En Vogue

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?

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

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

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

Pussy Galore!


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

Snail Smut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody wins.

Journalism R.I.P.

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