Armed To the Peen

You know what? This makes perfect sense to me.

British Man’s Arm Will Become His Penis

I can’t decide which hed I like better though, so I’ll post both.

I’ve bedded over 100 women… but I don’t have a penis

Andrew dreams of surgery to change his life

Thanks to the The Sun and The Inquistr. My god, to be a fly on those copy desks when the editors start brainstorming heds. I can almost hear ‘em now: “Ok, think penis, arm, sex…Hmm..a man who has had sex with over 100 woman but has no peen. Hmm..how ever shall we come up with a clever hed?”

Or something like that.

Here’s the tale of the peen, or of the arm, or of the arm-peen. Ugh. I don’t know. Just play along for shits and giggles.

Turns out, Andrew Wardle, 39, is quite the casanova for someone so young. He’s bright, funny AND good looking. He has various physical ailments–like an ectopic bladder–born with it formed on the outside–various kidney issues, berries but no twig, and a myriad of other, fun health problems.

In other words, he’s a trim magnet.

(courtesy 24Tanzania.com)

(courtesy 24Tanzania.com)

But here’s the rub (shut UP), he’s lacking one organ that is quite essential to the act of bumpin’ uglies: He is sans penis, and is so distraught about it, he never told his mates AND has contemplated suicide.

Huh?

Was he diddling blind women? I mean, I’m a woman and we do engage in such bawdy talk with our female friends. Think “Sex & The City” but much more graphic and grisly. Nothing is sacred, guys, remember that the next time you make a snide comment about a woman’s body because there is a VERY good chance she’s telling all of her friends at what a horrible lay you are.

OR, she’s being kind and raving about your enormous schvantz.

There’s no grey area here–it’s one, or the other, mmkay?

And to answer your question, I have no idea how that works. It’s a, um, head scratcher.

Back to the MIA peen. Looks like Mr. Wardle is having some sort of reconstruction surgery this summer, AND the surgeons are going to fashion something resembling a penis out of his arm.

Hang on, I gotta look at my arm for a sec.

Huh. I guess using a body part to fashion it into another body part makes sense, but if my arm was used, the results would be covered in freckles. And, that’s errs on the side of creepy because I don’t need a penis–I get mine on the outside–so why I checked out my arm as a possible candidate, I have no idea.

Anyhoo, here’s a little visual about how things are gonna go down for Mr. Wardle in a British operating theatre this summer.

(courtesy of The Inquistr)

(courtesy of The Inquistr)

Usually medical procedures, or certain painful events that only men can relate to (i.e. getting kicked in the balls) don’t cause me to wince because, really, I can’t relate to what it feels like to get a prostate exam.

However, this photo speaks for all of us when the idea of this operation finally sinks in.

r-PENIS-CUT-OFF-large570

Godspeed, Andy.

Hands Across My Labia

(WARNING: NSFW)

There’s a new movement afoot to get women to love their labias.

Why? Huh?

Because we women are supposed to feel like shit about our physical selves–even when we don’t–so some twink somewhere (probably a plastic surgeon) makes up a new neuroses for us gals to glom onto. Of course we do this since we women are also major people pleasers AND this society is allllll about promoting beauty over brains and brawn. What happens next? Our self-esteem takes a major hit, and we’re looking for the next beauty miracle to make us perfect instead of, oh I don’t know, maybe reading a good book that will make us a scosch smarter/wiser. Help us, Judy Blume!

Now, I was taken aback by this new love thyself no matter what proclamation because I had no idea that some women hate their labias.

Wait..clarification desperately needed here–90% of men don’t know what the LABIA is (no, it’s not the latest Italian sportscar, although most men ride it like it was –HEY O!), so I will do the honors of explaining to the menfolk just what AND where the labia is.

From FreeDictionary.com:

labia

[lā′bē·ə] sing. labium

Etymology: L, lip
1 the lips.
2 the fleshy liplike edges of an organ or tissue.
3 the folds of skin at the opening of the vagina. labial, adj.
Here’s the perfect graphic for show n’ tell: And to the dudes who read this blog–commit this image to memory–with particular attention paid to where the clitoris is. *AHEM*
(Courtesy of The Mayo Foundation)

(Courtesy of The Mayo Foundation)

Apparently, the hot trend these days–labiaplasty–is for women whose twats have had quite the workout birthing humans, riding horses, doing the splits during their Nadia Comaneci phase, and well, just by being a modern woman. That shit gets stretched out, see, and some women are uber-self conscious about their labias looking like elephant ears.

Huh?

Really?

This is where we get into trouble.

Ok, let’s walk through this one, mmkay? So, some woman, who has done her fair share of living (see above graf), suddenly feels like CRAP because she’s seen what the porn goddesses have and decide that them gals are the new high standard in pussy perfection.

(Side note: I’m sure most of this myth is perpetrated by men who never leave their parents’ basements.)

Yes, even though the only folks who will actually feast their peepers on her vajay, are her doc (hey, she/he has seen ‘em all & they don’t care), her significant other, her lover, her mistress, and perhaps her waxologist–but she’s still quite self-conscious. Let’s be honest–any dude who is THAT LUCKY to get close to a labia–would be wise to shut his yap-yap about what it looks like or he’ll find that he is no longer welcome in that fleshy, magical, wonderful kingdom.

Apparently, and thanks to the world of social media, there are blogs, blogs and tumblrs & more tumblersand whatnot dedicated to celebrating the labia–no matter the size. Bravo to those broads who are all about putting puss pix out there for all the world to see. <golf clap>

This is what has me flummoxed: Women do the crux of the living and breathing in this society, and our bodies are the physical evidence. We’re the ones who keep this world from sliding deeper into the shitter. However, even though we are the ones made of sterner stuff, we’re still made to feel like shit if we don’t look absolutely fucking perfect all the live-long day.

To that nonsense I say “What the entire fuck??!”

In short, there is nothing wrong with you–you’re perfect.

Read With An Australian Accent

Sooooo… these two have been unearthed again.

(Courtesy HuffPo)

(Courtesy HuffPo)

Don’t recognize them because of all the plastica and bondo work they’ve had done, eh? Hint: One had KNIFE tucked in his knickers, and played the babe-in-the-woods bit one too many times for a grown man. The other is a nice Polish ‘murican gal who hasn’t done jack shite since the 80s/early 90s (acting-wise), but has a nice rack, booty (I’ve been told) and a tastefully decorated abode.

This image should help … I hope.

(courtesy ContactMusic)

(courtesy ContactMusic)

Still not gettin’ it? Ok, ok… I’ll play Captain Obvious now just for YOU.

010612crystalWait, that’s not EXACTLY the pic I was looking for. But you have to admit Hef and his latest Viagra pole dancer have some physical aspects in common.

This one works.

(Courtesy of Daily Mail)

(Courtesy of Daily Mail)

My work here is done

 

It’s not a tumah …

For the most part, I believe that plastic surgery and all sub-categories of it are a good thing. It helps people with jack shit for self-esteem feel better about themselves by correcting hook noses, weak chin issues, sagging earlobes and boobage, and facial lines as deep as the Grand Canyon. Of course, plastica is used for good, like when someone was maimed or scarred in some horrible manner. But this is not the case here.

Sometimes I wonder which image I would prefer staring at: A plate of rotting meat mixed with maggots, feathers, rotting eggs, or someone sitting across from me with a sutured visage complete with pus and yuck oozing out of it.

Hmm .. I’ll take the meat please

Of course, plastic surgery is rife with those who abuse it.

(courtesy cdn.sheknows.com/)

 

 

(courtesy of thumpandwhip.com)

I could write a book called Dull Knife: Profiles in Bad Plastic Surgery, but nah. Not into it. Anyway, you get the idea.

Now, we’ve got a bunch of nimrods who are into shooting buckets of saline into their foreheads, then pressing a thumb in the middle of the bulbous splotch to add a little more drama. No, not to eliminate lines, but to look as if they have a bagel IN THEIR FOREHEAD. I mean, when I first saw this new look, all I could think of was Rocky Whathisname from “Mask.” Or Joseph/John Merrick.

Now, if I were to do this, I’d add a big eye to the ‘hole’ and cover up my real eyes, then  act like a cyclops. It would give me something to do.

Someone please essplain to me why this is necessary because I’m at a loss.

Conundrum

Help me out here please.

Which one is Donatella Versace and which one is Iggy Pop?

Any luck? No? Well, me neither.

Ok, here’s another.

Holy Former Heroin Addict. I still can’t tell.

Maybe it’ll help if I separate the two, study them individually then try again.

Here’s Mr. Pop:

Those photos don’t do dick for me.

Hang on….

Wow. Jennifer Aniston sure hasn’t aged well. Poor thing. Hon, if you want to look good as you age, you can’t be a dullard. Sadly, Ms. Aniston has the personality of a footstool–but that’s a possible future post.

Back to Mr. Pop — who I dig, by the way. One of the best performers ever — I suggest you spend the moola and see him. Totally worth every damn penny.

He was totally hot once — a total US–UGLY SEXY. Sidenote: We have the same hairstyle here.

Ok, now I’m beginning to see the difference. Iggy has less nose & facial hair –but probably not much –than Donatella. Also, Donatella has a teefus issue. You’d think she woulda taken some of the scratch she used to pay for her plastica to get her teefus fixed. They have doctors for that you know. Good ones too.

Now I’m really confused. My brain hurts.

I need a palate cleanser.

Oh that did it. Much better. Palate cleansed and then some. Thank you, Mr. Irrfan Khan. You’re so pretty.

Not QUITE done with him yet. Funny, he resembles someone with whom I’m closely yoked.

Well played, Bollywood, well played.

Digression can be a bad thing from time to time.

Ici Madame Versace — she’s been committed to memory. Ok. Got it. Good. Finally. Ready to move on.

Aaaaaaaaaand I’m back to square one.

 

 

The ugly side of unemployment

Earlier, I wrote about the advantages of being unemployed, which I did mainly to make myself feel better about the shit-fuck of a situation I’m now in. Sadly, I’ve learned over the past year that the disadvantages of being job-free outweigh the advantages.

You’ll see.

1) No money. None. Zip. Zilch. Hakuna. Here’s a little tale about your pal McCrabass. Once upon a time, I had money. I made sweet moola working as an assistant film/video editor in Hollywood even though I worked almost exclusively on craptastic stuff, but the monetary rewards were fuckin’ golden. The healthcare was decent and so were the other perks like mandatory overtime, being able to write shit off, free movies and working on films. Pretty cool. I learned a great deal about myself and about human nature, so it’s safe to say that working in the movie biz is the best life training out there. That training will help me become an awesome journalist. Shit howdy — I’m already well on my way.

You’re probably wondering to yourself right about now “Hey Julia, why the hell did you leave such a lucrative career? What the crap is the matter with you??!?” I’ll tell you why — it’s a soul-stealing, and soul-sucking business. I got tired of working for self-important blowhards (you know who you are). I’d go into more detail here but it’s really not all that interesting. Basically, I had an epiphany, said “Sayonara” to LA and headed back East.

However, those of you who know me and those who know me via this blog, are well aware that Chicago has been less than welcoming. So, I’ve spent a better part of my tenure in Chicago unemployed and trying to break into a job market that’s stuck in the fucking Dark Ages. I’m broke. I got nothing. It’s depressing as all hell and sadly, this bad financial situation has taken some serious hits on my self-esteem. Needless to say, I have bupkes for self-esteem.

Add being mentally beat to shit with having no funds, and you have a troubled soul with little to offer. It sucks out loud.

2) Not being out among the living. During the past 11 months, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to get up everyday in the pre-dawn hours, shower, put on makeup, and figure out which fetching outfit I’m going to wear that day.  I’ve forgotten what it’s like to ride the archaic CTA on a daily basis, and be among the beautiful people as they trudge to their jobs. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have co-workers and a job to do.

I’m beginning to feel like Tom Hanks when the plane he was riding in got all jacked up, and.. and.. he ended up stranded and skinny on a tropical island bonding with a piece of playground equipment.

In the summer, I miss getting caught on the CTA on a game day. There’s nothing more amusing that watching some Schaumburgian shitbag Cub fan who’s shitfaced on the El loudly squawking about how there are sooooo many hot women in the city but too many n*ggers.

Wait…come to think of it, being a hermit has its advantages, but the disadvantages outweigh them. I need to see the shitbags and the normal folks to keep me motivated. Going on long walkabouts (my new thing) ain’t the same as being among the hustle and bustle of the maddening crowd.

3) Few and far between. I have two freelance gigs that I love. They’re challenging and very fun. I learn tons and tons — when I’m at them. See, there’s the rub. I’m not doing either job enough because there isn’t enough work and as a result, I forget basic tasks then I make mistakes & end up feeling like a choad. Add that to the crap-for-self-esteem and being dirt poor and you’ve got a ghost of a McCrabass. Add poi, and you have the most disgusting combo platter EVER.

4) Not keeping up appearances. This ties in with #2. In short, I’m a hot mess. I don’t shower every day unless I’ve been at Bikram or out on one of my walkabouts. The need to be all clean and sanitized is a very low priority especially when there are other things that are more pressing like keeping the couch down and timing my day around “Friends” reruns.

The bad thing is, I’ve forgotten what I look like all dolled-up. I’ve had to ask friends and family if I was ever even remotely attractive since I don’t have any photos of me anywhere. (I loathe having my picture taken — cameras tend to break when they’re pointed at me. They just explode.) Makeup? Que? I have no idea what that is anymore. I came across a Laura Mercier lipstick in my purse the other day and it took a good 5 minutes of heavy-duty thinking to figure out what the hell I was looking at.

However, I have psyched myself up to wash my hair at least once a week because, after all, it’s good to have goals.

5) Time is a thief. Since I’m a member of an age group that has been deemed un-hireable, being unemployed for this long is not good. It’s a killer. Each day of me being unemployed basically ensures that I’ll never get a decent job ever again because those with no experience, but are young, are getting all the sweet gigs. I’ll never have health benefits or a 401k, or have the opportunity to get rip roarin’ drunk at the office holiday party, take my top off and dare the boss to play motor boat with my delicates. Oh the fun my co-workers coulda had.

Soon, I’ll have to get extensions, keep dyeing my hair, seriously consider getting Botox and lose a ton of weight if I ever want to get past the first phone interview. (HR folks can sense what you look like via your voice these days.) Thank god plastic surgeons have payment plans.

6) So bored. I can only write so much in one day. I can only watch so much tee vee too. I can only rearrange crap in my apartment so many times. I can only wander around this city so many times before I want to jump in the lake. I can only read so much — both online and in book-form — before I want to scream. I can only look at the job sites for so long before I want to start calling my former bosses and telling them what I REALLY think of them.

See? This is unhealthy.

It would be better for the world if I had a meaningful job.

The body elective*

*With apologies to Walt Whitman

**WARNING: IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY GENITALIA OR TATTOOS OR TATTOOED GENITALIA, EITHER CLICK OFF THIS PAGE, OR DEVELOP A SPINE & LEARN HOW TO DEAL WITH THINGS YOU’RE NOT USED TO.**

In the past few days, I’ve seen a lot of stories float through my RSS feed that have to do with the body. Not just the parts that are considered “safe” for public exposure, but naughty parts. Some are strange, others kind of sad and the rest? Well, you tell me.

Hang on, I’m going to ease you into this post.

The Chinese are so odd. Before you hit the Comment button and start typing “Hey McCrabass, you’re a racist!” UNCLENCH and let me finish. Humans are odd in general. Just read this post to the end and soon you’ll agree with me.

From People’s Daily Online/Global Online.

Fake pregnant belly becomes hot seller on the Internet

At first, the plan was to really mock and be obnoxious about this new phenomenon, but then I remembered that China is populated by about a 1 billion Chinamen and Chinawomen who are bound by a one child policy. Folks have to ask for permission from the gummint to spawn and many are denied. It’s kinda sad but it makes sense for a country as vast as China. So, the whole wanting-to-experience-pregnancy-deal sort of makes sense to me. Plus, since China is so huge that when odd trends take hold, they’re news.

Read…

“Artificial replicas of pregnant women’s abdomens, made of silica gel, have become hot sellers on the online shopping market, the China News.com reported on Monday.
Looking like the belly of a genuine pregnant woman, the imitations have variously been described as having “flesh color” and “human skin texture,” and as “highly comfortable,” by online shop owners.

There are currently three types of fake bellies being sold, each of which approximates a different period of pregnancy, corresponding to the second and latter trimesters and the final month.”

“Highly comfortable”– guess that’s a switch from being in the “real family way.” I wonder if you can get fake hemorrhoids and a weak bladder for the full effect. I mean, if you’re want to experience pregnancy, why not go for the good, the bad, the ugly and the stinky?

“The replicas are priced from 500 to 1600 yuan ($79-$252), though the slightly more expensive models, priced at around 700 to 800 yuan ($109-$125), have thus far been the best sellers, according to an online shop owner.

“Most of the costumers have bought the bellies for acting performances or as a joke, though others wanted to experience the life of a pregnant woman,” said the owner.

“It looks strange to me. What is the use of it?” said one Internet user.”

I agree with one Internet user.

Moving along ….

I’m on the fence about plastic surgery. On the one hand, I see it as a wonderful tool for those who are disfigured due to an accident, a criminal act or disease. It can heal the mind, body and soul. On the other hand, it’s yet another tool for the most vain and insecure, and for those who have waaaaay too much money to waste on unnecessary pain when all they need is about a year of serious therapy. Then, perhaps about a year volunteering in an Indian leper colony. After those two hopefully life-changing events, plastic surgery won’t even be on the horizon, but knowing this culture, it never left the psyche.

What’s this all about you ask? Well, here. I’ve written enough for the moment.

From Time Out London.

“Christmas shoppers in Marylebone are in for a shock/treat (delete as applicable) tomorrow morning as the Muff March threatens to bring the area to a standstill. Inspired by The Muffia, a group of performance artists that campaign against ‘designer vaginas’, marchers will be donning hirsute merkins (that’s a pubic wig, incase you’ve never come across a merkin before) and marching down Harley Street in a bid to arouse public interest.”

Note to readers–if you’ve never heard of, thought of or discussed merkins, I strongly suggest you bone up on the subject of pubic wigs. You’ll be glad you did.

So far, I’m not shocked by protesting ‘designer vaginas.’ That’s probably because I’ve written about the subject before. Plus, since plastic surgery is such a big deal here, I’m only shocked when I read stories such as this one. No wait, not that one, this one.

Continue.

“The protestors have united around a Facebook page that argues against the pornification of society, hoping to ‘speak out against a porn culture that is driving more and more women to the surgeon’s table to get a “designer vagina”.’ The site claims that the Harley Medical Group received 5,000 inquiries about cosmetic gynaecology in 2010, ’65 percent of them for labial reduction, the rest for tightening and reshaping’, with a 70 percent increase in the labiaplasty operations during 2007-2008.

The organisers say that the protestors will be ‘speaking out against surgeons profiting from body hatred, and raising awareness about the growing pressures on women to seek labiaplasty’, emphasising concern that the operation seems to increase over the Christmas period.”

Dealing with lady issues is bad enough. All of the waxing, plucking and painting that is done to the nether regions is rough, but to voluntarily go under the knife because you believe your outer-cooch is catching the wind like a spinnaker is a bit too much. I’m dying to know how it got that way in the first place! C’mon! For the mens, I’d be willing to bet this procedure would be like having a vasectomy with nothing but a bottle of whiskey to swallow and a leather strap to bite down on to help kill the pain.

Now, onto the last part. Warning — this is gonna get graphic so if you’ve come this far and you’re a bit squeamish, I suggest you just focus on one spot on the wall and go with it. Let it happen.

Sometimes, there are no words.

Take a deeeeeep breath. These sounds worse than a labiaplasty. And, #3? That woman should be locked away from society forever. Too bad the Magdalene laundries have been outlawed.

Finally, gotta give equal time to the dudes.

If you need me, I’ll be in my panic room attempting the first all-bleach lobotomy.

Dear darling daughter: F*ck your husband often!

Dr. Michael Brown, Father of the Century.

I’ve been following the assault trial of serial wife beater, Dr. Michael Brown, for a while now. This guy is such a loon with mommy issues, I couldn’t help but pay attention. If I lived in Texas, I would have been at the trial everyday.

I’m not a fan of wife beaters. No one deserves to get beat to a pulp–ever–even if you are the bread winner and you deem a wife as “property” so you see giving her a beating as your “right.” That’s fucking pathetic cowardly crap. Learn how to deal with life like a man.

If my husband ever laid a paw on me in a violent manner, he’d have to come at me hard because I’d fucking kill him. If you’re stoooopid enough to raise a hand to me, then you don’t deserve to draw another breath. Yes, I’m that strong, and that well-trained in martial arts so it wouldn’t be pretty at all. Sadly, domestic violence still exists in this country, and sadder still is women feel the need to not only defend their husbands, but stay with them too. I don’t get it, but then again, I’m not a good victim–it’s not in my genetic make-up, thank dog.

Off mah soapbox now, and onto the loony letters (“Letters to Sophie”) of advice Dr. Michael Brown wrote to his daughter, Sophie. No, the subject of these letters is not about how to be nice, how to succeed in school, or how to be the bestest tennis player EVER. No, they’re about how she should fuck her husband, what it takes to have a happy marriage, and finally, how her mother is a bitch.

Let’s dig in… it’s just too damn good.

First letter is from June 2000, when Sophie was about a year old. From the Houston Press. I was looking for areas to edit, but I couldn’t. It’s just too chock-full of sad, comedic material to cut.

“Want to have a happy marriage? Empower your husband with a great big ego and he won’t let you down. Shower him with praise — tell him he’s the greatest and that’s what he’ll be. Nag, complain, criticize, and he ultimately will get enough and find someone else who makes him feel good, even if logically it will degenerate to the same level. So divorce is not even the answer.

Crush a man’s spirit by implying he is letting you down in some way, and he’s utterly useless. The man wants you to view him as the world’s greatest lover, such that you feel honored when he asks for sex — say no and you crush a little bit of him. Yes, both man and wife should and will enjoy mutually fulfilling sex — together (it is never fulfilling if you cheat — temporary pleasure and immeasurable guilt forever). Yet, the man physically requires more sex to prevent hypertestosteronism and the…resultant idiocy of the male. Sex doesn’t always have to make you see stars. Typically, it’s the man doing most of the work. You are wise, not weak, to simply give him his 10 minutes of pleasure. Act like your enjoying it and he’ll only take 5 minutes [sic]. Then, don’t forget to tell him how wonderful he was.”

There’s probably some truth the physical results of no sex, but who cares? Since when does ‘the man do most of the work’? Also, who cares about YOUR happiness, Sophie? Preserving his ego is oh so much more important than everything else. Learn it, know it, live it.

Obviously divorce WAS the answer for Dr. Brown, since he was just acquitted of abusing his fourth wife. Whattaguy.

Aaannnd there’s more… “Sorry, she had a nice ass and I was hard.” Good to know, DAD.

It was nice of Dr. Brown to title this particular letter: “Why Sophie Must Cry.”

Oh no. This is gonna leave a mark. I just know it.

Again, this didn’t deserve to be edited.

“I am writing this book for my sweet darling daughter Sophie and my dear sweet unborn daughter who I hope withh be called Roxanne Rianna Brown — “Roxy.” I love you so damn much babies….You two sweet smart babies whom I adore are the purpose and love of my life. You two are genetically programmed with such___intelligence as to make most cower in disbelief. How, fucking ever you too unfortunately have your mothers genetic constitution to be unbelievably cold hearted bitches…I am sorry for fucking your mother instead of someone else.

QUE intellect [arrow] fucking TOUCHEDYou baby girls are my pride and joy. Unbelievably and unabashedly I will tell you I, yes I am the fucking alpha male and live to suit my dick until you two sweet children of GOD came along and now I live and breath for your happiness and God’s fulfillment…..Well my sweet baby girls I am your only SANE protector and I must PROTECT you two from your loving mother’s idiocy and lunacy. I love you both and know you are part of GOD’S Plan. Sweet baby girls love your mother but PITY her for she is not even slightly worthy and contributory to your genetic constitution. The smart is from me the bitchy her. Sorry, she had a nice ass and I was hard.”

I sincerely hope that both Roxy and Sophie have enough cash in the kitty to support either their heroin habits or the years and years of psychotherapy they’re going to need if they ever get wind of these sonnets, OR if they’re allowed to be raised by their doting, secure father, who really wishes they had never been born. I fear the worst for these girls. Anyone who has this much contempt for women, should be moved to Asshole Island because that’s the only place that’ll keep them safe. Sounds like Dr. Brown wasn’t allowed to shit all over his wives, they called him on it and they paid dearly for it with beatings with bedposts, trips down the staircase whilst being pulled by their locks and general abuse. Again, I don’t care what they did–no one deserves to get beat on.

Is anyone else bothered by a sentence that has “alpha male,” “fucking”, “dick,” “God” and “two sweet children” in it? Shit howdy, I’m not even sure if is a sentence.

Finally, part three. I can’t think of anything witty to say right now. Just read. FYI: The spelling errors are allll the good doctor’s.

“There are two aspects of sex….it’s psycology and the technical aspect. Both are important. I am writing and describing to you the psycologic basis and atmosphere you are responsible in creating to promote sex which is essential to marital bliss. I am writing another book about the technical aspects of sex which I will give you when you get married. 

The “technical book” will enlighten you. Your husband must have one too — I’ll write it if not for a brother of yours yet to be born than for him for you too deserve the…totality of sexual ecstasies — God’s gifts to be enjoyed, understood, and revered. Once you get the sex thing on track don’t ever get complacent and forget…every 2 or 3 days at least & you initiate sex every few weeks. Use a calendar if you have to. Understand your husbands need for you two want sex (sex=love=sex) from him. If you show him you don’t want sex you are in fact telling the male brain, evolved over millions of years, that you don’t want his love, that you reject the…most valuable thing he can offer you, that you reject him. This is fact. Don’t even think about taking issue with this one even though I want you to think for yourself….

So sacred is sex that you must never hurt another with it by witholding it or telling (or acting like) you didn’t enjoy it. Sure you can tactfully let your husband know how to best please you but always he should feel that as far as you are concerned, in your eyes, he’s the greatest lover who ever lived….If after sex say 20 minutes later the conversation begins with your husband saying “That was great!” rest assured he’s not giving you a compliment (though he might want to) but rather he’s trying to illicit a compliment from you. If you answer “yes” he’s gonna continue fishing and may say “Did you enjoy it?” if you say “I said yes, quit asking” then you are diminishing the value of the just finished love-making….During lovemaking, your partner’s enjoyment should be your prime concern….not your own. If you do this then you will be a technically and emotionally great lover….This kind of lovemaking yields an orgasm multiplied many times by the emotional satisfaction of knowing your partner appreciates you….Without the emotion and letting the other know they are giving you pleasure sex is merely “mechanical” with no advantage over masturbation.”

First, a few bon mots about my dad. He never wrote a sex manual for any of us. Never. Ever. And I thank him for that.

It was tough to get through this part with all the creative spelling, the overdone ellipses–wait–who am I kidding? The horrible spelling and misused punctuation makes my crazy radar go crazy. He’s a physician remember.

This is great fodder for some sort of ‘psycological’ study at one of the country’s finer higher learnin’ institutions. For starters, the fact that he finds withholding sex to be hurtful, and not beating up his spouses, just goes to prove how fucked in the head he truly is.

These letters are both disturbing and very interesting. At one point, he’s praising how brilliant his daughter will be, and how she’s blessed with all of these genetic gifts–from his gene pool of course. Yet, he wishes he had banged someone else instead of her mother. Then, he wants her to forget all that and just be really good at getting her husband off and not herself because that’s selfish and bitchy. Oh and make sure you fake the emotions to keep his wee ego intact. For sexual release, you can masturbate, you know.

I need a Silkwood shower now.

And, I bet Dr. Brown is a shitty lay. And how could I possibly say such a bold statement? The answer is written in his meticulously kept chin pubes. Anyone who goes out of their way on a daily basis to keep their beard at that short of a length, doesn’t quite get it.

Objects in Mirror Are Larger Than They Appear

It’ll be interesting to see if I am able to compose a coherent post today. First, I did Bikram, then I came home and did some of this workout. Yes, ’tis true. I got sucked into the infomercial vortex a few days ago and since I’m a sucker for innocents named Ryan with Canadian accents, well you can figure out the rest.

I’m waiting for the required mocking to stop. Any time now would be just perfect. Seriously. Stop. Now.

As for the liking innocent Canadians named Ryan, I don’t know where that came from either. Do yourself a favor and stop trying to figure it out.

So, Bikram was brutal and I did the thing that all American women do–compared my bod to the other women in the class. Now, before you say “Not ALL women do that, McCrabass.” Um, yeaaaah…. you do. Imma gonna call you out on your bullshit. Of course you do it. Yes, stop denying it because you’re full of shit. You do. It’s okay to admit it. Comparing ourselves to our fellow American females citizens is a national past time.

Now that that’s settled, back to the body comparison. I felt good that I wasn’t the fattest in class today–or the weakest–that’s a win in my book. I give myself a lot of credit for doing Bikram in the first place since I’m usually one of the older ones in class, but I look about 8-10 years than my actual age. For that accomplishment, kudos to great genes (see photo below of mum & one of mah seesters), drinking lots of water, wearing a lead blanket as sunscreen and Bikram yoga.

The beautiful ones.

Sadly, my youthful appearance hasn’t helped me land a job, which has me forced me to set aside a plastic surgery change jar. Each day, I toss the day’s accumulated change into it, and with each ping of the coins hitting the glass, I feel safe and hopeful about my future. I should have enough scratch saved by the time I really need a facelift. Until then, Bikram, good genes, SPF 500 and copious amounts of water will have to do. Oh and probably Botox. Sometimes I wish this country was a place where women were accepted for their intelligence and wit, rather than for their dress size. I’ve harped on this subject before, so I won’t open up that old thread again since it doesn’t do any good AND it just makes me a titch sad. The thing is, I think women in this country are forced to compare ourselves to others OR we run the wrath of being labelled a bitch. I already am a bitch and am damn proud of it, so having confidence in the way I look shouldn’t be an issue for me. But it is.

Back to comparing my physical self to others. I can’t help it. I’ll be doing it until I draw my last breath. So, until that day comes … meh…I’m too damn tired to finish that thought.

What you see is what you get & then some

There’s something so magical about Coco.

Coco

Before you click away in utter disgust and decide to block my blog forever, maybe even report me for being a hack, a fraud OR worse–stooopid–please give me a chance. Who knows–you may even agree with me. If you do, you’ll be a better person for it.

I admire and like Coco because she doesn’t attempt to act smarter than she really is; she doesn’t pretend to be something she isn’t and is happy with who she is. Most important, she appears to not give a shit what others think of her. She’s a gutsy broad who puts it all out there and doesn’t seem to mind the negative press. Hey, she’s making a shitload of cash off of her look, is in what appears to be a happy marriage and cares about those around her. In my book, that’s huge. What do I admire about her the most? She’s not a skinny chick, is proud of it and celebrates her curves. How refreshing!

Coco’s a(n) (in)famous American woman who is comfortable in her own skin–a rare species here since we are trained from early on to despise ourselves for not being pretty, smart or thin enough. Or, for being too pretty, smart and thin. Those of us who dare attempt to break out of this hobbling, disgusting mold, are chastised and called selfish bitches. Hey, argue with me allll you want. Tell me I’m wrong with your so-called well-thought out arguments about how women have more power than ever before and I’ll listen quietly. Then, when you’re finished, I’ll hand you a stack of fashion pubs & suggest you take a gander at the photos and ads & hopefully you’ll see how all of the models are in dire need of a couple dozen Sliders–then try that lame-ass argument again.

The constant barrage of Biafra-esque thin women that grace the media, plus the multi-billion dollar diet & plastic surgery industries in this country, are constantly telling women we’re not good enough physically. Sure, we’ve made huge strides as women, but we’re still harshly judged by our looks over our intelligence and wit. If you don’t believe me, think back to how horrible folks were toward Hillary Clinton’s looks when she was running for President. Same with Sara Palin–yep, I said it. There was a lot of ridiculous attention paid to her looks–it even had me shaking my head because I noticed immediately that her room-temperature IQ was more dangerous and important than her appearance. Fortunately, anyone with a pulse realized that too–so we’re safe–for now.

Coco’s not like the Kardashians–who are desperately clawing their way up from the bottom of Crap Mountain to be taken seriously as something other than what they really are–fame whores. These sisters & Mama pimp would appear at the opening of Malaysian whore house if E! was in attendance. Sure, society is to blame for the Kardashian’s success–this culture celebrates mediocrity. How else would you explain Dane Cook, George W. Bush and the entire “Jersey Shore” cast?  But, I will give the K-Klan this much–good move on cashing in on your sibling’s sex tape. Who knew that having tape of your sister’s muff being munched on by a mustachioed gutter dick could prove so profitable?

I wonder what Camille Paglia thinks of Coco. No…. wait…nah…not really.

There is much to say about Coco and whether or not she’s good for us. Maybe I’ll write more about her later, maybe not. But I’ll leave you with what my pal Shannon M. said about this shot:

“That titty is way better looking than all of Janice Dickinson.”

AAAAANNNND SCENE.