Her Husband Has Huge Tits?
Greetings from NYC.
Hi friends!
Greetings from NYC where I am having the time of my middle-aged life. As an opinionated Jewish woman (Happy Passover) who loves to turn out a look, strut down the street, and have a great lunch, this city will always be a spiritual home for me. I intended to write to you guys a few days ago, but after going out every single night for a week, I felt like I was shot by a bazooka. Two good nights of sleep and one candlelit yoga class taught by a solemn Asian woman named Andromedon, and I am nearing a return to vitality.
Right before I left LA, I did wonder if I was losing what I’d recently regained of my mind by impulsively swapping my apartment for a month in Bed-Stuy. Shout out to my life protege, travel agent, and Chief Hat Officer, Ms. Alex, who told me that I would like the neighborhood and could just take Ubers if I didn’t want to walk 15 minutes to the train. Extremely accurate assessment. Both Bed-Stuy and I have been horrifically gentrified over the past decade. And I’m thrilled to be here for longer than the originally intended two weeks. It seems I need all of week two to recover from week one (goodnight!) and I haven’t even made a dent in the growing list of things that I want to do and see. I also have the ongoing problem of every cell in my body thinking we’re on vacation as soon as I get on a plane, so I keep forgetting that I am supposed to be working remotely. Oopsies.
This trip was originally inspired by my friend Vicky — who I recently learned has called herself Victoria for over a decade — being the cutest pregnant woman alive and hosting a whole weekend of festivities. It was a beautiful mix of friends old and new and we celebrated heavily. The grand finale was a “Baby Party” on Sunday, at a bar in Chinatown, a better version of a “Baby Shower” that includes afternoon karaoke.
As we deal with the vibes of doomsday, we must seize every opportunity to have fun and feel OK, and that is easy to do when you are surrounded by love and celebrating the incubation of a perfect lil baby. And, after Sunday’s karaoke, during which I belted out both Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know” and Natasha Bedingfield’s “Unwritten,” experiencing a level of catharsis that transcends every form of therapy, I realized that what a doomsday bunker really needs is a karaoke machine.
Now, more than ever, we must get clear on what we can offer in a bunker society. Unless I am being paid to boss people around, I can’t plan anything (what’s everyone doing this weekend?), so I am not a prepper. If the stockpilers and garden bed builders and well diggers are right, imagining the worst-case scenario will keep them alive. But will they be living? No. And that’s where I come in. I look forward to going bunker to bunker and getting the party started with my karaoke machine while those who have a better grasp on material reality pay me with a ration of canned peas.
In the meantime, I’m already at home here in my borrowed neighborhood. I ate the best Jamaican patty I’ve encountered in recent memory, am writing to you from a coffee shop full of gay brand strategists talking shit about their friend groups, and found the good sandwich bodega. En route to Andromedon’s yoga class, an old woman hanging on her stoop saw me walking with my mat and said, “Oooh, you’re working out today.” Then she looked me up and down, approvingly, and said, “You look great.” Yesterday, a man pulled his Cadillac over to blow me two kisses, asked nothing in return, rolled up his window, and drove away. It means the world, as I attempt to get my ego off the ventilator it’s been on for the past few months, to have the support of the community.
It was on the way back from Andromedon’s yoga class that I first learned about Kristi Noem’s husband’s huge tits. I’m not paying attention to anything in the news because I love and respect myself. So, when my cousin Laura forwarded an Instagram post about the titties, I didn’t believe the photos were real … but they are … the man is snatched … I was forced to learn all about him and his fetish by decree of the Coalition of Cultural Madness … and now I’m reporting back.
Wait. What?
If, like me, you don’t pay attention to anything anymore because you’re trying not to have an aneurysm, it was through a Daily Mail exclusive on Tuesday morning that we came to see Bryon Noem’s gigantic rack swathed in a variety of light-colored Skims t-shirts:
Kristi Noem’s husband is today revealed as a secret cross-dresser who dons gigantic fake breasts and pink hotpants to chat with online fetish models.
While his wife has operated at the highest echelons of government, handling matters of national security in her recent role as Secretary of Homeland Security, Bryon Noem, 56, has been dressing up and paying adult entertainers to talk dirty.
The Daily Mail has reviewed hundreds of messages involving three women from the ‘bimbofication’ scene – where porn performers transform themselves into real-life Barbie dolls by pumping colossal amounts of saline into their breasts.
The article goes on to quote one of the porn stars he had a textual relationship with:
“His kink is for huge, huge ridiculous boobs,” she said.
The article also mentions the potential this had for political blackmail while his she-devil wife was running ICE (a possible adjunct fetish) and her alleged affair with a fellow character in the MAGAverse, Corey Lewandowski. No mention, though, of this stacked man’s most egregious act, which is obviously how he spells “Bryon.”
My favorite part of this story is how fake it seems. I mean, my first reaction was to fact-check the Instagram post because when I saw those balloons I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Must be AI,” a burly cattle rancher who personally knows the Noems told The New York Times.
But it is, indeed, “reality.”
Responding to interview requests on Tuesday, Bryon texted, “Today is not the day. I appreciate your heart.”
As for Kristi, her reps told The NY Post, “The family was blindsided by this, and they ask for privacy and prayers.”
Girl, we all need prayers and more privacy for your family after learning this much about what your husband likes.
Huge, Huge Ridiculous Boobs
One cam girl Bryon regularly talked to, stage name “Love,” told The Daily Beast that he would tell her he was stressed and that he donned his fake titties to relax. In my experience, having huge, huge ridiculous boobs is more taxing than relaxing. But I guess it is human nature to want what you don’t have?
While I take no offense to this man’s chest-centric proclivities — many more details of which “Love” reveals here — I am offended to learn that huge, huge ridiculous boobs are still associated with bimbos. Add it to the list of how feminism has taken us nowhere. Some of us have jugs and a mind, and our face is up here.
I think it’s a dirty shame that “conservative” women like Kristi Noem demonize drag queens and insist on stripping human rights and access to health care from the trans community while their husbands wave around hard-nipped melons and pop a hip in yoga pants for cam girls they’re paying. These people need to stop cosplaying “family values” and live their truth. No juicy rack stays hidden in this unhinged age.
In this ever-expanding universe that we call the reality of life, there are many freaky cults, but MAGA takes the cake.
It’s now April, which means that it’s officially Burn It All Down anniversary month! We are marking THREE WHOLE YEARS of me chronicling the Age of Unhingement™, and I am soooo close to 100 dispatches — wild and wonderful behavior on my part. To celebrate, I’m trying to hit that 100 by the end of the month. I actually sent this newsletter every single Thursday when I first started writing it because I had something to prove to myself back then. That energy faded years ago, as most of us are well aware, and I need to write three more of these bad boys in the next four weeks if I want to reach my self-imposed goal. Can she focus? WHILE SHE’S IN NYC? There’s only one way to find out and the stakes could not be lower. Wish me luck!
Stay hydrated. Stay safe. And if you’re losing it … try a karaoke.
Less Lessons More Blessin’s™
Liz
I guess we'll try and stay hydrated… and just take it one boob at a time…