I am rarely ever able to take advice. And, despite what you may be thinking, this isn’t a roundabout way for me to say that I listen to Papa Roach and fasten my pants with a belt buckle shaped like a gun. Instead, it’s a way to express that sometimes I am just a different kind of moron.
When I was in middle school, I made myself look like Eddie Munster’s twin, only with more hair product and eyeliner. My dad, as delicately as could be, suggested I go the more natural route. However, that only caused me to increase the amount of hair spray I used, which curiously seemed to have a direct relationship with the number of people who would be willing to see my boobs.
When I was in high school, my parents pleaded with me to take driver’s ed so I could get my license and have a life outside of watching Shipmates and fashioning dildos out of tampons. I refused, mostly because I was too busy taking Latin online. As a result, I got my license at the age of 21.
When I was in college, I was urged to major in anything other than Art History in order to ensure that my degree would mean more than my ability to offer up the history of the paper it was printed on.
But, I own my mistakes. I would even go so far as to say that I cuddle my mistakes at night and seductively whisper in their ear that they’re not mistakes in my eyes and they’ll be all like ‘You’re just saying that’ and I’ll just kind of smile since they have no idea. Because for me, my mistakes comprise a chain of the happiest accidents I could ever hope for. I was hideous for years, which meant that it didn’t matter that I had no life in high school, which then led to me majoring in Art History because really, the only thing more tailored for losers would’ve been ‘Anime’, and here I am – grateful for all of it.
This is why I think Steven Ward should be hung by his scrotum from a meat hook and forced to drink Clamato while watching re-runs of Night Court. If you’re unfamiliar with the name, I don’t blame you. But, Steven Ward is a self-proclaimed matchmaker who asserts that he is, “on a mission to bring love into peoples’ lives one soul at a time.” Since bringing love into peoples’ lives goes hand in hand with having a reality show on VH1, guess how I know about this poor man’s Matt LeBlanc?
They're totally fucking.
He, along with his mother JoAnn, host Tough Love – a show full of so much bullshit, it makes Dick Cheney look like the kind of guy you’d go out drinking with and trust to drive your car back at the end of the night. The premise is simple – assemble a group of women who can’t find men because of commitment issues, career obsession, body image or all of the above. Then, he fixes them by instructing that they all stop being such sluts. With its assumption that women need to take it upon themselves to keep a relationship or risk being thrown away like an old pair of underwear because the elastic has broken, Tough Love is a feminist’s worst nightmare. Luckily, I’m not a feminist. I’m just kind of irked in a way that makes me uncomfortable. The differences may be negligible, I understand, but I don’t want to harp about slut shame or how this show, along with Tucker Max, hurts society.
My issue is that choice is stripped of these women all so they can find a man with just the right amount of tribal tattoos as to be bad ass, but at the same time employable. They are advised on how to conduct themselves in the company of men (usually this means that they don’t say anything at all) and since most of these women are both dependent on alcohol and estranged from their child’s father, it is not pessimistic of me to assume that they will make mistakes along the way. The biggest one most likely being that they signed up to be on a VH1 reality show. But they’re Steve Ward’s mistakes as delivered to him by the umbilical cord he undoubtedly still shares with his mother.
Point is – never take anyone’s advice seriously. Unless of course it’s coming from a 20-something who just ate a sleeve of Oreos in her Snuggie. Only then does it make sense.
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.
There’s no dignified way to pose with a pussy pump. I tried, and it just looked like I was posing for my senior portrait with a football that I was really proud of. I was tempted to take a picture of my actual hot dog bun, simply because it looked like my vagina sprouted this supremely cool and sexy tumor, but I’m not getting paid enough (read: at all) for that, so my other lips will have to do.
I knew that engorged cunts were a thing, but since I didn’t care for the look, I never thought of trying it. Then, I read that female pumping could lead to more intense orgasms, and since I would drown the Cadbury Bunny if it meant my vagina would benefit, I started shopping. Initially, I felt weird about buying one, because I knew this meant that I was just a few clicks away from from buying a leather bridle set and diving into pony play. But so far I have no desire to to put blinders on (except for you know, the metaphorical ones I have when it comes to my life) while sucking a dick so I think I’m safe.
My pump came with an instructional DVD and I got through about 20 seconds until I saw Ron Jeremy talking about my “plump wet pussy,” at which point I had to turn it off before entertaining the idea of using my pussy pump to gouge out my eyes so I could somehow unsee the chicken salad sandwich living in Ron Jeremy’s mustache. So, since that was rendered useless, I gathered the basics and went to it.
I knew I had to approach pussy pumping with caution. Mostly because I wasn’t sure if I would even like it, but also because I didn’t want my boyfriend to look at my bouncy house vagina and run away in horror. Oh, plus, I could’ve permanently turned my coffee bean into the stomach of an overweight Labrador. Luckily, when I tried it on myself in private, I responded positively. As expected, my boyfriend approached the whole thing like he was the Will It Blend? guy, but with a boner. At first, he started pumping like he was filling up a flat bike tire but once I told him it was causing my uterus to slide out, he slowed down to a less deadly pace.
The discomfort I predicted occurred early on but was quickly replaced by arousal. Despite my skepticism, my entire panty hamster filled the cup and after 15 minutes (the maximum amount of pumping time recommended), I experienced an extreme jump in sensitivity. My orgasm took about half the time to achieve and there was even a reported gain in tightness.
Get one — but if you do, don’t put it on your face because it could get stuck and you could panic and then have to wrestle with it for awhile until you get it off and then deal with the reality of a face hickey that will stay with you for the rest of the day.
For about 15 seconds, everything seems normal until you realize that it’s a tranny trick of epic proportions. Of course, instead of discovering that those implants come with bonus fries, there’s a scale of graduated horror upon realizing that children are constructing their own visual harem.
At about 1:31, a shirtless boy taking the place of Tyson Beckford appears and that’s when I begin to think this isn’t ok. Many of the comments urge others to flag the video, which I agree is unsettling, but that’s really just code for ‘This just gave me a boner that could end famine. Remove the video and please save me from myself.’
*Update: YouTube keeps removing the video since apparently no one is capable of playing it cool. So I’ve hosted my own copy, which means I had to take time away from cursing myself for liking Matchbox Twenty and deal with numbers. I’ll hate you forever, YouTube.
Being caught stating the obvious is a bit of a fear of mine, and so I am always careful not to do it. The last time it happened to me, I was 11 and said, “Weird Al is really…weird, isn’t he?” and after I was inaugurated as Captain Obvious, I quietly put the offender on my mental list of people I would visit after building my very own rocket launcher while thinking, never again.
So I realize that talking about the crotch numbing effect that AskMen has on those who don’t like to keep Corn Nuts in their belly button because it’s just convenient that way, means that I’ve kind of fallen off the wagon. This time though, I’m stronger and therefore able to beat up most 6th graders with ease.
I picked Signs She’ll Still Look Good in 20 Years because, while nearly all AskMen articles make me wish that Jesus had never killed the dinosaurs so we wouldn’t even end up in this mess in the first place, this one is particularly apocalyptic. I also picked it because it starts with this really great hook about how “child-rearing leave[s] some women looking more frazzled than Phil Spector on his first day in prison.” See, it’s funny because Phil Spector is not attractive. It goes on to set up the central conflict, which is: “Your girlfriend is everything you want in a partner: brains, a sense of humor and a naked body that would make any grown man blush…The only issue: You want assurance that she will still look this fantastic in the decades to come.” You’re not fooling me, Chris Illuminati, I can read between the lines. I realize what you meant to say was, “Your girlfriend is cool because she has nice teeth, which means that she doesn’t cut up your dick when she blows you…unlike your ex.” I know this because these “brains” you claim don’t really exist if your girl is too busy retaining her “crown” among her “gaggle of hot clones” to realize how much of a douche you are.
The rest of the article mentions the basics (plastic surgery: good, fast food: bad unless you’re feeding it to your man), and shockingly, doesn’t even attempt any sort of base aphorisms like “If her mom is hot, you’ve got a shot; if her mom is fat, you can’t hit that.” However, considering that none of this is worth remembering anyway, it’s probably for the best. The real talent is invested in the humor, which makes me yearn for the days when I used to go to amateur comedy nights since I at least had the option of getting drunk. Sadly, no amount of cheap booze can dull the pain of a set up that involves having the “hottest wife in the nursing home” and how that warrants…extra rice pudding. If that doesn’t sound funny to you, then congratulations because you’re already funnier than Chris Illuminati.
I get it, Chris–you’re a freelancer–so sneaking sips from abandoned cups at Starbucks just so you can taste what it will be like when you write your award winning piece titled, “Hot Girls Are Hot Because They Are Hot” may not be beneath you. But goddammit, that $4 latte will taste so much sweeter once you emancipate yourself from this notion that girls who play video games are hot as long as they’re not overweight, because it means you will have stopped rimming the asshole of poor taste.
