The Rant would like to have a heart-to-heart. First, no matter how you bedazzle, bejewel, or bling that thing, a fanny pack is still a fanny pack.1 You look like an old man from Boca that just finished looking for coins at the beach with his metal detector. We assume your AARP card and an extra set of teeth reside within.

No matter how gracefully the PYTs in the Old Navy ad spin about, those are mom jeans. The ones you harshed on for years. The subject of one of the greatest SNL commercials of all time. When a simple Google search produces an endless parade of articles basically entitled “how does a rational human wear these?” you should admit you are being played.

Megan Rapinoe is currently the Baddest Athlete in America. Her free kick against France appeared to alter the laws of time and space to find the back of the net. If she were a male basketball player, Phil Knight would suggest LeBron explore a deal with Puma to afford the endorsement deal. She speaks her mind, takes names on the pitch, and then asks for the next question. All while never giving up on her family. That’s what a hero looks like to The Rant.

Can we all just relax with the F-bombs? We get it: you’re edgy and play by your own set of all rules and are oh so shocking and rebellious. We’re looking at you McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. And The Onion. And the third graders in the booth next to us at dinner. So tedious. So boring. We need a Rosetta Stone to discover the sentence lurking somewhere in the middle of all the profanity. The Rant isn’t prudish: obscenity is a skill like anything else, and you, sadly, are many miles from being Richard Pryor on the Sunset Strip. Maybe practice in the mirror each morning. By yourself and far from The Rant.

We assume all this cursing is part of the always simmering anger lurking everywhere. Might we suggest everyone begin keeping a Journal of Vituperation? The Rant fears a nationwide meltdown if we don’t start working all this bile out. Go at it hammer and tongs; learn curses from the Middle English; become a multi-lingual potty-mouth; transcribe Sam Kinison routines. Then set all the pages aflame and make some s’mores while they burn. You will thank us.2

  1. Weasel from Deadpool backs us on this one. Although we would never call you an SOB. We just want what’s best for you
  2. Yes, we know that comedically we had created the ideal structure to suddenly indulge in a profanity-laced tirade that subverted the moralistic tone in a moment of pure Bakhtin Carnival. Or perhaps The Rant is so many moves ahead that by starting at the right place and assembling every fifth letter of this week’s Rant the reader is rewarded with a series of profane limericks defying the bounds of decency. Or not. Sounds like a lot of ####### work

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