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: