Sexism in Practice

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

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

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

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

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

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


We need more artists like her. That is all.

Bleepin' P****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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.