Dudes! and Dudettes!

I'm down to one job again, so maybe I'll have more time for content on this alleged blog? I'm going to try! And maybe sell some ad space? If I can get enough traffic? I don't know, guess this a "wait and see" kind of thing. But! Thanks for sticking with me as much as you've been able considering my broken promises and post lapses. I miss blogging, and I can see that in everyday life my grasp on the English language is deteriorating faster than a wet sandwich in the sun.

So here's hoping!

Hugs and punches,

g.

Stop!......CONTINUE!

Forgive me if this post is a little wiggy, I'm kind of punchy from lack of food. But more fun-filled characters from your favorite films and mine.



"M-O" in WALL-E



WALL-E: [M-O has finished cleaning a severely damaged WALL-E, who strains to give a handshake] WALL-E.
M-O: [M-O scrubs WALL-E's hand, then shakes it] M-O.
[M-O reverts to his box form]
WALL-E: [pause] M-O?
M-O: M-O.
WALL-E: [another pause] M-O.


M-O, the disgruntled, obsessive-compulsive neat-freak bot whose diminutive size barely contains his bubbling rage at everyone dirtying up his freshly cleaned floors. But he is tiny, and things are cuter in miniature. Go ahead, try it. Tiny elephant? Itty bitty furniture? Teensy weensy George Clooney? You see that I'm right.



"Officer Slater" (Bill Hader) and "Officer Michaels" (Seth Rogen) in Superbad



Fogell: What's it like to have a gun?
Officer Michaels: It's like having two cocks. If one of your cocks could kill someone.


We the public have a love/hate relationship with cops. Their service to a perilous, under-rewarded job is appreciated when say, the meth lab down the street goes tits up and there are strung-out psychos in the yard waving razor blades. But when that one dick cop pulls you over and gives you a $160 ticket for rolling through a stop sign at a deserted intersection at three in the morning, well. It's this odd dichotomy of reverence, authority, and dickitude that lends itself to hilarious hijinks in one of my favorite movies, Superbad. In a wild last hurrah for two high school buddies and a McLovin', these two officers make it the night of a lifetime. You should watch this movie, if for no other reason than to watch them all unloading shotguns and grenades into their totaled police cruiser.



Nick Frost as "PC Danny Butterman" in Hot Fuzz



Danny Butterman: So what made you want to become a policeman?
Nicholas Angel: Officer.
Danny Butterman: What made you want to become a policeman-officer?


Everyone has that one friend, the lovable, goofy dumbass. If you don't, you need to quickly go out and get one. He's loyal, always down for a pint or twelve after work, and has a fantastic collection of buddy-cop movies. He may not always be able to follow everything you say, but he'll nod and be incredibly supportive. Besides, who else would you want to fire your gun into the air with and go "AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH"?



Julie Brown as "Candy" in Earth Girls Are Easy



[from the song "'Cause I'm A Blonde"]
Candy: I just want to say that being chosen as this month's Miss August is like a compliment I'll remember for as long as I can. Right now I'm a freshman in my fourth year at UCLA, but my goal is to become a veterinarian, because I love children.


This was a hard choice between Julie and Michael McKean's "Woody," but she just so trashy fabulous, and the writer/singer of most of the fantastically Valley girl musical numbers, I couldn't deny her a spot. Yes, there's a weirdly sexy rubbery Jim Carey from his days on In Living Color and Jeff Goldblum at the height of his hotness, but Julie Brown's bubbly tits and canned margaritas MAKE that movie. And make me wish I was a nail specialist with themed outfits that matched my nails living it up in the Valley in 1988.

And a fantastic rack.

Dang, kids, that was a post I guess! Hang in there for the next set!

Why? I dunno, nothing better to do?

A while back Patton Oswalt, funny-man and hobbit, had a list of his hundred favorite movie moments. Of course, there are lots of obscure film-lovers kind of films on there, but the idea was intriguing. I tried to make my own list, and realized I was a consummate failure at all things planned and organized, so I thought maybe I'd take a different horse track altogether (but not really).

Instead of favorite movie moments, I thought I'd go with favorite movie characters, something I'm sure others have done, but I haven't, so put on some popcorn and take a walk down filmatic memory lane with me.



Peter Falk's "Grandpa" in The Princess Bride




The Grandson: A book?
Grandpa: That's right. When I was your age, television was called books. And this is a special book. It was the book my father used to read to me when I was sick, and I used to read it to your father. And today I'm gonna read it to you.
The Grandson: Has it got any sports in it?
The Grandpa: Are you kidding? Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles...
The Grandson: Doesn't sound too bad. I'll try to stay awake.
The Grandpa: Oh, well, thank you very much, very nice of you. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming.

Picking a favorite character from this movie is nearly impossible, because, let's face it, it's the perfect movie. I don't think I have yet to meet a person who's all, "Meh, I guess it was alright, you know, it's no Chronicles of Riddick," and if I did meet that person I would probably later be arrested for manslaughter.

But to choose one character out of all the fantastic, close-to-everyone's-heart, characters may be doing a disservice to the movie, BUT. I have always loved and been comforted by the Grandpa, the narrator of the story. He is how everyone wishes their grandpa was: salt and pepper moustache, fedora, tweed jacket, glasses. It would only have been maybe slightly more perfect if he'd been puffing on a pipe. His voice is soothing, sort of rumbly, softening the ending syllables like a kitten landing on a carpet. He gives the love story a certain sincerity that even the most cynical of us can't deny; it's his belief in the impossible tale of Wesley and Buttercup that gives their story credence.


Rik Mayall as "Drop Dead Fred" in Drop Dead Fred



Fred: You see when something's not working right, the best thing to do is tear it apart to make it better.

Thank god for Daniel Tosh for throwing out a Drop Dead Fred reference randomly on his show, and reminding me of one of my favorite movies of all time. This is probably where my secret love affair with gingers started, and the only reason why it also doesn't hold the genesis of my love of a British accent is because David Bowie got there first.

Why I love this character: This is how clever gross-out comedies SHOULD be done, but more often than not, aren't. TAKE A GODDAMN HINT, FARRELLY BROTHERS. A girl's childhood imaginary friend who loves snot and poo is locked up in a jack-in-the-box until she accidentally releases him years later as a neurotic, timid, low self-esteemed adult with a domineering mother and cheating husband. WACKY ANTICS ENSUE (including the sinking of a houseboat!). The silliness and grossness of Fred perfectly encapsulates how silly and gross we were as kids; I like to think I still uphold the tradition.

Also, this:



Natalie Dee knows what's up with this movie.

More to come, stick with me if you can. Also, comments, suggestions, bring 'em on.

What part of "child beauty pageant" sounds like a good idea?

A wee bit ago I was watching TV waiting for my mum to come home and a program called Toddlers & Tiaras came on TLC. My mother arrived shortly after the show began, and we both stood there, jaws agape, for about thirty minutes or so before Mom cracked and said, "Change the fucking channel, please."

If you can't guess, this is a show about child beauty pageants, an institution that is probably responsible for a significant percentage of women walking around today that get on my last goddamned nerve.

This is a subject that I could go on and on and on for hours about, but I'll try to sum up my points and not use too much profanity (but just go ahead and come to terms with the fact that there will be a lot of it).

POINT ONE: Every mother I've ever seen involved in child beauty pageants is clearly BATSHIT

This isn't about me at all, it's all about her having fun and knowing I'm- I mean, she's a WINNER. And PRETTY. TELL ME I'M PRETTY.

You know what's a great idea? Investing thousands of dollars and hours of your time into a competition for children, and not only that, but a competition that is reliant on how cute other people find your kid.

I'm sorry, I couldn't stop laughing for about a full minute.

That's right, ladies, pin all your hopes and dreams on your snotty, high-pitched, tantrum-prone, ADD-ridden child and ride their coattails all the way to one of those competitions three counties over where the dinner buffet is free and you can take home a rhinestone crown and bouquet of flowers that cost a tenth of what you spent on gas to get there.

In the particular episode I watched, a woman stated that the only reason she had a daughter (after having three sons) was to enter her in pageants so she could become Miss America (the daughter, not the mom, just to clarify). Her daughter was fifteen months old at the time of taping, and had already learned how to send the pedophiles into a masturbatory frenzy by blowing kisses and "backin' that thang up." That baby totally is not going to grow up to be known as Cindy Swallows.

POINT TWO: Creepers abound



Child beauty pageants are catnip to pedophiles. Little girls made up to look like miniature (terrifying) adults, prancing around in little costumes and bikinis, blowing kisses and acting as coquettish as these little Lolitas can.

"Hey soldiah boy!"

Because we need more reasons for pedo's to think, "She's totally asking for me to lure her with candy and puppies into my unmarked paneled van for inappropriate touchings."

Seriously, every low-level beauty pageant I've ever seen takes place in some hotel's conference hall and the only people in the audience are the kids' mothers, the judges (oddly effeminate men and pinched, sour-faced women) and a few suspiciously out-of-place gentlemen hanging out in the back.


"Mommy, are you sure Madonna is the best role model for me right now? She did go kinda nuts after getting into Kaballah and get creepy spider hands."


POINT THREE: Competition at this age is going to make that kid one neurotic bitch

One day she'll set fire to her boyfriend's jeep because he did not even NOTICE her new Prada shoes and clearly doesn't love her as much as he says he does.

This is pretty straightforward cause-and-effect: You enter a child into competitions that are solo performance-there aren't teammates to share the credit or disappointment-where their success or failure is squarely on their shoulders, they are directly competing with other children for praise and attention, the competition revolves around what girl is cuter and more talented than the other little girls, SERIOUSLY, what part of this doesn't end with an overly-competitive, self-critiquing, attention-whoring young woman with body image issues? And oh lord, the fake tanner...

You know what you end up with? Those skanks at the bar who's skin matches their hair color, laugh waaaaay too loud, and won't stop talking about what bitches their roommates are because they KEEP EATING MY LOW-CAL NONFAT YOGURT EVEN THOUGH IT CLEARLY SAYS "TONYA" ON THE CONTAINER.

POINT FOUR: Can we talk about how hard my palm hits my forehead at the thought of "beauty" pageants?

"I will cut a bitch if you don't give me that goddamned tiara."

Society has an unhealthy obsession with beauty, straight up. The average person is more concerned with which beautiful celebrity is sleeping with another beautiful celebrity (who are famous largely because they're beautiful; how often do you see Steve Buscemi on E! news?) than they are about economic policy or social strife in other countries. To an extent it's understandable: wouldn't you rather take your mind off of you own crappy life with beautiful people and gossip that has no real consequence for yourself than all the hateful crap in the world that does matter? 'Course you would.

But. Why was Susan Boyle, who has more singing talent than Britney Spears has in her entire rat-infested weave, such an overnight success? Because no one expected the frumpy fat lady to be able to do anything remotely impressive.

In America, beauty pageants were originally used as an attraction for local grand openings or celebrations. The swimsuit competitions were particularly useful to kick off the beach season. But like many things, it evolved to something much grander and has become, somehow, a major money-making venture. Coerced by potential monetary compensation and prestige, beauty pageants have become tanned, bleached, waxed, liposucked, rhinoplastied, and implanted in places I don't want to think about to give the contestants an edge over the competition. If you think that kind of masonry is restricted to older pageants, GUESS AGAIN. Like bulimia and anorexia in modeling, the dirty secrets in child beauty pageants involve plastic and dental surgery, dieting, and bizarre makeup and body enhancing tricks that would probably make you cringe. For CHILDREN.

"Mommy, that's my fucking EYEBALL."

And that's just plain cheating.


To conclude...

When I was little, my mother worked in a flower shop populated with your typical local southern ladies wearing the kind of makeup that Tammy Faye Baker would have been proud of. One day, watching one of the women applying MORE mascara and electric blue eyeshadow, she sighed, turned to me and said, "Honey, don't ever start wearing makeup. One day you'll wake up and realize you can't look at yourself in the mirror without it."

Besides the fact that these girls are being sentenced to two hours a day on their makeup and hair for the rest of their life, they really ought to start saving all the money they'd be spending on brazilian waxes, teeth whitening, and a billion bottles of mascara (because GODDAMMIT this one is dried out already!) on some kind of nest egg. 'Cause once all that pageant money dries up and they fail to make it to Miss America, they're going to have to have something to fall back on until they can sucker a millionaire into marrying them...oh wait...maybe they should invest ALL their money into makeup and liposuction.

"LOVE ME!"

ps. Sorry this took so long, I spent three days writing this, then realized it was kind of crap, and had to rewrite it. Ah, the life I lead.

In which I'm honest.

Hey guys. I was deeply shamed when I realized I haven't touched this site in almost a year. If I wasn't so nervous about sharp objects, I'd commit seppuku to atone for my terrible behavior.

I can hide behind excuses: Work took over my life, and I just didn't have the energy to write. I moved back home, which consisted of some of the worst days of my life, emotionally and physically. (Seriously, how in the hell did I manage to amass so much SHIT?) My car died a flamboyant death, and I was without transportation for two months. My parents do not have internet in the house. Let me repeat that: MY PARENTS DO NOT HAVE INTERNET.

But let's all be honest. I chose not to write because I don't think I'm that good. If I avoid writing, then I won't have to confront how potentially uninteresting/overly earnest/annoying/whatever it is. Writing is, in theory, supposed to be my future profession, but here I am, 26 years old, still serving food to people better off than myself and making total chump change. Writing is a niggling reminder of all my failed ambitions and dreams, and it represents a dark voice deep inside that says, "You will never be as good as so-and-so, you will forever be mediocre at everything you do." If I think I'm good at something, there is always someone that comes along that puts what I do to shame, and it's kind of hard to keep going when that's how you think about yourself.

BUT.

Last year was pretty much total crap. I wasted a lot of time and effort for a selfish skinflint employer, put myself in all kinds of bad situations that led to me being not-so-affectionally known as the alcoholic, destroyed anything expensive I owned, and moved back to a place where I had almost no friends and few outlets to contact the ones I did have, when they weren't sick of listening to my whining about how hard and boring everything was. And to put the cherry on the shit sundae, every holiday was a painful reminder that I was still single and hanging out with my parents watching yet another Bridezilla marathon would be the highlight of my evenings.

BUT.

This, my friends, is a new year, goddammit. I have transportation. I have a few friends. I'm essentially unemployed again, but this time I'm going to be getting some cash from the government, which, fingers crossed, will enable me to find a proper job. Maybe one that I'll like this time.

And, more importantly, I don't have any excuses not to update this thing on a bit of a regular schedule.

So. If anyone is still reading, or even if no one is, I'm going to start writing again. I might bring in some personal things, some anecdotes, maybe let you in on the wild and crazy goings-on in Asheville. We'll see.

For the time being, I just want to send out a heart-felt thank you to anyone who has ever told me they enjoy my writing. A lot of times I feel like no one does, but your reassurances that something that I do is worthwhile makes me want to soldier on, no matter how black the night or deep the sand I'm trudging through gets.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

My new favorite show, with a surprisingly feminist bint!

Oh man guys! I got a promotion and have pretty much lost the will to live! And the will to update this thing on a regular basis! Woo! Seriously, I have very little free time anymore, and when I do, I just want to lie comatose on the couch watching my new super-favorite show, which is the topic of today's post.

Bones!!!

Really, who would have thought that Fox would keep a great show on the air for more than a season? Sure as heck not me. Their track record for canceling shows well before their time speaks for itself, as well as their penchant for letting shows go on way too long, because they make lots of money (cough cough, X-Files, cough). Thankfully, that is not the case with Bones, which is currently in the middle of its fifth season. This show is pretty awesome, you guys, and the nerd in me is so happy to have taken the time to watch a few episodes and get hooked.

Premise: Special Agent Seeley Booth (the ever smolderingly and hysteric-inducing David Boreanaz) with the FBI partners up with premier forensic anthropologist Dr. Temperence Brennen (Emily Deschanel, sister of Zooey, and probably the better actress - I'm sorry, but did you see "Tin Man"? EW) of the Jeffersonian Institute to solve homicides where the remains are degraded beyond recognition. That means usually a skeleton, possibly with some chunks of wormy meat hanging off of it. And they aren't shy about the gooey, goopy, buggy, rotting stuff. It's all there for you to see, in its drippy and totally gross glory. And rats. They have rats. Squee!

Let me do a rundown of why this show kicks most other shows' asses.

1.) Nerd Science! Granted, a lot of the tests done are a.) very expensive, b.) would probably take longer than shown, and c.) require brains more brilliant than usually found, ergo, the tests you see on the show are less likely to actually be used in most homicide cases. A scene from one episode illustrates the point: Doctor Saroyan (Cam) has just taken over as head of the department, and Booth asks why she took the job. She picks up a shiny, steel pair of bone cutters and says, "This probably costs $2,000. Back at the coroners, I used a pair of bolt cutters."

So yes, fancy, high dollar science, and for the record, the hologram cube is pretty out there. But! The forensic anthropologist who's books and life inspired the show is a consultant on the show, and she says she tries to keep the science "honest." I can dig that. You have to admit that it's way more believable and probably accurate than CSI, where they get crystal clear images from grainy parking garage footage reflected in an oil spill at an angle. And you know what? It's really nice to watch a show where the language isn't dumbed down for the general populace, and I feel smarter after watching it. Unlike "Cougar Town," a guilty pleasure that will be the subject of a future post.

Plus, watching Hodgins get super-excited about bugs, minerals, and pollen is so adorable.


2.) David Boreanaz.



Look, I'm only human. You put Boreanaz in a suit with stripey rainbow socks, a "Cocky" belt buckle, and that grin, I'm really not going to be able to keep composure. This show really allows him to come into his own, moreso than Joss Whedon's dark and tormented Angel (whom we teenage girls and gay boys know and love to the ends of the Earth), and certainly much better than that piece of crap "horror" movie, Valentine (I wish I could find a screencap of that for you, it's SO BAD). His character is so manly and balls to the walls brave (there's a scene where he's being tortured and acts like it ain't no thang), but is uncomfortable with Dr. Brennan's blunt conversations about sex and private parts. ("You mean 'anus?'" "Why do you like that word so much?!") He acts as Brennan's interpreter to the outside world, as well as her censure when she starts to get too honest and frank, but despite her faults he takes care of her and is there when she needs a friend. And he gets all gushy around babies. What's not to like?

Fun fact: he's a co-producer with Emily Deschanel, and he's directed a few episodes. Brains and that body? Too good to be true.

3.) The Brennan/Booth dynamic. They are so much fun to watch; they compliment each other by being near complete opposites. Brennan is a scientist, detached and objective (usually), an atheist, with a know-it-all complex. Booth is gut and passion, a soldier, a man's man, and a Catholic. She challenges his machismo and gut intuitions, he reminds her to be human around other people. Their conversations are two classic arguments clashing: the rational, unemotional scientific reasoning and the status quo. They bicker and fight, but surprisingly, they tend to come to an understanding. A great example is during an investigation in a fetish hotel where guests participate in "pony play": individuals dress as horses or riders and pair up to have sex and play out the fantasy. Brennan challenges Booth's discomfort with the idea, saying that everyone plays a role and objectifies themselves to a certain degree when it comes to entertaining sexual partners, this is just how these particular people have chosen to express themselves. Booth explains that he doesn't understand why they go through all the effort of the charade for bad sex, it being bad sex because it isn't with people they have a strong emotional connection with, people they love, which is the best sex. Brennan accepts his reasoning, and they come to an understanding. This show is full of warm fuzzy moments!

There's a genuine affection, and not just between them, but between the entire team. Whether they're dating each other or not, they still care and protect one another. There are several damp eye moments, especially in "The Pain in the Heart" and "The Aliens in the Spaceship, and I get a wee bit giddy when Booth lovingly refers to the lab team as his "squints."

NERDS!
(From left to right: Back end of a cow, Cher, Wonder Woman, a squint, Catwoman, Captain of the Titanic)

4.) Feminism! With a capital "EFF." Brennan, nicknamed "Bones" because of her expertise in skeletons, is at the top of her field, a best-selling author, a black belt, a crack shot, and socially awkward. She's brilliant, and she kicks ass (occasionally, literally. It is really fun to watch someone attack her thinking she's a wet noodle and then getting their arm broken), but her faults lie in personal relationships and trying to navigate being an overly honest, critical scientist trying to stay objective and having feelings and emotional connections to her friends and family. There's a depth, and the character grows as the series goes along, learning how to be more of a visceral human than a "cold fish" scientist from her relationships with Booth and the forensic team.

And did I mention the two other ladies on the show are also great, strong female characters, as well as hotties?

Angela is a free spirit, loving and giving, but not against having sex in the storeroom or getting blackout drunk and married in Fiji. She's Brennan's best friend, the love of Hodgin's life, and the daughter of one of the bearded guys from ZZ Top.

Cam (Dr. Saroyan) is the politician, the head of the department, and after the initial clash of wills when she took over, Cam has proven to be tactful and supportive, as well as a brilliant cop and doctor. She's the boss, but she's also like a mom to the team, calling Dr. Addy "Zackaroni" because he eats mac and cheese every day for lunch, and rolling her eyes and sighing when Hodgins uses her personal blender to puree maggots to test for trace evidence. She loves her team and her work, which causes her personal life to suffer and complicates things with the daughter of a murdered ex she decides to take in (having no children of her own, and glad of it, jumping straight into parenting a teenager isn't a pretty sight), but all these faults and strengths make her, just as with the other female characters, well-rounded and personable. Did I mention she's really hot?

Ladies with stomachs of steel.

Oh man. I love this show. It's insanely addictive. Yes, I know, murders like these don't happen with the kind of frequency as the show portrays, but you know what? I don't give two craps, this show keeps me engaged and interested, and makes me laugh out loud at least once an episode. It's not even just the quirky, crazy murders, it's the character development, the story arcs, the banter, OH THE BANTER IT IS SO GOOD. Go forth, and rent from the Netflix. Enjoy.

Phalanges! Phalanges!

Ladies, Ladies, Ladies

Warning: Gratuitous use of "vagina," "crotch," "cootch," "hoo-ha," "lady bits," "nether regions," "labia," "muff," and "muff button" to follow.


It has recently come to my attention that a certain form of plastic surgery has come into vogue with ladies of all ages; known professionally as "labiaplasty," the surgery involves the reduction of the labia minora and/or majora. While there is a genuine need for this surgery where the lady bits are so elongated as to cause discomfort or a health risk, there is a significant percentage of these surgeries which are done for purely cosmetic purposes. Because women didn't have enough to obsess and nitpick over and be insecure about, now we have to look at our hoo-ha's and wonder if they are freakish alien symbiotes attached to our crotches.



This whole post stems from a program I watched on BBC America called "The Perfect Vagina" where a journalist interviews doctors, patients, women who have considered getting the surgery, therapists, artists, and insensitive jackholes who should never be touched by women. It was interesting to watch and raised several questions in my own mind, as well as my feminist righteous indignation (video of the program can be found below). According to the program, "vaginal cosmetic surgery on the NHS has doubled in the UK over the past five years and in the private sector there has been a 300% increase in labiaplastys, making it the fastest growing form of cosmetic surgery in the UK."

Visit documentary-log.com for free online documentaries!

But, as pointed out by writer Amy Clare (you should read this) for feminist UK blog, "The F-Word," the documentary failed to question the WHY women feel the need trim their cootch surgically to resemble a young girl's downstairs area.

The source is porn, obviously, where waxed nether regions and bleached naughty bits (and bottoms) are the norm. Women are substituted for right fists, never reaching orgasm themselves, but being slathered in semen because HIS orgasm is HER orgasm. A significant amount of porn is degrading, offensive, and one sided; I'm all for sexual liberation, but that isn't what this is. It's the patriarchal double standard moving from the bedroom to in front of the camera to satisfy a demand from a mostly male population.

My theory is that the movement from mostly natural-looking ladies of the seventies to the hairless skeletal bleached blondes with mangos for tits who look like they're fifteen is a warped and distorted reflection of the movement in mainstream media towards a sculpted, glossy, impossibly skinny, toned, and bronzed female standard of beauty that is almost always skimpily dressed in expensive designer clothes and jewelry. (That was a mouthful, my apologies!)





If you haven't been paying attention, you just have to look at fashion magazines and television; you can't find bathing suits that aren't bikinis unless you go to the "ladies over fifty" section of a clothing store, where the suits are of some of the worst and unflattering designs (clothing women over the age of fifty in huge, shapeless tents is another post entirely). Not to mention that bikinis are getting so skimpy that the function of them is very clearly to display "the goods," and that chick ain't gettin' nowhere near the water.



On TV, the lead female is never anything less than skinny, and if a female character is a little plumper or perhaps a little odd looking, she's the comic relief. We are so trained to view females on television by this standard that when someone does buck the status quo, even I, as good a lady feminist as I try to be, am taken aback, and I have to stop myself and readjust my thinking.

I may sound paranoid, but the emphasis on SEXY, rather than BEAUTIFUL is a trend that has been creeping up on us for some years now, and of course, women with their low self-esteem and desperate need to please are obsessed with becoming what they believe to be the standard of what is "beautiful," which is, in fact, the standard of "sexy." What a lot of women don't understand is that just because a guy thinks you're sexy and "do-able," DOESN'T MEAN THAT HE IS GOING TO LOVE YOU. The thought process that goes through a woman's mind is convoluted and utterly mistaken: "To get a man's love and affection, I have to get his attention. To get his attention, I have to be physically attractive. To be physically attractive, I have to adhere to this unattainable and horribly uncomfortable and expensive and superficial standard of what I've been told is attractive, and wear as few clothes as possible while I'm doing it."

To get back to the original point, because women think that every gotdanged bit of them has to be physically attractive in order to make dudes want to be with them, they're chopping off bits of themselves (bits that guys really shouldn't be looking at for long periods of time anyway, those bits are for using, not looking).

It is especially perplexing considering how absolutely bizarre and ridiculous a dude's member looks, flacid or erect. If they get to have a protrusion that varies in size, shape, color, and direction of the bend, why are women driving themselves nuts over a few folds of skin that are almost never out in public?

I'm not sure I have an answer; females today are more open about their sexuality, especially with other females, so the subject of what their vaginas look like wouldn't seem like it's that taboo, but perhaps it is? We can compare boobs 'till the cows come home, but because those nether regions do gross and gooey stuff, we still don't feel comfortable discussing them.

I think, at the very least, women need to understand that:

1.) Vaginas are always going to look a little weird. They're in a crushed and crumpled area of moist darkness, and they are primarily FUNCTION not FORM. So you need to get used to the idea that those porn stars? That's not reality, that's a lot of unhealthy crotch tampering that isn't natural. And really, when you think about it, why do you want your guy having sex with a fifteen year old's vagina? THAT'S GROSS AND WEIRD.

2.) Most dudes aren't going to give two craps what your junk looks like as long as they get to put their willy in it. If a guy does, then guess what? He's an insensitive asshole who doesn't operate in reality, and you'll save yourself a lot of trouble down the road if you kick him in the balls and toss his shit into the street.

3.) Respect that va-jay-jay. That thing is freaking amazing, the things it can do. All those kickass sensations that make you go, "oooh," a complex ecosystem of pH levels to facilitate the birth of the best offspring possible, constricting, expanding, have you ever seen a baby being born? IT IS A HERCULEAN FEAT. I know we get ticked off at it because it might smell funny after a few days of not showering, and it bleeds sometimes, but you know what? We have soft poofs of hair, while dudes have an elephant trunk sagging off their front and they often sit on their balls. I think we can call that a win, don't you?


Jamie McCartney's "Great Wall of Vagina"