Dopplegangster: Zhang Zhen Yue

Everyone in China is laughing at me.

Genuinely Offended.

Apparently there are a lot of things in this world to be "genuinely offended" by. I hear it all the time. "I am genuinely offended that everyone on the cast of Jersey Shore isn't really Italian." "I am genuinely offended they only have the McRib several weeks out of the year." "I am genuinely offended there aren't any brown people in Girls." "I am genuinely offended by everything RiFF RAFF." "I am genuinely offended by rape jokes." "I am genuinely offended my dad didn't play catch with me as much as my neighbor's dad did." I'm not offended by that. My dad bothered the shit out of me all the time about playing catch.

Bill Clinton shows that sunglasses are a must.

There are a lot of things I do not like about people. The way they look. The talking. The breathing. The LOL'ing. The taking themselves too serious. The Puerto Ricans. But the thing that I do not like the most is hearing someone talk about how "offended" they are by something. This isn't me trying to be offensive. I don't think anybody thinks anything I do is offensive because I'm not arrogant enough to think anybody thinks about me. And that's great. No, seriously. I'm not offended. I don't think about any of you (specifically) either.

If you are over the age of 10 and you are genuinely offended by something, you are most likely wrong and an asshole. There is no other way to put it. Are people genuinely offended by global warming, income inequality, women trafficking, or the fact that the bars and restaurants in Manhattan are full of 25 year-olds at 2pm on Tuesdays? Don't you fucking people have jobs? I guess some people are genuinely offended about those things, but not nearly enough. More people spend their time sighing and scoffing at Miley Cyrus' latest haircut, Army generals' affairs, or the way the guy sitting across from them was a little too obvious when taking a picture. Get over the picture creepshow, in 20 years you'll be flattered by a guy like him not-so subtly taking your picture. (This time it won't be me. I won't be alive in 20 years.)

It's true. We are a nation of fat crybabies. "But Rush Limbaugh said all those racist, sexist, faggy comments about the Jews and the blacks!" Oh. Fucking. Well. And it's not just Americans. It's everyone. Open up your newspaper and you'll see millions of people around the world being "genuinely offended." It's the Arabs' fault. No! It's the Jews' fault. Well maybe it's the terrorists' fault. Nah, it's the Chinese communists' fault. It's religion's fault. It's atheists' fault. Blame Canada! I don't know, I'm pretty sure it's rich people's fault! Everybody is killing everybody over some shit they're offended by. It's your fault for being offended.

Don't be offended if I wear this shirt while I masturbate to my most awesome Tweets.

I'm not saying that you shouldn't be offended by anything. If someone killed my wife and bragged about it when they were on trial, I would probably be genuinely offended.

And you should be offended that I just constructed a hypothetical that consists of a woman that is married to me. Sorry. I meant no offense.

Be more selective of what you're offended by. Leave the rest alone.

Fiona Apple and her dog.

Here's a nice break from all things insecure. I thought this was pretty.

It's 6pm on Friday,and I'm writing to a few thousand friends I have not met yet.
I am writing to ask them to change our plans and meet a little while later.
Here's the thing.
I have a dog Janet, and she's been ill for almost two years now, as a tumor has been idling in her chest, growing ever so slowly. She's almost 14 years old now.I got her when she was 4 months old. I was 21 then ,an adult offi

cially - and she was my child.

She is a pitbull, and was found in Echo Park, with a rope around her neck, and bites all over her ears and face.

She was the one the dogfighters use to puff up the confidence of the contenders.

She's almost 14 and I've never seen her start a fight ,or bite, or even growl, so I can understand why they chose her for that awful role. She's a pacifist.

Janet has been the most consistent relationship of my adult life, and that is just a fact.

We've lived in numerous houses, and jumped a few make shift families, but it's always really been the two of us.

She slept in bed with me, her head on the pillow, and she accepted my hysterical, tearful face into her chest, with her paws around me, every time I was heartbroken, or spirit-broken, or just lost, and as years went by, she let me take the role of her child, as I fell asleep, with her chin resting above my head.

She was under the piano when I wrote songs, barked any time I tried to record anything, and she was in the studio with me all the time we recorded the last album.

The last time I came back from tour, she was spry as ever, and she's used to me being gone for a few weeks every 6 or 7 years.

She has Addison's Disease, which makes it dangerous for her to travel since she needs regular injections of Cortisol, because she reacts to stress and to excitement without the physiological tools which keep most of us from literally panicking to death.

Despite all of this, she’s effortlessly joyful and playful, and only stopped acting like a puppy about 3 years ago.

She's my best friend and my mother and my daughter, my benefactor, and she's the one who taught me what love is.

I can't come to South America. Not now.

When I got back from the last leg of the US tour, there was a big, big difference.

She doesn't even want to go for walks anymore.

I know that she's not sad about aging or dying. Animals have a survival instinct, but a sense of mortality and vanity, they do not. That’s why they are so much more present than people.

But I know that she is coming close to point where she will stop being a dog, and instead, be part of everything. She’ll be in the wind, and in the soil, and the snow, and in me, wherever I go.

I just can't leave her now, please understand.

If I go away again, I’m afraid she'll die and I won't have the honor of singing her to sleep, of escorting her out.

Sometimes it takes me 20 minutes to pick which socks to wear to bed.

But this decision is instant.

These are the choices we make, which define us.

I will not be the woman who puts her career ahead of love and friendship.

I am the woman who stays home and bakes Tilapia for my dearest, oldest friend.

And helps her be comfortable, and comforted, and safe, and important.

Many of us these days, we dread the death of a loved one. It is the ugly truth of Life, that keeps us feeling terrified and alone.

I wish we could also appreciate the time that lies right beside the end of time.

I know that I will feel the most overwhelming knowledge of her, and of her life and of my love for her, in the last moments.

I need to do my damnedest to be there for that.

Because it will be the most beautiful, the most intense, the most enriching experience of life I've ever known.

When she dies.

So I am staying home, and I am listening to her snore and wheeze, and reveling in the swampiest, most awful breath that ever emanated from an angel.

And I am asking for your blessing.

I'll be seeing you.

Love, Fiona

Back to me writing about my penis tomorrow.

Dreams Not From My Father.

If my child ever says his dream is to be a businessman I'm going to punch him, his mother, and his father directly in the dicks. When I caddied I often worked with kids 10 years younger than me. Sometimes I would ask them, "What do you want to be when you're an adult? What are your dreams?" And the most popular answer was, "Uh, I don't know, some sort of businessman...why are you still caddying at the age of 25?" Prickheads.

I dreamed of being Michael Jordan. I shaved my head. I stuck my tongue out. I worked on my jumpshot. I worked on my vertical. I became a mysognist (because if you're going to commit to something you have to be All In). And then I realized I was kidding myself. A chubby gookish looking dickhead kid couldn't be Michael Jordan. I was predisposed to breakdancing, giggling, maybe being a lady-boy, rooting for Manny Pacquiao, and hanging out exclusively with people with pug noses and bad haircuts. (Thankfully, only one of those things became a reality.) So then I dreamed of being an architect, but was talked out of it by an old rich country club lady. "Architects don't make any money." Really? Neither do substiute teachers for children with autism, caterers, census takers, comedy club workers, sales associates at Macy's or Uniqlo, etc. Then I wanted to be an artist but soon read about this guy. No thanks. And after all this, now, I dream to be David Beckham's penis.

So in order for my dream to become a reality a huge number of things would have to fall my way, including David Beckham's actual penis.

1. Beckham would, for some reason, need a new penis. So that means it would have to either be chopped off (that's so 90's), fall off (I don't think the saying grandmothers tell their grandsons, "If ya keep playin' with it, it's going to fall off!" is actually true. Believe me, I've played), or maybe sucked off (actually the most realisitc of the three, he's David fucking Beckham). And not only would it have to be removed from his body, it'd have to be kicked under a car and unusable. It's not like the girl who just sucked it off after receiving her gift from the Make-A-Wish foundation would be able to get it bronzed and hung over the fireplace. He'd surely ask for it back and have it sewed back on. (I just want to point out that if the girl actually had it bronzed and hung over the fireplace...and then died...that would be a crazy memento for the rest of the family to remember her by. Just saying.) He wouldn't just look around the crowd and pick the first balding 27 year-old he sees. "He'll do."
2. The gun from Honey I Shrunk the Kids would have to be involved. You couldn't sew a 5'6" human onto a ballsack and call it a penis (actually, I think I just defined the term "frat brother"). And more difficult, the actor who knew how to use the Honey I Shrunk The Kids gun would have to be found and convinced to take this role on. And when's the last time you saw that guy?
3. He would have to agree for me to let me keep the glasses. I want to see what/who I'm getting myself into. That's the whole point.

I have a ways to go.

Kids dreaming of being businessmen. Where have we gone wrong? Businessmen sit around and think of really boring (oftentimes evil) shit and sometimes ruin people's lives and spend long days at the office and end up hating their families and turn towards prositutes for advice. Out of all of the things in the world you could do, how is being a businessman your dream? Is it the money? Then isn't your actual dream to be rich? Shouldn't you be dreaming to win the lottery. I'm cutting it down even more. The only reason I'd want to have a lot of money is to be able to have sex with the women David Beckham surely has sex with. Why not cut out all those dates/bribes? Why not just attach myself to the source itself?

Dreams change as you get older. And for men, it almost always turns sexual. I've yet to meet a 45 year-old that is dreaming to change the world, unless changing the world involves getting those twins from that Hooters calendar into your bedroom for some creepshow goodness. It's why we're miserable as adults. It's not that we haven't achieved our dreams. It's that our dreams have changed into something pathetic and boring. And the real tragedy is that dreams are dying at a younger age. Dreaming to be a businessman isn't a dream. It's a travesty. So instead of telling your kids to dream big, start telling them that a dream can be anything. Look at me. I'm still dreaming.

Actually, if your dream is to be someone's small Asian penis, just forget it. Go back to school and take some business administration classes. Dreams are all in your head.

I just spent my entire Saturday evening making this. I do it for all of you.