he walks into our interview with a wry smile while cracking jokes. But his latest movie, An American Haunting, is definitely not a comedy. The movie is set in the American south in 1818 and Sutherland stars as John Bell Sr. a man with a tight knit family who commits a sin against his church which releases a spirit to haunt his house and take out anger against his daughter.

Read our exclusive interview with Donald Sutherland on SuicideGirls.com.

Discoquette Suicide in Grey Dust

• INTO: Photography, art, painting.
• NOT INTO: Drugs, animal abuse.
• MAKES ME HAPPY: I love to have romantic moments at romantics places.
• MAKES ME SAD: Loneliness.
• HOBBIES: Movies, music, art, candies.

Get to know Discoquette better over at SuicideGirls.com!