The Wiseass Wife for President: A New Political Party

Over the years, I’ve slowly amassed core beliefs for my own political party. And by “slowly amassed” I mean drank some wine and had fleeting thoughts that seemed brilliant at the time.

I’d like to introduce a new political party.
It’s called the “Realitarian” party. How new is this party? Well, “Realitarian” has red squiggly line under it, meaning spell check isn’t even recognizing it. Yet.

I aim to change that.


What is a “Realitarian”?

wiseass wife

A Realitarian is someone who appreciates the beauty of idealism, but recognizes the necessity to get your heads out of the clouds and look at reality. A Realitarian recognizes that, sometimes, unpopular decisions have to be made for the good of the herd, I mean, people. I decided to write down examples of some of the programs I’d implement if I were president, and the country lived under a Realitarian regime.

(Note: Calm Ass Husband has begged me repeatedly not to actually publicize these. I take that begging into consideration, then considered him to be practice for the many naysayers that the Realitarian party will have to deal with.)

Inmate Blinding Rehabilitation Therapy

Let’s be honest, current sentencing laws are CLEARLY not doing anything to deter repeat offenders from…offending repeatedly? (Note to self: hire campaign manager who can talk good)

But you know what deters a large portion of crimes from being committed? Not being able to see what you’re doing. With The Wiseass Wife Administration’s Inmate Blinding Rehabilitation Therapy, a “Three Strikes and Your Out….of Eyesight” rule will be implemented. After your third conviction, the ole’ optic nerve gets a little snip snip. You can’t commit the crimes if you can’t see!

Now don’t worry, I’m not a total monster, this would only be for violent offenders. Clearly I wouldn’t do this to, say, a white collar criminal. We need those guys and gals for program #2, anyways.

So how do we support this influx in the blind? Glad you asked.

We’d train shelter dogs to be seeing-eye dogs (oh yeah, we no longer BREED dogs as guide dogs under The Wiseass Wife Administration. Let’s save lives and use shelter dogs.), thereby reducing the population in shelters.

I know what you’re thinking: But what will they do for money? Won’t we end up with a bunch of blind, ex-cons on our hands, draining the system? They can’t work if they can’t see!

I did extensive research on this.

realitarianism, the wiseass wife

And look what I found:

realitarian, wiseass wife

“No Limits”
“The Possibilities are Tremendous”
“People who are blind or visually impaired can perform almost any job you can imagine”

Have you heard anything so inspirational?


The Inmate Blinding Rehabilitation Therapy program is a real solution that inspires.

And that is the core of Realitarianism.

Just you wait until my next post, when I will detail  Program #2 under The Wiseass Wife Administration: Hobo Island: The Solution, The Reality Show

Happy National Fetish Day!

I just found out that it is National Fetish Day, what???? I don’t have time to bang out an article this morning (hee hee, pun intended) so I thought I’d reprint one of my most popular posts: 5 Things I Learned While Reading Victorian Porn. Not quite a fetish, but I’m unfortunately pretty boring so don’t have anything resembling an actual fetish. Unless cheese counts.

5 Things I Learned While Reading Victorian Porn

Why am I looking at Victorian porn, you ask? Perfectly reasonable question.

victorian porn

Well, aside from my curiosity over the assertion of others that women used to have pubic hair, I’ve been quietly writing a book. The book is a historical fiction, and even though it is fiction, it is still historical. Therefore, the book should probably be somewhat accurate so that when it gets published and becomes wildly successful, the history snobs can’t sit there and be like, “Well Worthington (historical snob name), she would have a perfectly fine book on her hands were it not for the fact that she described the house’s study as having a copy of Emile Gallé’s Écrits Pour l’art 1884-89, which is preposterous since her story takes place in 1907, and we know that Galle’s book was not published until 1908.” And then Worthington would be like, “Mmmmm, quite right Alexander. Perhaps in her next book she will claim the lady of the house was using a tea bag in 1902.”

Fucking Worthington and Alexander. Judgemental bastards.

Because there are seedy elements in this book, I am doing major research on the seedy life of the Victorian era. Those were some kinky mo fos.



I won’t even touch the rampant incest that is lacing Victorian porn, but I will say that incest was seriously no big deal. I guess the sex-pool was scant back then? I don’t know – that is a question for Worthington and Alexander – but there were a lot of siblings getting busy.


victorian porn

But brother-lovin’ aside, here are five things I learned while reading a lot of Victorian porn:

1. They were really into hair. Like, not just in the normal spots it grows, but a girl with hairy nipples, or hair on her back, was considered a serious sex pot. The hairier, the merrier.

2. Casual sex often meant addressing the person formally, like, “Oh Mrs. Rose, do let me kiss your thighs.” I find it charming – when did booty calls become so informal?

3. Instead of turning out the lights, they shut off the gas. Of course, naughty Victorian girls left the gas on.

4. They often referred to the man’s penis as “the little gentleman.” How cute is that? It makes me picture a dignified penis, wearing a top hat and a monocle. I’m kind of thinking of renaming CAH’s to “the little gentleman.” I’m not sure if he will be up for that. He is definitely not up for the tiny top hat and monocle. I already asked.

5. The vagina is referred to as “Lady Jane.” Some may know this euphemism from the book Lady Chatterly’s Lover, but turns out that D.H. Lawrence was not the originator of this formal style of vaginal address. Of course, I do not know if “Lady Jane” was used across all classes. Lower class women’s vaginas were probably called, “Mrs. Jane,” like how servants were addressed. Or if it were an unmarried vagina, “Miss Jane.” Of course, it would have been “Ms. Jane” if it was a progressive vagina.

“But referring to a vagina as ‘Ms.’ does not denote a feminist vagina. The term Ms. was actually first proposed in 1901 to save people embarassment from improperly addressing a woman whose marital status was unknown.”

Shut up, Worthington.

victorian porn

A Public Service Announcement for Parents

Parents: we need to have a quick chat.

Look, we get that you love your kids. Really, we do. That’s why we read your umpteen updates on Facebook that alert us to your daily agendas, which include ballet lessons, karate lessons, bible school, and that “healthy” dinner of Hamburger Helper made with light sour cream.

And we love your kids because we love you. So, we’re kind of obligated.

Know that, despite our not being inclined towards kids, hearing your story about them FINALLY having a firm bowel movement after a week of diarrhea, or that their first words was “This,” even though we’re pretty sure that you just heard one of their gibberish words and glommed on to whatever word it most sounded like, there are limits.

So we ask you, a quid pro quo. We will continue to listen to your endless tales about the size of the corn kernels in their crap, if you understand a few things on our end:

1. Your kid’s growth percentile: First of all, we don’t give a shit that you have a fat baby. You may not realize this, but like, literally all kids that we hear about are above the 80% growth percentage, and you’re not somehow fooling us into thinking that you have this unusual baby who’s showing early signs of a competitive edge. To be clear, that doesn’t mean that all kids are above your kid’s percentile, it means that we are apparently not friends with deadbeats who starve their kids. And it seems that stupid percentile chart don’t mean much anyways.

2. If you want us to be even slightly interested in your kid’s progress, stop giving us your kid’s age in months after the first year. We do not care enough about your baby to do math in our heads. Especially if we’ve been drinking. Which, in order to listen to an hour-long discussion on baby poop, we probably have been.

3. EVERYONE’S FUCKING KID IS WEARING A BIGGER SIZE THAN DESIGNATED ON THE CLOTHING LABEL. Can we agree that, like, every 3 month old is probably wearing clothing for a 6 month old? And seriously, how fucked up is it that we place such value on fat babies, and stick thin teens/young adults. Warped.

4. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT, start a sentence with, “Tell Jess about your trip to the __________________”. End it with whichever trip you’d like: zoo, park, San Diego, France, a bukkake house. I have several friends who tell their kids, “Tell Jess about your trip to the zoo.” and then I have to sit there while their kid, who is barely fluent in our language, takes 15 minutes to tell me about a trip to an establishment with which I disagree anyways. Put it this way: I give more of a shit about the welfare of those caged polar bears than your kid and his misguided learnings about how it is perfectly ok to make a mockery of wild animals who are being forced to live in a fake habitat for human amusement. Do not make us sit through your kid’s shitty, garbled, grammatically incorrect stories about trips and adventures.

We all know that, with the fact that he’s in the 90th percentile and wearing clothing for kids 6 months his senior, he’s destined for a sad future on “The Biggest Loser” anyways. Let’s not operate under the pretense that he’s remotely interesting.

I Got a New Muff and Gave My Husband Herpes, How Were Your Holidays?

I was all prepared to come back from my winter holidays to talk about the amazing little gem dropped on us while we were all celebrating:

Kim Jong Un threatened “merciless war” on South Korea by a fucking fax. Which, on one hand, is hilarious because I picture him typing it out on a 6-year-old Dell computer, on which he’s still making reasonable monthly payments of $120/month. He probably used Microsoft Office, and was even kind enough to use a cover page.


Kim Jong Un’s Weapon of Mass Destruction: Clippy

But on the other hand, it is INFURIATING. Aren’t these the same guys who claim to have unicorns? If you have unicorns, why the fuck are you sending faxes? Strap one of those winged-bitches up with a majestic scroll, and point his horn south-ward. I’ve never had anyone wage war on me before, but I can guarantee that if I were put on notice by a majestic unicorn, I’d take it a hell of a lot more seriously than a fax.

Alas, I can not rail on our favorite tiny little Korean fella quite as much as I was hoping, because so much happened during my holidays, that I felt these little gems deserved just as much as attention. Here are my top 3 moments from my winter holidays:

3. I took alcoholism to its classiest level yet: I got a drinking muff. A drinking muff is just a regular muff, but I have a flask hidden in it (shhhh). Not to be outdone, Calm-Ass Husband turned his jacket into a “beer jacket.”

faux fur muff

Don’t worry, the muff is faux!

We went and looked at Christmas lights, and it was our best Christmas light trip, yet. Look how drunk happy we look!


2. I started a new pilates class, and dropped it the same day:

First of all, let’s get this out of the way right now: I don’t say the “f” word. No, not “fuck.” If you’ve read literally any other article I’ve written, you know I dole out f-bombs like little positive reinforcement treats to keep you all coming back. I don’t say the “f” word as pertains to breaking wind, passing gas, etc. I don’t care if others say it, I just don’t. In fact, it’s become a big joke among my friends and family as they all try to get me to slip and say it. My big plan is, on my death bed, to make it my last word. Actually, I will just whisper out a faint, “Faaaaa….” and then die right in the middle. Kind of like the last episode of Sopranos. Those surrounding my death bed will think they’re finally going to hear me say it, then be frustrated forever more, using all their spare time to rant about it in chat rooms and online forums.

So I started a new pilates class, and I ended up with an elderly woman, who apparently had a serious case of gas, right above my head when we were on the mat. I’m not talking little slips here and there; it got fucking awkward. And silent in the class. I seriously began to worry that she crapped herself. And I was trying not to vomit. And the entire time, I just kept subtly slipping further and further down my mat in an attempt to escape the immediate area, without being obvious. I’ve drawn a stick-figure recreation of how I looked by the end of the class:

It's like my mat was my pillow. I wish it were a force field :(

It’s like my mat was my pillow. I wish it were a force field :(

But that isn’t even why I dropped the class. Do you know who was in that class? FUCKING CUNT FUNGUS, YOU GUYS! What are the chances? Of all the pilates classes in all the town, she had to fester her way into mine. By the time I walked out of the class, I was pissed off, sore, and in desperate need of shower to wash away what I was certain was an invisible field of stranger-gas, surrounding me like Pig-pen’s dirt clouds in the Peanuts cartoons.

Needless to say, I dropped that class.

1. I gave Calm-Ass Husband Herpes :-/

Well, probably not. I am already on his shit list for giving him MRSA a few years ago. For those of you who don’t know, MRSA, per WebMD, is:

“Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA) is a bacterium that causes infections in different parts of the body. It’s tougher to treat than most strains of staphylococcus aureus — or staph — because it’s resistant to some commonly used antibiotics. Those who are infected will get cancer and die.*”

* Ok, I made up that last line. But, I mean….WebMD, right? It’s always all “cancer and death” with those guys.

So I got him a mean case of MRSA when I pestered him to come get a pedicure with me and those fucking nail salon bitches didn’t properly clean out the foot bath. I’d been going to that salon for 5 years. The one day I bring my husband, then boyfriend, for a pedicure, he gets MRSA. So my track record was already bad.

Well, for New Year’s Eve, we got invited to a 70s-themed party, and I insisted he dress up. Like the pedicure situation, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea. Like the pedicure situation, I persisted. And like every “guy hoping to get some action later” situation, he finally gave in to me. So off to Goodwill we went, and we got him some totally groovy corduroy pants, and a bitchin’ button-down. And all was right in the world.

Lookin' groovy, baby

Lookin’ groovy, baby (again, the fur is faux)

Until a few hours later, while at the party, CAH randomly reached into his pocket and pulled out a little blue pill. No…not that little blue pill.


A pill for herpes. My husband was wearing herps pants. By the way, how ironic is it that both the pill to get an erection, and the pill to treat a disease obtained by your erection, are little blue pills? Very funny, Big Pharma.

I saw a panic wash over his face unlike any panic I’ve seen on his face before. Actually, I’ve only seen it one time before. It was April Fool’s Day in 2012, and I told him that I changed my mind about having kids, and I wanted to get started right away. Hahaha.

Luckily, he was wearing underpants. And I’m pretty sure you can’t get herpes from pants. Otherwise, think of all the herpes that would be rampant in junior high from the sheer volume of dry humping (do kids in junior high still dry hump?). And he still got action, because his herpes are my herpes. And that’s love.

I am working on a holiday song for him. Something like,

“Last Christmas, I gave you MRSA,
and the very next day, antibiotics made it go away.
This year, to save me the tears,
I’ll give you something more infectious.”

Eh, I’m still working on it. I hope you all had a great holiday season!

5 Ways Kanye West is Like Hitler

I typically don’t get all “tabloid gossip”-y on here, but Kanye West makes me feel stabby. And lately, the shit that drops out if his mouth makes me think that the best thing that could happen for his Kardshian-let is for Yeezus to go all Yochabed, stick that kid in a basket, and send her up a river so literally any-fucking-one else can find and raise her.

(For the Jesus freaks: yes, I know Moses’s mom’s name was Jochabed, I was sticking with the “y” theme, so calm down, you whiny yunts.)

Granted, I do have a personal beef with Kanye because his song Bound 2 rips on a girl for wearing Forever 21 when she’s 30. So fucking what if I wear Forever 21 in my 30′s? IT’S IN THE FUCKING NAME OF THE STORE, KANYE!

Recently, Cunt-ye compared himself going on stage to police officers in the line of duty, or soldiers at war. Referring to a prop mountain in his act:

“That mountain goes really, really high and, if I slipped … you never know. And I think about it. I think about my family and I’m like ‘Wow, this is like being a police officer or something, in war or something.’”

This made me realize that Kanye loves himself so much, he deserves his own sexual term, which I’m hopeful gets picked up by Urban Dictionary:

Kanye: to love yourself so much, that you give yourself an enema, drink the dirty enema water, and savor the flavor.

Sentence: After Kim Kardashian posted that picture of her post-baby body in a white bathing suit, she was so self-satisfied, she gave herself a Kanye.

Also, for the record, when I Googled “Kanye compares himself to”, this came up:


I love that “Hitler” is right up there, so here’s my list of how Kanye West is comparable to Hitler:

1. While in prison, Hitler wrote Mercedes and begged for a car loan. Kanye has to beg big brands to do business with him, too.

2. Hitler had chronic flatulence of the butt. Kanye’s mouth clearly suffers the same condition.

3. As a child, Hitler wanted to be a priest. As you can see from my search, Kanye thinks he’s God.

4. Hitler only had one testicle. Kanye has one testicle. (I don’t think that’s true, but pass it around anyways).

5. Hitler used frequent enemas as a medical remedy for ailments. Kanye had a sex act named after him that involves an enema (see above).

But alas, the similarities end there, as Hitler was allegedly an animal lover and the regime even enacted animal protection laws. Cunt-ye wears fur.

So, in some ways, the Fuhrer is better than Kanye.

RIP Mr. Mac B. Lappy: 2008-2013

My laptop died. My very first nice laptop. I am devastated. DEVASTATED. I have been through hell and back with that laptop. I feel like a pet has passed away. Mr. Lappy has been sick for awhile – it manifested with a strange white line that went through the screen. But I discovered that if I pinched Lappy in just the right way, the line would go away. So I blissfully went along this way, ignorant to the fact that “White Lining” is apparently the computer equivalent of “flatlining”.

And of course Lappy died right before Christmas, when money needs to go to things that I *want*, not that I *need*. Why can’t I have unlimited funds to buy frivolous things? And why can’t I have a fainting couch to throw myself onto when I utter such dramatic questions? If the vapors were still around, like I’d like them to be, I’d be so distraught that I’d definitely take to bed with the vapors.

It is truly times like these that make me rethink the “Sugar Daddy” thing. Especially when, this time of year, all I hear from Calm-ass Husband are things like, “Wife! You spend too much money!” and, “Stop walking away from me when I’m trying to talk to you about your spending habits!”. But Calm-ass Husband gets even crankier when I talk about dating other people. He’s such a dictator. I’m basically living with Kim Jong Un.

To honor Lappy’s memory, here are my five favorite moments with Lappy. Please imagine “I Will Remember You” by Sarah MacLachlan* playing in the background:

* I know it’s spelled “Sarah McLachlan.” I changed her name as a tribute to Lappy.

1. Before meeting Calm-ass Husband: countless IM chats with random strangers I met on Craigslist.
2. First dating CAH: using Photobooth to take and send him half-naked selfies right after telling him “no sex until the 5th date.”
3. The 5th date with CAH: playing my “sexy time playlist” on iTunes, which I barely managed to pull together since, after telling him “no sex til the 5th date,” he took me out every night, 5 nights in a row.
4. Saying “I love you” to CAH for the first time: Yup – it was by Google Chat. He totally tricked me into saying it, knowing I was drunk.
5. The countless blog posts I’ve written for this site.

You’ve been good to me Lappy, I will miss you. Know it will take me a long time to bond to your successor, Mrs. Mac B. Airy. Or Mr. Mac B. Pro. We’ve not yet decided. It’s too painful to think about.

Dear Chase Bank, Go Geflurg Yourself. #chasefail

Wiseass readers, this is between me and Chase Bank, so don’t read this. It’s private. I just feel it’s the only way to get through to the commie pinko assholes at Chase Bank.

Note to Chase: I am not 100% sure what a “Commie Pinko Asshole” is, but I heard my dad yell it a lot at the TV as a little girl, whenever the news was on. I assume it’s an insult. Or maybe you think it a compliment. That is exactly something that a commie pinko asshole would think.

Hi. I assume you’re here because it was difficult to read the letter in its original format – line by line on Twitter. Here it is in a simpler way.


Dear Chase

The level of my anger at your mismanagement of a simple check order is not how I wanted to start my holidays. It’s hard to express my displeasure to your customer service people & not sound like a gun threat (I’m not).

Being lost in your phone support system is akin to spending all day at Ikea. By the end, I was cranky, confused, and hungry. At least at the end of Ikea, I can buy a plate of delicious french fries. You may not have confusing Swedish words, but your banking rules are just as asinine, you f’ing smörbolls.

I now have two orders of checks, that have not arrived at my door. They could be anywhere. I have a new post man, so for all I know, the old one took them. He’s probably kiting checks cross-country, living the life on my hard-earned dollars.

Your phone support offered to send a 3rd order. I hesitated because, I don’t want the new postman to get ideas from the last one. But before I could weigh-in, I was told that they couldn’t order new ones after all. Because I had verified my address online.

Like your f’ing website prompted me to do.

So there was a waiting period. You fyrkantigs.

I now apparently have to go into the branch to order my checks, for the 3rd time. And your phone support’s only mea culpa? To put a “rush” on my order. The order that was already rushed due to the first round of check cancellations.

Are you kidding me, you dumarsles?

“Rush order” is a no-brainer at this point. It’s not an acceptable offering of apology for this ridiculousness.



Jess, AKA The Wiseass Wife


P.s. I relish the day when I no longer have to pay my 90-something-year-old landlord my rent in check form, and can be done with them forever.