Cold

Join the team, player.

A Cart on the Snowy Road at Honfleur (1865), Claude Monet

Negative emotions are good for you. I almost forgot. What the fuck? Without anger and sadness and spite, what do you become? Some kind of weird, cheerful earthworm. Nobody needs that unless they’re living in a Richard Scarry book, in which case they require a little worm buddy to help them stay calm while navigating a maze of pig masons and goats with eggbeater earrings.

I would love an upbeat earthworm or a sarcastic chameleon or some other variety of Disney sidekick to accompany me through my day. In fact, the only thing that’s bad about making sweeping negative statements every few minutes — as I am prone to do at this particular juncture — is that there isn’t a wisecracking ferret backing my play every time.

This morning, I discovered that the Spanish word for “pet” is “mascota.” This makes so much sense, since pets have always served a role in my household that’s much less adorable, diminutive underling and much more goofy imbecile to rally around for no good reason whatsoever. Who better to help you weather life’s constant insults than a cute little jabbering halfwit? This is why I married a man.

Under current world-historical conditions, most of us would do well to befriend a cheerful worm, an ebullient plushy, or a suggestible human man. Because when the sky is falling, we all need a pliant stooge nearby who can’t see the forest for the trees, rendering him content to, you know, play golf and fetch groceries and bake very good bread.

Isn’t a thoughtless stooge of a man to blame for the sky falling in the first place? Well, naturally, but can that be helped? Sadly, we don’t live in a world inhabited by cat dentists and goat farmers, so we have to tolerate the real world instead, where the stupidest and greediest and most depraved among us fly to Davos to suck each other off and the smartest and most generous and most logical among us waste all of their time shopping for attractive vegetables at the local food coop.

Davos is just like “Heated Rivalry” except everyone is ugly. In the words of Valerie Cherish from “The Comeback,” I don’t want to see that — or hear about it. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to avoid a torrent of Davos news, thanks to the fact that our president keeps mistaking google-eyed cartoon lizard Stephen Miller for a foreign policy mastermind.

Luckily, we have the international relations experts at Semafor to explain Davos to us by helpfully asking, “Is climate change in or out this year?” and “Is AI going to pay out before or after it demoralizes, dehumanizes, desecrates, and destroys the entire planet?” You know what’s on-trend and paying out for me personally? Telling every last one of those bloated capitalist fuckknobs and the fuckwits who felate them to fuck off forever.

You know what else is IN? Being a grumpy asshole who spews bile on the regular. Finally! Because for years, being honest about your terrible attitude about everything had fallen deeply out of style. Who did that to our world? And how boring and useless did censoring ourselves turn out to be?

Is it any coincidence that we reached peak Let’s Be Polite And Hear What These Nazi Goons Have to Say For Themselves right before a mob of racist thugs started dragging small children out of their homes and shooting women in the face and murdering innocent bystanders without recourse?

Moreover, when will all of my whoring, red-pilled mascota former friends snap out of their “It’s not fascist, you’re being reactionary!” stupor and admit that they’ve been repeating the talking points of hateful, blathering morons for years now? I won’t hold my breath, but I see you, motherfuckers. And while I’m waiting for your gold-embossed apology notes, you lunatics who can’t tell a joke from a solemn position paper or statement of purpose can kiss my ass, too.

As for the rest of you, who’ve heroically managed to keep the brains inside your skulls functioning correctly: I want to encourage you to savor the luxury of expressing your most acrid and dyspeptic emotions with maximal zest and vigor, anywhere and everywhere. I don’t just mean voicing disappointment, resignation, and disillusionment at the state of the world. I don’t only mean raging at marches and protests. I mean let’s enjoy the mundane delights of being rancid for no good reason. Be a relentless downer. Speak with extreme prejudice. Air personal slights and longstanding beefs. Paint a mean face on your giant plushy head and be a mascot for Team Fuck This Shit.

Brooklyn Beckham caught the spirit this week by openly declaring both of his parents vicious, self-serving ghouls whose shared notion of childrearing consisted of dragging him through a never-ending maze of dipshitty promotional events, demanding that he plant fat kisses on their increasingly rubbery-smooth faces. I love that children who were too young to consent to being paraded around like overpriced handbags are finally old enough to inform us that yes, it’s as wretched and as terrifying as we might’ve imagined.

My personal opinion is that everyone should keep their kids out of the public eye until they’re old enough to make their own choices. The fact that this isn’t common wisdom tells you how little wisdom is common right now.

But look no further than Davos for a real taste of how unwise the world has become. Most of these so-called thought leaders are just goofy imbeciles that the markets rally around for no good reason whatsoever. These pig CEOs and goat Chief Product Officers and cat Chief Commercial Payments Officers are content to play along with their Nazi overlords and spew fascist nonsense as the world burns, and only a scattered few including Al Gore have the raw unsalted nuts to call them out.

Do you ever wonder where all of these mascotas learned their lucrative cocksucking planet-fucking routines? From their corrupt, controlling parents, who dragged them through an obstacle course of arbitrary accolades, high marks for uncritical thinking, elite school admissions for unconditional knob-gobbling, all leading to corporate-fast-track careers, just so they could fit in with their vapid, ladder-climbing, nonsense-spewing Chief Fucknut Officer friends and neighbors. When you treat your kid like a funny clown with a big head who makes you laugh when you’re bored and serves up cute content for your business’s social media accounts, you shouldn’t be surprised when one day he’s publicly declaring YOU the enemy.

And if your cute little pig bankers and kitten MBAs never denounce your values and proclaim you depraved, then congratulations, you’ve successfully raised team players who — surprise! — never learned to think for themselves. They’ll obey their twisted bosses and eventually, they’ll take their buried resentments out on the populace, either by fucking us into the ground with planet-destroying business initiatives, shooting us in the face on a whim, or making reckless grabs for more and more power like our big orange dipshit daddy-in-chief.

Speaking of daddies, David Beckham responded to Brooklyn’s instagram post by saying, simply, “Children make mistakes.” Right. Dads make mistakes, too, but they so rarely admit it or apologize for it.

When do things change? When someone has the raw unsalted nuts to announce: This is my fault. Let’s do it differently from now on. If you want to know what that looks like, use Snowpocalypse 2026 as your excuse to binge “Heated Rivalry” in one sitting while scarfing all of the perishables in your fridge.

Soon Rozanov will be your Forever Guide to expressing any and all negative emotions through pursed, juicy, heart-shaped lips. When the whole world is as cold and merciless as an ice storm, being the cuntiest cunt in the universe is the ultimate in luxury self-care. Go Team Fuck This Shit.

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Thanks for reading Ask Molly, soon to be renamed TFTS, which is very close to TFS, which is a band that is definitely on TFTS. For more on “Heated Rivalry,” consult any local straight woman and/or Today in Tabs.