Five for Friday: September 20, 2013

So, I’m going to continue with this Five Things idea for a bit to see where it takes me.

1) I got this little gem via a journo listserv I’m a member of.

“An unnamed digital media company in Chicago seeks stories at $7 a pop.”

I’ll keep the next few sentences simple since I’m sure you’re also in a state of shock due to what you just read. We want four AP style stories a day with a word count hovering around 400 per story. Great communication skills are a must. Please send your resume and 4 clips to fuckthewriter@bohica.com.

After I fashioned a bag of ice over my sore noggin (it’s sore from banging it against the wall after reading the listserv email), I tried to imagine the level of the mind that believes it’s okay to pay a writer a measly $7/post. Why the hell not? Them’s just words! Anyone can do it! You know, that makes total sense so sign me up!

I’d rather eat ground glass.

2) I wanna know the methodology that was used for this study.

Penis Map Of The World Exposes Weenie Size In Each Country

Plus, ain’t it kinda a cool that dong size has little to do with potency? See, that’s how it’s done denizens of certain South American and African countries. Not only are the Indians and Chinese kicking our asses in so many other ways, their wee schvantzes are helping to produce shitloads of humans to ensure that they’ll be kicking our asses for generations to come. In other words, size ain’t an issue … in some instances.

(via rosalie-schweiker.wikispaces.com)

(via rosalie-schweiker.wikispaces.com)

3) This is real. Not kidding.

(via Inquisitr.com)

(via Inquisitr.com)

It’s the latest Boeing 777 in Eva Air’s fleet of flying machines. Eva Air, by the way, is the Taiwanese airline. You can get in touch with your inner-confused hipster who sports ironic tats, facial hair, piercings and fedoras, by taking one of the three flights between Taipei and Los Angeles each week. Then, you can Instagram it, put pix of you acting all goofy inside the plane on one of your many Tumblrs, then get a tat of the plane on your lower back.

4) Now, this tat was on a “20 Tattoos That You Should Get Removed” page. I’m confused though–I don’t see what the problem is.

(via RedCastle83)

(via RedCastle83)

5) Aaaaaaaaaaaand I’ll just leave this here. Enjoy!

Of buttholes and bugs …

There are days when I can’t think of a thing to write — shocking but true.

To remedy this blockage, I search within my dark, snark-filled soul and usually a subject magically creeps its way up and out. This works most of the time. However, there are instances where no matter how much navel gazing I do, I end up staring at a blank computer screen.

Recently, the latter happened and it took all of my power to not collect more restraining orders.

Until these two gems were dumped into my RSS feed, and Mama has lots to say about both.

First, I don’t have a problem with tattoos. If you want to cover your body with whimsical artwork

(courtesy inkarttattoos.com)

or use your body as a resume …

… then who am I to judge?

There is very little in this society that has given me pause, until I read this.  Before I continue, you must watch the vidya below.

Such a delicate flower, idn’t she? I wonder which trailer park she rolled out of prior to her semi-sober stroll thru the 17th Annual South Florida (of COURSE) Tattoo Expo. Also, after spending time on the trailer park’s semen-stained community mattress out behind the outhouses with Jed, you’d think she’d have enough sense to, you know, maybe run a comb through her scraggly locks and maybe don some threads that fit.

But what about the tattoo on her ayyy-nooose? Actually, I’m trying not to think about it because it just makes me clench (yep) and sweat (you know it). No wonder she’s doing shots during the hole (oops) procedure. Shit (oh yes), you know you’d all do the same to push (uh huh) through the pain.

Why the anus? WHY? Maybe this is a question that should never be answered. It should remain a mystery. However, according to her, anal tats are gonna be the new thing. So, pucker-up, buttercups!

Meanwhile, over in Japan, things are a bit tamer, yet eye-brow raising.

I have no idea who Shoko “Shokotan” Nakagawa is.

(courtesy of your pervy father’s porn collection and keymochi.com)

I guess she’s some Anime chick who sings and pahfohms fah yew! Ok, fine. I get it, She’s Japan’s answer to Miley Cyrus, minus the creepy, mulletted peepaw. She’s cute — kinda like EVERYTHING in Japan.

Where was I going with this? Sorry, got distracted by the bento boxes shaped like panda bears and the fuzzy bikini Ms. Nakagawa swiped from my closet. Strumpet.

(courtesy of gawker.com)

She’s the Lady Gaga of Japan and I am now a fan. She’s taken Gaga-ness one step further and for that she gets my undying loyalty. She has bugs, not just ordinary bugs, but cicadas on her head and they look COOL. See, I think the cicada is the Cadillac of big-ass bugs. They’re not dirty like cockroaches, and they make a soul-calming sound –if you’re into high-pitched screeching. Plus, the whole 17-year routine they’ve got going is to be respected.

Also, we’re not creeped out enough as a society.

Happy VD

February. ‘Tis the month that celebrates Blacks, feeding birds, Kosovo’s independence and the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. Also, ’tis the month of Valentine’s Day and, of course, my birthday.

I loathe Valentine’s Day. Always have, always will. My hatred of this day has nothing to do with whether or not I have a dear one in my life. It has to do with the over-hyped worshipping of a pervy, nekkid little kid wearing wings and carrying a bow and arrow who is all about shooting folks in the ass so they’ll fall in love — usually with the first person they spy with their little eyes. Also, the whole if-you-don’t-have-a-Valentine-on-Valentine’s-Day, then you’re a pathetic loser who has probably done something to deem yourself unworthy of love. If you’re single on Valentine’s Day, then you suck out loud.

HOWEVER, during my daily news search, something crossed my path that has made me reconsider my feelings about Valentine’s Day. I now see it as a lovely, bright spot on this rancid rock we all call home. It’s worth celebrating now because of couples like this:

Happy Valentine’s Day, folks.

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.

Wardrobe Malfunction

It’s time to retire this shirt.

An old friend.

I got this t-shirt while working on a film many years ago. We recorded actors in NYC, and the director bought one for each crew member. I went along to help out and had a blast because, after all, I was in New York City! We stayed at the Plaza, ate at the 21 Club–all on the studio’s dime. Most important part of the trip? I got to shop at Bloomingdale’s (that’s when I made a union wage, see). How could I possibly turn this shirt into a kitchen rag?

This t-shirt one of those pieces of clothing that gets better with age–everyone has a piece or two like this in their wardrobe. The more worn out it becomes, the more comfy it gets. It was worn for sleeping, working out, and tee-vee watching. In other words, it’s a knock-around shirt. This shirt has given me wonderful memories, and it’s wonderfully beat to shit.

This morning while getting ready for Bikram, I couldn’t find a shirt to wear, so I donned my old friend, some yoga pants and headed out the door. Little did I realize how beat to shit this t-shirt was until Standing Bow. While I was reluctantly watching my form in the mirror (so brutal the sight before my eyes–I’m semi-blind now), I noticed two things: This t-shirt makes me look bigger than I actually am, AND it has HUGE holes in the pits. We’re talking if I had really hairy-scary pits, the hair would’ve tumbled out of them kinda like Rapunzel’s braids. Yep–that big AND that gross. I hoped to dog that no one else noticed. I’m sure people did though–how could one not? I notice things about my fellow students all the time–mainly the creative tats on the necks, backs and legs of those practicing in front of me. Seriously–it’s hard NOT to notice sayings in Sanskrit, Arabic and Hebrew on the same body part. I get it–your body is a peace treaty from the days of yore. Rock out, my friend.

Back to the t-shirt. For the rest of the class, or until I was no longer to watch myself in the mirror, I obsessed about how shitty this shirt made me look and feel, and came to the realization that it was time to retire it. Not only would this Large Marge of a shirt be put out to the fabric pasture, all of his little friends would join him. I just can’t keep wearing clothing that screams Slobovian because my psyche can’t handle it any longer. My body image is already poor, so why add to the misery?

McCrabass Millicent

So, Wednesday, I’m hoping to debut this little number I bought at Costco.

Coming soon: Two pigs fightin' under a built-in bra.

I hope they don’t kick me out of class, OR have me arrested for indecent exposure because I wouldn’t be surprised if the room got an eyeful of nekkid boobage. Not a sight for sore eyes, trust me.

I’m already missing my old friend. Enjoy retirement, you’ve earned it.

Stay tuned.

Corey Hart will haunt my dreams

For some reason, I heard this song on the way to Bikram this morning, and on the way home. This worries me — makes me wonder that maybe there’s some sort of disconnect in the universe. Who knows. However, knowing how things are with me lately, I’m sure I’ll have some sort of Ambien-induced, weird dream about Corey Hart, a bucket of fried chicken, a sear-sucker suit, pine needles and some dude named Hoke. Great — now I’m not gonna be able to sleep tonight.

Class was off today. I couldn’t get it right, wasn’t feelin’ it. Half Moon really hurts the bejeebus out of my shoulder. I didn’t push as hard as usual because the pain was causing me to wince which, in turn, was causing me to hold my breath. It didn’t help seeing my “Hi Janes” in the mirror. Fortunately, neither my arms nor my hair look as bad as what’s featured in the picture, but you get the idea. Plus, that necklace is U.G.L.Y. If I’m not careful, this is gonna be me in about 5 years.

A young women directly in front of me had THE best tat on her lower back. It was of Shakespeare all hip-hopped up. I can’t find any images to do it justice. Wait, I could, but I’m too damn lazy. Tats are de rigueur in Bikram. I feel so out-of-place because I don’t have an “Om” or something else written in Sanskrit splayed on my inner-thigh, or winding up my spinal column (because you know that felt fucking good — I just hope those broads were drunk/passed out when they were getting stamped). Actually, I’ve considered getting a tat for a long time now. I go back and forth on it, but I don’t think my family would appreciate their likeness inked across my ass. That wouldn’t be good for anyone.

And, now that I’ve added a tattooed image of yours truly to your mental Rolodex, I will sign off for the day. Ciao, Monkehs.