From the category archives:

Art

I Am The Queen of Vagina

August 10, 2010

I lived in Alaska as a kid and while that alone borders on child abuse, I did get out eventually. Before leaving on what ended up being hours of precarious mountain driving in a Cadillac Caprice with a transmission on the verge of signing its Dear John letter, I rifled through my mom’s cassette collection. Since I was nine-years-old and really only familiar with The Lion King soundtrack, much of it was lost on me. With an uncommitted gaze, I dismissed Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton and The Rolling Stones as if they were hanging on a sales rack at Old Navy.

But I was able to recognize one  – Michael Jackson’s Dangerous. Its contents tore through the foam of my headphones throughout the entire trip. The only exception being “In the Closet,” when I would lower the volume because even though I didn’t know what it meant to “give it,” I figured that whatever it was would result in a conversation that I was too young to understand but old enough to feel embarrassed about.

Luckily, I’ve since grasped the concept. Which is why I’m able to appreciate Majela’s position on bearded men tickling her vagina:


After spending my afternoon perfecting the casual way in which she strums her vagina, I noticed the impressive cassette collection in her living room, or rather, shrine to the day that someone graduated from something. I can only hope that Dangerous is buried there somewhere and that, if given the opportunity, I’d have enough sense to swipe the cassettes that inspired her to sing about her “wet, wet, wet juicy vagina.”

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This is what happens when people find out I like cats

November 26, 2009

cats

I mean…of course I fucking love it though.

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Boobular

November 25, 2009

A few years ago, I went to Las Vegas with my ex one month after breaking up. Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but it’s not like I would’ve even considered it if we hadn’t still been living together and sharing the same bed. Come on, guys. I’m not an idiot.

Seriously though, we (I) had already paid for the trip before deciding to make the whole loveless no sex thing official and no amount of “I just don’t have feelings for you anymore…now please stop touching me” was going to keep me away from those buffets. There were also plenty of opportunities to get plastered and since I had it on good authority that my life was falling apart, I knew I could capitalize. Sadly, the closest I ever got was half a strawberry daiquiri at this raunchy little acrobatic show where all of the men let their cock and balls hang out while they juggle over-sized root vegetables. This is primarily because Cirque du Soleil grossly overcharges for their drinks and also because I didn’t want to be hungover for the next day because I had plans to go to an exhibit of Picasso’s ceramics at the Bellagio. Yeah.

The only thing that could’ve made my trip a little more Lance Bass would’ve been well…another Cirque du Soleil show, probably. But after two hours of low lighting, creaky floors and unnaturally rendered breasts, I couldn’t convince myself that I was plunging into a stripper’s fjord of glittery flesh instead of quietly assessing the influence of African art on Picasso’s work. Mostly because I wasn’t wearing my boner concealing sweat pants. But also because I was distracted by a nagging sharp pain above my rib cage.

There was no mistaking what this was, even though I had never technically encountered it before. The underwire in the bra that I bought for $11.99 and wore every day for at least one year had escaped from its garish weave of faded maroon lace. At that time, I didn’t wear bras based on how sexy they were (clearly), I wore them so that my nipples wouldn’t get caught in the waistband of my pants. After numerous futile attempts to reunite the wire with the fabric, I decided it was time for a new bra. Luckily, there was a Victoria’s Secret nearby and while the only thing I’d ever bought from them was a pink polka-dot pajama set for my first year of college (you can imagine how popular I was), I was determined to figure out how to house my boobs. I avoided their pushy and intrusive staff at all costs, not wanting to potentially come to terms with the fact that I would be better suited attaching two bowling ball shammies to a seat belt, and headed straight for their line of wireless bras.

Now without what used to be my boyfriend and what used to be my bra, I was left to weigh my options alone. It was a small step, sure, but it ended up being the first one in what eventually blossomed into an appreciation for my body and its potential to be sexy instead of simply utilitarian. It was also what turned me into a loyal Victoria’s Secret customer.

Even though I don’t believe in the first (and only) tenet of Victoria’s Secret that BIGGER BOOBS = BIGGER DOWRY, I can’t argue with their ability to make a bra that combines fit, longevity and boner appeal. Other things I can’t argue with? The fact that they have testicles so large that they make a Level 5 padded bra in 36DD. The only thing more illogical and useless would be a Broadway production of Kindergarten Cop. So of course I bought one.

This is my first padded bra and although it’s not something I plan on wearing everyday, I’m amazed at its comfort level and how dramatic the effect is. The bra claims to add up to two cup sizes, and from my experience, it delivers on that promise. Oh, and if you want to wear this with a freakum dress or something, the straps can be worn as halter or racer-back.

Bra-comp

Left: Clown tits in VS Miraculous push-up, Right: Regular tits in VS Angels Ipex demi bra

The VS Miraculous push-up truly surpassed my expectations. I actually had a lot of fun turning my breasts into something comically large enough to appear in Cirque du Soleil, but still realistic enough to suggest that I just got it like that. With any luck, the next time I go to Vegas, I can be the stripper instead of making a halfhearted attempt to pretend that I touched one.

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He’s jerking off with his mind

October 10, 2009

Sometimes I really love people and their ability to be completely oblivious to the fact that I’m taking photos of them because they’re wearing two different shoes, a bobby pin in their hair (not pictured) and moving their hand in front of their genitals in a way that suggests imminent masturbation.

loverathelouvre

Other times, I work on building my sterilization gun.

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So it’s come to this

September 14, 2009

b2m

I know it may seem like I do this Boyz II Men shtick to be funny, but that’s mostly because the reality is too grim to face.  My life is one that is centered around checking if the online Boyz II Men store has opened because it has been coming soon for months now and so I am starting to think that coming soon really means hahahahaha white girl. This is where I lose my patience because if manic depressive hipsters can put together an Etsy store dedicated to screen printing Sylvia Plath’s face on oven mitts, then surely these guys can take a break from pretending they’re Stevie Wonder and provide their 11 fans with some satisfaction.

All I want is a t-shirt. Preferably in black and maybe with a design where my face is superimposed on all of their microphones, so it looks like we’re making out. Oh, and they’re not allowed to sell it to anyone else but me. Out of my caravan of good ideas, this one surprisingly ranks as one of the least insane while simultaneously being the most impossible. However, I should note that my concept of insanity is probably skewed.

Either way, Boyz II Men is touring. I know, it sounded weird to me at first too. But whatever, I’m going. I have to. Even if I am 90% sure that it’s some sort of glitch or elaborate prank put on by all of the friends I don’t have because they just love me that much. At this point, the only thing keeping me hanging on is the fact that over half the venues are at state fairs and casinos. That is the kind of authenticity that only a 21 year old musical group, whose greatest success involves Lisa Turtle being in one of their music videos, can generate.

The show is in June (or Joon, I guess if we’re trying to stay consistent with Augast) of 2010 in Bremerton, WA. So, who wants to carpool?

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