I bought a gallon of vodka a few days ago. It was $9.99 at Trader Joe’s – where they’ll sell you a rib-eye for the price of an onion. I mean, I’ll probably never drink a gallon of vodka in my lifetime, but the bargain was too hard to pass up. I’d buy a prostate exam for the right price. The best part? It comes in a plastic jug, which I figure should be the standard for any hard liquor. Glass rarely mixes with rowdynness anyway.
I happen to like flavored vodka because many of them tend to me more Skittle than they are alcohol. And if you really want to twist my arm, when I say “flavored vodka” I actually mean, “wine coolers.” The differences are negligible as far as I’m concerned since they both end with me talking about how I always confuse The Mighty Ducks with Darkwing Duck but what if they are secretly the same thing?
So while I’m far from being a mixologist, I do know how to put things in other things. And with that, I’ve essentially shared my recipe for Bubblegum Vodka. I used 16 pieces of Dubble Bubble for about 1.5 cups of vodka and shook it around every couple hours. With every shake I thought to myself, “This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. Even worse than that time you Naired your eyebrows.” For the full 24 hours that I let it steep, I felt like an idiot. A cheap idiot. But after tasting the final product I was like, holy shit this actually works. Oh, and there are even leftover bubblegum soaked vodka bombs. They act in kind of the same way as olives in a gin martini but, you know, edible.
My finished product ended up being a disappointing pale pink. To get closer to Barbie’s convertible I added some red decorating sugar, which also made it a bit more like Fun Dip. Just how I like it.
Now I just need to figure out what to do with the rest of this vodka. Using it to make homemade NyQuil seems too obvious.
E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial is the scariest movie I’ve ever seen. The reason for this is because when that fucking desiccated tootsie roll RUSHED out of those corn fields like they were on fire, my four-year-old heart couldn’t take it and from that point on, I would only watch movies that guaranteed carbon based characters or ideally, plots entirely absent of science. For years, E.T. haunted me. Every dark hallway or stairwell was an invitation for him to come hurdling toward me. To do what, I’m not sure. The most diabolical thing he ever did in the movie was befriend a 10-year-old boy and dress in women’s clothes. And while that’s unsettling for some, it’s not necessarily scary.
Still, I was petrified of him. A few years later, however, I saw a behind the scenes special that revealed the means of locomotion for E.T. – wheels. Even at eight years old, where my world allowed a reality in which The Muppets were living beings, I knew what wheels were. I knew they weren’t scary and even though there was a screeching uterus with a nose attached to them, I was able to watch the movie and meet E.T.’s beady eyes without turning away until the Reese’s Pieces showed up.
Despite my victory over E.T., I was ruined for any future interest in the horror genre. Movies that depend almost entirely on the inevitability that something is going to be forcibly removed by a sharp object or vagina dentata are not something my anxiety has the aptitude to deal with. The only horror movies I watch, understandably, are ones so bad that they reveal their parlor tricks as they go along. Films starring wrestlers or Gary Busey, usually. From the beginning, they admit to the fact that they’re full of shit, instead of attempting to peddle the idea that corn syrup and red food coloring are worthy of soiling yourself or more importantly, real.
I’m not a fan of severity, which is why I’m struggling with the fact that in less than two weeks, I’ll be moving. Again. A little over six months ago, I moved from Florida to Oregon. It was my ‘fuck you Southeast I’m going to live in the Pacific Northwest and eat fresh sustainable fish not because I like fish since I really don’t but just because I can‘ tour. It’s been successful so far, but I’m realizing that more than anything, I was simply proving to myself that I could escape from the straight jacket that manifested itself from the familiarity of my former surroundings. Somehow, I did it. But the point is, I’ve done it and I need to move on.
It’s uncomfortable to stare into a future so fertile with doubt and the unavoidable truth that I will ingest Nyquil at least once to comfortably fall asleep before 9pm. But since I have a poor sense of impulse control and an insatiable need to challenge the limits of a rapidly dwindling savings account, I will be Danny Tanner-ing it into San Francisco before January ends.
The way I see it, if I can overcome that creep E.T., I can do just about anything. All I need is for the situation to reveal its wheels.
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.
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.
OK, so Mother wouldn’t help him put his hilarious Halloween costume together. Now he’s waving his dick around like a gun, holding the entire internet hostage until someone lonely enough accepts his offer to mix some “stuff.” I mean, I didn’t get invited to any Halloween parties this year (don’t worry, these are happy tears), but I have to think that if I did, then I would have enough friends to help me make a lifelike mold of my genitals. That is how friendship works…right?
Anyway, I’ve assisted in making a penis mold. The only difference is that it wasn’t kind of kit where you can make a usable (or chocolate) replica of your penis, because I chose the cheap route and bought one of those precious memories kits from a craft store. So instead of a baby’s foot or prayer hands, I got a ceramic dick that was at least 2/3 of the way to pleasure town. But that’s not the point.
The point is that I had to perform a sex triathlon to keep my dude at the time hard enough to get my $15 worth. It wasn’t easy and I’m pretty sure one of those soft-core Showtime pornos where everyone is dressed like Charles Darwin only sexier was playing in the background as I touched myself like I was on fire. So there’s more than mixing involved. Oh and I love his preference to have a girl who won’t “freak if by chance they saw anything.” Yeah, because what are the chances that I would see your dick while you are MAKING A MOLD OF YOUR DICK.
But whatever – you don’t have to do anything “nausty” (except, you know, maybe penetrate him with the finished product) and there’s probably some free Long John Silver’s in it for you.
So…ladies?
The other day, I was at Red Robin for what was at least the fifth time this month because I can’t just kill myself in one afternoon like everyone else, I have to do it as slowly and with as much ranch dressing as possible. While trying to pretend my turkey burger was something more than a feeble attempt to offer the illusion that I’m health conscious as long as there’s cheese, I was told that I should start writing about gender misconceptions but…in a way that’s funny.
I chewed on it, but couldn’t get excited about it. Mostly because repeating patriarchy over and over again or spelling ‘woman’ with a ‘y’ is never funny or even remotely enlightening. The last time I boarded that ship, I tried convincing my ex’s best friend that women are equal to men, but the response I got was something along the lines of, “Yeah, but that doesn’t apply in the real world.” I shrugged it off, because since this was coming from someone in their fourth year of community college, their concept of the real world was not one I was concerned with. But then I started thinking about what I could get excited about, and that, of course, is uncircumcised cock.
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