Feministress

Penis Dress-Up

2008-10-20T12:17:00.000-07:00

Now there's a reason to love the Belgians aside from their waffles and fries and... yeah, that's all I got for ya.

Anyway, BEHOLD:

Best. Condom ad. EVER.

The Maddams Family

2008-10-10T09:54:00.000-07:00

Dreams DO come true, my friends. God is smiling on my today! Look what I just happened upon:

My night is now spoken for. Bliss!

The Munsters, Doggie-Style

2008-10-06T09:19:00.000-07:00

Some of the perks of being in the porn biz, aside from all the faux dongs I like, is that I get to see soon-to-be porn classics at least a few minutes before everyone else. Last week: This Ain't the Munsters XXX.

I won't get into the juicy plot points, the balls-out acting (yeah, I went there), or the challenging directorial choices. But I will say that the pizza the Hustler crew brought over for us, as enticement to say nice things about the performers' genitalia, hit the spot. There is nothing, NOTHING, like eating a slice while watching Grandpa, Herman, and Lily do the XXX nasty. Brill'!

As a sidebar, fingers crossed "The Addams Family XXX" is next in the production line!

Breaking Up With Your Sex Doll the Right Way

2008-09-21T13:44:00.000-07:00

To all your sex-doll owners, (You know who you are... And I know who you are) please be advised that dumping your plastic lay in the woods will land you some unwanted police attention.

My suggestion is to get rid of it the time-honored, old-fashioned way: by passing it on to your kid.

Aloha, Yourself

2008-09-04T15:58:00.000-07:00

Clearly, friends, I am doing something wrong to have received this:
And by "wrong" I mean, "JACKPOT!"

"Save the Fight for the Komodo"

2008-08-27T14:43:00.001-07:00

The other night, I happened upon a film on cable so extraordinary, so revelatory, I can't in good conscience keep it to myself. I MUST share it with the world.

Ready? Are you in your Netflix queue? Get ready to type this:

"Curse of the Komodo."

Yeah, you read right.

Featuring some of the worst FX ever committed to celluloid, unspeakably awkward editing, and largely endowed porn stars in tank tops trying to act the LIVING SHIT out of it all. In a word: MAGIC.

Behold the awesome power of the komodo!

Know what he's after?

These:

Fingers crossed I can find it for less than 3 bucks on eBay! Though even I refuse to get into a bidding war with a 14-year-old pimply teen from Arkansas for the glory of having it in my paws. Because, as the hero of "Curse" sagely advises: "Save the fight for the komodo."

American Appalling

2008-08-12T14:32:00.001-07:00

While I was making a lunch -- aka Red Vines -- run today, I passed an American Apparel store that had two mannequins in a pose that could only be described as "retail-window doggie." It was THAT BAD.

Almost as bad as the stock, which featured, among other pieces of fabric not worthy of the label "clothing," this demure, chaste, I dare say subtle, offering:

Note: This warrants a trip to the proctologist after wear, as things tend to get, er, sucked into the abyss.

I especially am partial to the "action" shots found on the company's site, highlighting the item's broad functionality. Par example:

They're perfect when you're too drunk to make it to the bathroom!

Also:

Ideal for giving you that self-esteem boost when your friend's suffering from crippling scoliosis!

All that and more for the low low price of 26 bucks! A small price to pay for the worth we call Self.

Masterpiece Theatre: Honky Tonk Badonkadonk

2008-08-10T12:45:00.001-07:00

After taking a much-needed mental-health hiatus (aka, lounging around in my PJs with an open jar of peanut butter and a spoon), I need to break my silence the only way I know how: with a country-music video. So I am introducing everyone to the wonder, the glory, the dance-hall genius that is Trace Adkins's Honky Tonk Badonkadonk:

First off: The unaltered GarageBand dance loop layered underneath the down-home lyrics is, in a word, miraculous.

I am also weak at the knees for Mr. Trace's painfully awkward, he-should-be-embarrassed dance "moves."

BLESS!

I also likey what transpires at the 3:04 mark, when it morphs into a disco-infused roller-rink slow jam.

KLASSY!

And the lyrics! Dear Lord, THE LYRICS!

Now Honey, you can't blame her
For what her mama gave her
It ain't right to hate her
For workin' that money-maker
Band shuts down at two
But we're hangin' out till three
We hate to see her go
But love to watch her leave
With that honky tonk badonkadonk
Keepin' perfect rhythm
Make ya wanna swing along
Got it goin' on
Like Donkey Kong
And whoo-wee
Shut my mouth, slap your grandma
There outta be a law
Get the Sheriff on the phone
Lord have mercy, how's she even get them britches on
With that honky tonk badonkadonk
(Ooh, that's what I'm talkin' bout right there, honey)

I feel fuzzy inside. (And outside. But that could be my allergies.) Hell, this is just the feel-good song of my lifetime. What a time we live in!

Frida of Expression

2008-08-01T14:56:00.000-07:00

My current mood can be summarized thusly:

Oh hells yes!

Sexism in Practice

2008-07-29T15:19:00.001-07:00

Overheard today at my local Barnes & Noble, as I was thumbing through a book about recherché S&M (or was it knitting?) techniques.

Pimply white teenager: "Dude, isn't your dad some kind of feminist?"
Heavy-set, pimply white teenager: "No, we both fucking hate feminists. They're sexist."

And... scene.

Space Screwing

2008-07-24T17:51:00.000-07:00

Will someone please divert all federal monies going to find a cure for cancer into THIS:

So that we can see more of this:

Please?

Bad Barbie

2008-07-21T16:30:00.000-07:00

This new Barbie is officially dubbed Black Canary:

But I'd dub it an exercise in doll badassery!

Clealry intended as a teaching tool, this ambassador of kinky sex will introduce girls and (gay?) boys to the wonderful world that is nipple clamps and safe words! (And what will kids picky as the safe word between dominatrix Barbie and that pussyface of hers, Ken? "iPod"? "Hannah-Montana"? "Frenemy"? The possibilities are ENDLESS!)

I look forward to a near-future filled with young suburban girls outfitted in Forever 21 hoodies getting their role-playing on with S&M Barbie and a bound and ball-gagged Ken doll. My eyes are getting misty just thinking about it.

If I have any advice to Mattel it's to turn this into an entire Fetish line: "Spreader-Bar Ken" or "Hooded Polly Pocket" or "Strap-On Barbie: Limited Edition"! I'm exhausting myself!

This kind of thing restores my faith in humanity. And doll-making.

Da View

2008-07-17T13:50:00.000-07:00

Recently, I've felt a disturbance in the Force, like something was missing but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Well, friends, I am pleased to report that I now know what that is...

This here:

That's Whoopi going bat-shit on "The View" this morning, which I have been missing lately because of a scheduling conflict with my nap time.

Anyway, the shitstorm started when Jesse Jackson's use of the N-word was brought up and Elisabeth said no one should use the word in any context because kids might hear it and Whoopi said "We live in two separate worlds" and then Elisabeth started crying:

The negative space that is Sherri Shepherd contributed the usual:

And to make everything seem less awkward, Barbara saved the day by mugging this:

This show deserves a Peabody. Or just a pea.

Mirren = Smokin'-hot Badass

2008-07-16T12:38:00.000-07:00

Today a picture of 62-year-old Helen Mirren in a bikini surfaced online. And HOLY SWEET LORD IS THIS WOMAN SIZZLING:

Damn, sister, did you make aging your bitch!

How do you do it?! Do you drink the blood of nubile virgins for breakfast? Did you install a fountain of youth in your backyard that you bathe in nightly while being fed bonbons from a gilded tray? Did you make some kind of crazy-ass Rosemary's Baby pact whereby you get that body and some minion gets... your Scottish terrier?

Also, I think the bathing suit is cute. Damn, woman, you're killing me here! Now I have to go to the freakin' gym and run on the treadmill to the tune of self-loathing. Thanks for nothing.

Artiste du Jour: Erika Rothenberg

2008-07-15T17:16:00.000-07:00

Erika Rothenberg is an artist with a sense of humor. Exhibit A:

We need more artists like her. That is all.

Bleepin' P****

2008-07-11T11:37:00.000-07:00

Caught some of Kathy Griffin's My Life on the D-List last night, which was alternatively giggle-inducing and so boring that I actually chose to clean the carpet instead (for about 3-1/2 minutes, then got distracted by something shiny, which turned out to be a piece of a candy wrapper, which made me think of chocolate, which made me wish I had some).

At one point in the episode, she stunt-marries some nice Jewish couple. She, of course, FUBARs most of it, and peppers the majority of the ceremony with vulgarities fit for a tattoo parlor in San Pedro. Most of these vulgarities were helpfully bleeped by the kind censors at Bravo. Most except: "pussy." That's right: "fuck" and "shit" were no-gos but a derogatory term for female genitalia passed with flying colors. More than once. I'm considering writing a letter to Bravo and telling them: "It's all or nothing, bitches. Come the F on!" I'd love to know what the thought process is behind allowing a "pussy" over a "shit," but I'll leave that to the experts to ponder.

And I'm sure if Kathy ever read this, this would sum up her response:

Boy Sauce

2008-07-09T16:56:00.000-07:00

I LOVE the French — cheese, wine, cheese, Charlotte Gainsbourg, cheese, buttery pastries, cheese, tongue-kissing, etc. But the following has rocked my world. I may never watch a Catherine Deneuve movie again. Not even "Belle De Jour." Yeah, it's THAT bad.

Courtesy of Les 400 Culs comes this eBay France listing for "15 ml de jus de maillots de bain homme."

Know what that is? "15 milliliters of Male Bathing-Suit Juice."

The seller collected the "jus" from a public swimming pool in Paris. I'm wondering how the "precious nectar" (his words, not mine) was in fact collected. Is there such a collection device? I imagine the object would look something like the biting shark on the end of a stick you get in the concession stands of amusement parks. Like this:

Gotcha!

Things get even creepier with the description of the odor as "delicate" owing to the fact it was collected in such a "convivial" and "virile" environment as the changing room of a public pool.

That's so many kinds of weird-nasty I can't even count. It's infinitively weird-nasty. It's the pi of weird-nasty!

This would all be a 5-euro joke we could put behind us if it weren't for the fact 4 freakin' people (or escaped zoo gorillas) have bid on it. WTFF?! Le gross.

Faux Shlongs

2008-07-08T20:50:00.000-07:00

As if we needed another reason to actively dislike the least-watched HBO series since forever... OK, actually since last year's dreadful "John From Cincinnati" (shiver)... the lead actor of "Tell Me You Love Me" has now revealed his on-screen dick is not his own. Yep: This dude's been sporting a dildo.

And he actually looks pleased about it! Like, homie wha?

I loathe the double standard about pee-pee parts in film/TV, and this is just another notch in that moronic belt. I mean, why don't the actresses on the show wear fake vaginas? I've "heard" they make very anatomically-correct ones these days. Really life-like. Simulacrum, if you will.

Anyway, the biggest sin of this show is that it actually manages to be boring despite featuring graphic sex scenes, fake peckers notwithstanding. So, I guess that's a feat in itself. Yippee.

Pity Me

2008-07-07T15:26:00.000-07:00

Some douches broke into my poor sweet car this morning and stole my favorite handbag, along with my wallet and a peanut-butter Clif bar. When I called my credit-card company to report the vandalism, they said the budding Bonnie and Clydes had used it already to buy discount gas and a whopping 24 bucks' worth of food at McDonald's. Guess they were lovin' it. Zing! Anyway, if any of you has any extra cash lying under the sofa, I want this as a replacement.

So cute! It's Kangol. I likey. It's on sale here.

Just puttin' it out there...

Septuagenarian Pops Out Litttle Humans

2008-07-06T10:10:00.000-07:00

According to the BBC, this 70-year-old Indian woman just had twins:

My friend asked the tough questions: "Shouldn't there be a 'Closed' sign? Or maybe just 'Out of Order'?"

I'd add "Stop" to the list.

But really, what I am most struggling to wrap my head around is the fact this woman has been menstruating since the 50s. She's been menstruating since Eisenhower! She's been menstruating since the invention of Super Glue! She's been menstruating since Rosa Parks gave up her freakin' seat on the back of a freakin' bus! (And that's all the trivia I have for you today, folks.)

She has my deepest sympathy.

Sex Scenes Gone Bad

2008-07-03T15:43:00.000-07:00

The bad-sex-scene curators over at Nerve have done us all a favor and narrowed a potentially limitless list down to a semi-digestible 50. No. 1 is the how-about-butter-as-lube Euro-flick, Last Tango in Paris. A solid choice, as the particular scene in question is horrendously "acted," self-consciously pretentious, and most egregiously, un-sexy. It's celluloid suckiness.

As good as the choices are, there is one scene conspicuously absent from the list that should be on ANY list dedicated to outrageous badness as an art form: this sex scene from I Know Who Killed Me.

I LOVE how it opens with Lindsay Lohan's character's prosthetic leg chillin' by the wall:

And it get so much better (better = badder) from there, as you'll duly note.

I love that there's a blue filter used for no apparent reason other than maybe it was the only one available the day of the shoot. I love the embarrassing sex choreography, in which Lindsay at one point rides the guy like a pommel horse. And I love love love the heavy-handed intercutting to draw attention away from the gospel-of-truth that Lindsay and her co-star have no perceptible chemistry. Brava!

PhDs will one day be dedicated to its awfulness. Courses will be planned to examine in-depth the achingly bad score, the dude's girly orgasm sounds, the cloacal kissing. This is a genre unto itself!

It's a serious oversight on Nerve's part, because, truly, this is the worst sex scene since the circa-'89 Heath Ed video I was shown in gym class that started with a boy getting a boner and ended with a girl boned and with child. I still have the scars.

Anti-Woman Sloganeering

2008-07-02T11:05:00.000-07:00

Jezebel linked to this T-shart today: This fabric dingleberry offends me as a woman, a clothes buyer (looks ill-fitting), and a copy editor (what's with the hyphen blitzkrieg?).

The fact that the sizes also come in Juniors and Youth-Fit (aka for boys) does little to quell the vomitorium gaining strength in my abdomen.

I do not believe in censorship. I do not believe in controlling language. I do not believe in blue-penciling people.

Having said all of that, let's no kid ourselves that this type of thing is not dangerous. It's easy to write a slogan like this if you haven't been the victim of date rape, or know someone who has. Just like it's easy to use a specific slur when it can never be directed at you.

Not to mention, the "Looking for 'date rape' products" link at the bottom of the Amazon page is really the cherry atop this preternaturally vile cake.

"A Painted Stranger Sexually Assualted Me" Tee on Sale!

2008-07-01T12:43:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has seen me lately knows that I am in dire need of new clothes. Eight-year-old jeans that I have been patching the shit out of with any dumpster scraps I can find and a T-shirt that has something like an afterbirth stain on it is just not cutting it. Even the nose-less homeless guy outside my local coffee hole don't want to tap this, yo.

So, even though I am 173 years too old for Urban Outfitters, I sniffed out their Sale signage in the hopes of new-outfitting my sorry ass.

As I was perusing the Anorexic Apparel, I stepped in this piece of shit:

I first read this as "Jack Skellington Grabbed My Muffins." I later re-read it as "I Was Groped By a Finger-Painter on the El Train." I mean, even the model doesn't look happy about this.

For $14.99, I expect them to throw in a Rape Kit.

En Vogue

2008-06-30T11:55:00.000-07:00

Because this morning I couldn't, I just COULD NOT, bring myself to watch what was on offer at the gym, a hazardous-waste cornucopia that included "The View" and "Highlights of Sporting Events" and "Some Local Newscast Featuring Graphics From '92," I grabbed a magazine at the door. Please, no snap judgements:

It was either that or "Men's Health" and the thought of parsing Viva Viagra ads to get to articles about jock itch was just about as depressing as a limbless kitten.

Seventy-two pages of ads later, I found myself spacing out on this chestnut of a quote:

Lo siento, perras, but this is irresponsible and despicable, and most importantly, doesn't work, as I just pictured my last meal and immediately felt my body inching closer to the fridge for the leftovers. Ahh... cold pancakes. But I digress. Thiz gross.

After realizing I had gone into a fugue state pondering the effects of such a quotable and had been staring at the wonky eye of the dude on the treadmill a few doors down, I focused on the task at hand: Getting through the Nicole Kidman article.

WTFuckness? Did somebody iron her face?

OK, so I couldn't get through the article. The pics stopped me in my tracks the same way the Juvederm stopped Nicole from physically hitting 17.

At least the mag was kind enough to juxtapose a photo of Karl Lagerfeld and a fembot.

That got me to the end of my workout.

A Sex Toy With Your Ill-Fitting Threads?

2008-06-27T09:14:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of its scumbaguette CEO, American Apparel is now selling the Hitachi Magic Wand.

This is the wiggle stick in question:

What better way to accessorize underwear that an American Girl Doll would find ass-constrictive?! (I riddle you not, AA's panties lowered my sperm count just on sight alone.)

But seriously, I am most offended because now I have incentive to shop there.

Pussy Peddling: Idealized

2008-06-25T10:00:00.000-07:00

I finally caught "Secret Diary of a Call Girl" last night, in between bites of a dark-chocolate-marzipan Ritter bar. Anywayz... The premise of the show: A call girl named Belle de Jour (a reach-around to Buñuel) likes her work because, as she puts it, she likes to fuck and she likes money.

It's like a factory-farm butcher saying he likes his job because he gets to work with animals.

So let's not kid ourselves: The show is a romanticized version of a really fucked-up occupation. The notion that a hooker — one highly palatable Billie Piper — is cool with her career choice is the type of thing that makes us all able to sleep at night.

However, the character Hannah/Belle doesn't sit as cozily with her body-sellin' as the producers would like us to think. She says she loves her job because she likes to screw, but later, elaborates, saying, she loves her job because she doesn't have to be herself. There is a bit of dissociation going on. It isn't even her fucking at all. It's a character doing the sexy. In human parlance, we call this denial.

After a little wiki search, I discovered that Billie Piper has struggled with anorexia. This personal tragedy underscores for me the very public tragedy, and danger, of presenting hooking as something cool. Women disembodying themselves, both onscreen and off, should not be shot in soft focus.

The direct address is also tummy-owee-inducing, as it makes the viewer a complicit participant. No pure artifice here: We are all in this together! Brecht would be wet-dreaming the shit out of this were he alive.

Not to mention, this promo graphic:

Reminds me of this:

Having said all of this, I will probably watch another episode because a) it has some realistic sex scenes and b) the British accents are hella funny.

I never said I was a role model.

Dumb Avocados

2008-06-24T11:23:00.000-07:00

In between mourning George Carlin and Amy Winehouse’s lung capacity, this served to distract the living shit out of me:

E!, in an E!xceptional move, has decided to take the negative press directed at its newest reality vart, “Denise Richards: It’s Complicated,” and turn it into promo fodder. Although I do not fully grasp the complex subtlety of “Dumber Than an Avocado,” I can say with some certainty that this is meant to be derogatory, an insult to both avocados and Denise Richards.

I also detect a soupçon of sexism. Don't you?

It’s not really that complicated.

Photo Du Jour: Terry O'Neill

2008-06-23T13:25:00.000-07:00

Pussy Galore!

Thanks, Reverse Cowgirl, for posting this. It was the perfect little pick-me-up!

Snail Smut

2008-06-13T14:23:00.001-07:00

Everyone's favorite bat-shit-crazy model/actress/spokesperson for the criminally insane (and by "everyone" I mean "me"), Isabella Rossellini, has made what I consider the first and final word in green pornography.

We are talking about this woman:

The XXXciting video features IR in a giant snail costume, going over the specifics of slug fucking. It's ten kinds of awesome.

She starts by saying something boring about how big her foot would be if she were a snail. I was more focused on the anatomically correct pee-pee parts.

She then helpfully explains: "I can withdraw my entire body into my shell, where I can hide my vagina and my penis. I have both." In human parlance, we call that a "she-male." But I don't want to quibble.

At this point, shit starts to get super funked up.

She curls her body into the shell like a fist and says these magic words: "My anus would end up at the top of my head."

But really, who HASN'T been there?

She then talks about how she can produce darts to inflict pain, which “turns me on.” Is she still the snail at this point or Isabella? You be the judge.

Then the S&M commences!

After pummeling the living snot out of each other in a kinky freakfest, Isabella and her giant snail friend do the nasty.

Says the chick in the escargot costume, "Sadomasochism excites me."

I need a cold shower.

Mommy's Got New Bazongoes

2008-06-12T13:04:00.001-07:00

I have been meaning to write a post about this Dutch Oven for weeks:

My friend helpfully subtitled it, “Why is Mommy wrapped like a mummy?”

As the site explains, “Undergoing plastic surgery procedure can be an exciting and stressful time for you and your family. This book will make your plastic surgery experience more understandable to your little ones.”

Exciting yes: “Mommy’s gonna have crazy-large juggos!” Stressful of course: “Will mom’s new nose still be able to sniff out the skid mark I left in the sink?”

But let’s not kid ourselves, people: $19.95?!

(I joke, of course. Kind of. I mean, that’s a lot of dough these days. Dough that could be spent more wisely on a certain little happy stick.)

But really, what ever happened to child-appropriate fare like “Where the Wild Things Are” and “Stewart Little” and “Heather Has Two Mommies”? What have we become when toddlers chat on the playground about how mommy had her nose broken and whittled away so she could appear more pretty for daddy?

We scare me.

Queer Nuts

2008-06-11T12:00:00.000-07:00

Does not matter the day, I am inevitably stuck at the gym in front of a TV broadcasting ESPN. While trying hard not to focus on how pathetically the Elliptical is kicking my sorry ass, I often space-out while watching highlights of sports I do not follow (That's misleading: I actually don’t follow any sports. Unless you consider gay-cruising a sport. Which I do.). But the channel's commercials really do snare my interest. It’s as if all the advertising is directed at pre-teen mountain gorillas. I love it.

The ad I'm currently crushing-on is for Planters Peanuts, which seems to run at least once every second song on my workout mix.

For the uninitiated, the advert' features a “woman” (aka, a tranny), with a unibrow and painted-on mole, rubbing nuts on her person to attract men. I riddle you not.

Check it:

Here's the (wo)man:

First she dips her man-hands in the nut jar.

Then she applies the unsuspecting cashew to her neck while making an orgasm-y face.

Now she rubs it on the inside of her wrist like it's eau de vie.

It gets even pornier when she pats it between her cupcakes.

And finally all this nut-smearing somehow makes her a boner magnet.

It’s the queerest mainstream ad I’ve ever seen.

But it totally makes me want snack nuts. I am weak.

The Lohan Defense

2008-06-10T15:19:00.000-07:00

I am writing in defense of Lindsay Lohan, and this should not be used as evidence against my sanity (I would instead point to the fact I used to collect straws. But only the cool striped ones.).

Blogs have been on fire since some pics surfaced of Lohan tongue-jockeying with her live-in girlfriend, Samantha Ronson, in Cannes. Some douches at ABC even had the temerity to suggest that coming out as bisexual would help her career. Classy.

People are just dishing out cup after cup of crap on the poor girl. The L Word drama of it all! The fact Sam is bringing her care packages to the set of her new movie!

Know why none of this is really that interesting?

Because this is the most normal thing Lohan has ever done. I mean, when was the last time we saw her THIS happy?

Girl is HIGH on love.

And here’s the thing: What if she really enjoys spelunking through some muff cave? Wouldn’t that sure as hell explain away some of her acting-out?

I say, continue on, baby-dyke-in-training! If only for the reason that it might prevent something like this from happening again:

Weinus Grande

2008-06-09T13:19:00.000-07:00

Taschen, publisher of fancy-pants art books you normally see collecting white-wine-stemware stains atop coffee tables, has just released the item we've ALL been waiting for:

Sadly, I didn't make the cut. (Though, on a side note, I did make it into their Butt Book. See if you can spot me!)

Well-Played: Germans

2008-06-06T16:31:00.000-07:00

This woman just skyrocketed to the top of my "must domestic-partner with" list:

Charlotte Roche has written a bestselling book about a young girl who, among other things, ends up in the hospital after a delicate shaving incident, has an insatiable fascination with her hemorrhoids, and does something unspeakable with an avocado pit.

I MUST meet her.

The novel, "Feuchtgebiete," which my Mac widget has helpfully translated as "humid areas" but which English-language publishers have titled "Wetlands" (boo), is a scandal in her hometown. People have allegedly fainted at recent book readings. (The Germans are scandalized by this?! These are after all the people who created Vulva Original.)

In a New York Times article, Ms. Roche “describes the book as a cri de coeur against the oppression of a waxed, shaved, douched and otherwise sanitized women’s world.” I want to gay-marry her in California. We can use Life Savers for rings and do it all potluck-style to keep it on the cheap. There are no hard and fast rules when you are this madly in love! Check out what German newspapers are saying, according to the Times:

"Newspapers here have contrasted her unhygienic, free-spirited fictional heroine to an American-import model of womanhood: the stable of plucked, pencil-thin contestants on "Germany's Next Top Model," a popular reality show hosted by the German supermodel Heidi Klum."

Can someone please direct this woman to my inbox?

My pivotal belief about America's obsession with female grooming is that the stuff that makes women female — their genitalia, and related adornments and odors — scares the living poop out of most Americas. Why so scared of woman au natural? Because it's feral. It suggests unchecked, unfettered sexuality... female sexuality. So if we have women pluck the crap out of themselves, deodorize to the point they are actually putting their health at risk, doll-up pubic hair by dying it magenta, or worse, shave it all off for that adorable presexual, prepubescent appearance (Are we a nation of pedophiles?), then we can make them more palatable and less threatening. It's oppression under the guises of self-improvement.

Building bodily self confidence cannot include grooming habits with the subtext: "I hate my body." This isn't just offensive — America's attitude toward women's bodies, and not just a few errant pubes, is immoral. And pubes, I can live with; misogyny, I cannot.

So: Viva Germany for publishing this book and for bringing this woman into my life!

And, Charlotte: Call me.

Vadge in a Box

2008-06-04T12:46:00.000-07:00

This is NEWS, people:

Somebody finally bottled vulva!

I need to put this on my Amazon wish list STAT.

Just read the scintillating description: “The precious, vagina odour filled into a small glass phial.... Vulva Original is not a perfume. It is a beguiling vaginal scent which is purely a substance for your own smelling pleasure.”

How have I been living without this? How have any of us?

I want to rub it on my male friends and see who it attracts, and repels. I want to fill a Super Soaker and spray vag juice all over the unsuspecting church-festival crowd while they're playing bingo. I want to share this scent with the WORLD. But there isn’t enough TIME!

I mean, just look how happy the model is!

Even though she was clearly attacked by something wild, obviously attracted to her eau de vagin, she still looks pretty damn contented. Like: "Yeah, I'm sniffing crotch... jealous much?"

Do yourself a favor and check out the site, for the awesomely graphic gallery. It feels like Christmas morning! You'll thank me.

Bad Pussy

2008-06-03T12:23:00.000-07:00

The Pussycat Dolls' newest single, "When I Grow Up," is one cloacal infection of a jingle.

Sample lyrics:

When I grow up I wanna be famous, I wanna be a star, I wanna be in movies
When I grow up I wanna see the world, drive nice cars, I wanna have BOOBIES [emphasis mine]

(As my best friend wisely noted, it would have been better if they'd rhymed "movies" with "scabies.")

The message is clear: Young girls, shelve those aspirations of becoming a high-powered executive at an environmental law firm that will save the planet from its imminent demise. When you grow up, aim for freakishly large boobage!

What irks me about this is that it presents such a narrowly defined view of female sexuality. It's one-note raunch. No one profits from one-size-fits-all, cookie-cutter sexuality. It's boring as hell. It's not substantive. And worse, it does not allow women to think for themselves, to own their own particular brand of sexuality, to flaunt their own unique goods in their own unique way. It's mass-market de-individuation. The message is clear: We want all women to be sexual in the same way. And it has nothing to do with female pleasure. This is about the receiver, not the giver. It's submission masquerading as empowerment. Women are being sold their own ticket to identity slavery. And they're buying it. On sale.

Having said that, when I grow up I would like to be able to do this badass Pussycat Doll scissor-kick for my gynecologist:

Lose-Lose

2008-06-02T13:22:00.001-07:00

Nobody wins.

Journalism R.I.P.

2008-06-01T17:57:00.000-07:00

Will the reporter with the exclusive on the Iraqi kid with one leg please sit the fuck down! Tyra’s giving away Vaseline!

Ugly Betty

2008-05-31T18:46:00.000-07:00

Initial thoughts:

Wow, a lighting bolt! Am I ready to tell my partner that my vagina is also a superhero and that he or she shouldn’t be surprised one night when it gets up and puts its cape on and flies out the window?

In case I want to make perfectly clear that this shit comes with a premium and that they’d better provide cash or some serious perks if they ever want to see this again, there’s a dollar sign to spell things out.

And just in case I haven’t come to terms with the fact that I actually have a vagina and its related parts, I can sculpt a little flower down there to put myself at ease every time I accidentally see myself naked when getting into the shower.

And please, like a hippie would have the coordination to chisel a peace sign into some bush?

It’s always black-tie… in my pants! Dress to impress!

From guest blogger, Gregoire: “Turns out it isn’t our foreign policy that makes the rest of the world hate us. Strangely the first thing that came to mind when I saw this was the avuncular old man with a gray (not pink) beard asking me to please just give 50 cents a day so that little Maria can go to school and get her first look at clean water. And I thought, "Wow. This is perspective. People would actually spend the same amount or more making sure their important hairs were as neurotically manicured as Versailles. USA! At least all you have to pay for are the tools… the fountain’s already there.”

Oh, Come ON

2008-05-30T18:09:00.000-07:00

Spotted on the street:You may have noticed, apart from the Hamburglar-inspired design aspect of whatever-the-hell-piece-of-furniture-that’s-supposed-to-be, that there is a young girl on all fours looking like she’s about to be nailed from behind. I mean, for really?

Yes, I understand that wardrobe-malfunctioning females are used to sell things. I live now. But a furniture company? This has crossed the thin red line. What’s next: half-naked, spread-eagle tweens used to peddle arch supports?

This furniture pimp-daddy needs to lose a homemade-knife fight with jail sistas. Their gang name: The Sofa Kings. SNAP!

Aging Thicket

2008-05-29T14:32:00.001-07:00

I just picked up an old Allure belonging not to me, in a fit of excruciating boredom (and mild intrigue, related to an article about, and I'm paraphrasing, how to please my man with nothing but a seatless tricycle and a pickled jalapeño), and came across an ad for a product called Betty. After regaining consciousness, plus a brief Kit Kat break, I was finally able to wrap my head around the abomination: bush dye. Yep, that's right, a hair-coloring kit for da box. OK, for really, what is so wrong with an aging, au natural thicket? I mean, if your partner is complaining about a little salt 'n' pepa, then maybe it's time to upgrade to a human being.

This just hurts:Pink carpet?! Ladies, ladies, ladies: your crotch is not a Sno-Cone.

Go Big, Go Homo

2008-05-29T12:23:00.000-07:00

Mario Cantone — I have nothing really to say about him in between these em dashes — suggested today that the only way these women will ever win an Emmy is if they try on lesbianism (not, say, try on journalistic integrity or the ever-elusive "tact"). My ass gagged on impact.

This is JACKED UP:

Ring of Terror

2008-05-28T14:36:00.001-07:00

This is the scariest piece of news I've received since the demise of PB Max (peanut butter and chocolate piled atop a cookie foundation. Bliss!): There is something called a Divorce Ring. (I at first misinterpreted this as meaning there is a ring of divorcées running around, cutting bitches with shivs funded by alimony dough.)

But NO!

It's this:
D [For Divorce] Jewelery Co. claims the ugly-as-sin ring "symbolizes a point in ones [sic] life when some type of separation came, whether by divorce or legal separation."

That is gross. The end.

The View From... Down There

2008-05-27T15:06:00.000-07:00

In between buy-gold-now-dumbasses and get-that-husband-smell-off-your-divan commercials, a recent "The View" featured, among lesser things, Sherri and Elisabeth vadging-out about the new "Sex & the City" flick.

Sherri: "It was just so great about relationships and it had some wonderful themes of marriage, of commitment… of fashion."

Dear sweet owl of knowledge, you are the Cliff's Notes to post-feminism!

Whoopi summarizes:

Branding

2008-05-25T09:53:00.000-07:00

The first billboard that caught my eye: Pink emblazoned across a tween's ass.

This sinister clothing item, sweatpants (an item typically euphemistic for "Travelin' on the Kotexpress" but from the looks of the tell-all cut of these, I'm thinking more, "Who wants to upgrade to the dining car tonight, baby?"), with the aforementioned word stitched across the behind was purchased from the Victoria’s Secret Pink store. VSP has a pretty hefty arsenal of items that set back feminism to before the word existed.

Like this:

Why not just put a target on her?

And really, a DOG on an ASS?! Subtle!

(And: This item is described as, “Cheeky, guy-style details with a low-rise fit.” I am also sometimes described at this.)

(AND: These are on sale!)

Impetus

2008-05-23T12:26:00.000-07:00

Now that the female ass is officially a billboard...

It's on, BITCHES!

Bring it!