Monday, August 11, 2008
You may kiss the bride, or get pissed at the dickhead guest
On Saturday, I attended the wedding for two of my grad school buddies. They met in lab and are crazily in love and the event was generally a joyous one. Even a cynical old slut like myself is touched when two people are clearly devoted to each other and make it official. Besides, their wedding was not only perfect for them, it was a fun party on a lovely sunset cruise around Manhattan. One of their labmates served as their minister, they danced to Guns 'n' Roses, and there was an open bar with top shelf liquor. I enjoyed 99.9995% of the wedding.
The part of the wedding I did not enjoy, however, was the presence of That One Asshole who insists on being a bitch even at such a happy occasion. Every wedding, graduation, anniversary, or other happy life celebration usually includes That One Asshole. At my family gatherings, this is usually my Aunt Jesus, who likes to start fights about politics and/or religion. One year at my parents' annual Christmas open house, she started talking loudly about the sin of homosexuality in front of my cousin whose wife had recently left him for another woman. What purpose this served besides publicly humiliating my cousin–who was already devastated by the breakup of his almost twenty-year marriage–I have no idea, but that's how my Aunt Jesus rolls. Since she's constantly talking about what a fabulous Christian she is, I assume she learns that sort of behavior in church.
However, That One Asshole doesn't always come in the form of a fundamentalist Sean Hannity parrot. That One Asshole has many iterations, but their ultimate goal is always the same: to place their own need for overcompensation above all else, and rain on someone else's parade in the process. In the case of the wedding I attended, That One Asshole was one of the most insidious breeds of cocksucking dickheadishness in existence: a Columbia University graduate student.
The wedding took place on the top floor of this boat, which was a tight squeeze for all the guests. There were some folding chairs arranged in rows, and some benches along the wall behind tables. Because I boarded the boat early with my buddy NeisMan and his girlfriend NeisLady, we squeezed into the benches along the wall so people wouldn't have to squeeze past us later. That One Asshole sat in the folding chair across from the table in front of me. When he sat down, I thought he looked familiar, but couldn't place him. He gave me a weird look, and I figured he must have felt the same way, but didn't think much of it and spent the pre-ceremony time trying to give NeisLady tips on avoiding seasickness. Specifically, I was telling her not to look down. That turned into a conversation about how glass bottomed boat tours are the worst thing for anyone to do if prone to seasickness, and I told a brief anecdote about how I once saw a guy blow chunks on such a boat trip in Hawaii. Apparently That One Asshole was listening to our conversation, because he turned to me and said, "Do you think you can NOT talk about puking at a wedding?"
"Sorry," I said, somewhat irritated. I had not been talking particularly loudly. Since I know I am naturally louder than most people, I make a conscious effort to tone it down at events like weddings to avoid being That One Asshole myself. I don't want people to think I'm an embarrassment, so I go to great lengths to ensure that I'm not hollering about blow jobs and assfucking and who is a motherfucker and whatnot as a happy couple is about to exchange their vows. I also get really annoyed when this goes unnoticed. At a bridal shower I attended a while back, some of my friends were trying so hard to "handle" me that I almost went off about it. However, then I remembered that interrupting an event with a temper tantrum is also That One Asshole behavior, so I just sucked it up, gritted my teeth, reminded myself that my friends are humans who make mistakes too, and allowed myself to be managed like an unruly child, proving (at least to myself) that I can in fact be a mature adult when an occasion calls for it. That's why when this dude basically shushed me, I just smiled and changed the subject. Then the wedding started.
We all stood as the bride entered, and NeisLady's girlfriend whispered to me that she looked beautiful. I whispered back my agreement, as she did in fact look radiant and very happy. However, I was feeling less than radiant, because there was no room to stand behind the table we were seated at, and trying to awkwardly balance with hyperextended knees on a rocking boat in four-inch heels is extremely uncomfortable. When the minister grad student told us to be seated, I did so gratefully and whispered to NeisLady (who was suffering the same), "Thank God." That One Asshole glared at me and said loudly to his neighbor, "I could do without the COMMENTARY." Again, I'm not trying to be That One Asshole who bitches out another wedding guest during the ceremony, so I just smiled and turned my attention to the nuptials in progress.
That One Asshole continued to shoot me the evil eye throughout the ceremony for offenses such as digging out my Kleenex when I started tearing up. As embarrassing as it is, I almost always cry at weddings. I'm not sure why, but my emotions get the better of me when I see a couple who love each other expressing it so openly, and making a commitment as abiding and legally serious as marriage. This is probably because it seems like a convention of human society that I will most likely never participate in, and thus regard it as something special and rare. That One Asshole seemingly did not even tolerate this one weakness on my part, and expressed his disapproval by doing a lot of loud, exasperated sighing and eye rolling. When the ceremony ended, my friend G-Cat's girlfriend G-Kitten was crying too, so I went with her to the bar to be with more sympathetic company.
A while later during the pre-dinner drinks-and-hors d'oeuvres portion of the party, I was standing with my pals DulapVara and Carcass, as well as NeisMan, NeisLady, G-Cat, and G-Kitten on the rear deck of the boat taking in the scenery. At one point a Circle Line boat full of photo snapping tourists sailed by. While my normal instinct would be to flash my tits and/or give them the finger and shout "WELCOME TO FUCKIN' NEW YORK!," I just waved and blew kisses to be a good wedding guest (okay, I think I did do the middle finger/cussing thing a little later, but I made sure nobody was watching except my friends). Nonetheless, That One Asshole, standing on the other side of the deck smoking a cigarette, proceeded to continue his relentless mean-mugging. "Hey dudes," I said to my friends. "Who is that guy? The dude over there who keeps glaring at me."
"Why? You got him in your sights? Uh oh," said one of my wiseass friends.
"Very funny," I said. "No, I mean I guess he's good looking, but he seems to hate me for some reason. I know I've met him somewhere before."
"I think he's a grad student. From a lab on the Morningside campus. Biology department, I think," one of my friends said.
Hmmm. The bride is a member of the biology department, even though she works uptown at our campus with us. Then it hit me like a hard dick from the back. I suddenly remembered where I met That One Asshole.
At the bride and groom's engagement party many months earlier, I had been flirting with That One Asshole. By normal standards, he's pretty average looking, which means by grad school standards he's a veritable Adonis. At their engagement party, he was certainly the only guy in attendance I'd consider hooking up with. I remember sitting in the bedroom at this party with him discussing that very prospect and possibly making out a little bit (I don't remember, but considering my availability for sucking face, it's highly probable). However, the deal was killed when he informed me that he's into S&M, and he expected me to smack him around in the bedroom. He didn't just want me to do some playful spanking; he wanted me to punch him and put all my effort into beating the shit out of him. This was a problem for me.
I'm by no means a prude, but all that domination crap does nothing for me. I don't mind telling a dude he's my bitch, or tying him up, or ordering him to do things, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of physically abusing someone, even if they want me to. For another thing, the people who are really into this lifestyle are generally huge pains in the ass. One of my friends was hired to be a (non-sexual) dominatrix when she first moved to New York, as her "slave" promised this was good money for little more than slapping him around and making him do her chores. She figured this was a great way to get paid for relieving her stress and getting free maid services. Unfortunately, the guy was constantly pestering her to hit him harder and complained that she wasn't putting enough effort into enslaving him. When she tried to counter with "shut up like a good sub" sentiments, he still whined that she wasn't being sufficiently mean or dominant. Eventually she decided to make her money via more conventional means and do her own dishes, and told her slave to find a new mistress. Her story convinced me that the BDSM scene is something I really don't care to be a part of, simply because it sounds like a lot of really annoying work (not to mention a sizable financial investment in ball gags and nipple clamps and all that fetish crap that costs a fortune but seems to be requisite for that lifestyle). Thus, this guy's request that I go Ike Turner on his ass was unappealing as far as drunken post-party sex goes.
Luckily, I didn't even have to finish processing about my discomfort with his proposition, because this other guy who had been following me around like a dog all night came in and deftly cockblocked That One Asshole. This other guy was very nice, but he was literally a foot shorter than me (I'm 5'3"), and as much as my inner profound nerd loves Lord of the Rings, I'm not into fucking hobbits. Plus, he was not pathetically not picking up on my signals of disinterest (ie: constantly ditching him to talk to other people), as indicated by the fact that I was talking flirtatiously with That One Asshole and he stomped up, shoved his iPhone in my face, and said, "Hey, let's do the phone number thing!"
"The phone number thing?"
"Yeah, let's do it! Let's exchange phone numbers! Let's do that phone number thing!"
Poor guy. I evaded his request by telling him he could just send me a Facebook message, which he did, and which I ignored. I also decided to ditch That One Asshole and his face-punching demands by making a hasty escape from that party with my boys G-Cat, NeisMan, and Carcass. That might explain why he was so pissed at me at this wedding. He strikes me as very arrogant, and nothing pisses off a cocksure narcissist like being left in the condition that Lil' Kim describes as "stuck and left nekkid with a hard penis." Okay, I didn't leave him naked except in the figurative sense of having revealed his personal sexual fetish, but I'm pretty sure he was mad about his blue balls because guys usually are.
For the sake of a harmonious wedding and to seem like a gracious almost-former-hook up, when I realized That One Asshole was seated at the same table as G-Cat, G-Kitten, myself, and Carcass, I tried to make nice.
"Hey, dude!" I said. "How are you doing? I didn't get a chance to say hi earlier."
"Yes you did. You just chose to ignore me when I said 'hi' to you," he snipped. Oops. I hadn't heard him greet me.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize you said hi. It was completely unintentional." I then realized he didn't have a cocktail. "Can I get you a drink to make it up to you?" I asked.
"I'm not drinking," he said huffily. "I have to go to lab tomorrow."
"So do I," I said, raising my scotch. "That's not stopping me."
He gave me a withering look, so I decided that it was an opportune time to hit the buffet. I spent the rest of the meal talking with everyone else at the table, including one of his friends I'd never met before. His friend was a very jovial, chatty guy who got me going on one of my favorite topics: this very blog. That One Asshole piped in to say snottily that he had aspirations of being a science writer after getting Ph.ake doctored, but didn't know how to go about getting his foot in the door. So after dinner, I saw him on the yacht deck smoking, and went over to continue my attempts at friendliness.
"You know," I said. "If you are really serious about getting into writing, you might consider starting a blog. It's really easy to do, and it's great practice for me. Besides, then when you apply for jobs, you have a body of work you can refer to."
He seemed to lighten up a little bit, and asked me a little bit about my traffic and whatnot. I said, "Really, if I were to get a job as a science writer, I doubt I would refer them to my website. Most science journalists don't routinely incorporate words like 'cocksucker' and 'motherfucker' or anecdotal tales of anal sex into their prose, but it's useful to further develop my style and improve my writing. It's also pretty cathartic and helps keep me honest."
I then realized that I needed a refill on my hooch, so I excused myself. However, our small talk had gone so well I was considering that he might not be such an asshole as I first thought. Maybe he just took it really personally that I'd accidentally slighted him when he greeted me, and realized that it was not intentional. Maybe he was giving me the benefit of the doubt and rethinking his perception of my rudeness.
After the boat docked, most of my fellow alcoholics (including the bride and groom) decided to go get some drinks at the Boat Basin Café before it closed. Carcass and I walked from the dock there with That One Asshole, who was vacillating about whether or not he should go. He then demonstrated that he was not, in fact, over his assholishness, nor was it directed exclusively at me.
"It's getting late," he said. Carcass pointed out that it was barely 11 p.m., which by New York Saturday night standards is practically the afternoon in terms of its lateness. That One Asshole did not appreciate this reminder, and said condescendingly, "The Asian markets open in a couple hours."
The Asian markets? SO? I just don't believe that when he's not slaving away in lab or dreaming of one day writing feature pieces for Scientific American, That One Asshole is busy trading rice futures or whatever. Neither did Carcass, who decided to call him on his bullshit.
"Tomorrow is SUNDAY," Carcass said.
"It's Monday in Asia," That One Asshole said.
"Uh, no, it's not," Carcass added. That One Asshole rolled his eyes, made a scoffing sound, and ditched us. When we got to the Boat Basin Café, I wound up sitting at the same table as That One Asshole, who was nursing his beer and generally being quietly surly. His jovial friend from earlier was chatting with me, and somehow the topic of HIV came up and we had a good-natured scientific debate about it. The friend argued that men could only get HIV by having anal sex with a woman, because vaginal secretions have an insufficient viral load to transmit infection and men can only get the HIV by exposing their weiners to blood, and bleeding only occurs during anal sex. I was vehemently arguing that this was not true (it's not AT ALL true, so fellas, make sure you wrap it up).
"Vaginal secretions have as high a viral load as blood or semen, dude. Furthermore, don't believe that vaginas don't bleed, because I can assure you that they do," I said. "As both a virologist and a slut, I caution you: if you raw dog chicks vaginally, you do so at your own peril."
Before the friend could respond, That One Asshole chimed in.
"Don't you have any sense of decorum whatsoever?" he said in a scathing tone of voice. The table was immediately shocked into the uncomfortable silence that follows such an undeserved and pointed insult delivered as a reprimand. There was no mistaking it. That One Asshole felt such patent dislike for me that he was going to publicly dress me down for arguing my position in response to HIS friend's equally loud assertions about HIV transmission mediated by anal tearing during buttfucking in a virtually empty bar populated solely by drunk people.
"Apparently not," I said, glowering at him. Then I turned to his friend and said loudly, "Is there any particular reason that guy is such a fucking asshole?" The friend told me to ignore him. I said no problem, and excused myself to rejoin my boys at their table. They all commiserrated with me regarding this guy's dickishness, and added their own anecdotes of how he'd been an unmitigated dickhead throughout the course of the wedding. Since we were being kicked out of the bar by the closing staff, we elected to call it a night rather than continue drinking with That One Asshole. We may not have had to rise early to greet the opening Asian markets, but we did all have to go to lab the next day.
As someone whose apparent lack of decorum has now been publicly observed and who has the potential to be That One Asshole, I advise everyone with similar tendencies to rein it in at otherwise fun social occasions. Although I had a generally great time at my friends' wedding, and I wish them all the happiness in the world and a wonderful life together, That One Asshole is now going to mar my and other guests' memories of the occasion. If everyone with That One Asshole potential would resist the urge to satisfy those impulses, weddings would be happier occasions. Then again, most people who are not obviously insecure, overcompensating closet subs getting revenge on the random girl who declined to slap them around and then inadvertantly snubbed them by talking down to her and her friends, and can thus avoid being That One Asshole without my advice. However, if you are a self-important jerk trying desperately to impress people at an event celebrating someone else's achievement, acting like the bigger person is a better way to accomplish that than making pompous explanations for sobriety involving the Asian markets or your superior decorum. Nobody likes That One Asshole, so don't be him.
The part of the wedding I did not enjoy, however, was the presence of That One Asshole who insists on being a bitch even at such a happy occasion. Every wedding, graduation, anniversary, or other happy life celebration usually includes That One Asshole. At my family gatherings, this is usually my Aunt Jesus, who likes to start fights about politics and/or religion. One year at my parents' annual Christmas open house, she started talking loudly about the sin of homosexuality in front of my cousin whose wife had recently left him for another woman. What purpose this served besides publicly humiliating my cousin–who was already devastated by the breakup of his almost twenty-year marriage–I have no idea, but that's how my Aunt Jesus rolls. Since she's constantly talking about what a fabulous Christian she is, I assume she learns that sort of behavior in church.
However, That One Asshole doesn't always come in the form of a fundamentalist Sean Hannity parrot. That One Asshole has many iterations, but their ultimate goal is always the same: to place their own need for overcompensation above all else, and rain on someone else's parade in the process. In the case of the wedding I attended, That One Asshole was one of the most insidious breeds of cocksucking dickheadishness in existence: a Columbia University graduate student.
The wedding took place on the top floor of this boat, which was a tight squeeze for all the guests. There were some folding chairs arranged in rows, and some benches along the wall behind tables. Because I boarded the boat early with my buddy NeisMan and his girlfriend NeisLady, we squeezed into the benches along the wall so people wouldn't have to squeeze past us later. That One Asshole sat in the folding chair across from the table in front of me. When he sat down, I thought he looked familiar, but couldn't place him. He gave me a weird look, and I figured he must have felt the same way, but didn't think much of it and spent the pre-ceremony time trying to give NeisLady tips on avoiding seasickness. Specifically, I was telling her not to look down. That turned into a conversation about how glass bottomed boat tours are the worst thing for anyone to do if prone to seasickness, and I told a brief anecdote about how I once saw a guy blow chunks on such a boat trip in Hawaii. Apparently That One Asshole was listening to our conversation, because he turned to me and said, "Do you think you can NOT talk about puking at a wedding?"
"Sorry," I said, somewhat irritated. I had not been talking particularly loudly. Since I know I am naturally louder than most people, I make a conscious effort to tone it down at events like weddings to avoid being That One Asshole myself. I don't want people to think I'm an embarrassment, so I go to great lengths to ensure that I'm not hollering about blow jobs and assfucking and who is a motherfucker and whatnot as a happy couple is about to exchange their vows. I also get really annoyed when this goes unnoticed. At a bridal shower I attended a while back, some of my friends were trying so hard to "handle" me that I almost went off about it. However, then I remembered that interrupting an event with a temper tantrum is also That One Asshole behavior, so I just sucked it up, gritted my teeth, reminded myself that my friends are humans who make mistakes too, and allowed myself to be managed like an unruly child, proving (at least to myself) that I can in fact be a mature adult when an occasion calls for it. That's why when this dude basically shushed me, I just smiled and changed the subject. Then the wedding started.
We all stood as the bride entered, and NeisLady's girlfriend whispered to me that she looked beautiful. I whispered back my agreement, as she did in fact look radiant and very happy. However, I was feeling less than radiant, because there was no room to stand behind the table we were seated at, and trying to awkwardly balance with hyperextended knees on a rocking boat in four-inch heels is extremely uncomfortable. When the minister grad student told us to be seated, I did so gratefully and whispered to NeisLady (who was suffering the same), "Thank God." That One Asshole glared at me and said loudly to his neighbor, "I could do without the COMMENTARY." Again, I'm not trying to be That One Asshole who bitches out another wedding guest during the ceremony, so I just smiled and turned my attention to the nuptials in progress.
That One Asshole continued to shoot me the evil eye throughout the ceremony for offenses such as digging out my Kleenex when I started tearing up. As embarrassing as it is, I almost always cry at weddings. I'm not sure why, but my emotions get the better of me when I see a couple who love each other expressing it so openly, and making a commitment as abiding and legally serious as marriage. This is probably because it seems like a convention of human society that I will most likely never participate in, and thus regard it as something special and rare. That One Asshole seemingly did not even tolerate this one weakness on my part, and expressed his disapproval by doing a lot of loud, exasperated sighing and eye rolling. When the ceremony ended, my friend G-Cat's girlfriend G-Kitten was crying too, so I went with her to the bar to be with more sympathetic company.
A while later during the pre-dinner drinks-and-hors d'oeuvres portion of the party, I was standing with my pals DulapVara and Carcass, as well as NeisMan, NeisLady, G-Cat, and G-Kitten on the rear deck of the boat taking in the scenery. At one point a Circle Line boat full of photo snapping tourists sailed by. While my normal instinct would be to flash my tits and/or give them the finger and shout "WELCOME TO FUCKIN' NEW YORK!," I just waved and blew kisses to be a good wedding guest (okay, I think I did do the middle finger/cussing thing a little later, but I made sure nobody was watching except my friends). Nonetheless, That One Asshole, standing on the other side of the deck smoking a cigarette, proceeded to continue his relentless mean-mugging. "Hey dudes," I said to my friends. "Who is that guy? The dude over there who keeps glaring at me."
"Why? You got him in your sights? Uh oh," said one of my wiseass friends.
"Very funny," I said. "No, I mean I guess he's good looking, but he seems to hate me for some reason. I know I've met him somewhere before."
"I think he's a grad student. From a lab on the Morningside campus. Biology department, I think," one of my friends said.
Hmmm. The bride is a member of the biology department, even though she works uptown at our campus with us. Then it hit me like a hard dick from the back. I suddenly remembered where I met That One Asshole.
At the bride and groom's engagement party many months earlier, I had been flirting with That One Asshole. By normal standards, he's pretty average looking, which means by grad school standards he's a veritable Adonis. At their engagement party, he was certainly the only guy in attendance I'd consider hooking up with. I remember sitting in the bedroom at this party with him discussing that very prospect and possibly making out a little bit (I don't remember, but considering my availability for sucking face, it's highly probable). However, the deal was killed when he informed me that he's into S&M, and he expected me to smack him around in the bedroom. He didn't just want me to do some playful spanking; he wanted me to punch him and put all my effort into beating the shit out of him. This was a problem for me.
I'm by no means a prude, but all that domination crap does nothing for me. I don't mind telling a dude he's my bitch, or tying him up, or ordering him to do things, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of physically abusing someone, even if they want me to. For another thing, the people who are really into this lifestyle are generally huge pains in the ass. One of my friends was hired to be a (non-sexual) dominatrix when she first moved to New York, as her "slave" promised this was good money for little more than slapping him around and making him do her chores. She figured this was a great way to get paid for relieving her stress and getting free maid services. Unfortunately, the guy was constantly pestering her to hit him harder and complained that she wasn't putting enough effort into enslaving him. When she tried to counter with "shut up like a good sub" sentiments, he still whined that she wasn't being sufficiently mean or dominant. Eventually she decided to make her money via more conventional means and do her own dishes, and told her slave to find a new mistress. Her story convinced me that the BDSM scene is something I really don't care to be a part of, simply because it sounds like a lot of really annoying work (not to mention a sizable financial investment in ball gags and nipple clamps and all that fetish crap that costs a fortune but seems to be requisite for that lifestyle). Thus, this guy's request that I go Ike Turner on his ass was unappealing as far as drunken post-party sex goes.
Luckily, I didn't even have to finish processing about my discomfort with his proposition, because this other guy who had been following me around like a dog all night came in and deftly cockblocked That One Asshole. This other guy was very nice, but he was literally a foot shorter than me (I'm 5'3"), and as much as my inner profound nerd loves Lord of the Rings, I'm not into fucking hobbits. Plus, he was not pathetically not picking up on my signals of disinterest (ie: constantly ditching him to talk to other people), as indicated by the fact that I was talking flirtatiously with That One Asshole and he stomped up, shoved his iPhone in my face, and said, "Hey, let's do the phone number thing!"
"The phone number thing?"
"Yeah, let's do it! Let's exchange phone numbers! Let's do that phone number thing!"
Poor guy. I evaded his request by telling him he could just send me a Facebook message, which he did, and which I ignored. I also decided to ditch That One Asshole and his face-punching demands by making a hasty escape from that party with my boys G-Cat, NeisMan, and Carcass. That might explain why he was so pissed at me at this wedding. He strikes me as very arrogant, and nothing pisses off a cocksure narcissist like being left in the condition that Lil' Kim describes as "stuck and left nekkid with a hard penis." Okay, I didn't leave him naked except in the figurative sense of having revealed his personal sexual fetish, but I'm pretty sure he was mad about his blue balls because guys usually are.
For the sake of a harmonious wedding and to seem like a gracious almost-former-hook up, when I realized That One Asshole was seated at the same table as G-Cat, G-Kitten, myself, and Carcass, I tried to make nice.
"Hey, dude!" I said. "How are you doing? I didn't get a chance to say hi earlier."
"Yes you did. You just chose to ignore me when I said 'hi' to you," he snipped. Oops. I hadn't heard him greet me.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize you said hi. It was completely unintentional." I then realized he didn't have a cocktail. "Can I get you a drink to make it up to you?" I asked.
"I'm not drinking," he said huffily. "I have to go to lab tomorrow."
"So do I," I said, raising my scotch. "That's not stopping me."
He gave me a withering look, so I decided that it was an opportune time to hit the buffet. I spent the rest of the meal talking with everyone else at the table, including one of his friends I'd never met before. His friend was a very jovial, chatty guy who got me going on one of my favorite topics: this very blog. That One Asshole piped in to say snottily that he had aspirations of being a science writer after getting Ph.ake doctored, but didn't know how to go about getting his foot in the door. So after dinner, I saw him on the yacht deck smoking, and went over to continue my attempts at friendliness.
"You know," I said. "If you are really serious about getting into writing, you might consider starting a blog. It's really easy to do, and it's great practice for me. Besides, then when you apply for jobs, you have a body of work you can refer to."
He seemed to lighten up a little bit, and asked me a little bit about my traffic and whatnot. I said, "Really, if I were to get a job as a science writer, I doubt I would refer them to my website. Most science journalists don't routinely incorporate words like 'cocksucker' and 'motherfucker' or anecdotal tales of anal sex into their prose, but it's useful to further develop my style and improve my writing. It's also pretty cathartic and helps keep me honest."
I then realized that I needed a refill on my hooch, so I excused myself. However, our small talk had gone so well I was considering that he might not be such an asshole as I first thought. Maybe he just took it really personally that I'd accidentally slighted him when he greeted me, and realized that it was not intentional. Maybe he was giving me the benefit of the doubt and rethinking his perception of my rudeness.
After the boat docked, most of my fellow alcoholics (including the bride and groom) decided to go get some drinks at the Boat Basin Café before it closed. Carcass and I walked from the dock there with That One Asshole, who was vacillating about whether or not he should go. He then demonstrated that he was not, in fact, over his assholishness, nor was it directed exclusively at me.
"It's getting late," he said. Carcass pointed out that it was barely 11 p.m., which by New York Saturday night standards is practically the afternoon in terms of its lateness. That One Asshole did not appreciate this reminder, and said condescendingly, "The Asian markets open in a couple hours."
The Asian markets? SO? I just don't believe that when he's not slaving away in lab or dreaming of one day writing feature pieces for Scientific American, That One Asshole is busy trading rice futures or whatever. Neither did Carcass, who decided to call him on his bullshit.
"Tomorrow is SUNDAY," Carcass said.
"It's Monday in Asia," That One Asshole said.
"Uh, no, it's not," Carcass added. That One Asshole rolled his eyes, made a scoffing sound, and ditched us. When we got to the Boat Basin Café, I wound up sitting at the same table as That One Asshole, who was nursing his beer and generally being quietly surly. His jovial friend from earlier was chatting with me, and somehow the topic of HIV came up and we had a good-natured scientific debate about it. The friend argued that men could only get HIV by having anal sex with a woman, because vaginal secretions have an insufficient viral load to transmit infection and men can only get the HIV by exposing their weiners to blood, and bleeding only occurs during anal sex. I was vehemently arguing that this was not true (it's not AT ALL true, so fellas, make sure you wrap it up).
"Vaginal secretions have as high a viral load as blood or semen, dude. Furthermore, don't believe that vaginas don't bleed, because I can assure you that they do," I said. "As both a virologist and a slut, I caution you: if you raw dog chicks vaginally, you do so at your own peril."
Before the friend could respond, That One Asshole chimed in.
"Don't you have any sense of decorum whatsoever?" he said in a scathing tone of voice. The table was immediately shocked into the uncomfortable silence that follows such an undeserved and pointed insult delivered as a reprimand. There was no mistaking it. That One Asshole felt such patent dislike for me that he was going to publicly dress me down for arguing my position in response to HIS friend's equally loud assertions about HIV transmission mediated by anal tearing during buttfucking in a virtually empty bar populated solely by drunk people.
"Apparently not," I said, glowering at him. Then I turned to his friend and said loudly, "Is there any particular reason that guy is such a fucking asshole?" The friend told me to ignore him. I said no problem, and excused myself to rejoin my boys at their table. They all commiserrated with me regarding this guy's dickishness, and added their own anecdotes of how he'd been an unmitigated dickhead throughout the course of the wedding. Since we were being kicked out of the bar by the closing staff, we elected to call it a night rather than continue drinking with That One Asshole. We may not have had to rise early to greet the opening Asian markets, but we did all have to go to lab the next day.
As someone whose apparent lack of decorum has now been publicly observed and who has the potential to be That One Asshole, I advise everyone with similar tendencies to rein it in at otherwise fun social occasions. Although I had a generally great time at my friends' wedding, and I wish them all the happiness in the world and a wonderful life together, That One Asshole is now going to mar my and other guests' memories of the occasion. If everyone with That One Asshole potential would resist the urge to satisfy those impulses, weddings would be happier occasions. Then again, most people who are not obviously insecure, overcompensating closet subs getting revenge on the random girl who declined to slap them around and then inadvertantly snubbed them by talking down to her and her friends, and can thus avoid being That One Asshole without my advice. However, if you are a self-important jerk trying desperately to impress people at an event celebrating someone else's achievement, acting like the bigger person is a better way to accomplish that than making pompous explanations for sobriety involving the Asian markets or your superior decorum. Nobody likes That One Asshole, so don't be him.
Labels: assholes, grad school bullshit, holy fucking matrimony, NYC, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Watch the eyes
In a week or so, I'm going to be attending an event (read: bachelorette party) where there will most likely be a professional male entertainer who specializes in taking off his clothes. LL Cool Jew told me the other day that she had never seen a male stripper before, and I reminded her that she had once before at Senior Banquet, a Smith event in which the graduating seniors get the underclassWOmen of Jordan House drunk and "will" them crap they want to part with.
"At my Senior Banquet at Smith! Remember? I know you were there...I willed you my Dr. Dre poster!"
"Uh, I remember going to your Senior Banquet. I don't remember a stripper there."
"Dude, the Jordan underclassbitches totally hired one for us! He came in dressed as a cop and then proceeded to wag his smiley-face banana hammock in all our faces!"
"I still don't remember that," LL Cool Jew said.
"Yes! And then, do you remember that shitty bar in Leeds or wherever called The Office? Well, the stripper came there with us afterward, and then Martindale brought him back to Jordan and fucked him!"
"How do I not remember that?" LL Cool Jew wondered.
I then took it upon myself to explain to LL Cool Jew what it's like witnessing a male stripper in action: BORING. Male strippers never take it all off. While LL Cool Jew pointed out that many female strippers keep their bottoms on too, they at least have tits. I could care less about some pretty boy guido's muscle definition. Sure, I might say, "He's got a hot body," but after about 30 seconds of lame gyrating I'm going to get bored without seeing some weiner. I mentioned that LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, in which we had that bitch in the private party room at Scores literally drowning in lady strippers, was going to go down in history as being WAY better in the nudity department than this upcoming shindig because male strippers are by definition sort of boring.
Anyway, I did a little research about male strippers, and I concluded that some of them may actually take it all off. For a moment, I felt cheered up. However, then I went to see what was going on in the world of internets celebrity gossip, and came upon a disturbing anecdotal tale. I'm now a little nervous after hearing this story courtesy of Michael K. at Dlisted:
So, my friend was at some bachelorette party and of course they had some guido stripper shaking his junk for all of them. Guido stripper went from girl to girl and practically dick slapped them. The next day, my friend's eye was all swollen and nasty. She went to the doctor and guess what was in that bitch's eye? A fucking dead crab.
So, my friend was at some bachelorette party and of course they had some guido stripper shaking his junk for all of them. Guido stripper went from girl to girl and practically dick slapped them. The next day, my friend's eye was all swollen and nasty. She went to the doctor and guess what was in that bitch's eye? A fucking dead crab.
This just validates my view that male strippers are far more loathsome than their female counterparts. I have enough trouble with guys and my eyes as it is. One time a dude shot his load on my face and hit me in the eye, and it felt like my contact got soaked in liquid fire. You wouldn't think that shit would sting so bad, but then again, semen is at a pretty alkaline pH to counteract the acidic environment of the vagina and maximize sperm survival, so I guess it can really fuck up a pH neutral mucosal surface like the eye. On that occasion, the guy noticed me clutching my hands over my eyes and saying "Holy FUCK, ow!", and was like, "What's the matter, baby?" Then I was all, "Nice shooting, asshole! Annie Fucking Oakley you are not! No more facials for you." As semen was bad enough, I have absolutely no desire to be picking the exoskeletons of pubic lice out of my tender, contact-wearing baby blues, so if this dude plans to dick slap me, he better brush up on his physical defense skills, because there will be no weiners in my face. In my mouth, vadge, or ass, maybe, but NOT IN MY FACE!
Labels: assholes, epidemic geekery, gross, holy fucking matrimony, nudity, oh the horror, sexual assault, weiners
Friday, May 30, 2008
I TOLD YOU SO!
Proving once again that my Smith College education and occasional taste for tuna has honed my keen lesbadar to an admirable accuracy rate, the gossip internets this week are abuzz that Lindsay Lohan is going to take advantage of California's decision to legalize homo marriage and make it official with her special girlfriend Samantha Ronson.
I publicly called this one over a year ago when LL Cool Jew spotted Lindsay Lohan sporting the following hat, which might as well be a set of pride rings or a pink triangle in terms of its lesbian-revealing powers:
I mean, if wearing a Smith College hat despite not having gone to Smith doesn't announce to the world that you're a clam digger, then I don't know what does. It's not like LiLo is a big fan of Smith's rugby team (and if she is, that's even more of a giveaway that she's gone gayelle). Girlfriend just wishes she could run around drawing giant chalk labias outside Neilson Library on Coming Out Day and boob-mashing hard to a Dar Williams CD with the androgynous BDOC (that's "big dyke on campus") set. Go Pioneers!
Well, the celebrity gossip world has been all over Lindsay's lesbish ways the past week. Apparently she was making out with Snatch-mantha Ronson on Diddy's yacht in Cannes, then showed up to a party wearing hers-and-hers rings on their wedding fingers and blabbed about her impending nuptials. This is after they've been reportedly doing all sorts of couple stuff, like walking around holding hands and spending Passover together at the Ronsons'. Yesterday, the greatest and most reliable newspaper in the history of print journalism, the magnificent New York Post, not only reported that Lindsay and Sam are going to walk down the aisle at City Hall in California soon, but that it's going to help Lindsay's image by making her an icon embodying "lesbian chic."
Alright, Lindsay! I honestly can't think of a better way to rehabilitate Lindsay's image than by settling down and licking some twat. And I'm pleased as a petted pussy about the fact that I called this OVER A YEAR AGO, long before it ended up on Page Six. I'm going to send the happy couple a strap-on to celebrate their happy day when they actually make honest women of each other. I'm sure they can find a use for it while honeymooning on an Olivia cruise.
Labels: celebrities, Dumb Smith bitches, holy fucking matrimony, large exclamatory font, lezbollah, LL Cool Jew, sluts
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Homo Fide
In used-to-be late-breaking news, California announced that the bill to ban same-sex union has been rejected, allowing homosexuals throughout the Golden State to walk down the aisle with legal sanction. In 30ish days time, the law will be signed into effect.
Meanwhile, homos from North to South have already begun to plan they nuptials.
While controversy will certainly arise in the days and months to come, divided parties will agree on one certainty: this decision offers a great deal of hope for the struggling economy in the creation of several new, essential jobs.
Ye seekers of employment, hone your skills and head into any of these 'bout-to-burgeon professions:
FINERY - Tuxedo rentals will see a spike, so for the retail- and customer service-savvy, high thee to the formal wear vendor nearest you. Plus- and petite-sizes a perfect must.
CATERING - Homosexual appeptites will undoubtedly run up, and spikes in the creation, cooking and service of food and beverage is to be expected. Think hummus and tuna tartare, champers and Kentucky rye. The rest will fall into place.
BOUNCERS - The lines at the Unitarian Church will inevitably stretch from White Castle to the Nile - or at least Baja to Berkeley. The services of steady butchesque types the state over will be in high demand, to keep the... peace.
DOGS - Got something [anything] to do with dogs? Prepare ye the coming of boom. Grooming, sitting, schooling, vending, outfitting, walking - you name it. There will be many an abandoned or undisciplined canine, be it left behind on a honeymoon or slated to be a ring bearer.
UHAULs - No joke needed.
RAV4 / SCION STRETCH LIMO RENTALS - Joke needed. But the fact remains that many members of the wedding Parties will need a seat in a practical vehicle. Preferably... boxy.
DIVORCE LAWYERS - Gays will finally be able to take advantage of their God-given rights as Americans to both marry and separate formally . So get with the picture and sharpen your knowledge of marital law. Social services will always be there as a back-up when the, er, dam breaks.
Expect a steady hold in lace, a hold in contraception, a spike in latex and a potential turn in the California housing market. Wills/testaments may also see an increase, but plan carefully.
And so. The skeptical, curious and optimistic eyes of the nation turn west anew to await the new chapter in our nation's social history. The clever among us will seize the day to serve this new wave of change in the most advantageous way, with Amer'can ingenuity, pluck, and other-cheekness. Till death do us.
Meanwhile, homos from North to South have already begun to plan they nuptials.
While controversy will certainly arise in the days and months to come, divided parties will agree on one certainty: this decision offers a great deal of hope for the struggling economy in the creation of several new, essential jobs.
Ye seekers of employment, hone your skills and head into any of these 'bout-to-burgeon professions:
FINERY - Tuxedo rentals will see a spike, so for the retail- and customer service-savvy, high thee to the formal wear vendor nearest you. Plus- and petite-sizes a perfect must.
CATERING - Homosexual appeptites will undoubtedly run up, and spikes in the creation, cooking and service of food and beverage is to be expected. Think hummus and tuna tartare, champers and Kentucky rye. The rest will fall into place.
BOUNCERS - The lines at the Unitarian Church will inevitably stretch from White Castle to the Nile - or at least Baja to Berkeley. The services of steady butchesque types the state over will be in high demand, to keep the... peace.
DOGS - Got something [anything] to do with dogs? Prepare ye the coming of boom. Grooming, sitting, schooling, vending, outfitting, walking - you name it. There will be many an abandoned or undisciplined canine, be it left behind on a honeymoon or slated to be a ring bearer.
UHAULs - No joke needed.
RAV4 / SCION STRETCH LIMO RENTALS - Joke needed. But the fact remains that many members of the wedding Parties will need a seat in a practical vehicle. Preferably... boxy.
DIVORCE LAWYERS - Gays will finally be able to take advantage of their God-given rights as Americans to both marry and separate formally . So get with the picture and sharpen your knowledge of marital law. Social services will always be there as a back-up when the, er, dam breaks.
Expect a steady hold in lace, a hold in contraception, a spike in latex and a potential turn in the California housing market. Wills/testaments may also see an increase, but plan carefully.
And so. The skeptical, curious and optimistic eyes of the nation turn west anew to await the new chapter in our nation's social history. The clever among us will seize the day to serve this new wave of change in the most advantageous way, with Amer'can ingenuity, pluck, and other-cheekness. Till death do us.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, holy fucking matrimony, lezbollah, vulgar display of faggotry
Monday, May 19, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Nick Cannon
DOB: October 8, 1980
Occupation: actor, rapper, kept man
Hometown: San Diego, California
Current residence: wherever Mariah wants to live, since it's on her tab
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: In case anyone missed the news, Nick Cannon married Mariah Carey about two weeks ago, they got matching his-and-hers tattoos, rented Magic Mountain for their wedding reception, and have taken nearly every opportunity to tell the media how deeply in love they are and have been since they met...a month and a half ago. Since getting married, Nick Cannon has been working his new Mariah-sized bank account. He has been out shopping quite a bit and is cruising around in a sweet $100,000 Maserati. As his long-ago collabo (aptly named "Gigolo") with a certain Robert Sylvester Kelly reveals, Nick is more than willing to admit he's dick for hire. Well, okay, Nick seems to misunderstand the difference between an actual gigolo (ie: male prostitute) and a big slut (ie: "shorty call me the scarecrow, I'm lookin' for some brains"), but that doesn't mean he's not tricking anyway. In fact, he just hit the gigolo jackpot. He's the new Kevin Federline.
LL Cool Jew is one of the world's biggest Mimi fans, and virtually every time we some type of e-discussion, she brings up this storied relationship. For example, this Gchat:
LL Cool Jew is one of the world's biggest Mimi fans, and virtually every time we some type of e-discussion, she brings up this storied relationship. For example, this Gchat:
LL Cool Jew: have you seen nick cannon's "mariah" tattoo?
Razzy: YES
LL Cool Jew: headdesk
LL Cool Jew: i mean REALLY.
Razzy: methinks nick "i'm a gigolo" cannon is going to be making some laser tattoo removal tech very happy in a few months
Razzy: those two are too much
LL Cool Jew: i can't believe that shoulder to shoulder mariah tattoo
LL Cool Jew: omg omg.
Razzy: dude i know
Razzy: that is not something "a grown man not B2K" should be doing
LL Cool Jew: oh jesus.
LL Cool Jew: oh my lord.
LL Cool Jew: those lyrics
LL Cool Jew: i mean
LL Cool Jew: ... .
Razzy: i listened to that song this AM whilst writing about kells
Razzy: i'm not tryin' to be your man
Razzy: pimp bones in my body
Razzy: rock them like la-di-da-di
Razzy: me and kells on ducatis
Razzy: lemme see ya drop it shawty
LL Cool Jew: woo ee
Razzy: ooo-WEE
LL Cool Jew: thorray
Razzy: tryin' to leave the club with a grou-PIE
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: soooooooo dumb
LL Cool Jew: that song was only a hit because kells wrote it
LL Cool Jew: so obvious
Razzy: yes
I can only assume Nick Cannon managed to foment his "spiritual" relationship with Mimoo spitting obviously R. Kelly-authored lines like "I'm like David Beckham, keep a mean shoe game" and "bushes we won't beat around, bushes we just eating now." Either that, or Nick Cannon is rocking some truly high quality dick. Much as I'd like to think Nick is rocking a Nickelodeon-sized cannon, his dating CV suggests otherwise. Nick has gotten a lot of top shelf pussy in his young life thus far. He dated Christina Milian, Kim Kardashian (okay, that's not really top shelf, but she IS currently banging/ruining the penis of my boyfriend Reggie (Get in My) Bush), and Victoria's Secret model Selita Ebanks. Now he's managed to not only bang Mariah, but to secure his financial future via his promising to do so on a permanent basis. Nick Cannon is a whore who thinks long-term and clearly set his sights high. He has really worked himself up the ladder of gold-diggable poontang, and for such efforts, I commend him. A gigolo, indeed.
As an added bonus, I just thought of something else Nick Cannon really scored at when marrying Mariah. He might now be related to the greatest NFL official in the history of the world ever. Of course, that's assuming Mariah Carey is related to the hotness that is Mike Carey, a pretty hefty assumption considering their inherent character differences: she is a giant ball of butterfly-emblazoned, glitter-saturated ridiculousness and he is a model of efficiency and precision. However, just the possibility of being distantly related to Mike Carey would be worth a roll in Mariah's marital bed. For me, anyway. Again, you go, Nick Cannon.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, holy fucking matrimony, sluts
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Jenna Bush Hager
DOB: November 25, 1981
Occupation: presidential daughter, fug piece of trash bride
Hometown: Dallas, Texas
Current residence: some honeymoon suite telling her fugly husband that she has a headache and taking a Xanax
Douchebaggery: BREAKING FUCKING NEWS! Jenna Bush got married! Please, news media, cover it more, because God knows I'm insanely interested that Dubya danced oafishly to "You Are So Beautiful" or that Jenna was wearing the fugliest gown in the history of Oscar de la Renta's design house. Seriously, her dress looked like something I should my great-grandmother would have made during the Depression from scraps of old tablecloths. I want to spread out her gown on a tacky-ass end table and place a Precious Moments figurine on it. The would go perfect with the Kristen Bell-meets-Elisabeth Hasselbeck-with-fetal alcohol syndrome look the bride decided on with regard to her personal styling.
Even more butt than the gown or the bride wearing it is the groom.
I would think that being both a reputed party girl--what with her illicit margarita all those years ago--and the daughter of the President would ensure Jenna selecting the Skull and Bones future evil rich guy of her choice, and specifically one who didn't look like a lazy-eyed yokel confused about which shoe goes on which foot. Either Henry has a phenomenal personality, or she wanted to marry a man who reminded her of her dear old dad. I get the feeling it's the latter. He seems like the type who says he's from "Vuh-jin-ya" and guffaws a lot, particularly in inappropriate situations.
In any event, when it comes to Jenna's wedding, I say a big fat "WHO GIVES A FUCK?" The only people who care are the 200 or so dipshits that actually attended, and those are probably Bush's only remaining supporters. Well, Bush's only remaining supporters with any money...last I checked, half my dad's sisters (including my dear old Aunt Jesus) weren't invited. It's just a fugly rich girl marrying a fugly rich ex-Karl Rove staffer, and I've got better things to do than care.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, holy fucking matrimony, politics, you're ugly
Monday, April 21, 2008
Mr. and Mrs. FAS Manning
Usually I could care less about celebrity weddings, but the esteemed New York Post has just alerted me to the fact that the NFL's most likable developmentally disabled quarterback tied the knot this weekend in Mexico with his college sweetheart. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. and Mrs. Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning:
The Post article includes a lot of the typical lame matrimonial coverage about the cut and color of the bridesmaid dresses and how much the silverware they registered for costs, and I would have gotten bored if not for the photo gallery featuring pictures of FAS looking confused and disoriented as usual. Well, then I got bored with the photo gallery too after they ran out of visual reminders of FAS's perpetual bewilderment.
This article was not without its moments of hilarity, however. Somehow the Post reporter managed to get a comment from Cooper Manning, the black sheep brother possessing self-proclaimed talent of such magnitude that he once bragged he'd "have four Super Bowl rings by now, maybe five" had he not chosen a career in trading energy stocks over professional football. Cooper, it turns out, is impressed by the fact that young Eli has turned into quite the sophisticated connoisseur of the spirits that made him the "special" person he is today:
"He can navigate a wine list pretty good, which is pretty funny," older brother Cooper said. "We'll be out to eat, and he'll order some Bordeaux I've never heard of, and I'll say, 'Oh, hey, hey, who's this? Look how hoity-toity.' "
Eli navigates a wine list pretty good, eh? Who would have thought that FAS is an armchair sommelier? I always pictured him as more of a Keystone Light tallboy kind of dude than a "hoity-toity" Bordeaux drinker. Maybe he took some "Wine Appreciation for Dummies" classes at The Learning Annex after being embarrassed at some fancy NYC restaurant when he tried to order a box of Franzia with his dinner.
Anyway, raise a glass of sophistimacated, high-falutin' vino for the happy couple when you get a chance.
Labels: fuck the Mannings, holy fucking matrimony, NFL football
Monday, February 18, 2008
"I Do" the Puyallup
Last night, LL Cool Jew texted me:
Needless to say, these functions are a joy to behold, and clearly I need to watch more CMT. Besides, it's putting Puyallupian culture on the map, and I'm all for that. The P-N-Dub hick is a special breed of redneck that is generally underrepresented in the media, and I applaud CMT for dishing out a hot slice of Puyallup to satiate the nation's appetite for the sexy, rain-soaked PWT so common in my hometown.
I'm already hooked on this show, and I haven't even seen it.
the episode of my redneck wedng right now s set n washington state. groom wearing seahawks ballcap n mossy oak vestWHAT? "My Redneck Wedding?" What is this show, why are there hicks on it who are probably my relatives, and why haven't I ever heard of it before? This sounds to me like a must-see! I inquired back to LL Cool Jew what channel this show was on. She replied:
cmt dude. zomg have u not gotten into my big redneck wedding hostd by tom arnold? i wd b so excitd 2 introduce you 2 it!So it turns out this show is on CMT. That would explain why I haven't seen it. While I do like the hot pieces named Toby Keith singing about trucks and freedom and Brad Paisley singing about checking ladies for ticks, I don't spend a large portion of my time masturbating to their videos like certain Taylor Swift fans I know. I certainly don't spend any of my time checking out what kind of original programming CMT is offering. However, that's about to change. Since I didn't want to wait until the next time I visit LL Cool Jew in New Orleans, I went to the internets to find out more. I found a synopsis of the episode LL Cool Jew was talking about on the "My Big Redneck Wedding" website.
In Puyallup, Wash., Tami and Brad are getting hitched the northwest redneck style, with rain, mud, guns, quads and plenty of beer guzzling fun. The only problem is, Brad's mom doesn't like it one bit. She's a wedding planner and was hoping her son would get married the old-fashion way - in a church with flowers, dresses and class. With mom changing the couple's plans and Brad procrastinating with getting the wedding site ready, this tomboy bride is getting nervous.God, I can't BELIEVE I'm not related to these people. Now that I think of it, I might have a distant cousin named Tami. They're even getting married on someone's undeveloped property in MY HOMETOWN. Indeed, there is no place more romantic than some dude's Puyallup muddin' grounds to park your trailers (which I'm sure were decorated up real faincy-like for the occasion...with paper lantern string lights from Wal-Mart and everthing), your shotgun collection, and your portable meth lab to honor such an historic occasion. What could be more romantic than a fleet of recreational vehicles, a glorious display of one's right to bear arms, gray skies, and red plastic cups overflowing with Rainier Beer, the sweet nectar of the P-N-Dub? I can see how Brad's wedding planner mom apparently failed to persuade the happy couple to have the wedding "in a church with flowers, dresses, and class," as nothing outromances a traditional wedding like a keg party in a muddy yard on under Puyallup's sultry overcast skies. Besides, she never had a chance. This couple knows what they want when it comes to making major relationship moves. They waited all of three days after they met (at a bar in Auburn, which probably translates to "over a video poker machine at the Muckleshoot Casino") before shacking up. Their passion ignited over a mutual love for four-wheeled all-terrain vehicles and Brad's interests is intense, and their dream of a special day will not be mitigated by the selfish demands made by an interfering future mother-in-law. Nobody is going to stop Brad and Tami from commemorating their blessed matrimony with a thrilling game of wedd'n day lawn bowling.
Tami and BradMy cousin got married in a very similar situation, in his front yard. Well, actually, it was my aunt and uncle's front yard, but my cousin lived there with his new bride in a trailer parked off'n the side yard. There were fewer guns (although some firearms did make an appearance), an equivalent number of four-wheelers, and more earth-moving equipment. No joke. They exchanged vows adjacent to a parked and tarp-shrouded Bobcat. At least they tried to class it up a little by wearing traditional wedding outfits, right down to the bridesmaids' dyeable Payless satin pumps. Sadly, those pumps were stained by the perpetually sodden earth pervasive in my aunt and uncle's slowly sinking yard. The reception fare consisted primarily of finger-foods found in the Costco freezer section. I probably consumed half my body weight in taquitos and meatballs reheated in a crock pot with Yoshida's sauce that day. I also recall washing it down with a few ice-cold cans of Rainier, which is far more a far more appropriate golden carbonated spirit to raise than champagne to raise in celebration of Spanaway's most recent newlyweds. Vitamin R was also useful in ameliorating my anxieties about a sinkhole forming in the yard around my aunt and uncle's woefully maintained septic tank at any time during the festivities.
Tami is from Auburn, Wash.
Brad is from Auburn, Wash., but if you ask him, he will tell you Minot, N.D.
We met thru a mutual friend at a bar in Auburn, Wash. We met on a Friday, went out again that Saturday and he moved in the next Tuesday!!! A whirlwind!!! But so totally worth it.
For fun, we like to be outdoors. Brad plays bocce (Italian lawn bowling), hunting, quads, snowmobiles ... anything outside. Tami is about quads and watching Brad do his thing ... and fishing.
We did the redneck wedding because that's Brad. It was so perfect for us to have the camo, Carhartts, quads and mud! It fits who we are, or I guess more of who Brad is!
The main feature that we wanted in our wedding was family and shotguns. Basically our whole wedding was family. Brad's uncle even got ordained so that he could marry us!!! And the shotguns were a big deal to Brad. He and his brother are very into hunting so guns are a big part of his life. He wanted to incorporate that aspect in the wedding.
For the future, we are planning to get pregnant, hopefully soon. We are getting settled into our new house, and Brad bought me a new SUV to go with our new house. He really does take good care of me and my son Logan.
Needless to say, these functions are a joy to behold, and clearly I need to watch more CMT. Besides, it's putting Puyallupian culture on the map, and I'm all for that. The P-N-Dub hick is a special breed of redneck that is generally underrepresented in the media, and I applaud CMT for dishing out a hot slice of Puyallup to satiate the nation's appetite for the sexy, rain-soaked PWT so common in my hometown.
I'm already hooked on this show, and I haven't even seen it.
Labels: Do the Puyallup, holy fucking matrimony, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, P-N-Dub, PWT, TV
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Chidi Ogbuta
DOB: ???
Occupation: bridezilla
Current residence: Allen, Texas
Douchebaggery: I'm sure that Chidi Ogbuta is a nice enough person, but she is a great example of how fucking crazy bitches can get about their weddings. I may not be the type of girl who wastes a lot of time fantasizing about her "big day" (especially since in my fantasy world, my "big day" refers to the day that I buy my NFL team and not the day I get my MRS degree), but even if I were more marriage-minded, I doubt that I would do something like this.
Chidi has apparently always wanted a doll modeled in her own likeness, and she decided that, since she's not friends with Rack and thus isn't getting a "My Bitches" figurine anytime soon, she would go ahead and drop thousands of dollars on a wedding cake shaped like a life-sized replica of herself. It required her coordinating with a pastry chef and a head sculptor in two different states, which if you ask me is a lot of work just to imitate the hideously ugly bridal gown Chidi chose for her nuptials.
I do not understand why chicks go to such ridiculous, obviously expensive lengths for their narcissistic, pointless wedding fantasies. If I were getting married (sha), I'd be like, "Honey, let's go to the courthouse," have a cheap-ass civil ceremony, and spend all the thousands that would go toward a wedding on some fabulous vacation so I could consummate my marriage by boning my new husband in some exotic locale. Or buy a house. Or do something more constructive than waste money having edible replicas made of myself in a revolting dress to satisfy my own overpowering sense of bridal vanity. Because even though at the reception I'm sure the guests were either all, "Ooooh, cool cake!" or (my reaction) "That cake is creepy," like anyone really cares that much about the damn cake! In ten years, nobody is going to be reminiscing fondly about Chidi's cake. In fact, unless they got laid there, nobody is going to even remember anything about Chidi's wedding, except maybe that her bridal gown was totally butt. Given that, having that cake made just seems like an awful lot of trouble for a minimal return on what was probably a large investment.
Chidi is stupid, and she has bad taste in dresses. And pastries. But congratulations to her and her husband on their recent matrimony! I hope the relationship is more beautiful than the cake and/or the bride.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, gluttony, holy fucking matrimony, intentional buffoonery, sluts, vanity, you're ugly
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Fat Girl with a Lisp by Jersey Girl
This is a story about my boyfriend, Kodiak, and FatGirl with a Lisp, his former "work girlfriend," (a name she gave herself – he never actually called her that).
Kodiak and I started dating about nine months ago, and it was love at first sight. He's funny, handsome, and kind. Plus, we totally have the best sex ever (I hit that shit the first night we ever met, what what!).
However, there was always this one small (or should I say fat) problem looming in the background - FatGirl with a Lisp.
FatGirl, Kodiak and I all worked at America's Favorite News channel. I worked for Geraldo (forever the hotness), while FatGirl and Kodiak worked on whatever other show. All in all, they worked together for about two years and developed a friendship as most people do when working side-by-side with someone for 10+ hours a day.
There are many things I don't like about FatGirl, and it's difficult to even know where to begin. First of all, just from looking at her, I knew I could never trust her. Have you ever met a girl, and you just see something in her eyes, or just get a bad feeling – and you know you can never trust them. This was the immediate, overwhelming feeling I got upon first laying eyes on FatGirl.
Another huge fault of FatGirl was that she actually spoke with a lisp (hence the full name FatGirl with a Lisp). Now, I really don't want to be mean, but I hate this bitch, so I'm going to be. Who has a lisp past the age of seven? Said lisp may have been attributed to the fact that for a brief period she had a tongue-ring, which was completely revolting-looking on her fat tongue. But even after taking the tongue-ring out, she still had the lisp. And it's not like she's poor or unable to get access to a speech therapist - her father is a multi-millionaire, who also ran for Governor of Massachusetts in 1982. He didn't win - this may have something to do with the fact that he lied about medals he received from serving in Vietnam, in addition to lying about his educational background. Mitt Romney won that year, despite the fact that FatGirl's father tried to dissuade the public from voting for him by coining him "Mr. Mormon." Good one, FatGirl’s Father!
Oh, and then there's the fact that SHE'S FAT! Okay - I know this is mean. But, trust, this chick has the weirdest body you've ever seen. Skinny chicken legs, fat stomach complemented by humongous boobs (but not nice, big boobs - they just look like two extensions of her fat stomach) and a double chin. Picture that with a tongue-ring and a lisp - GROSS.
And did I mention the fact that she sweats my boyfriend?
Kodiak and FatGirl never hooked up - she had a boyfriend when they met, and that boyfriend is to become her husband this Saturday. So she and Kodiak were just “work friends.” At least this is what I thought, until I started dating Kodiak, and noticed that she would often far surpass the realm of normal for a "work friend."
ITEM: Late night phone calls (she actually once called him at 1:30 am on a Saturday night when we were together)
ITEM: Phone calls every single weekend
ITEM: Trying to only ever set him up with other fat girls
ITEM: Gushing, literally gushing about him to anyone who would listen (this includes her mother - make note of this for future).
ITEM: She would always refer to herself as "Kodiak's Work Girlfriend," a term that may seem harmless enough - if it's someone you trust. But I don't, so therefore it's not.
These deluded displays of affection continued even after Kodiak and I started dating. I threw Kodiak a birthday party, and of course FatGirl came. Despite the fact that there were plenty of people her age in attendance, she spent the entire evening strictly speaking to Kodiak's family or Kodiak himself. This was the first time I had met Kodiak's parents - and FatGirl was so up in their grill that she definitely spent about 95% more time talking to them than I did. She was literally cock-blocking me from his family. Bitch.
But, the most egregious and backhanded display of her feelings for Kodiak came in the form of snub. Not to Kodiak, she would never dare, but to me. One day her wedding invitation appeared in Kodiak’s mailbox. It read something like this:
Mr. Kodiak
1 Hipster Place
Brooklyn, NY 11211
Notice anything about this invitation? Look very closely.
It doesn't say "& Guest" or "& Ms. Jersey Girl." She didn't invite me. WHAT A BITCH!
Kodiak and I were dumbfounded. Could it really be that she sweats him so much that she would stoop so low as to not invite me to her wedding? Kodiak was convinced that it must be a mistake or an oversight. He sometimes has such a sweet innocence about him, always wanting to believe the best in people. Until then, he had furiously rebuffed my ideas that FatGirl had a thing for him. But at this moment, I saw a glimmer in his eye - it was the first time he started to believe that maybe I just might be onto something.
So, like a good boyfriend, Kodiak called up FatGirl and asked her what the fuck was up with not inviting his woman. She gave him some LAME excuse about how she couldn't "technically" invite me because she had exceeded the number of guests at the reception hall, but that "of course I was invited!" Yeah, right. Fucking bitch.
Kodiak and I decided that there was no way in hell we were going to attend this wedding. Shit, I wasn't even invited! Then we found out that we actually had a family function to attend the very same night as the wedding - saved! So, Kodiak called up FatGirl, and told her that we had a family function that we could not get out of. Her response: "So you're picking Jersey Girl over me?" Kodiak said she was kidding. I don’t think she was.
This should be where the story ends. Kodiak and FatGirl never speak again, and he and I live happily ever after. However, the wrath of FatGirl continued to brew, as she refused to accept the fact that her former work boyfriend was not going to see her in her wedding dress (And what? Think to himself, "Damn! This is what I passed up! A fat bride!).
The next day, Kodiak receives an email:
Kodiak - please don't tell me you aren't coming to FatGirl's wedding? Who will I dance with? This can't be!! Of all the friends we are inviting, you must come - MUST COME. If there is something going on that I don't know about do let me know but otherwise I will expect to see you and Jersey Girl on the l0th.
best ever - FatGirl's Mom
Yes, you read that correctly - FatGirl's MOM wrote Kodiak an email, begging him to come to her daughter's wedding. I mean, is this woman for real? Is her daughter for real? Who in their right mind solicits the help of her or his mother in a situation like this? And if so, what mother would actually agree to email the former "work boyfriend." Don’t the two of them have anything better to do, like, I don't know, PLAN A WEDDING, than try to convince some guy to show up at it? And furthermore, this action just so clearly and unequivocally confirms my suspicions that FatGirl definitely does in fact have a thing for my boyfriend. Like he would ever hook up with a fat girl! It also confirms that FatGirl is certifiably insane.
This post is getting long, and I wish that the story could end here. I wish I could tell you that Kodiak wrote back and reiterated the fact that we had a family function to attend, and it all ended amicably. But FatGirl's mom is terribly persistent. And she replied to Kodiak's email by saying something like this:
But Kodiak, you must come to the wedding! We will miss you so much! This doesn't have to do anything with Unimportant Guy, does it?
Please, ladies and gentlemen, be seated for this one. Unimportant Guy is someone who I briefly dated (like two or three dates) about two months before I met Kodiak. FatGirl and Kodiak used to work with him, and while we were dating, I made the mistake of telling FatGirl. She, of course, ran back to Kodiak and told him, EVEN THOUGH I ASKED HER NOT TO. She clearly does not know about the ethic of girl code, but I suppose a person such as herself wouldn’t. She obviously was willing to take whatever measures necessary to break me and Kodiak up, so she could have him all to herself (even though she was engaged. Sooo messed up).
Since FatGirl apparently doesn't have any real friends, she invited a bunch of old work colleague to fill in the "friends tables" at the wedding. And, if Kodiak and I were to attend, we'd most likely be sitting at a table with Unimportant Guy. Even though we only dated for the hottest of seconds, it would still be a somewhat awkward situation, but one that we most likely could have gotten through relatively painlessly. But, what I'm assuming happened is that FatGirl smelled our lie, and immediately concluded that the reasoning behind that was Unimportant Guy (even though it's really just that I don't like her).
And then she told her mother.
Really? Really? Did FatGirl really tell her mother about my sexual past? Did she really convince herself that the reason we weren't attending her wedding is because Unimportant Guy would be there? Did she really decide to have her mother bring it up in an email to Kodiak? Finally, did her mother really, really actually send that email, asking for personal details about Kodiak's love life, and actually expect for him to engage in an email exchange about his feelings towards another man who slept with his girlfriend?
In conclusion, I have a few thoughts:
1. FUCK FatGirl and her fat mother
2. I am so freaking happy that we're not going to this wedding.
3. If I ever see FatGirl I'm gonna punch her in her fat face and then say, "You suck" (with a lisp). The End.
Kodiak and I started dating about nine months ago, and it was love at first sight. He's funny, handsome, and kind. Plus, we totally have the best sex ever (I hit that shit the first night we ever met, what what!).
However, there was always this one small (or should I say fat) problem looming in the background - FatGirl with a Lisp.
FatGirl, Kodiak and I all worked at America's Favorite News channel. I worked for Geraldo (forever the hotness), while FatGirl and Kodiak worked on whatever other show. All in all, they worked together for about two years and developed a friendship as most people do when working side-by-side with someone for 10+ hours a day.
There are many things I don't like about FatGirl, and it's difficult to even know where to begin. First of all, just from looking at her, I knew I could never trust her. Have you ever met a girl, and you just see something in her eyes, or just get a bad feeling – and you know you can never trust them. This was the immediate, overwhelming feeling I got upon first laying eyes on FatGirl.
Another huge fault of FatGirl was that she actually spoke with a lisp (hence the full name FatGirl with a Lisp). Now, I really don't want to be mean, but I hate this bitch, so I'm going to be. Who has a lisp past the age of seven? Said lisp may have been attributed to the fact that for a brief period she had a tongue-ring, which was completely revolting-looking on her fat tongue. But even after taking the tongue-ring out, she still had the lisp. And it's not like she's poor or unable to get access to a speech therapist - her father is a multi-millionaire, who also ran for Governor of Massachusetts in 1982. He didn't win - this may have something to do with the fact that he lied about medals he received from serving in Vietnam, in addition to lying about his educational background. Mitt Romney won that year, despite the fact that FatGirl's father tried to dissuade the public from voting for him by coining him "Mr. Mormon." Good one, FatGirl’s Father!
Oh, and then there's the fact that SHE'S FAT! Okay - I know this is mean. But, trust, this chick has the weirdest body you've ever seen. Skinny chicken legs, fat stomach complemented by humongous boobs (but not nice, big boobs - they just look like two extensions of her fat stomach) and a double chin. Picture that with a tongue-ring and a lisp - GROSS.
And did I mention the fact that she sweats my boyfriend?
Kodiak and FatGirl never hooked up - she had a boyfriend when they met, and that boyfriend is to become her husband this Saturday. So she and Kodiak were just “work friends.” At least this is what I thought, until I started dating Kodiak, and noticed that she would often far surpass the realm of normal for a "work friend."
ITEM: Late night phone calls (she actually once called him at 1:30 am on a Saturday night when we were together)
ITEM: Phone calls every single weekend
ITEM: Trying to only ever set him up with other fat girls
ITEM: Gushing, literally gushing about him to anyone who would listen (this includes her mother - make note of this for future).
ITEM: She would always refer to herself as "Kodiak's Work Girlfriend," a term that may seem harmless enough - if it's someone you trust. But I don't, so therefore it's not.
These deluded displays of affection continued even after Kodiak and I started dating. I threw Kodiak a birthday party, and of course FatGirl came. Despite the fact that there were plenty of people her age in attendance, she spent the entire evening strictly speaking to Kodiak's family or Kodiak himself. This was the first time I had met Kodiak's parents - and FatGirl was so up in their grill that she definitely spent about 95% more time talking to them than I did. She was literally cock-blocking me from his family. Bitch.
But, the most egregious and backhanded display of her feelings for Kodiak came in the form of snub. Not to Kodiak, she would never dare, but to me. One day her wedding invitation appeared in Kodiak’s mailbox. It read something like this:
Mr. Kodiak
1 Hipster Place
Brooklyn, NY 11211
Notice anything about this invitation? Look very closely.
It doesn't say "& Guest" or "& Ms. Jersey Girl." She didn't invite me. WHAT A BITCH!
Kodiak and I were dumbfounded. Could it really be that she sweats him so much that she would stoop so low as to not invite me to her wedding? Kodiak was convinced that it must be a mistake or an oversight. He sometimes has such a sweet innocence about him, always wanting to believe the best in people. Until then, he had furiously rebuffed my ideas that FatGirl had a thing for him. But at this moment, I saw a glimmer in his eye - it was the first time he started to believe that maybe I just might be onto something.
So, like a good boyfriend, Kodiak called up FatGirl and asked her what the fuck was up with not inviting his woman. She gave him some LAME excuse about how she couldn't "technically" invite me because she had exceeded the number of guests at the reception hall, but that "of course I was invited!" Yeah, right. Fucking bitch.
Kodiak and I decided that there was no way in hell we were going to attend this wedding. Shit, I wasn't even invited! Then we found out that we actually had a family function to attend the very same night as the wedding - saved! So, Kodiak called up FatGirl, and told her that we had a family function that we could not get out of. Her response: "So you're picking Jersey Girl over me?" Kodiak said she was kidding. I don’t think she was.
This should be where the story ends. Kodiak and FatGirl never speak again, and he and I live happily ever after. However, the wrath of FatGirl continued to brew, as she refused to accept the fact that her former work boyfriend was not going to see her in her wedding dress (And what? Think to himself, "Damn! This is what I passed up! A fat bride!).
The next day, Kodiak receives an email:
Kodiak - please don't tell me you aren't coming to FatGirl's wedding? Who will I dance with? This can't be!! Of all the friends we are inviting, you must come - MUST COME. If there is something going on that I don't know about do let me know but otherwise I will expect to see you and Jersey Girl on the l0th.
best ever - FatGirl's Mom
Yes, you read that correctly - FatGirl's MOM wrote Kodiak an email, begging him to come to her daughter's wedding. I mean, is this woman for real? Is her daughter for real? Who in their right mind solicits the help of her or his mother in a situation like this? And if so, what mother would actually agree to email the former "work boyfriend." Don’t the two of them have anything better to do, like, I don't know, PLAN A WEDDING, than try to convince some guy to show up at it? And furthermore, this action just so clearly and unequivocally confirms my suspicions that FatGirl definitely does in fact have a thing for my boyfriend. Like he would ever hook up with a fat girl! It also confirms that FatGirl is certifiably insane.
This post is getting long, and I wish that the story could end here. I wish I could tell you that Kodiak wrote back and reiterated the fact that we had a family function to attend, and it all ended amicably. But FatGirl's mom is terribly persistent. And she replied to Kodiak's email by saying something like this:
But Kodiak, you must come to the wedding! We will miss you so much! This doesn't have to do anything with Unimportant Guy, does it?
Please, ladies and gentlemen, be seated for this one. Unimportant Guy is someone who I briefly dated (like two or three dates) about two months before I met Kodiak. FatGirl and Kodiak used to work with him, and while we were dating, I made the mistake of telling FatGirl. She, of course, ran back to Kodiak and told him, EVEN THOUGH I ASKED HER NOT TO. She clearly does not know about the ethic of girl code, but I suppose a person such as herself wouldn’t. She obviously was willing to take whatever measures necessary to break me and Kodiak up, so she could have him all to herself (even though she was engaged. Sooo messed up).
Since FatGirl apparently doesn't have any real friends, she invited a bunch of old work colleague to fill in the "friends tables" at the wedding. And, if Kodiak and I were to attend, we'd most likely be sitting at a table with Unimportant Guy. Even though we only dated for the hottest of seconds, it would still be a somewhat awkward situation, but one that we most likely could have gotten through relatively painlessly. But, what I'm assuming happened is that FatGirl smelled our lie, and immediately concluded that the reasoning behind that was Unimportant Guy (even though it's really just that I don't like her).
And then she told her mother.
Really? Really? Did FatGirl really tell her mother about my sexual past? Did she really convince herself that the reason we weren't attending her wedding is because Unimportant Guy would be there? Did she really decide to have her mother bring it up in an email to Kodiak? Finally, did her mother really, really actually send that email, asking for personal details about Kodiak's love life, and actually expect for him to engage in an email exchange about his feelings towards another man who slept with his girlfriend?
In conclusion, I have a few thoughts:
1. FUCK FatGirl and her fat mother
2. I am so freaking happy that we're not going to this wedding.
3. If I ever see FatGirl I'm gonna punch her in her fat face and then say, "You suck" (with a lisp). The End.
Labels: assholes, fat fucks, holy fucking matrimony, JerseyGirl, overcompensation, sluts
Sunday, August 19, 2007
My Beloved's Garden party
I just got back from a camping trip, and instead of taking the nap I definitely could benefit from after two days of sleeping on cold, extremely hard, bear-infested campground dirt in the Catskills, I decided to dick around on the internets. Maybe it's because it's a Sunday, and I'm filled with subconscious guilt for missing church (as per usual), and maybe because for whatever reason I've been recently fascinated with the sexual habits of extreme Christians, but I somehow found myself investigating the online presence of Christian sex toy shopping.
As it turns out, some Christians are all for using "marital aids," and there is even a website devoted to peddling these items:
I was curious about what types of sex toys My Beloved's Garden was selling without subjecting horny Christian spouses to pornographic images. The whole concept sounds crazy to me. Isn't a dildo something that someone with decidedly fundamentalist leanings would consider pornographic in and of itself? I mean, it LOOKS like a damn penis. Maybe that means they only sell the kind that look like animals (rabbits, dolphins, etc.) and not the "realistic" variety (ie: no cock-and-ball strap-ons, none of those excessively veiny dildoes--even though I have yet to encounter a real penis that looks like it's covered in varicose veins, I suppose this has the trappings of "realistic"). Then again, maybe Christian "sex toys" are actually items that I would consider boring and not worth the money, like intimacy board games and books about incorporating more Jesus into your fucking. Besides, I think sex toys and porn go together like chocolate and peanut butter. My favorite online sex toy purveyor actually sends me a free porn DVD with every order, which is why I patronize them. I get something to watch while I'm trying out my new vibrator or strap-on or whatever, and that makes for one satisfied customer. Needless to say, this whole "shop for sex toys without the sinful influence of porn" marketing scheme is quite foreign to me, and it piqued my interest.
I went immediately to the "marital aids" section of the site and checked out their "Romance and Christian Sex Games" selection. As I suspected, there were a lot less sex games and starter bondage kits than romantic crap.
Nothing sets the mood like a good, old-fashioned, Jesus-approved game of strip darts. Snore. And actually, I could make an argument that the first person to get naked wins.
Leviticus may insist on all sorts of archaic bullshit like leaving town when you're on the rag so that nobody can look upon you, instructions about how to properly wash cum stains out of your clothes, and forbidding worship when you've got the clap, but there's nothing in there at all prohibiting a fun and energetic game of sex Twister!
There's also a whole bunch of games that looked like a total drag (Bed of Roses Deluxe, 52 Weeks of Romance, Twelve Romantic Dates, etc.), so I decided to say fuck the "games" section and get right down to the actual sex toys. I was hoping they'd have some crucifix-shaped vibrators or some authentic scourging equipment for Christian BDSM that might be interesting, but I wasn't too optimistic. I figured that Christian sex was supposed to be lame and boring, so I imagined "sex toys" meant primarily some lube and some ugly lingerie. Well, I got the ugly lingerie part right:
NOW I see why this isn't pornographic. They blurred out any hint of buttcrack that might show on the model sporting this titillating outfit, which can best be described as one part Tawny Kitaen rolling around on David Coverdale's Jaguars, one part Victorian-era lampshade, and one part Puyallup, WA Lovers Package store clearance rack. Because God forbid you see anyone else's asscrack but your devoted wife's when ogling a hideous set of historically influenced fuck-me rags like these. Also, they blurred out the model's face, presumably so that you can't begin adulterously fantasizing about whatever busted 80s hooker is rocking this ensemble. On an unrelated aside, I bet you ANYTHING that Britney Spears wears something like this in her next video. But if you thought that anti-porn use of the Photoshop "Blur" tool was good, you'll love it on these next products:
Well, it seems that it's okay for Christians to use actual sex toys. However, Jesus frowns upon one looking at the topless model on the box when shopping for a hands-free, remote controlled clit stimulator, so this offensive image is blurred out. What I wonder, though, is what a dutiful Christian is supposed to do with their "orgasmic good luck charm" when it arrives in the mail. Presumably the Four Leaf Clover and Butterfly of Love don't have alternative porn-free packaging, so are you supposed to shut your eyes when you are trying to extract your new purchase from its box with the masturbating naked chick on it?
Also, it seems that while images of asscracks and titties are offensive and taboo, a little backdoor action with your spouse is totally conducive to walking the path of righteousness, so long as you use the right terminology:
Jesus likes nothing more than a good, old-fashioned butt plug, especially one with a practical feature like a sturdy retrieval cord.
And nothing says "devout Christian" like a string of vibrating anal beads. Also, to prepare for one's Biblically sound buttsex, they sell accessory products as well:
I guess "anal douche" sounds much more Christ-like than "enema." This product certainly sounds necessary for acceptable anal action, since Leviticus does harp incessantly about cleanliness. If you're going to lay pipe on the dirt road, old I Am Who Am would obviously prefer to minimize the unpleasant poop aspect of this act among his righteous, lovingly married followers. Unless, of course, those lovingly married followers are a gay couple, in which case they should be summarily stoned.
I'm still confused about why these sex toys are okay when pornography is not. Why is seeing some other chick's tits on a vibrator box so horribly offensive when you're shopping for fucking butt plugs? It seems very confusing to say, "Porn is destructive and sinful" while offering graphic descriptions of how to give a pre-anal enema using the products you're selling. Pornography and erotica isn't always visual, and I think that it's some serious semantic hair-splitting to describe exactly how to use a G-spot stimulator and say that it's okay because it's for your wife, but that images of a woman's breasts are a sinful, craven taboo. Thank God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit that these fuckers also have a blog to explain away what I consider some major philosophical discrepancies! I naturally gravitated to a post about the most important topic: proper use of sex toys.
Masturbation is probably one of the areas that causes the most negative related issues when it come to Sex Toys. It is of our belief that sex toys should not be used alone and without ones spouse as this breeds sexual problems of many kinds including sexual addictions, and even pornography dependencies.
Oh, I see...masturbation is only okay if your spouse gets to watch. So masturbation isn't shameful if you are in a loving marriage with someone you fuck on the regular. Well, that clears a lot up. I guess this is another issue Leviticus wasn't completely straightforward on. Unfortunately, being that I'm minus a good Christian hubby, it appears that all of my sex toys are still tools of sin. Also, the blog offers some tips as to how--in addition to proper glass phallus use--a wife can please her Bible-thumping husband:
Leave a passionate note under his pillow Because there is nothing--and I mean NOTHING--that gets guys hotter than long, cloying, overly emotional notes.
When he goes out of town, pack his favourite cookies in his suitcase (carefully) So he can share them with the stripper reminding him what a decent BJ is like while he's off on his "business trips."
Let him continue to dominate the TV remote control (without complaining) Yes, letting him always have his way is definitely a surefire way to marital bliss...you also shouldn't complain when he hits you for giving him some sassy lip.
When he’s kinda down offer to sop what you’re dong and pray together Because the family that sops dongs together and prays together stays together.
Develop a common hobby Like being super Christian and praying constantly isn't a hobby?
Never, NEVER, interrupt him when he’s watching TV and it’s a tie game with fourth-down-and-goal –to –go. In my home, this is a two-way street. Interrupting or changing the channel in a fourth-and-goal situation is a break-up-able offense.
Work together to elect a government official Ever wonder how Bush got elected twice (well, one and a half times)? It wasn't Karl Rove's Machiavellian political strategies, it was Christians trying to spice up their marriage.
Sew missing buttons on his shirt before he mentions it Because what kind of wife are you if you can take a couple ben-wa balls in the ass, but aren't an accomplished seamstress? This is probably why I don't have a husband.
If feasible, go on one of his business trips and offer to help him where you can There are very few things sexier than babysitting some dumb motherfucker without a clue in a professional situation. I know I get incredibly turned on when I have to fix the well-intentioned but nonetheless deal-breaking or experiment-ruining mistakes of some incompetent dipshit. I can only imagine how much more powerfully erotic this is when the incompetent dipshit is your spouse. Good idea--I bet this tip is a winning complement to foreplay darts and strap-ons.
While I applaud the super Bible-loving Christians for trying to spice up their sex lives in conjunction with their faith, this whole Jesus-approved sex toy thing seems more confusing than sexually liberating. If I were concerned about using sex toys in a manner that Jesus smiled upon, then I would be in a state of constant stress rather than pleasure, trying to keep straight when I can use them. It seems there's a fine line between being a Christian getting their Song of Solomon on and a depraved porn-addicted fornicator destined for the fiery pits of Hell, and I still don't have a clear idea of where that line actually is. What I do know is that I can no longer accuse the super sanctimonious Christians of being sexually repressed. They're probably just sticking so hard to their Jesus talking points because they are all ready to have some wild sex with their God-fearing spouses, but don't know how exactly they can break out the butt plugs and still remain on Heaven's guest list. How frustrating.
As it turns out, some Christians are all for using "marital aids," and there is even a website devoted to peddling these items:
I was curious about what types of sex toys My Beloved's Garden was selling without subjecting horny Christian spouses to pornographic images. The whole concept sounds crazy to me. Isn't a dildo something that someone with decidedly fundamentalist leanings would consider pornographic in and of itself? I mean, it LOOKS like a damn penis. Maybe that means they only sell the kind that look like animals (rabbits, dolphins, etc.) and not the "realistic" variety (ie: no cock-and-ball strap-ons, none of those excessively veiny dildoes--even though I have yet to encounter a real penis that looks like it's covered in varicose veins, I suppose this has the trappings of "realistic"). Then again, maybe Christian "sex toys" are actually items that I would consider boring and not worth the money, like intimacy board games and books about incorporating more Jesus into your fucking. Besides, I think sex toys and porn go together like chocolate and peanut butter. My favorite online sex toy purveyor actually sends me a free porn DVD with every order, which is why I patronize them. I get something to watch while I'm trying out my new vibrator or strap-on or whatever, and that makes for one satisfied customer. Needless to say, this whole "shop for sex toys without the sinful influence of porn" marketing scheme is quite foreign to me, and it piqued my interest.
I went immediately to the "marital aids" section of the site and checked out their "Romance and Christian Sex Games" selection. As I suspected, there were a lot less sex games and starter bondage kits than romantic crap.
Nothing sets the mood like a good, old-fashioned, Jesus-approved game of strip darts. Snore. And actually, I could make an argument that the first person to get naked wins.
Leviticus may insist on all sorts of archaic bullshit like leaving town when you're on the rag so that nobody can look upon you, instructions about how to properly wash cum stains out of your clothes, and forbidding worship when you've got the clap, but there's nothing in there at all prohibiting a fun and energetic game of sex Twister!
There's also a whole bunch of games that looked like a total drag (Bed of Roses Deluxe, 52 Weeks of Romance, Twelve Romantic Dates, etc.), so I decided to say fuck the "games" section and get right down to the actual sex toys. I was hoping they'd have some crucifix-shaped vibrators or some authentic scourging equipment for Christian BDSM that might be interesting, but I wasn't too optimistic. I figured that Christian sex was supposed to be lame and boring, so I imagined "sex toys" meant primarily some lube and some ugly lingerie. Well, I got the ugly lingerie part right:
NOW I see why this isn't pornographic. They blurred out any hint of buttcrack that might show on the model sporting this titillating outfit, which can best be described as one part Tawny Kitaen rolling around on David Coverdale's Jaguars, one part Victorian-era lampshade, and one part Puyallup, WA Lovers Package store clearance rack. Because God forbid you see anyone else's asscrack but your devoted wife's when ogling a hideous set of historically influenced fuck-me rags like these. Also, they blurred out the model's face, presumably so that you can't begin adulterously fantasizing about whatever busted 80s hooker is rocking this ensemble. On an unrelated aside, I bet you ANYTHING that Britney Spears wears something like this in her next video. But if you thought that anti-porn use of the Photoshop "Blur" tool was good, you'll love it on these next products:
Well, it seems that it's okay for Christians to use actual sex toys. However, Jesus frowns upon one looking at the topless model on the box when shopping for a hands-free, remote controlled clit stimulator, so this offensive image is blurred out. What I wonder, though, is what a dutiful Christian is supposed to do with their "orgasmic good luck charm" when it arrives in the mail. Presumably the Four Leaf Clover and Butterfly of Love don't have alternative porn-free packaging, so are you supposed to shut your eyes when you are trying to extract your new purchase from its box with the masturbating naked chick on it?
Also, it seems that while images of asscracks and titties are offensive and taboo, a little backdoor action with your spouse is totally conducive to walking the path of righteousness, so long as you use the right terminology:
Jesus likes nothing more than a good, old-fashioned butt plug, especially one with a practical feature like a sturdy retrieval cord. 
And nothing says "devout Christian" like a string of vibrating anal beads. Also, to prepare for one's Biblically sound buttsex, they sell accessory products as well:
I guess "anal douche" sounds much more Christ-like than "enema." This product certainly sounds necessary for acceptable anal action, since Leviticus does harp incessantly about cleanliness. If you're going to lay pipe on the dirt road, old I Am Who Am would obviously prefer to minimize the unpleasant poop aspect of this act among his righteous, lovingly married followers. Unless, of course, those lovingly married followers are a gay couple, in which case they should be summarily stoned.I'm still confused about why these sex toys are okay when pornography is not. Why is seeing some other chick's tits on a vibrator box so horribly offensive when you're shopping for fucking butt plugs? It seems very confusing to say, "Porn is destructive and sinful" while offering graphic descriptions of how to give a pre-anal enema using the products you're selling. Pornography and erotica isn't always visual, and I think that it's some serious semantic hair-splitting to describe exactly how to use a G-spot stimulator and say that it's okay because it's for your wife, but that images of a woman's breasts are a sinful, craven taboo. Thank God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit that these fuckers also have a blog to explain away what I consider some major philosophical discrepancies! I naturally gravitated to a post about the most important topic: proper use of sex toys.
Masturbation is probably one of the areas that causes the most negative related issues when it come to Sex Toys. It is of our belief that sex toys should not be used alone and without ones spouse as this breeds sexual problems of many kinds including sexual addictions, and even pornography dependencies.
Oh, I see...masturbation is only okay if your spouse gets to watch. So masturbation isn't shameful if you are in a loving marriage with someone you fuck on the regular. Well, that clears a lot up. I guess this is another issue Leviticus wasn't completely straightforward on. Unfortunately, being that I'm minus a good Christian hubby, it appears that all of my sex toys are still tools of sin. Also, the blog offers some tips as to how--in addition to proper glass phallus use--a wife can please her Bible-thumping husband:
Leave a passionate note under his pillow Because there is nothing--and I mean NOTHING--that gets guys hotter than long, cloying, overly emotional notes.
When he goes out of town, pack his favourite cookies in his suitcase (carefully) So he can share them with the stripper reminding him what a decent BJ is like while he's off on his "business trips."
Let him continue to dominate the TV remote control (without complaining) Yes, letting him always have his way is definitely a surefire way to marital bliss...you also shouldn't complain when he hits you for giving him some sassy lip.
When he’s kinda down offer to sop what you’re dong and pray together Because the family that sops dongs together and prays together stays together.
Develop a common hobby Like being super Christian and praying constantly isn't a hobby?
Never, NEVER, interrupt him when he’s watching TV and it’s a tie game with fourth-down-and-goal –to –go. In my home, this is a two-way street. Interrupting or changing the channel in a fourth-and-goal situation is a break-up-able offense.
Work together to elect a government official Ever wonder how Bush got elected twice (well, one and a half times)? It wasn't Karl Rove's Machiavellian political strategies, it was Christians trying to spice up their marriage.
Sew missing buttons on his shirt before he mentions it Because what kind of wife are you if you can take a couple ben-wa balls in the ass, but aren't an accomplished seamstress? This is probably why I don't have a husband.
If feasible, go on one of his business trips and offer to help him where you can There are very few things sexier than babysitting some dumb motherfucker without a clue in a professional situation. I know I get incredibly turned on when I have to fix the well-intentioned but nonetheless deal-breaking or experiment-ruining mistakes of some incompetent dipshit. I can only imagine how much more powerfully erotic this is when the incompetent dipshit is your spouse. Good idea--I bet this tip is a winning complement to foreplay darts and strap-ons.
While I applaud the super Bible-loving Christians for trying to spice up their sex lives in conjunction with their faith, this whole Jesus-approved sex toy thing seems more confusing than sexually liberating. If I were concerned about using sex toys in a manner that Jesus smiled upon, then I would be in a state of constant stress rather than pleasure, trying to keep straight when I can use them. It seems there's a fine line between being a Christian getting their Song of Solomon on and a depraved porn-addicted fornicator destined for the fiery pits of Hell, and I still don't have a clear idea of where that line actually is. What I do know is that I can no longer accuse the super sanctimonious Christians of being sexually repressed. They're probably just sticking so hard to their Jesus talking points because they are all ready to have some wild sex with their God-fearing spouses, but don't know how exactly they can break out the butt plugs and still remain on Heaven's guest list. How frustrating.
Labels: Dear God, holy fucking matrimony, perversion, porn, sex
Monday, June 25, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Razzy
Real Name: Angie
DOB: November 17, 1978
Occupation: Grad student, exhibitionist, drunk, skank, purveyor of useless bullshit
Hometown: Puyallup, WA
Current Residence: Sugar Hill, Harlem, NYC
Douchebaggery: After spending all day Saturday with a hangover so serious I couldn't move, much less make it anywhere near the Coney Island Mermaid parade I was supposed to attend, I SHOULD have spent Sunday writing up LL Cool Jew's wedding post as I promised her (and Motherbucker, and everyone else who is hassling me about it). However, I instead went to J-Sexy's, where I tended her ailing, Vicodin-doped ass with Guinness milkshakes, watched TV, and argued good-naturedly about whether or not Bobby Flay is hot (I say no, but J-Sexy is in LOVE), and whether or not "Throwdown" is rigged to favor Bobby's opponent. Then I went to work for awhile and then ran some errands.
When I got home last night, I SHOULD have sat down and written the wedding report, but I got sucked into some show on the History Channel about Jupiter. This is all especially shitty of me because when she sent around some photos of her wedding expressly for the purpose of this fabled blog entry that has yet to be written, LL Cool Jew also sent the following e-mail in which she basically calls me out in front of her entire Smith College e-mail list:
Ladies,
Thank you all so, so much for making these pictures possible. It is my
great great honor to be yalls girl.
Now, all right Razzy, let's get down to business. I'm saying this
publicly. You've said for the record you were waiting on THIS to blog
Cool Jew-Bagelmania 2007, and I have slogged through hundreds of repetitive
digital photographs of said event to locate these *just* for you. I
approach you with the deepest humility now – because, ahem, with due
respect to HotLawyer and MorrisseysHair, I think I qualify for the
title of "RazzyPhile No. 1." You are my Captain Sig, except without
the sexual feelings! And I would be only so stoked to have for the
record, might I suggest, a quick Top 10 highlights? Even Top 5?
Just a hint: The file "smithgirlsscatter" contains the beginning of
PartyFoul's assault on myself. It continued upstairs, after photograph
time. Yes, I christened her. It works just for that night, but it's
also appropriate over history when you think about it. Just a
suggestion, you could probably come up with something better. Cap'n!
As an aside, Raz, it's more than a little gratuitous for me to fawn
so. Let my genuflection serve as your best evidence of how ardent my
fandom has become!
Anyway, everyone, you all are the hotness.
xo,
LL Cool Jew
Even with such a lovely, eloquent piece of asskissery, I remained unable to tear myself away from shit concerning Jupiter's numerous jet streams and plans to explore the ice moon Europa for microbial life to concentrate on the rather daunting task of summarizing LL Cool Jew's wedding. I PROMISE I'll do it tonight and have it up by tomorrow or the next day, but today I'm blowing off lab and going to the fucking beach. I got up especially early (4:30 a.m.) today just to make sure I get something written here, but it's not enough time to do justice to the three-day titfest, boozestravaganza, and general orgy of ridiculousness that was LL Cool Jew's and BigBagel's nuptials, including the absurd and self-explanatory incident involving the "PartyFoul" character, who, as I will get into later, decided that LL Cool Jew's wedding was a perfect forum for whining about her personal insecurities. Smith College in the heezy! You can see PartyFoul, in spite of the revelry going on in front of her (me and KatieScarlett) and behind her (FalloniusMonk and JerseyGirl) trying to process with LL Cool Jew about her exclusion issues after barely saying hi and congratulations, and LL Cool Jew giving her a (totally priceless) look that plainly says, "What the fuck...are you seriously talking to me about your fucking fat issues at my wedding?!"
Anyway, I swear I'll get this written up in the next day or two. PROMISE! And I suck for not doing it yet, as Captain Sig would probably not have kept you waiting, but that's why I earned the title of douchebag for today.
Patience, precious, patience!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, holy fucking matrimony, LL Cool Jew, overcompensation, Razzyphiles
Thursday, June 21, 2007
As God is my witness, my friends are also huge geeks
LL Cool Jew sent me some pictures from her wedding and all the festivities leading up to it. Myself and all the other bridesmaids all got dressed at LL Cool Jew's suite at the Union Square W Hotel, where they have some service called "Whatever, Whenever" or something. Basically this means you can call them up at any hour and be like, "I want a bottle of Strawberry Fields Boone's Farm, an economy sized pack of Rough Riders, a bag of pepper jerky, and a copy of Us Weekly" and they'll send some dude right up with it. We didn't ask for any of that, but we did call and demand a half dozen champagne glasses and a Gone With the Wind DVD. Well, we initially tried to get Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers and The Ten Commandments, but for some inexplicable reason they didn't have any of those DVDs in their "epic awesomeness" collection (a major oversight, if you ask me). Anyway, this is how all brides-to-be should spend their last moments of freedom:
God damn, we're nerds. HUGE nerds.
"As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again!"Clearly I wasn't going hungry. I can't decide if I'm happy with the fact that my tits look absolutely ginormous in that bridesmaids dress or unhappy because it also makes the rest of me look upsettingly on the zaftig side. In spite of that, though, I think this picture perfectly illustrates why LL Cool Jew and I are friends. Nobody else can really get this excited about dorky epics based on excessively long books written by Smith College alumnae, and I really can't imagine who would use this to get pumped for their WEDDING, or who would use this as a third string wedding pep rally option after not being able to watch the Battle of Helm's Deep or the studly bald hunk of steaming sex that is Hot Jew Yul Brynner sneeringly tell Moses to take his plagues back to Goshen and shove it up his sanctimonious ass.
God damn, we're nerds. HUGE nerds.
Labels: epic geekery, holy fucking matrimony, LL Cool Jew, movies, nerd alert
Friday, April 06, 2007
You know it's a good bachelorette party when...
1. You gave all your money to a Finnish stripper named Isabel the night before (or at least you're pretty sure that's where it went)
2. You're still drunk on Gray Goose (upon which, last night, I was slizzing) and Sugarfree Red Bulls that were consumed in gallon quantities just six short hours before
3. You went to bed at 5 a.m. and woke up at 9 to attend the wedding rehearsal at the "#4 'It' Wedding Location in New York City' per the internets with the whole family and impress them with amazing feats like forming a coherent sentence
4. You realize that it's Good Friday today and have to face the nauseating prospect of a meatless dinner at a Spanish restaurant in NEWARK, NEW JERSEY later on
5. You have a temporary tattoo that reads "Blow for a Buck" on your left tit and no amount of scrubbing will get it off
6. Your parting shot to MillerTime, after begging her for dogwalking services, while leaving for the D train is, "I don't care how trashy I look. I'm from Puyallup, goddammit."
LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, in other words, was a success.
2. You're still drunk on Gray Goose (upon which, last night, I was slizzing) and Sugarfree Red Bulls that were consumed in gallon quantities just six short hours before
3. You went to bed at 5 a.m. and woke up at 9 to attend the wedding rehearsal at the "#4 'It' Wedding Location in New York City' per the internets with the whole family and impress them with amazing feats like forming a coherent sentence
4. You realize that it's Good Friday today and have to face the nauseating prospect of a meatless dinner at a Spanish restaurant in NEWARK, NEW JERSEY later on
5. You have a temporary tattoo that reads "Blow for a Buck" on your left tit and no amount of scrubbing will get it off
6. Your parting shot to MillerTime, after begging her for dogwalking services, while leaving for the D train is, "I don't care how trashy I look. I'm from Puyallup, goddammit."
LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, in other words, was a success.
Labels: alcoholism, holy fucking matrimony, LL Cool Jew, MillerTime, ridiculous absurdity
Friday, March 09, 2007
Bombs over beer gut
Rac has been trying to tell me for years. I should have listened. I should have known. Alas, like all things, I had to come to it myself.
What is this revelation, you ask? Pretty easy.
THE PUSHUP BRA IS AN ENGINEERING MARVEL. Like the Hoover Dam. La Tour Eiffel. The Ferris Wheel. I don't know what clever bastard finally made the link between the braziere and the suspension-bridge, but I salute said person. Goddamn brilliant.
And don't you dare call me stupid that it took me three decades to learn this. I am a foreigner to some very basic traditional female rituals. It's just how I roll. I like painting my fingernails and I've grown to love high heels in the last few years, but I don't know shit about hair, makeup or lingerie. I'd be better off in the hands of an armless Nam Vet when it comes to cosmetics than left to my own devices. As for bras, well, I have two: a sports bra for the gym (feel the burn!) and a tube-top number for keeping my shit under wraps at work.
With LL Cool Jew's nuptials on the horizon, though, I'm in Lady Training. I gotta wear a dress - a hot one at that, but a mystery, with strange descriptions like "A-line." I have to wear silver shoes. Get my hair did and draped with florals. Buy gel cup boosty things because I boast THE smallest tits in the whole wedding party.
So it's Chick 101 for me. As Hammer says, Ring the bell - school's in, sucka!
Items on the agenda:
First, call 1-800-STORAGE for my beer gut. Switch to whisky. Cut down on the bread. Do not be the pregnant-lookin'-fat-girl in the wedding. It's been an interesting experiment - challenging, certainly, but I'm a little bit OCD, so there's a degree of self-discipline that I actually enjoy. And the diet is working. Not that there's a single person speaking English and alive today who *doesn't know this, just sayin.
Second mission. Handle my tits. Hence the pushup bra. Again, I know the ladies have been telling me about this, yet somehow it didn't hit my ears. But hold the fucking phone, I'm a believer. THIS BRA IS FUCKING AMAZING. There is now, for the first time in my natural lifetime, a shadow that comes somewhere near the word "cleavage." Me, President of the Tiny Titty Committee. I have no problem with that - it simply means that I am unaccustomed to seeing boobs on myself. This changes everything. It makes me think - can you do this with ass? Love handles? Beer guts? Is there someway to resling all this shit so you, er, redistribute the chunky wealth?
And then it hits me - THIS is what they mean when they say *silhouette. OHHHHHH...
Mission after this.
Alteration. I don't want to talk about it. Just let me know if you know a tailor.
Mission, what are we on, four?
Touch up my dye job so I don't look like Madonna.
Mission 5
Go back into booze boot camp a few weeks before the wedding so I don't fall over in them aforementioned heels.
Nummer 6
Make it to wedding etc
and lucky Number 7
Get a fucking photo of myself looking every inch like a lady and print the shit on a shirt to wear to the gym.
To remind us all that it is in fact possible, it did in fact happen, it is true: I'm a girl, and I can act like one.
What is this revelation, you ask? Pretty easy.
THE PUSHUP BRA IS AN ENGINEERING MARVEL. Like the Hoover Dam. La Tour Eiffel. The Ferris Wheel. I don't know what clever bastard finally made the link between the braziere and the suspension-bridge, but I salute said person. Goddamn brilliant.
And don't you dare call me stupid that it took me three decades to learn this. I am a foreigner to some very basic traditional female rituals. It's just how I roll. I like painting my fingernails and I've grown to love high heels in the last few years, but I don't know shit about hair, makeup or lingerie. I'd be better off in the hands of an armless Nam Vet when it comes to cosmetics than left to my own devices. As for bras, well, I have two: a sports bra for the gym (feel the burn!) and a tube-top number for keeping my shit under wraps at work.
With LL Cool Jew's nuptials on the horizon, though, I'm in Lady Training. I gotta wear a dress - a hot one at that, but a mystery, with strange descriptions like "A-line." I have to wear silver shoes. Get my hair did and draped with florals. Buy gel cup boosty things because I boast THE smallest tits in the whole wedding party.
So it's Chick 101 for me. As Hammer says, Ring the bell - school's in, sucka!
Items on the agenda:
First, call 1-800-STORAGE for my beer gut. Switch to whisky. Cut down on the bread. Do not be the pregnant-lookin'-fat-girl in the wedding. It's been an interesting experiment - challenging, certainly, but I'm a little bit OCD, so there's a degree of self-discipline that I actually enjoy. And the diet is working. Not that there's a single person speaking English and alive today who *doesn't know this, just sayin.
Second mission. Handle my tits. Hence the pushup bra. Again, I know the ladies have been telling me about this, yet somehow it didn't hit my ears. But hold the fucking phone, I'm a believer. THIS BRA IS FUCKING AMAZING. There is now, for the first time in my natural lifetime, a shadow that comes somewhere near the word "cleavage." Me, President of the Tiny Titty Committee. I have no problem with that - it simply means that I am unaccustomed to seeing boobs on myself. This changes everything. It makes me think - can you do this with ass? Love handles? Beer guts? Is there someway to resling all this shit so you, er, redistribute the chunky wealth?
And then it hits me - THIS is what they mean when they say *silhouette. OHHHHHH...
Mission after this.
Alteration. I don't want to talk about it. Just let me know if you know a tailor.
Mission, what are we on, four?
Touch up my dye job so I don't look like Madonna.
Mission 5
Go back into booze boot camp a few weeks before the wedding so I don't fall over in them aforementioned heels.
Nummer 6
Make it to wedding etc
and lucky Number 7
Get a fucking photo of myself looking every inch like a lady and print the shit on a shirt to wear to the gym.
To remind us all that it is in fact possible, it did in fact happen, it is true: I'm a girl, and I can act like one.
Labels: exercise drama, FalloniusMonk, holy fucking matrimony
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