Pop Divas and Their Medicinal Counterparts

I Am the Disco Ball at Your College Gay Bar

Radiant. Resplendent. Revolving. Swinging from the rafters, I am the all-knowing glitter sphere—and I see everything. I saw your first sip of bottom-shelf whiskey. Saw you slur your words and spill on daddies. Saw you swipe someone’s half-finished drink then down it in one gulp. I am dazzling. Lustrous. The ball of the ball. As I swivel, no smooch is unseen. No hand slipped down the back of skinny jeans, unnoticed. I will not tell your secrets—but you should know that I know them, and I do not forget. I was there for your first kiss, first hickey, first consenting grope in public. I watched you score your first boyfriend. Then hung silently in suspense—as your first boyfriend kissed a lot of other guys’ first boyfriends. I worried as I watched, but I’ve seen worse. I knew you’d be okay. And you were! Kind of. I watched you fall apart, vent to your nonbinary TA, then strike out with the frat bro bartender. I watched you drown your problems. Wrestle with self-worth. Then Lady Gaga released “Bad Romance,” and I saw you wipe your tears, borrow your goth roommate’s guy-liner, and binge on a rebound buffet of one-night-only boyfriends. I saw you stumble—literally fall face-first into your favorite go-go boy, who never spoke to you again. Saw you bob your head, pretending to lip-sync lyrics you didn’t know. Saw you huff poppers and puff cigarettes. Debut your new harness—backwards—at a 2007 Leather & Lace party. Whisper “I love you” to a man you just met. Make a fool of yourself, dancing the “Cotton-Eye Joe” to Flo Rida’s “Low.” Saw you finally glimpse a truth that straight kids had known since middle school: the joy of grinding. I clocked every triple-vodka-soda you had before turning 21—watching in horror as you combined discarded drinks from around the bar, assuming nobody was watching. But I was. I admired you, despite your faults. Loved you, when you hated yourself. In the bar’s wall-spanning mirror, you saw a scrawny teenager who didn’t know who he was. I saw a baby gay in bloom. A demon twink. A nocturnal angel, flirting with hedonism, constantly on the verge of alcohol poisoning. You were resilient. Relentless. Immune to roofies—or at least, immune to worrying about them—because neither you nor I could tell if your weekend blackouts were from pre-gaming with an entire fifth of UV Blue, or from stolen drinks sprinkled with horse tranquilizers. I saw you make drinking buddies—fall out over a jealous fling—then make actual friends who had your back. I saw you find your found family. Scream-sing Glee remixes together. Cling to the padded hips of a drag queen in a queer conga line. I saw you meet fresh meat. Date a varsity cheerleader way out of your league. Dump a dude mid-dance because he made fun of Star Trek. I even saw you come out to your high school prom date when she visited. The two of you, forming a sacred GBF covenant that would last a lifetime. Or at least until your 30s. I’ve seen it all. Like a mirrored mosaic, each of my chrome-plated facets features a different hot mess. Like a beacon, I beam at the baddest b*****s. Like a prismatic globe, I kept turning—even after you graduated. A decade went by, then two. With figuratively bated breath, I awaited every alumni weekend, crushed when you couldn’t make it. But I understood. You’d outgrown me. Raged in West Hollywood. Survived the crucible of Hell’s Kitchen. Probably spent your days French-kissing your fiancé in a multi-level nightclub. But I never stopped twirling. Since you left, I’ve shepherded generations. Illuminated new waves of wallflowers, divas, and closet cases. I do not judge. I do not emit light. I can only reflect what shines around me. Like you, when you were young. Eventually, my spinning starts to slow. My ungreased joints squeal like a twink at Bear Week—but still I turn, a bittersweet sentinel. Only I experienced Studio 54 seven nights a week. Only I saw thousands of boys become men, girls become women, men become girls, and women become boys. I’ve seen a lot. But when I look back, I’m proud. No regrets. No remorse. I just miss what we had. They closed the bar. Did you hear? Condemned, then torn down. Now I’m just a dusty mirror, discarded, dreaming of weekends past. Promise that next time you dance, you’ll remember me, like I remember you. -- Subscribe for weekly brain-blasts 🧠🧨 Get full access to SOS: Satire or Something at danhass.substack.com/subscribe [https://danhass.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

Unofficial Sauna Rules at Your Local Gym

1. Proper attire is strictly prohibited. 2. Shirts, socks, and shoes are required—though we invite patrons over 65 to enjoy the sauna fully naked, as Joe Gold of Gold’s Gym originally intended. 3. Please do not shower beforehand. Likewise, any cologne, deodorant, or body spray must be applied inside the steam room. 4. We ask that you use the facilities either completely alone or with your ten closest friends. There is no in-between. 5. Conversation should be kept to a maximum at all times. As a reminder, anyone asking “hot enough for ya?” is not inquiring about your comfort—they are posing a challenge. To refuse is to renounce your masculinity. Immediately respond with a negatory grunt, raised eyebrow, or “pshh, nah,” then crank the heat. 6. Additionally, all in-sauna discussions must pertain to crypto, politics, or religion. If you insist on venturing outside sanctioned topics, we insist that conversation be held in a foreign language.7. Please take personal calls in the steam room, remembering to disrupt others by gesticulating wildly, with no regard for any appendages poking out of your threadbare, suspiciously stained towel. 8. To generate more steam, simply douse the lukewarm rocks with your energy drink, protein shake, or spew your water bottle all over the heater like a drunk preacher performing a baptism. 9. The sauna’s thermal stones may also be used to dry your swimsuit, air out your yellowing undershirt, or steam your post-workout sardines. 10. If the thermometer stops functioning, you’re welcome to tap, knock, shake, and slam the device until you lose interest. For added peace of mind, the Fahrenheit reading is entirely inaccurate anyway. 11. If temperature vacillates from uncomfortable to life-threatening, just leave the door wide open. Even better, assist your fellow patrons by whipping in some fresh air from the locker room—using your crusty towel as a windmill. 12. Please do not rise from your seat or adjust your position without a hearty groan, disgruntled exclamation, or guttural “ahhhhh.” 13. We encourage you to bring your own food or drink. Feel free to leave crumbs, wrappers, and full entrées. Polite sipping is expressly forbidden, and any remaining liquid should be squirted on your face like you’re Novak Djokovic at the US Open. 14. Books, tablets, and damp editions of Juggs are all appropriate reading material in the public sauna. Do not hesitate to loudly guffaw, knee-slap, and give the guy next to you a peek at relevant centerfolds. 15. When you finally leave, simply nod—do not speak—to each human steamed bun, showing due respect to your bench-mates and the facility. Because you’ll be back. And like a sweaty ass-print seeped into cedar, the sauna remembers. The sauna always remembers. Subscribe for weekly brain-blasts 🧠🧨 Get full access to SOS: Satire or Something at danhass.substack.com/subscribe [https://danhass.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

I’m Your Hyperventilating Seatmate in 23B Googling Facts About Turbulence

Let me be clear: I am not afraid of flying. That would be laughable, irrational, statistically absurd — ridiculous! I just have a funny feeling the left wing will fall off. Again: I am not afraid of traveling. My anxieties are merely artisanal. My phobias, bespoke. Sure, sometimes, when we’re skimming over the Atlantic, I worry I’ll phase through the floor and do a 34,000-foot polar plunge. But I am not afraid of crashing. I’m sure everything is up to snuff, code compliant, clear for takeoff. I’m also hesitant to recline my seat, in case it tips the plane nose-up. And while I am not afraid of turbulence, terrorists, or mechanical failures. It’s only because there is so much more to fear — like flushing the lavatory’s vacuum toilet and getting sucked out into open sky. Let me be clear: this is not a cry for help. It’s a pre-flight service announcement. Thank you for flying during a partial government shutdown. Get full access to SOS: Satire or Something at danhass.substack.com/subscribe [https://danhass.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

Pop Divas and Their Medicinal Counterparts

Carly Rae Jepsen = Multivitamin Gummy Concentrated optimism. Label warns against exceeding the recommended dose, but I’ve been doing two a day since 2015. Ariana Grande = Zoloft Sands the edges of human suffering. A sound bath for the soul. A capsulized whistle tone. Take as needed for heartache, depression, and ennui. Madonna = Vitamin D3 Life-sustaining sustenance injected directly into your veins by the m***********g sun. A hard reset to your sympathetic nervous system / very concept of sympathy. Rihanna = Nicotine Patch Slap this on for 24 hours of “over you” energy. Flip off everyone on the conference call. Sever ties with your Slack channel. Ditch your job, dump your boyfriend, and pursue your dream of a steady gig with a fat salary and long-term AI resistance. Oh, that doesn’t exist? Here’s another patch. Chappell Roan = EpiPen Instantly alleviates allergic reactions to heteronormative culture. One jab, and you’re hot to go. It’s like bringing a ketamine-laced sugar cube to the Pink Pony Club. Kacey Musgraves = Pre-Legalization Cannabis (Hybrid) You’re 26 years old at Lollapalooza taking your first-ever hit off a stranger’s joint. You are encased in light, warmth, and understanding. Where has this been all your life? Where is the nearest food truck? Beyoncé = LASIK A 45-minute outpatient procedure and everything snaps into formation as Dr. Sasha Fierce permanently alters your perspective. Plus, you can see Cowboy Carter giddy-up in 4k from your $800 seat in the upper mezzanine. Sabrina Carpenter = Pepto-Bismol Bubblegum-pink relief for romance-related heartburn and the nausea of dating a manchild. Also helpful when you’ve had too much espresso. Pleasant mouthfeel. Vintage packaging. Grammy-certified. Taylor Swift = Invisalign An aching, expensive obsession. You tried it as a teen (copying your friends), stuck with it after those other posers quit, then reinvented yourself in plain sight. Now you’re banging football players, and they’re still on the bleachers. Kylie Minogue = Placebo You don’t need drugs, diagnoses, or straight men. Listen to what your padam padam is trying to tell you. Snap your thermometer in half, find the nearest gay disco, and sweat it out, sister. Dua Lipa = Unlimited PTO You’re a globetrotter. A trendsetter. A wanderlust girlie lost in Ibiza, and you’re not even tripping. You’re pressure-testing your company’s vacation policy like a paid sabbatical. Actually, do you even still work here? Britney Spears = Ambien, B***h You took your mom’s meds by mistake, then rode the rollercoaster of life till the rails fell off. Now it’s 4 am at the clerb and you’re juggling knives for an enrapt audience of barflies and future ex-boyfriends. Charli xcx = Craigslist Adderall You’re resourceful. Driven. Open-minded. You probably have finals on Monday, and skipped every lecture that started before noon. Is it safe? What is safe? Should we start a club? A business? A band?? Kesha = Medicinal Ecstasy You thought your youth ended when you grew out of your skinny jeans, but just one dose, and you’re dancing on the counter (please get down) and swigging a bottle of Jack (ma’am, I’m not going to ask you again). Your love is my drug, but it’s even better on molly. Lady Gaga = Poppers The equivalent of huffing video cleaner at a warehouse orgy on Venus. Your doctor did not prescribe this. Your father would not approve. This is not a treatment recognized, recommended, or condoned by the FDA—which makes it even hotter. Subscribe for weekly brain-blasts 🧠🧨 Get full access to SOS: Satire or Something at danhass.substack.com/subscribe [https://danhass.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

FAQ: Your Oura Ring Piercing From Claire’s

Congratulations on your commitment to optimized self-care — with your purchase of an all-inclusive, all-invasive Oura Ring Fitness-Tracker Piercing. Here’s what besties chasing their best lives need to know. What are Fitness-Tracker Piercings? In collaboration with Oura Ring, Claire’s innovative wellness wearables are now available at abandoned malls nationwide. Packed with high-tech features in every rhinestone, these bedazzled fitness trackers can record your weight, workouts, and general well-being. Acutely. Accurately. Eternally. How does it work? Using the same rusty piercing guns from 1996, every in-store installation is performed by a trusted Claire’s Specialist (a teenage employee-in-training named Madison who would rather be working at Hollister). Once your Oura Ring Piercing is embedded in the appropriate lobe, cartilage, or currently trending orifice, micro-sensors tap your biometrics like a landline, directly connecting your body via Bluetooth to our pinky-promise-secure cloud server. What types of rings can I get? Claire’s exclusive Oura Ring Piercings easily outpace generic fitness trackers, featuring a limited-edition lineup for the next generation of anxious, awkward adolescents. Forget pedometers. This is a total somatic surveillance system. A revolution in wellness technology that makes the Apple Watch look analog. Most-requested products include the FabDiet Tongue Bead, StepCount Septum Elite, and the all-new Oura Nipple Ring (available in Rose Gold, Midnight Black, and Areola Purple). Likewise, customers combating stubborn belly fat may benefit from our FitSpark Starter Studs, which provide a shocking incentive (up to 50K volts!) if you even smell Cinnabon. What data does it track? Yes. I mean, what exactly do they measure? Every Oura Ring Piercing closely monitors your steps, temperature, BPM, sleep quality, caloric intake, spending habits, and comprehensive emotional disposition. Tough week with your angsty tween? Take a peek at the in-app hormone meter for a glitter-gel chart of their pubertal development. Who can see my data? Unfortunately, that’s confidential. Unlike your data. Also, your cholesterol looks a little high, babe. Is it safe? Since the first cave-parent caught their kid poking fishbones in their unibrow, Claire’s has offered a slightly more sanitary alternative to DIY home piercings. However, for customers yearning for the nostalgia of Zippo-heated nails, safety pins, and sewing needles, ask about our Y2K Pre-Infected Collection. Unless you’re asking about cybersecurity? That’s a little fuzzy (like our Caterpillar Mood Hoops). Across the product line, Oura Ring Piercings put the “party” in unrestricted third-party access. Is it going to hurt? After rigorous testing on stuffed animals and seasonal sales associates, Claire’s can confidently state that the majority of participants experience minimal discomfort during installation — provided they don’t flinch, squirm, sneeze, or breathe. A pinprick today, a lifetime of hyperawareness — as your Oura Ring Piercing meticulously catalogs every fault and flaw of your frail, failing body. Is it supposed to burn? Have you reached your daily step goal yet? If your piercing suddenly seethes with the searing heat of a molten branding iron, that’s just our Feel The Burn™ technology in action. Can I disable some of these features? Absolutely. You’re in control! You can disable: yourself. Can I at least turn down the shock vibrations? Our patent-pending BodyBuzz Extreme Haptics cannot be removed or reduced. For too long, Claire’s customers have been forced to rely on the human body’s natural signals and hormone triggers. Ick. Ew. Boring! Now, Claire’s can play your physiology like the scratched Britney Spears CD it is — easily capable of producing shivers down your spine, butterflies in your stomach, or fathomless, full-body shame. Please note that in the event of attempted removal, all Oura-powered self-care devices will self-destruct. Where do I sign up? Simply plug the address of your nearest Claire’s into MapQuest, hover outside as if you’re having second thoughts, and before you can ask, “wait, didn’t Claire’s close like 20 years ago?” — an overly familiar assistant manager will scribble on you with Sharpie like a stoned anesthesiologist, then bodily strap you down in a ripped, pink barber’s chair that smells like hot pennies. Subscribe for weekly brain-blasts 🧠🧨 Originally published on Slackjaw [https://medium.com/slackjaw]. Get full access to SOS: Satire or Something at danhass.substack.com/subscribe [https://danhass.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]