Class-y Lady?

It's very clear that I have class issues. Pretty much I resent people who have grown up with every advantage in life who have no appreciation for what they've been given. Worse, when people whine about how they deserve it because they "work so hard," as if a person who works at three minimum wage jobs to make ends meet has no idea what hard work is. (Hello, Paris Hilton, as a mere expample of the guilty.) So I have no idea how the following two things came to be:

1. I am for some reason on the Bergdorf Goodman e-mail list. The emails started coming about 3 months ago. What the fuck is that? I have only stepped into a Bergdorf Goodman once in my life, and that was when my husband's bitch friend from high school insisted that I come wedding dress shopping with her in the fall of 1999. (For the record, dresses started at $6,000, which was too high for her, too.) I sure as hell didn't touch anything while I was there (for fear of setting off an alaram - as in, "Oh a commoner is touching something! Beware! Beware!"), let alone sign my freaking student email address on any papers. Yet this afternoon, I got an email helpfully alerting me to their free shipping offer*(*on orders of $175 or more, which I misread initially as $1750) and the Jimmy Choo spring collection. Oh irony, I love you so.

2. On the flip side, I am dreading a flight I am taking this weekend because it is on ATA. ATA is the Greyhound of airlines. As I have mentioned before, I have a mysterious digestive ailment which can cause me to have seriously foul (maloderous, in medical parlance) gas. I have been struck this week with particularly rank farts. So I was relieved that I was flying ATA instead of another airline since I figure only the paeons like me will be on the plane. Very sad state of affiars indeed.

A Gauntlet has been Thrown Down, and I Accept the Thong Challenge

I am quite lucky so far in that none of my friends have stopped speaking to me as a result of my blog, and in fact, have been very supportive and enthusiastic. Because I could totally understand if someone read it and realized that I am a judgmental bitch and decided to never talk to me again (although I fully realize that some people are friends with me precisely because I am a judgmental bitch with an agenda with which they happen to agree). So I am all the more pleased by the following exchange I had with a friend on email:

Friend: I have to admit to wearing thongs when working out :)
Me: And it doesn't bother you? I can't see how that is comfortable. But then again, you may have noticed that I have a lot of rigid preconceived notions. Maybe I will have to try it out myself and then I can write about it...
Friend: Actually, I find it more comfortable. Keeps me from getting wedgies! I think you do need to try out some of the things that you rant against. We will start with thongs at the gym and maybe even move onto a waxing. :) You can't rail against stuff you haven't tried and I am a firm believer that a little bit of wax (not totally bald, that is gross) used by both parties is a good thing.

While I disagree on two points (1. I rail very nicely against stuff I’ve never tried – that’s the beauty of being a slight hypocrite; and 2. I have tried waxing and it usually results in ingrown hairs and rashes, so I’m no more attractive than I was as a hairy ape), I agree that I should investigate the thong thing more fully. Hence I pledge that I will purchase a thong and a g-string (the latter because I find it hysterical) and test them out, with a full report to be issued at CUSS. I love these little experiments/undercover ops where I pretend to be a normal female and most likely fail miserably, which results in fine tragicomedy. Stay tuned.

I'm Melting

I mentioned to someone that I do not understand why in the world women would wear pointy toed shoes that make them look as if they were the wicked witch and Dorothy just fell on them with her house. She informed me that women feel that it makes their feet look slimmer. OK then. You know, though, I’ve never seen drag queens wearing pointy toed shoes. So it is clear to me that you have to have a special kind of self-hatred to wear a pair of extremely narrow shows that pinch your feet as much as possible – so much so that you might actually come to believe that it makes sense to have parts of your foot removed so you can wear your monstrosities more comfortably – to punish yourself for having the nerve to be a woman. It’s actually very sad, and so I think I may have to stop mocking women who wear pointy toed shoes. Ha ha ha – nah, their adults and made their choices, so I might as well have some fun. Let’s start with this scary “boot:”

This is a Jimmy Choo boot that costs - I swear to God - $1,440. If I really hated myself, this would be a good investment. First, you might notice that it is gold lame. While I am of Russian Jewish heritage, I am Americanized enough to understand that it is wrong when white people wear gold lame. Second, I see that this boot was designed for a person with only one toe. Oddly enough, I have five, as do most women. If I wanted to punish myself, trying to jam all five toes into this boot would be very effective. I'd repent whatever sin I committed very quickly, probably before even walking a few steps. (But I'm a wuss that way.) The final problem I have with this boot is the way the front of the boot slopes into the top of the foot. I have feet made of flesh, not wood or metal. This would probably dig into my flesh.

If I saw someone walking down the street in these shoes, I would be tempted to mug her because I know that a. she has enough money to blow $1,440 on these boots; b. she is obviously blind as she cannot see how hideous they are; and c. she sure as fuck could not very effectively chase me. I would give all the money in her purse to a nonprofit organization that helps landmine victims. Because those are people who appreciate their limbs.

A Cuntface Whore's Success = Sour Grapes for Me

Bah! So the stupid little cuntface Belle had to leave New York and go back home for a while. Good riddance, I say. However, while she was away she seems to have met her true Southern love (I don't care about that, except that it makes me sad to think about them reproducing and bringing more conservative Southern idiots into the world) and got a fucking book deal based on her blog!!! Now she's back and writing away in her little SoHo apartment and partying it up all night, the darling of the asshole rich people's nightlife circuit, her fucking retard acolytes fawning all over her return and praying that her book writing doesn't interfere with her sugary vomitous blog. Goddamn, has anyone read her blog? (Try it - belleinthebigapple.blogspot.com - and cry/seethe with anger.) I have. It is filled with flowery writing and sappy pronouncements about the future. Life is unfair in the worst ways sometimes. Seriously, I loathe this bitch. She's like the Elizabeth Wurtzel of the South, except not a plagarist.

CUSS Goes Undercover (ha!) to Bring You Info on the Victoria's Secret Fantasy Bra

Great news! The Victoria's Secret Fantasy Bra, which I wrote about on Nov. 21, is indeed custom made! I learned this by calling the Victoria's Secret phone number listed on the Fantasy Bra page on their website. I was disappointed to discover that this was not a special number just for the Fantasy Bra, but the regular catalogue ordering center. I had imagined it would be a special hotline, like the red emergency phones you see on the President's desk in cartoons and movies. I mean, if you are going to spend $12.5 million on a bra, you should not have to be put on hold with all the other paeons ordering flannel pajammas. I now suspect that they don't actually really believe that some elderly rich Texan oil magnate will buy this for his young wife or mistress, but that it is a publicity ploy! Can you believe that?!?!

Anyway, when the customer service rep answered, I was very clear about my mission: I told her that I was curious about the Fantasy Bra. Was it was pre-made or is it custom made, I inquired. She assured me that it was custom made. I said that was good; for $12.5 million, a bra should be made to fit, and she agreed. Then I asked her what they would do with the bra that Heidi Klum wore during the fashion show (and is posing for pictures in). The customer service rep was puzzled, and said she imagined that they'd take it apart to make the new one. I thanked her for answering my burning questions and putting my mind to rest, and we both were cracking up as we hung up.

Rush & Me

Things I have in common with Rush Limbaugh:

1. We are both angry people.


2. We both live in New York.


3. We are both white.


4. We both have lost weight over the last few years.


5. We both have trouble hearing.

Things I do not have in common with Rush Limbaugh:

1. I have never fraudulently obtained prescription drugs, wither directly or by forcing others to fill my fraudulent prescriptions


2. I have never been a drug addict.


3. I am not a fucking asshole.


4. I believe in a social contract between myself and others, and that basic human decency and compassion are essential to a functioning society.


5. I did not get wealthy by being a fucking asshole.  (In fact, I am not wealthy.)


6. People who like me are not mindless zombie fucks.


7. Unfortunately, I do not have my own radio show.

Chafed Ass Crack Seems Quite Unpleasant

The “sport shop” at my gym sells essentials for working out, like sports bras, shorts, tank tops, yoga pants, and Cosabella low-rider g-strings. I mean, how can any woman be expected to workout in something as unfashionable and useless as cotton briefs? You don’t want unsightly panty lines in your clingy yoga pants as you sashay across the gym. The attention should be on your flat tummy and pert breasts. On the other hand, if you actually plan to exercise and get sweaty, a g-string doesn’t strike me as a wise choice of undergarment. It seems rather gross to have a thin string in your ass as you run on the treadmill or use the Stairmaster. Recently, I also discovered that when you wear skin tight workout pants, your g-string (or thong) is as noticeable as briefs, so there's no point to it at all.

Score: 10 for me and my comfy cottons, 0 for the fashionistas and ass floss.

I SWoUR to Protect My Ass - Now You Can Protect Yours Too!

I am trying to do a public service and help women avoid potential embarrassment with my CUSS and its sister campaign, Sensible Women’s Undergarments Rule (SWoUR - pronounced swore) . SWoUR and CUSS are clearly linked missions: if women wore sensible undergarments, they would not need to shave their snatches so that they don’t have hair ruining the cooch pouch effect. Also, if women wore sensible underwear, more blood might circulate to their heads and they would realize that men who demand that they shave their crotches to look like pre-teens are gross. And cruel. Particularly if said men do not also shave their balls, which to be very honest, are hairy and 50 million times grosser than the hairiest vulva, if there are even such things as hairy vulvas.

Anyway, an alert member of SWoUR (that would be me, the only current member obviously, but I do welcome anyone who wants to join) was watching TV at the gym a few evenings ago when a little blurb on “Most Embarrassing Celebrity Moments” on VH1 came on. I was not actually watching this show, but the TV was next to the TV I was watching (“Wheel of Fortune,” thank you very much) and when a model was strutting down the runway, stepped on her long skirt, pulled it off as she walked, and exposed her entire ass to the world, I could not help but notice. I think the model was Miss Universe, but I’m not sure. Anyway, had she been a member of SWoUr and wearing sensible garments and not a teeny red thong, her embarrassment would have been a bit less. As it was, she put her hands over her butt and and booked it back stage. She seemed to have a good sense of humor about it, but as VH1s witty professional hilarious commentator remarked, she has a fairly perfect ass.

My point is that most women are not Miss Universe and would be beyond mortified if this type of mishap occurred to them. I know I have certainly accidentally stepped on the hem of some of the long skirts that I own. Fortunately, I didn’t pull it off, but merely fell on my face instead. (Whew!) So be warned ladies: this could happen to you! Join SWoUR now and have better coverage just in case your skirt accidentally falls off in public. It can happen.

"Rush" to Google CUSS!

Yay!  Typing cuss and other rants into the Google search engine will now return a link to this blog!  I have been eagerly awaiting this moment for some time (although not so eagerly that I have remembered to check within the last few weeks, so I have no idea when this momentous occasion officially came to pass).  I would celebrate with some cake, but I seem to have already eaten it all in the previous four days.  (List of cakes I have ingested: Wednesday: sour cream apple pie; Thursday: apple crumb pie; Oreo cheesecake; Friday: chocolate bobka; Saturday: apple crumb cake-finished it off; sour cream apple pie-finished it off.  Fortunately I gave the chocolate bobka and cheesecake to my cousin to take back to Sarah Lawrence College with her on Friday, or I’d have eaten the remains of those baked delicacies as well.  I did do some serious working out at the gym, though, so I’m not going to freak out too badly.  I did not, of course, see anyone plucking out chin hairs in my gym locker room, as my friend did.  I did shock my roommate at an abortion rights conference in Atlanta this past June by asking her to borrow her tweezers and plucking out my chin hairs.  She was impressed that I would do so in front of her.  We later went to a bakery for dinner, where I was surprised to find Dewberry, fresh off his stint on the reality show Hell’s Kitchen, behind the counter.)  

Wow, what an impressive digression.  Back to my delight at my blog’s Google availability, I think it is hilarious to report that the second site that appears when you search for cuss and other rants is none other than Rush Limbaugh Online: Rants, Articles, and Wisdom.  Somehow I doubt much wisdom can be found there, but I’m not going to find out.  The third site listed is my little link on the BUST magazine site, where they classified my blog as Sex-E: Info, Education, and Advice.  Believe me, I am grateful that they listed it on their girl wide web, but it doesn’t seem to fit the category of Info, Education, and Advice, with the result being that anyone who clicks on the link is bound to be disappointed.  (And perhaps explains why the site is given a rating of 5 out of 10 with two votes.  I know one of the two voters gave it a 9, so the other person clearly hated it.)

Anyway, thanks to all of you who have been reading CUSS & Other Rants!  I’ve really enjoyed writing for it over the last 6 weeks or so, and look forward to lots more posting, all the more so because now there’s a chance that some Rush Limbaugh fans will wind up here on accident.  Hilarious!  

This Gym is Your Gym, This Gym is My Gym - This Gym was Made for You and Me

Gym culture is so interesting. I thought the culture of a gym would be the same across a chain, but it seems that I am wrong (as so often is the case). My friend emailed me and asked me which gym I belong to. She suspected it was the same chain as her gym and it turns out that we go to gyms that are part of the same gym and in the same general neighborhood, but 16 or so blocks apart. She found that, unlike at my gym, most of the women seem to be au natural. She also noted that she wasn’t sure if she was just not seeing the waxed ladies, or if this is symbolic of old school Upper West Siders. There are definitely a lot more older members at her gym than mine, and while there are always a couple of young girls who walk around half-naked at her gym, everyone kind of ignores them. My gym seems to consist mostly of stylish younger women (under age 40) who are obnoxiously wealthy. Not really my demographic.

My husband reported that in the men’s locker room in our gym, guys like to stomp around naked. He claims that they weigh themselves naked and when they get on the scale, they practically leap on and swing their dicks around. I wonder if that is the case at the gym 16 blocks away or if the guys are also less show offy up there. Interesting. I don’t know any guys who work out there except someone I work with, and I probably should not ask him about naked guys in the men’s locker room. (We had to watch a video on sexual harassment, and according to the video, that would be an inappropriate question, even under the context of scientific research for a blog.)

My friend concluded her email to me on our gyms by speculating whether the differences in our gyms’ cultures are a symbol of the past of a symbol of the future, or just an isolated subculture? “Without being a perv, I will certainly keep my eyes open and report back if I notice anything else on this trend.” I am very pleased to have a spy at another gym location. She’ll have to let me know if the sports shop up there sells thongs and g-strings. Come to think of it, I don’t think the gym I use by my office does. I’ll have to pay more attention. (I only went in the shop once, when I noticed a cute shirt on sale for half off and plus a free sports bra with any purchase.)

Damn, That Rash is So Hot on You!

Like most women, I have worn bathing suits before. The bottoms of most bathing suits come to right below the crotch, so most women, unless they wear something over their bathing suits, need to shave or wax their “bikini line” if they want to look “decent” (i.e. - don’t want pubic hair hanging out all over the place). However, merely removing the offensive hair does not guarantee that you’ll look decent by any means. As I mentioned, I’ve worn bathing suits and that means I’ve had to deal with my bikini line. If the resulting bumpy rash and angry red welts are sexy, then I’m the hottest chick at the pool or beach, as the area certainly becomes inflamed and itchy. I know I’m not the only one with this problem, either. Many of my friends have commented that they can’t go to the pool or beach without shorts because they shaved their bikini line and have a gross rash to show for their efforts. Who are these super fem women who don’t have this problem? Not that I go around staring at people’s bikini lines, but not everyone seems to be affected by this problem. Unless you are one of the chosen ones, your body is sending a message that the hair is there for a reason and will not go without consequences. It’s probably better to just leave the area alone in the first place and wear a vintage bathing suit from the 1920s that goes covers approximately to the knees.

Harry Potter and the Asshole Sexist Hollywood Casting Dilemma

In reading the Harry Potter books, I always thought that Hermione Granger is one of the greatest feminist literary girls in history. She’s incredibly smart and doesn’t hide it, even when people mock her for being intelligent. She is average-looking, described when Harry meets her for the first time on the train to Hogwarts as having “lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth” (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone) and her average looks don’t bother her at all. She’s one of the best friends of the hero, who values her for who she is. The Hermione character in the books is an incredible role model for girls. She symbolizes that it is OK to be smart and not gorgeous. In fact, being smart is a huge asset, as she frequently saves Harry’s ass because of her bookish nerdiness. Plain, smart Hermione gets even better as a role model as the serious goes on. In Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, all the girls at Hogwarts have a huge crush on Victor Krum, a strapping athlete from a visiting school. But Victor asks Hermione to the Yule Ball, not any of the silly, pretty girls who fawn all over him. Hermione gets him by being herself. For the Ball, she makes herself up, but then goes right back to being herself: “But she didn’t look like Hermione at all. She had done something with her hair; it was no longer bushy but sleek and shiny, and twisted up into an elegant know at the back of her head... She was also smiling –rather nervously, it was true – but the reduction in the size of her front teeth was more noticeable than ever...Everybody got up late on Boxing Day... Hermione’s hair was bushy again; she confessed that she had used liberal amounts of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion on it for the ball, ‘but it’s way too much bother to do every day,’ she said matter-of-factly... (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire). Awesome, right? I hate styling my hair too! For a special occasion, maybe I’ll go out of my way and try and do something and throw on a little make-up, but otherwise, why bother? What a damn great message to send to other girls – that the hot guy will like you for you and you don’t have to look or act like a beauty queen, ho-bag, or princess. Just be you! So, you ask, what has my dander up now? It’s the fucking Harry Potter movies. I have nothing against Emma Watson as an actress, but why the hell did Hollywood have to cast a little cutie pie as Hermione? Would it have been so awful to cast a nerdy girl with bad teeth and bushy hair? Do they think that the movies would have been a dismal failure? That no one in their right mind would have seen a movie that featured an average girl instead of a really cute girl? It is so damn offensive that I seriously considered not seeing any of the movies. The message from the movies is the exact opposite of that in the book: that only a really cute girl is worthy of anyone’s affections. It’s depressing - Harry and Hermione can bring down some of the most powerful, evil baddies in the books, but they can't make a dent in stereotypes and sexism in movies. In fact, I’d say that casting a cutie actually ruins the movie because there is no fucking difference between what Hermione looks like on any regular day and on the day of the ball:

This is "plain everyday" Hermione
This is "fancy pretty Yule Dance" Hermione

Do you notice a difference? I sure don’t. Damn you, Hollywood! Damn you!

Score: 0 for me and all the regular girls in the world, 250 for Lord Voldemort of Hollywood.

How Can I Set a Proper Table When the Doily Is Strapped to Your Ass?

Mother: I just love afternoon tea the day after Thanksgiving. Honey, can you set the table? Please use the heart-shaped black doilies that Grandma brought back from London.

Daughter: Sorry, mom, no can do. I sold the doilies to Victoria's Secret. They cleverly slipped them into a g-string to create the most uncomfortable underwear ever, available for a mere $28. Think about it: you get the discomfort of a string in your ass crack combined with an oddly shaped scratchy-looking lace patch that allows your ass to hang out anyway.

Mother: What the hell am I supposed to tell Grandma? Perhaps you can lie down and we can set the dishes on your ass.

Spare the Turkey, Fuck the Horse

My beloved friend is visiting me from North Carolina for Thanksgiving. One of the reasons she is so beloved to me is because she is one of the very few people who drag me out to a diner at 12:30 am and have extremely loud and totally inappropriate conversations that drown out the loud and boring conversations that the drunk skanks who came to the diner after clubbing are having. The highlight of the evening was the following round table discussion:

Beloved Friend: So I read in an article that in some states it is legal to have sex with animals if they are a certain size. So some guy has an animal sex farm and this guy died while having sex with a horse because its dick pierced his colon.
Me: Shit, that’s nasty. That’s like the guy who punctured his colon with a 12 inch dildo, but worse.
Beloved Friend: What I don’t get, though, is this: don’t men who have sex with animals usually give it?
Friend of Beloved Friend: You’re just old fashioned that way.
Diner customers: [Glare.]
Beloved Friend: How do you even get a horse to fuck you in the first place?
Me: I guess you manually masturbate it until it is hard and then shove your ass on it.
Drunk skanks by bathroom: [RETCH! RETCH!] Honey, do you want me to hold your hair back? You’re puking in your hair!
Us: Ha ha ha ha.

See, while I have similar adventures without my beloved friend, it is really great tto have her around. Happy Thanksgiving!!!

Cuntface Whore for President

Sometimes feminists don’t know what they are talking about. For a long time, we’ve been saying that we need more women in government if we want serious attention paid to so-called women’s issues. This is not really true, as some women are traitorous bitches and whores. For example, if I could, I’d vote for the womanizing drunkard Ted Kennedy early and often (remember, I’m from Chicago). On the other hand, I’d rather vote for my pet rabbit than someone like Elizabeth Dole. For every Ann Richards (rockin’!) there is a Kay Bailey Hutchinson (horrible!). Can you imagine if Ann Coulter ran for elected office?!?! It would literally be the blond leading the blind. Ann Coulter is the epitome of a cuntface whore, and there are women like her all over the place. I can only hope that one day during her Botox treatment, Ann Coulter’s mouth permanently freezes so I never need to hear her vile spew again. And for good measure, maybe she can break both her hands so she can’t write. Life would be much better.

Anyway, it’s not the candidate’s genitals that matter when I vote. It’s that they respect mine and don’t try to force their crazy conservative bullshit on me. A vote for a progressive dick or twat comes easily. (OK, that was a terrible double entendre, I admit, but I couldn’t resist.)

The Best Movie Proposal EVER!

If Sarah Silverman’s new movie, Jesus is Magic, does well, I have the best premise for a new movie. Basically, it’ll be about the wacky true adventures of Steph, one of my best friends, and me. But slightly fictionalized so that no one gets hurt.

I met Steph at NYU where she was one of the few students who were not Asian or Jewish. She’s also almost 6 feet tall, likes wearing loud outfits and/or t-shirts with clever/rude slogans, swears a lot and calls people cunts, and extremely, extremely loud. (Oh, and did I mention that she’s currently in library school the South?) I am about 5 feet tall, Jewish, wear pink knee high boots and white tights, swear a lot and call people cunts, and am extremely, extremely loud. We like to taunt each other about our religions. We like to have a running commentary on everyone around us. We have done everything from try and find Jesse Bradshaw (who my husband insists is really Freddie Prinz Jr.’s twin brother, Eddie Prinz Jr.) at a Columbia student film festival that we snuck into (with husband in tow) to making human pyramids (with my husband in tow) and forcing random people to take pictures of it. Harmless, silly adventures full of swearing and mocking others – perfect family entertainment.

The movie will be called The Adventures of Big White Girl and Her Short Jewish Sidekick. It’s a cross between Thelma and Louise and Passion of the Christ. Or like Ben-Hur meets 13 Going on 30 I’m telling you, it will be brilliant.

The George Washington Fetish Musem

Anyone with a fetish for the Revolutionary War, early American history, and especially George Washington is in for a very special treat at the Fraunces Tavern Museum, which I was delighted to find down the street from my office (not that I have any of those particular history fetishes myself). While I myself do not fall into that category, I still was giddy with delight at my visit on my lunch hour. The museum is a historic landmark located in a tavern opened in 1762 by Samuel Fraunces as the Queen’s Head Tavern, which pioneered take-out service for people who lived in the neighborhood. The Tavern captured its place in history when George Washington stopped by after the British evacuated New York. He had a big gala there on Nov. 25, 1783, and later gave his famous farewell speech to officers of the Continental Army there on December 4.

The museum is two stories and is operated by the New York State chapter of the Sons of the Revolution. It is a highly amusing mix of reproductions, photographs of historic statues and plaques, and tschotchkes spread over two floors. The money shot of shrines, though, is the one dedicated to George Washington. There is a fragment of George Washington’s coffin in a tin case and a chunk of George Washington’s pew from St. Paul’s Church. If you have ever wondered what the original GW looked like under his powdered wig, here’s your answer: a locket of George Washington’s hair is encased in a circular glass frame. (Who knew it was reddish brown?) There is also a fragment of George’s tooth encased in a locket, under a magnifying the glass. The tooth came from George’s denture. I’ll warn you that it is a little on the decayed side and leave it at that.

Finally, in what may be the most pointless museum display ever, there is a shrine to Flag Day amongst all the historical ephemera. A glass case is filled with miniature American flags and pictures of the Flag Day Parade on June 14, 2001. Long live Flag Day!

A trip to the Fraunces Tavern Museum will only set you back $3 and 45 minutes of your life that you will never see again. The best bargain in the Financial District!

Sometimes You Can Have Way Too Much of a Good Thing

My friend works at a hospital in Chicago. One evening as she was preparing to go home, a gentleman came in with “obtuse abdominal pain,” meaning, a really fucking bad stomach ache. Turns out that morning after his wife went to work he decided to have some fun on his own and rammed a 12 inch dildo up his ass. Now there is nothing wrong with using dildos, anally or vaginally. However, one must always be careful when doing so, especially when using foot-long dildos that might go very, very far up your rectum and cause damage. This guy was not careful enough and thus ripped a hole in his colon. Shit proceeded to leak out of his colon and filled his abdominal cavity. This was not good. Now he has a colostomy bag. So please, when pleasuring yourself or your mate, be careful. I don’t think it will be nearly as fun if you later need to use the dildo on your colostomy hole because you broke your ass.

Trust Me - It Does Not Look the Same on Real People

Here are some stats about me: I am slightly over 5 feet tall and weigh 125 lbs. That means that my BMI is about 24 and change, putting me on the line for being overweight, but still considered to be healthy. Very good. It is important to know this because about four years ago I decided that I should update my underwear wardrobe, if you want to call it that. I had a lot of underwear that went up to approximately my chin, and that I bought when I weighed about 165 lbs. They didn't work well with low rise jeans, and I thought I might be nice to my husband and attempt to wear something slightly more appealing to a guy in his 20s.

This led me to go to Victoria's Secret with a friend. I saw some underwear that looked reasonable. The were bikini briefs with a decent amount of ass coverage and thin elastic bands on the sides; something like this, but not as low:
I figured they were cotton, which I always look for (extra absorbant for less crotch rot), and moderately sexy. I thought even a fuddy duddy like me could deal with it. They were 5 for $20, so I split the purchase with my friend and she took 2 and I took 3.

When I wore a pair for the first time, it became very clear that someone like the model in the Victoria's Secret catalog photo above looks very sexy in this type of underwear. Someone with a BMI of 24.something looks like a horror movie. My gut was not only hanging over the front, but also bulging over and under the "cute" elastic sides. Plus it didn't cover my significantly larger-than-model-size ass nearly as much as I'd like. I was now stuck with 3 pairs of these undies. (And I will wear them until they unravel or get lost because I am cheap and hate buying things and not using them to the fullest extent possible. I groan every time one of those pairs comes up on top of my undies drawer.)

My point is that if you look like shit in something and know it because you are not self-deluded, you will not feel sexy anyway, so you might as well wear underwear that goes up to your chin. (Although to deal with the low rise pants issue, I did come to my senses and buy normal cottong bikini briefs that don't have elastics bands on the side and that are very comfy.) A little pre-investigation before a big underwear purchase goes a long way towards creating a ahppy investment.

Reporting for Jury Duty

I went to jury duty today dressed as a goth chick. This involved a lot of black eye makeup, lots of dark lipstick, all black clothing, and kick ass black boots. No one at the courthouse blinked. (Nor did anyone on the subway, although one of the maintenance staff from my apartment building did a double take as I left this morning. Seems like we don’t have a lot of Goths in the building.) I met some friends for lunch in Chinatown, and they found my get up hilarious. I never wear cosmetics, so it was like I was trying to make up for lost time by wearing it all at once. The restaurant staff and other patrons and shoppers in Chinatown had no reaction. This is why I love New York City.

Are Bejeweled Chasty Belts for Sale Next Year?

Once again this year, Victoria’s Secret is offering a special “Fantasy Bra” during the holiday season. It is described thusly in their website:

This breathtaking bra features a delicate floral design rendered in 18-karat with gols with over 2,900 pavé-set diamonds and 22 ruby gemstones. The focal point is the Mouawad Splendor diamond, an extraordinary 101-carat flawless pear-shaped stome. Total carat weight: diamonds, 108.37. Rubies: 38.25.

Heidi Klum modeled the bra last week in the Victoria’s Secret fashion show. (The same one I want to stand outside of in my Victoria’s Secret undies, with a sign that reminds people that onjects modeled do not look the same at home, unless themodel lives at your home.) In an interview with CBS, Heidi Klum said that the bra “gives you $11 million support.” Made in gold, she points out, it will not rust. But that is not the only thing special about the bra. Klum says, “It has a 70-carat diamond. It’s the second biggest diamond in the world dangling on the stomach. And then the breasts are covered in diamonds and stones.”

Good think Heidi explained that it won’t rust. I mean, who wants a rusty $12.5 million bra? Rust flakes are so white trash - unsexy!

So explain this bra to me: Once your sugar daddy Texas oil magnate spends $12.5 million to buy you this bra, are you supposed to wear no shirt or wear the bra over your shirt so that everyone can focus on the second biggest diamond in the world nestled between your tits? (When I was a kid, my mom let me wear my super cool Underoos Snoopy and Wonder Girl undershirts over my shirts so that others could admire them. I assume you’d want to do the same with a $12.5 million bra.) I’ve never heard of hiding regular diamond jewelry under clothes, unless maybe the wearer is on the subway. Usually part of the point of wearing diamonds is so others can ogle and think how lucky the wearer is and hate that bitch. No one hides a ginormous engagement ring under gloves. That defeats the point. I’d think that the sugar daddy buying the bra would want to show off his acquisitions of both bra and wearer.

Another logistical question: Does it even come in more than one size? Initially I thought it might be custom made, but then it occurred to me that Heidi Klum already wore it, so it’s already made. What if a potential customer's titties don't fit? Is the cups size adjustable, or do the potential owner's boobs need to be surgically adjusted to fit? Plus if Heidi Klum already wore it, doesn’t that make it a used $12.5 million bra? I’d be pissed if I spent $12.5 million on a bra and it was used. Even if it wasn’t rusty. Good thing there are thousands of African diamond miners willing to work in slave-labor like conditions in diamond mines hundreds of miles away from their families so the average consumer can have a bra like this, even if it is a used bra.

Suzanne's Simple Solutions to Complex Policy Problems #3

Q: What can be done to reduce the cost of liability/malpractice insurance for doctors?

A: I am so glad that you asked. The answer does not lie in undemocratic measures such as capping the amount of money a jury may award in a lawsuit, or through state provided insurance. Nope, the answer lies square with the medical profession and our friends at the American Medical Association (AMA) themselves. First, consider the attitude of many (but not all) doctors. They seem to believe that they are infallible gods whose judgment should not be questioned by those of us outside the profession. However, in the event that their judgment proves incorrect, they cry that they are only human and therefore entitled to error. Wrong. Either you are infallible or human. It is no accident that doctors rarely see doctors when they themselves are sick. It means they have to admit that they are just like everyone else. And they don’t like getting treated the way they treat their patients. If doctors were a wee bit more humble to begin with, maybe we wouldn’t be inclined to sue their asses off when they fuck up. So a small adjustment in attitude towards us little people (patients) would help.

Second, our friends at the AMA either need to regulate the profession in a serious manner or allow outsiders, like state health departments, to do so. Currently, the AMA allows doctors to fuck up over and over again before they censure their members, let alone take away their licenses. They too closely identify with errant doctors, worrying about what would happen if they made a mistake. Once a doctor is censured, it’s damn near impossible for patients to access that information anyway. As a result, bad doctors continue to hurt people. A study in Massachusetts found that 5-10% of licensed doctors generated an astounding 90-95% of malpractice suits. The number of court cases, and thus the price of malpractice insurance for all doctors, would decrease dramatically if the AMA actually cared about patients and tried to protect them instead of covering for shitting doctors.

Consider: in the late 1990s, a woman went into labor and had a c-section to deliver her baby. Her OB-GYN, unbeknownst to the patient (who, by the way, was a doctor herself), had fucking Alzheimer’s and was known to forget where he was and what he was doing at random intervals of the day. Right after the baby was delivered, this doctor carved his initials into the patient’s abdomen because he was so pleased with the clean cut he had made that he considered a work of art that should be signed by the master. Understandably, the patient was furious. She learned that this was not the first time that he had fucked up in the delivery room, and sued. The AMA finally revoked his license, although they defended their prior inaction by noting that they felt sorry for him because he wanted to continue practicing and could understand his predicament.

Therefore, the solution to the problem of runaway malpractice insurance costs is easily controlled by merely asking doctors and the AMA to do the right thing and admit that they are human and put the interests of the patient ahead of their own career worries.

Disclaimer Yes, I realize that not all doctors are assholes. My best friend is in residency and is a wonderful person, and I have had some excellent doctors who have made a huge difference in the quality of my life. (Thank you Dr. Kummer and Dr. Kaplan!) My current GYN, whose name I am blanking on, is awesome and the most down to earth person. But I have also met some horrid shitheads, and the ones in charge of public policy at the AMA always seem to be the most self-righteous and self-absorbed.

Why Even Bother?

When your underwear looks like this:


Why are you bothering to wear underwear at all? Actually, I shouldn't call them underwear as underwear connotes some form of useful coverage. I will call these "under-strings-with-pouches" (USWPs). The USWPs pictured will cost someone $18 (the front shot) or $28 (the back shot) to purchase at everyone's favorite neighborhood mall purveyor of lingerie, Victoria's Secret. Here's a friendly tip from Aunty Suzanne: save your money and go bare under your clothes. Men will find that just as sexy and exciting. If you didn't wipe well after taking a crap, USWPs sure ain't gonna protect your clothes anyway, and it's not like you'll be any more chafed than you would if you wore a USWP. I guess it could be a problem if you shaved off all your pubic hair and thus have nothing to stop your pants from rubbing raw skin, but that's why you should not have shaved off all your pubic hair in the first place, isn't it?

Foshizzle

Seriously, you ask someone to do a simple task (like a take a picture with their digital camera) and you'd think they might try and do it right. I had promised to post a picture of my friend eating enormous quantities of fried foods at a state fair while wearing (and amply filling out, I might add) a t-shirt that hilariously says "I beat anorexia." Now look at the picture below carefully and note the following problems:

1. Unless I mentioned that the shirt read "I beat anorexia," no one would know that.

2. My friend is only eating a deep fried cheeseburger, and while that is completely disgusting, it is not the full meal of fried foods she consumed. She also had deep fried twinkies and a plate of fries as a side dish.

One of the important features of a digital camera is you can review your picture on the spot and retake it if it didn't come out as planned. This clearly did not happen. So I am sorry that it not only took me a long time to figure out something as simple as posting a picture in a blogger post, but that the picture is not satisfactory.

Ya de de de de de de yadi dadi di

One of the things I hate most about the subway is the assholes who stand in the subway car doors and refuse to move to let people on or off.  Depending on my mood, I will either shove by them as rudely as possible while muttering about how I hope that they fall onto the subway tracks and get run over and die a bloody death or I will just mutter about how I hope that they fall onto the subway tracks and get run over and die a bloody death.  However, today I was most pleasantly surprised when the burly and surly looking young man loitering in the doorway before the train came to a stop immediately stepped out and moved to the side when the doors opened, allowing traffic to flow.  I decided that if I were rich, I would give him $20 to reward him for his good behavior.  In fact, I’d give everyone $20 for stepping aside, and hopefully word would spread that some rich lady was giving out $20 if you step aside and thus everyone would do so in the hope that I am on the train ready to reward them.

I know that you are thinking that this could never happen because if I were that rich, I wouldn’t be riding the subway in the first place.  But that is simply not true.  Anyone who has ever been stuck in a traffic jam in Manhattan during rush hour knows that it is much faster and easier to get around on the subway, even if you are jammed into the armpit of the stranger holding onto the pole over your head as more and more people cram in.  So I’d still ride the subway, but I’d have to do it in various disguises (like a food critic eating out) so that people wouldn’t just behave when they saw me.  Damn, that’d be great.

A Tragicomic Coming of Age Tale

When I was in fifth grade, my mom (as nicely as possible), brought two ugly truths to my attention: I had BO and I was starting to get a rack. I could deal with wearing deodorant, but the thought of a bra mortified me. Why couldn’t I continue slouching in my baggy pink and lavender sweatshirts (with rhinestones – awesome!)? What did I need this bra shit for?

“You need a good bra so you won’t sag when you get older. Grandma didn’t wear good bras when she was young and now she’s saggy,” my mom explained as she dragged my sullen self to the special bra shop, where I was to be inflicted with new heretofore unknown indignities. (Fat lot of good it did me anyway, but that’s another story for another time. I like to ratchet up the suspense.)

The bra shop had been an institution in downtown Skokie for years and was run by women who had been measuring ladies for bras since the bra was invented. I was ushered into a fitting room and told to remove my shirt by an ancient wise woman. Don’t worry, honey,” she rasped,” I’ve seen it all.” (Years later, this did not comfort my sister when she went to get her first bra, as she was convinced the store was manned by old lesbians who got off looking at their clients. I think she still believes this.) She studied me for an eternity, and left the room to get some bras for me to try on.

There was no escape. I was really going to wind up with at least one bra. This inevitability was socked home by the bras themselves. Each one had cute little bows or flowers, or worse both, sewn all over them. What the fuck was wrong with the people who made these things? (Yes, I realize that normal girls were excited to be getting boobs that required a womanly bra, and therefore appreciated the girly touches, and that’s what the manufacturers were thinking. But still.) If I was going to have to wear a bra, I wanted it to be as plain as possible, the easier to hide. As soon as I got home, I cut all the feminine touches off. I felt a little bit better. The less I thought about or noticed my boobs, the better. Growing up sucks!

Is a Thong Not a Jock Strap for Women?

In Paris, as I was looking at all manner of ridiculous underwear that required the wearer to walk around with a string tucked in her ass crack, I began to wonder if a thong was the equivalent of a jock strap for women. As the photos below show, the comparison is close, but not quite right.

A close look will reveal that both types of under garments have a genital pouch in front: for men, the pooch pouch; for women, the cooch pouch. On the other hand, I think this little photo study shows that men are much smarter than women when it comes to wearing genital-protecting underwear. The strings on jock straps support their asses. They do not wear a string in their ass. My husband also informed me (after he asked me why I was downloading pictures of jock straps on our home computer) that men can wear underwear with a jock strap and that the strap is really just there to hold the cup in place. Once again, the men have better undergarments, as this means that the strings in the back can be separated from the skin and presumably gallons of sweat that men will generate as they run around in their jock.

Score: Men = 10; Women = 0. Touche, men, touche. (Or should I say "Tushie, men, tushie"?)

"Without a Trace" Should Disappear from TV that Way

Goddamn fucking Without a Trace.  This is the second episode I’ve watched in two seasons where they give 100% FALSE information about reproductive rights:

1. Last season, there was an episode about some teen who got knocked up.  When she mentioned to the doctor that she was going to get an abortion, he told her that it was impossible to get an abortion in NYC after 14 weeks.  THIS COULD NOT BE MORE WRONG.  In fact, NYC is pretty much the only place on the East Coast where a woman can get an abortion up to the 24th week.  How many fucking women saw that on TV and if they are in need of a late term abortion, think that it is too late?!?!  Infuriating.

2. Possibly worse, tonight’s episode had a teen who was raped and wanted the morning-after pill, but thought that she needed her mom’s permission to get it.  FUCKING WRONG AGAIN, Without a Trace fucking assholes!  Now how many girls in bad situations are going to turn to the black market to try and get the morning-after pill when they can get a prescription without a parent’s permission.

I don’t know what fucking anti-choice assholes are on the staff, but I am sending a protest letter.  This shit seriously endangers the lives of women and I am fucking sick of it.

Who's Got the Biggest Set of Balls in NYC?

The Bull Statue (known as “Charging Bull” or “Wall Street Bull Statue”) in the street island on Broadway at Bowling Green has more reason to file sexual assault complaints than any other statue in New York City. According to the New York Metro, the bull was created after the largest 24 hour stock decline in history (“Black Monday,” Oct. 19, 1987) by a local artist, who placed it in front of the Stock Exchange without permission, which police then moved to its current location. Legend has it that rubbing the testicles of the famous bull statue will bring you good luck. A close look at the bulls’ balls will show that many people have taken this advice to heart; his balls are rubbed so often, they are a different color than the rest of him. Incidentally, the bull is not the only well-endowed statue in town. There is a statue of a male elephant in the UN sculpture garden with life size genitals. When it comes to statues, it seems that the UN has the bigger balls.

Hey, Ma! I'm in the Paper!

My friend has a friend who is a freelance writer.  About a year ago, she was looking to interview couples who lost weight together, so my friend asked me if I would talk to her.  I cheerfully agreed, and learned why you should think about what you are saying before you tell something to a writer or reporter, as they tend to quote you.  
--------------------
“Doubling efforts to shape up, slim down”
By Mary Lynn F. Jones
Chicago Tribune
January 28, 2004

But even among couples who lose weight, it's often an individual, rather than joint, decision that starts the process. Suzanne, who is slightly over 5 feet tall, weighed 167 pounds and "was at the point where I was going to have to wear teepees" before she made it her New Year's resolution in 1998 to lose weight. She joined a gym near her New York City apartment and started by walking on a treadmill. She lost 20 pounds in the first year, and had breast reduction surgery to reduce back pain.

Still, when [her boyfriend]Justin (now her husband) joined her at the gym in 1999, he was frustrated by his own lack of progress. An investment banker, he found it hard to keep a regular exercise schedule. It wasn't until after their wedding in 2000 that he sported a renewed interest in going to the gym. A change to a job with more regular hours also helped.

Keeping each other on task became easier. "On days when [Justin] wasn't up to going to the gym, I was like, `C'mon, I'm going to go,'" Suzanne said. "We went from being coach potato dorks to fitness dorks."

And if they are sitting in front of the television, Suzanne, 28, and Justin, 27, now snack on grapes and pretzels instead of potato chips.

Suzanne and Justin have each lost about 40 pounds, or the combined equivalent of a 4th grader, as she put it. "It used to be, if we got a double bed in a hotel, it was cramped," said Suzanne. Now, she added, "It's spacious."
--------------------------------------------
After the interview, I thought nothing of my quirky responses to the writer’s questions, until Justin read the article upon publication and pointed out what the other interviewees said.  Of course, they had completely normal responses, like “when Stacy, 29, wasn't happy with the way her clothes were fitting and asked again that September, Jesse, 30, figured he should go to support her.”  Nothing about teepees, losing an amount of weight the size of a 10 year old, or noting their social status.  Justin, incidentally, was not happy about being called a dork (and recently an internet quiz proved that he is in fact not a dork, but rather a nerd).  Oh well.  I still stand by my words.

Snatch Survey Says...

My friend emailed me a few days ago and said that the posting on women who show up at appointments for Brazilian waxes with reeking dirty cooches spurred a little office discussion. She noted that she ALWAYS showers before going, and a poll of the women in the office discovered that even if they don't shower that morning, they at least clean up a bit.

I am glad to hear that there are women who are considerate about these matters, but it also occurred to me that my friend and her colleagues happen to work in jobs best defined as in the public interest. I think that makes them more conscience of people who work in the service industry and therefore are more considerate than the average upper class wench who goes in for her rug trim. (What can I say? I have little faith in people.)

Damn the Times Crossword Puzzle!

Today's puzzle is out to again prove that I am further falling from normal pathways of thought:

29 Across: "It may be hard on a construction worker" How can anyone see that and not think dick? They are just taunting me, although I suspect on this one I am not the only one who will have a nasty first response. (Official answer: hat) Harumph.

53 Down: "Something that may be seen in a bank" I am sure that had they not put that shit in about the hard construction workers that my first thought would not have been sperm or jizz. Am I the only one demented enough to go down that path? Probably. (Official answer: oar)

Let Me Point You in the Right Direction

As long as I've been thinking about travel, I thought I'd relate a little story about traveling to NYC. My second year at NYU, my friend from high school and my sister came to visit me at the same time. It worked out nicely because they were able to sightsee together while I was in class. On one adventure that could only take place in New York city, they got lost on their way to South Street Seaport, and a man with a trench coat stopped and offered to help them. “You want directions?” the guy asked. He suddenly yanked his trench coat open... revealing pockets stuffed with maps. He pulled one out, showed them where they currently were, highlighted their route, and off he went.

What the Fuck?

I didn't win the Mega Millions tonight. Can you believe that shit?!?!

I See London, I See France...

Paris, I’ve discovered, is full of irony. French women have a reputation for going around with unshaved armpits (not that I observed this myself, mind you – it was about 45 degrees and lightly raining while I was there, so most people were bundled up) yet the only underwear they seem to sell pretty much requires some serious crotch shaving. Many stores seemed to only sell thongs. Some of the thongs were made to trick people into thinking they were normal briefs. Basically these models of thong had very wide lace bands that went around hips and underguts, but were attached to a thong on the bottom. If I’m going to wear something that looks like granny undies, it should fucking cover my whole ass for god’s sake.

Most of the underwear I saw on sale in Paris seemed to be made of lace or mesh. Not good if you’ve got hair, as it would be hanging out everywhere, and terrible for crotch rot. Maybe people there eat so much stinky cheese (delicious, I admit) to cover up the stench of crotch rot. (Interesting possibility. It’s amazing how much you can learn about a culture from women’s underwear.)

As I was walking down Rue Saint-Honore, a very sexy lingerie store had what became my favorite ridiculous French underwear displayed in the window. They were mesh and I was impressed at first by the full (if see through) ass coverage they provided the butt mannequin that was wearing them. However, a closer look revealed that there was a very thick seam that ran down the mostly nonexistent ass crack of the buttequin. (Damn! A thong built within a pair of bikini briefs! Is there no escape from the ass floss?) The mesh was bunched up along the seam for that hot retro ‘80s “ruched” look. As I contemplated how uncomfortable these underwear seemed, the obnoxious demeaning phrase “Don’t get your panties in a bunch” ran through my mind. Anyone wearing these babies always had her panties in a bunch. For the first time it occurred to me that maybe I should get a pair of these underwear, as I am usually bent out of shape about something or other. If someone had the nerve to tell me not to get my panties (panties – damn, I hate that word) in a bunch, I could reply, “Too late, fuckface! Kiss my smelly ass!”

Just get in the car, Daryl!*

I love roadtrips, strange museums, and eccentric people dedicated to a cause. I read all about interesting historic sites, crazy monuments, nostalgic diners, and buildings designed to resemble something else (for example, a building in the shape of a giant duck on Long Island). All of these places are there to lure me out of the car and my money out of my wallet, and yet I love every second of it, even when the actual site does not quite live up to the hype. Whenever I travel, I try to go and see the weird stuff, like the Paris Sewer Museum or the Zurich Medical History Museum (which was awesome, but would have been even better had there been any signage in English). This weekend in Paris, I wanted to go to the Musée de l'Érotisme, but we ran out of time. I'm hoping that I'll get back to Paris and definitely check out the collection of everyday obects shaped like cocks. (I went to sex museums in Amsterdam and Berlin, and they were pretty fun. Except for the extremely disturbing and disgusting bestiality section at the museum in Amsterdam. Shit, that was nasty. I think a few brain cells die every time I think about that.)

Closer to home, I have found that there are plenty of ridiculous things to see and do that don’t require me to fly across the world, just rent a car. A few years ago, I went on a roadtrip around New York State. I saw the World’s Largest and Second Largest Kaleidoscopes, an unfinished castle on an island in a Great Lake, the Jell-O Museum, and the Museum of Glass. Traveling rocks.

*Adventures in Babysitting is one of the best movies ever, and not just because it was the first movie I was allowed to see with a friend and no parents. I am serious!

It's a Bird, it's a Plane... It's Super Fucker!

My return trip from Paris caused me to question all those letters to Penthouse Forum boasting of hot encounters on planes and belonging to the mile high club. I’m not sure that anyone who is not some sort of contortionist actually could join the mile high club. Anyone who flies economy class knows that the seats are ridiculously close together, so it would be very hard to get it on with someone and not involve the people around you (although I guess that would then become a mile high club threesome or orgy, which I suppose some people would not mind at all). You could try and get away with your partner and slip into the plane bathroom for some action. But bathrooms on commercial aircraft are barely big enough for one person. Currently, I am not very large, and even standing in the bathroom I find that there is barely enough room for a midget to fit in with me. Even a midget and a petite woman would find that there’s not very much room to maneuver around for boot knocking to happen. (Maybe two midgets could have sex in an airplane bathroom; there might be enough room for that...) I suppose two standard size adults could do it if one sat down on the toilet and the other person on his lap. Somehow letters to Penthouse Forum about chance encounters on airplanes never seem to mention sitting on the porcelain throne as part of the action.

At any rate, even if you can fit into an airplane bathroom with someone else, I have noticed that they tend to reek. Not exactly like a sewer, but a different gross fecund smell, a bit milder. I try to breathe as little as I can while I use the facilities of an airplane and get out as quickly as possible before I pass out. This may then be perfect for someone who engages in autoerotic asphyxiation (i.e. - denies himself oxygen to heighten his orgasm), but does masturbating in the bathroom of a plane allow you to count yourself as a member of the mile high club? I think not.

A final problem with sex in airplane bathrooms, whether alone or with another person, is the other passengers. While some people could not care less what other people think when they see two adults going into a lavatory together, I noticed that lines for the crapper can get pretty long when someone takes his sweet time to do his business. People waiting start to get very cranky. (Or maybe it’s just me; I’ve come damn close to trying to kick the door in and find out what the hell was taking so long in there.) The flight attendants get all annoyed by the hordes of people blocking the aisles as they wait to relieve themselves. Violence could easily break out if it was known that people were in there having sex. Not only are people with legitimate needs forced to wait to use a room that is tiny and stinky at best, but it’s now jizzy on top of that. Also, there’s the danger of injury during turbulence.

So, unless the dual prospects of stench and violence turn you on, I just don’t see how anyone could find these good conditions to have great sex.

Back from hiatus

Bonjour!  I am back from my grand weekend in Paris, where I did eat a lot of chocolat, macaroons (not the nasty coconut things, but very tasty sandwich cookies), and not enough fromage.  However, while I was in Paris, I did learn what too much fromage can do to a nation and also why the word toilet is in eau d’toilette.  There appears to be a very intimate connection between perfume and toilets in Paris.  Pretty much every public bathroom I used, from the fanciest department stores to the airport, seemed to smell like a very unpleasant combination of heavy perfume and a sewer.  Using a lot of eau d’toilette, does not, in fact, make the bathroom smell better.  In fact, it makes it smell like a field of flowers covered in shit.  This is far worse than just the smell of shit alone.  In fact, I used to have this problem at home after my husband took a particularly unpleasant dump.  Instead of opening the bathroom window to let it air out, he liked to spray some supposedly berry-scented air freshener.  The fake berry and shit combo is exceptionally foul. Fake berries do not cover up a bad crap; as my husband himself admitted, it just makes the entire room smell like a dingleberry.  (Damn, that cracks me up.)

Incidentally, I am very pleased that I have returned in time for CSI:Miami.  If I can’t fave my favorite redheaded husband (he remains in Paris on business), then at least I get my favorite crappy redheaded actor.  Hurrah!

Paris is Burning!

Great documentary film, and also appropros of the situation in France right now. Well, I guess not technically Paris, but its exurbs and other cities. Anyway, yes, I am trekking to Paris this weekend despite the excitement, where I hope to spend a relaxing weekend eating cheese, chocolate, crepes, pan au chocolat, and cannelais. (Thank goodness for my new anti-crapping medicine! Although it does seem to be losing its effectiveness, so I can only hope for the best. I broke a toilet once in London and hate to relive the experience with snotty French people. This sounds oddly similar to my plans for 2 weekends ago, when we had a wine, cheese, and chocolate party, and it did not wind up being relaxing at all. Fortunately, my husband’s ugly orange shirt is out of my life, so at least I won’t have that eyesore searing a hole in my eye sockets, which is a good start.) As my husband reported, the forecast this weekend is for rain and flaming Peugeots, but we plan to have a good (safe) time nonetheless.

Ah, France - land of smoking, mistresses, and hairy armpits. While I loathe the first two, I am pleased to be going to a place where I will not be frowned upon if I go out in a tank top. Of course, since it is November, the odds that I will be doing so are very slim, but it warms my heart to think of the possibilities. Anyway, I hope to have many exciting hairy (but not hair-raising) adventures to report upon my return to États-Unis.

She's just a wax-bot, so who cares?

Here’s an interesting discovery: the women who do Brazilian waxes are fairly disgusted by them. I learned this because someone I know is in the process of becoming a licensed waxing professional. Most of the women in her class were extremely reluctant to learn how to do Brazilians, and their instructor basically forced them to do so. It seems that the idea of pouring hot wax into another woman’s crotch and pullin' out poon hair is disturbing.

On a similar topic, it seems that a large number of women who get Brazilian waxes do not bother bathing before doing so. There is definitely a class thing going on here, which I’ve always found uncomfortable. It’s like the wealthy women who get the procedure don’t consider the women who perform them to be people. Think about it: how often do you go around spreading your legs to your friends? It would be a tad embarrassing to do so. But if you don’t consider your waxer to be an equal, than who cares what she sees? She’s just there to pull the hairs out of your pussy, so why even bother exhibiting any courtesy like not reeking? Bitches.

It Doesn't Look the Same at Home

Next year I am going to stand outside the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show in my underwear and hold up a sign that says, "This is what your wife/girlfriend will look like when you buy this." It'll be sad when all the horny men go home crying, but I'll chalk it up to a victory for CUSS.

Start Your Day The Right Way

Wouldn’t Fucknuts Cereal rock?  Nothing would bring a smile to my sleepy face faster than seeing a tasty box of Fucknuts, just waiting to be consumed.  I’m not sure if Fucknuts Cereal would be chocolaty or fruity, but damn, it’d be delish either way.  Perhaps I’ll email Post or General Mills to suggest it.  If they want to appeal to kids, they can even call it Fucknutz Cereal.  Brilliant.

In Praise of Strong Toilets

I am extremely impressed by the powerful flush of the toilets in the women's bathroom at my office. For people with digestive ailments, it is extremely important to have a toilet that can handle large loads, whether a bowl full of mush or a single ginormous turd the size of a baby's arm. While I understand the need for "environmentally friendly" toilets that use less water, those are my worst nightmares. My former apartment had a toilet that clogged frequently because the incompetent fuck who was our super "fixed" a leak by putting in the wrong piece. Fortunately, I did not have my digestive ailment at that point, or we could not have lasted very long at that place. Our current apartment has very adequate flushing capacity, so I can't complain.

I suppose this whole posting isn't very "ladylike" (shocking), but the truth is that women, despite rumors to the contrary, shit. To paraphrase an adage from my hometown Chicago, I find that I often shit early, and shit often. It's important to know that I've got a toilet who's got my back. Strong women need strong toilets.

Cesar Chavez would be proud

People (myself included) have been bemoaning the death of unions these days, but I recently had some heartening news that unions are alive and kicking, just in some very odd places. For example, it seems that the jizz moppers are part of a bigger union. (For those of you who have not seen the movie Clerks – and you should remedy that oversight immediately – a jizz mopper is the person who cleans the booths at peep shows. I didn’t even know that there were many peep shows left in NYC after Giuliani, but it seems that what is left of the industry is organized, bless their hearts. And those union members are not taking any crap from management lying down! Grievances have been filed against managers who won’t allow workers to come as often as needed because they don’t want to pay overtime. (Damn, this post really writes itself, doesn’t it?) These folks sure know how to fight for their rights! Long live Jizz Moppers Local 237!

Sarah Silverman is the Most Awesome Bitch Ever

Seriously, Sarah Silverman rocks. She makes jokes that make my list of foul and offensive phrases look like a kindergarten lesson. Yet, in an interview in Entertainment Weekly, she was asked if there was anything or anyone she would not make fun of, and she replied, " Personally, I wouldn't make fat jokes about women. It just bums me out. I think all women are fat women in their heads. I know I talk about rape and stuff, so it's completely ridiculous." Who couldn't agree with that?

It's All A Lie!

So here’s what annoys me so much about the social standard of women shaving. It is another false distinction between men and women. The idea is that men are hairy, ape-like brutes and women are smooth, baby-like softies. Bullshit. Being forced to look like infants and small children makes it easier to trivialize what women think and do. At the same time, makeup and high heels and tight clothes show that while we may be as smooth as innocent as babes, we are not entirely children, thus it is OK to be fucked by the brute men. Fuck that.

Holy Phrases and Words that Can be Used Instead of "Fucknuts"

Earlier I posted a list of words and phrases that I find amusing that difuse tension for me. I was thinking about some other things that I like to utter either aloud or in my head at various times, and I realized that I have a whole repetoire of religious words and phrases that make me feel better.

• Mother of God
• Jesus Cristo
• Holy Moses!
• Saints alive! (OK, I've never used this one, but now that I've thought of it, I certainly will incorporate it into my lexicon.)
• Good lord or good god

These are all very nice phrases I can use at times where saying "Fucknuts!" might not be appropriate, although fucknuts is by far the most hilarious thing I have ever said. Man, that cracks me up. (While I often say "holy shit," "holy fuck," or as mentioned in Suzanne's Simple Solutions to Complex Policy Problems #1, "Jesus Fucking Christ," those really are more on the foul and offense side of things, despite the inclusion of the word holy or the name of a prominent religious figure.)

Suzanne's Simple Solutions to Complex Policy Problems #2

Q: I don’t believe in abortion. What can I do to bring down the number of abortions in the US?

A: Don’t have one.

Two signs that you are too thin

1. If I see you at the gym wearing biking shorts and they are hanging off you, and


2. If you have about six inches of space between your thighs.

If you meet this description, I happen to have a lot of chocolate and cheese at my apartment that I’d be happy to share with you. (And if you are that thin due to a grave illness, I wish you a speedy recovery. I’m not being facetious.)

Suzane's Simple Solutions to Complex Policy Problems #1

Q: Your list of therapeutic foul and offensive words and phrases was very helpful to me (although I noticed you forgot one of your favorites – Jesus fucking Christ). What do you suggest we do to solve the problem of illegal immigration?

A: There is a very simple solution to the problem of illegal immigration. Let’s think about why many (if not most) illegal immigrants come here: job opportunities. Like pretty much everyone else on the planet, illegal immigrants come here to make a better living and to support their families. So who is responsible for fostering illegal immigration? Corporations that continue to break the law by hiring illegal immigrants because they are a supply of cheap and easily exploitable labor. Want someone who is not going to complain if you pay him $1.00 an hour, force him to work 15 hour days for no overtime pay, or if you sexually harass her? If we crack down on the real criminals (corporations that indirectly encourage people to come here illegally because it is known that they will overlook your immigration status) instead of focusing on rounding up illegal immigrants and deporting them or wasting money on fucking stupid fences that have never worked and will never work, I’m pretty sure we can make a big dent in illegal immigration. Thanks for asking!

My favorite word

While I am not nearly as enthusiastic about the stuff it represents, I do love the word jizz. First of all, it not only has a j in it, but it also has two z’s. How awesome is that? It makes it great fun to write in cursive.

According to the official rules of Scrabble as listed on the lid of my Scrabble box, you slang words are legal for play. Jizz is one of those words that could bring you a lot of points if you are so fortunate to have drawn the only J (worth 8 points) and Z (worth 10 points) in the set, plus a blank. Just putting jizz on the board will give you 29 points (the I is worth 1 and the blank is worth 0). If you strategize, and can put jizz in the upper corner of the board, you can get the Z on double letter score and get a triple word score, for the mother lode of 87 points!!! And for extra bonus fun, add a Y (4 points) for jizzy. With no bonus points, now you’re up to 33 points on a single turn, and 99 points max for the double letter score-triple word score punch. See why jizz is so much fun?

There are several hilarious definitions of the word jizz that I found on urbandictionary.com. In order (of how amusing I find them):

• second most versatile word in the english language (the first being "fuck"), means semen, or the act of ejaculating.

Dude, you're full of jizz...There's jizz all over everything!!!...Hold on I am about to jizz...I jizzed all over your mother last night.
cum, sperm, semen, ejaculation, jizz
Source: Von Borque, U.S., Oct 1, 2005

• The white, sticky, salty, creamy tasting substance that comes out of the penis. That guys seem to think girls should swallow. Hey? How about YOU swallow it! okay?

His jizz went in my mouth and I swallowed it. It really didn't taste very good.
Source: Cathy, Mar 18, 2003

I tried to find the official etymology of the term jizz, but unfortunately my slang dictionary is in my old bedroom at my parents’ house in the Chicago area, and online slang dictionaries are not helpful for historically accurate information. They only give you crap like what I found above. Funny stuff, I grant you, but not official.

Can someone explain this to me?

So Doug Forrester ran a company that was supposed to pass on savings on prescription drugs to consumers and he kept the money instead.  Now he’s running neck and neck with John Corzine for governor of New Jersey.  I really do not understand Americans.

Escape from reality, an hour at a time

I adore TV crime shows. I watch CSI:Miami religiously (although it’s as much for David Caruso’s ludicrous acting as much as the criminal investigation aspects), Law & Order: SVU, Law & Order, and CSI. (I used to enjoy Without a Trace, but last season they had an episode in which a girl is told that it is not possible to get an abortion in New York state after 14 weeks, which is dangerously incorrect information.) My favorite television show of all time is NYPD Blue. (Oh, Dennis Franz, how I miss your craggy ass!)

Here’s why I love television crime shows: TV crime shows are the ultimate escape fantasy. Unlike in real life, someone (ultimately the correct someone) pays for the crime - even if the person is rich, powerful, and connected. Sometimes on crime shows, as in real life, it is discovered that the wrong person has been convicted. The difference is that on TV, cops and prosecutors actually care that the wrong person has been convicted and they work to free the wrongly convicted and imprison the true perpetrator. On TV, it is not about someone’s conviction rate; it is about getting the truth and getting real justice to the victims. If only cases could be satisfactorily resolved all the time in real life.

Does bad art turn guys on?

A few summers ago, Stella and I went to a sculpture park in Queens. It was a public park that was not exactly well maintained, nor did it display particularly good works of art. As we tromped through weeds and tried to avoid stepping in piles of dog crap that littered the park (as I said, it was poorly maintained), we rounded a row of hedges and came almost face to face (or should I say head to head?) with a guy who was very involved in jerking himself off. After the initial shock wore off, we got away as fast we could. It was a really weird sculpture park, but we were pretty sure that this guy was not booked as a performance artist. Again, there’s a time and place for everything. What was it about a 2D, 10 foot tall aluminum Jolly Green Giant sculpture that could make a guy so horny that he had to blow his wad at that very second, despite being in public? Or maybe it was the miniaturized sculpture of Old Faithful that supposedly emitted a geyser when told to do so by a remote computer. Did the geyser go off and remind this guy of his own geyser-producing capability? Was he controlled by a remote computer that forced him to erupt despite the inconvenient time and place? I’ll never know. One was a flag pole. I’m talking about an everyday flagpole like you’d see in front of any government building without stopping in your tracks because you are stunned by what an amazing piece of art you are blessed to be witness to.

Official definition of a Cuntface Whore (aka CFW)

So I was reading gawker.com on Thursday and read some mysterious tidbit about someone who quit working for Fox News and also has a blog, so I foolishly clicked on the link and was transported to an alternative universe strikingly like what Hell would be if I believed in it.  "Belle" the Southern racist, classist, idiot bitch behind belleinthebigapple.blogspot.com is the definition of a cuntface whore.  Her blog makes me so angry that I am shaking.
 
Seriously, can someone tell me why the North didn't just let the South secede?  They pretty much had no economy to speak of, were full of the most under-educated, impoverished people in the country, and had no future if they continued on the path that they were on.  We should've said good-bye and good riddance, and within 20 years they would have been begging the North to take 'em back.  If all this had happened, we would not have to contend with that fucked up pride in their heritage.  (Excuse me, but exactly what about a society based on slavery and outright racial inequality is there to be proud of?  Do you see people from Germany ranting about "Nazi pride"?  No, because they have the sense to realize that hatemongering is evil, unlike our asshole fellow Southern Americans.)
 
Look, the food is great in the South.  There are some really great people who live down there.  There are some cool Southerners who live in NYC.  "Belle" is not one of them.  I thus christen "Belle" the official CFW of CUSS.

You talkin' to me?

Last summer I was walking to my office from the subway when a homeless woman asked me for money. As usual, I mumbled, “Sorry,” and kept walking. So I was quite surprised when she ran to my side, yelled “CUNT,” and then ran away. While I was disturbed (having anyone yell at you unexpectedly is always unnerving), I was also amused and slightly impressed. She may have been completely crazy, but I felt an appreciation for the blunt expression of her feelings. Once in awhile, I see her around, and I always laugh in my head when I notice her approaching a stranger (especially guys in suits) and ask for change. Ah, won’t they be surprised.

$#!$@#!

If you have dreamed of becoming bulimic to control your weight, but are squeamish at sticking your finger down your throat, just watch an episode of Laguna Beach on MTV. It makes me want to vomit, so maybe it will help you. Somehow, I don’t find the trials and tribulations of overly plucked, tanned, and thin teen girls and their equally beautiful boy friends (and boyfriends) remotely compelling. After my urge to puke on all of their expensive clothes fades, an urge to slap every one of them repeatedly kicks in. Why, America, why, do you validate these assholes? Things like this seriously make me loathe our putrid waste of a culture. If I didn’t hate heat and humidity so damn much, and if I had any wilderness survival skills at all, I would move into the Everglades and become a deranged hermit, like my hero in all the Carl Hiaason novels. (Long live Skink!!!). I suppose I could also consider a cave, although I get cold really easily, so I’m not sure the dampness will suit me any better than heat and humidity. Damn middle class upbringing and need for comforts such as indoor plumbing and quality toilet paper has foiled me again...

Would you like a receipt with that, ma'am?

A few years ago, while my sister was in college, my mom received a check for her in the mail. My mom took it to the bank to deposit it in her account, but the teller said that my sister had to endorse it, even if it was for deposit only into her own account. My sister went to college hundreds of miles away, though, so now the check would have to wait until she came home the next time. (Or until my mom could leave, sign my sister’s name for her, and come back again. Still annoying because it required another trip.)

As my mom was getting ready to leave the teller’s window, she asked if the bank had a bathroom.
“Yes,” the teller replied, “It’s to your right.”
“Good,” my mom replied, “because I need to make a deposit.”

The teller did not find it nearly as amusing as she should have, but my mom laughed all the way to the “bank.”

Don't push that button...

One day in college, I came home to find my roommate Kay running around in a semi-panic.
“What’s wrong,” I innocently asked.
“I’ve just got to do laundry today,” she said breathlessly. “I’m out of clean crotch cloths.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask incredulously.
“You know the white washcloth I keep hanging on the towel bar on the back of the door?” I nod. “Well, that’s my crotch cloth. I use special white washcloths to wash my snatch. You can’t use your hands for that.”
I make a face. “I wash other parts of my body with my hands. Why aren’t they good enough to cleanse the poon?”
She sighs like I am an idiot. “Nothing except a guy’s dick or his hands should rub your snatch. Otherwise that’s masturbating. Women shouldn’t masturbate.”
“Really? No touching anything but a guy to your crotch? What about using tampons – does that count? I use tampons and I’m pretty sure that I’ve never gotten off on shoving a cotton stick up my twat. Nor do I usually find it erotic to shower and wash my crotch with my hands.” But what do I know, right?

Kay confirmed that no tampons shall invade her sacred space and that no self-touching shall occur. She didn’t explain why females should not masturbate, nor did she explain why using a soft washcloth prevents an erotic shower, but the conversation clearly made her suspicious of my potential self-pleasuring ways, as she began to lock her Glenn Danzig hard core porn collection in her file cabinet. I think she was afraid I might get the pages ooky if I ever got my vagina-stained grubby hands on them.

I didn’t think it was a good time to tell Kay that her washcloth was not as pure as she believed it was. It was small, and sometimes would fall off the towel rack and onto the floor. A few times I didn’t notice it and had stepped on it before I hung it back up. I repeated my conversation about the crotch cloth to several friends, who also confessed to having unknowingly handled it in some way or another. So probably, in terms of cleanliness, Kay should have risked an accidental orgasm and washed herself with her own fingers.

A Special Curse for that Guy in the Duane Reade on Amsterdam and 79th St. at 7 pm on Nov. 3

Please do not bring your dog, especially if it is a giant dog, into a pharmacy with you and leave its leash loose so that it runs all over the store creating chaos and then act as if I am the asshole when I suggest that dogs do not belong in pharmacies. If I see you do this, I will feed your dog a box of ExLax and I hope it will cause you to lost your rent controlled apartment because your neighbors complain about the heinous, heinous smell that is emanating from your apartment. Having your dog destroy your life with a giant shit is poetic justice because you, Mr. Self Important Dog Owner with No Sense of Obligation Towards Other Human Beings, are a fucking shithead.

Foul phrases & words that amuse me

This morning I was walking through the subway station at Times Square, transferring from the 3 train to the E train so I could go to a child care center that I funded way out in the wilds of Queens, when I realized I forgot something. "Fucknuts!!!" I said to myself. (Not outloud, but that does happen sometimes.) The word "fucknuts" just cracked me up. I felt much better about whatever it was I forgot, which by now I forgot what it was. The point is that I realized that saying foul and offensive things often is therapeutic for me, so I thought maybe I should list a few of my faves in case others could benefit from their soothing effect as well.

• Fucknuts
• Cuntface (can be followed by the words whore or bitch, if extra disgust is warranted)
• Crap hole
• Dildo-head
• Dildo-face
• Jizz eater
• Shitfuck
• Fuck shit piss crap (line from a song in the best musical ever, "Co-Ed Prison Sluts")
• Cuntlicker (old password for my email account at Columbia and source of embarrassment when I had to share it with a member of a group project in order to retrieve info when my own computer was not working)
• Fuckball (my mom used this several years ago when another driver cut her off - brilliant)
• Smug fuck

Wow, I feel much better now. Don't you?

I am very comfortable with the size of my dick, thank you very much

One of the most annoying things about male dick size complexes is that they generate a huge amount of spam being sent to my email indiscriminately. The emails advertise all sorts of treatments designed to improve my penile size and strength. The jury is out on whether these products actually work (most don’t). However, I can guarantee that they do not work on women and I wish that I would stop getting 50 emails a day promising me a bigger penis, as I am very happy with my current penis size.

Pass the turkey, please

Last year, I went home for Thanksgiving for the first time in about 5 years. My in-laws (mother, father, and brother) and of course my husband came to Chicago with me. It had been awhile since the in-law family dined with my blood relations, but I figured they’d more or less known each other for 10 years and should know to expect the unexpected. Clearly, though, they were unprepared for the production of “The Vagina Monologues-Grandma Style” that brought dinner to a screeching halt.

My grandmother was telling us about her obnoxious neighbor, who has a misguided belief that she has the right to park in front of my grandmother’s driveway and block it because my grandmother doesn’t drive. However, when my aunt and my mom go to pick Grannie up, they would like to pull in and out of the driveway. One night my aunt came by and found the driveway blocked, so she called the cops who came and towed the car. After my aunt left around 10:30 PM, bitch neighbor came over and rang my grandmother’s doorbell and started yelling at Grannie about being an inconsiderate neighbor. (Unbelievable nerve, right? You repeatedly inconvenience your neighbor, and you call her inconsiderate?!?!? Picture Grannie: she’s a cute little shrinking woman, a little under 5 feet tall. She has white hair and glasses, just like Mrs. Claus. How anyone can yell at her like that is beyond me. She’s just so cute!)

As my grandmother is telling the story, my aunt interrupts and says, “You know what Suzanne would have done in that situation? She would have called her a bitch and shut the door.” My mom disagreed, “No, she would’ve called her a fucking bitch.”

That really got my grannie going. “Why did you use the f-word, Sherry? I hate the f-word. You can say cunt, but don’t say the f-word. Cunt is fine. There’s nothing wrong with saying cunt. I won’t say the f-word, though. You should say cunt instead...” and on and on about how you should never say fuck because it is rude, but calling someone a cunt is perfectly acceptable.

My cousin, who was about 16 at the time, nearly fell out of her chair laughing, but pointed out that some people are trying to reclaim the word cunt as woman positive, as evidenced by the popularity of “The Vagina Monologues.” I agreed wholeheartedly. My friends and I call each other cunts as terms of affection all the time. (Although the insult I save for the worst people is to call them cunt-face whores, so I guess I use it both ways.)

During all this discussion, my in-laws are sitting straight up in their chairs, staring at the wall, not eating. You can tell they clearly wonder how they hell they wound up at a Thanksgiving dinner with an 83 year old woman ranting about the proper usage of the word cunt. I think to myself, “Ah, home sweet home.”

"Would you like some gravy on that?"

When I was a little girl, my grandmother called vaginas butter biscuits, as in, “Be sure to wipe your butter biscuit after you go to the bathroom.” This caused severe embarrassment later in life when people would talk about eating biscuits. I had assumed that all people called girls’ crotches biscuits, and I could not understand why no one else was embarrassed to order them in restaurants. (I was recently at an abortion rights conference in Atlanta, and a bunch of us went to a local restaurant called The Flying Biscuit. My friend Steph loves biscuits - the baked pastry, not vaginas - and so I told her about how much I loved The Flying Biscuit. We decided that The Flying Biscuit would be great name for a lesbian bar if only other people used the same slang.) To this day, it still freaks me out a little to eat biscuits, although I do enjoy them very much with butter and strawberry jam.

CUSS Victory #2

When my husband and I bought our apartment, the seller asked us if we planned to join the fancy gym across the street.  I told him that we did not, as that gym is for rich assholes.  We already belonged to a gym down the street and around the corner from the new apartment.  Our gym was for average assholes like ourselves.  A few months after we moved in, however, my husband learned that through his work we could get all access memberships to the fancy gym for the same price we paid for restricted access to our adequate gym.  (We got the special rate for models and B-list stars.)  Understanding a good deal, I agreed to make the switch.

The fancy gym was quite different from what I was used to.  At our previous gym, people of various sizes and colors sweated next to each other.  During our orientation to the new gym, I noticed that we were the fattest people in the building, which is scary because we are not especially overweight.  Over time, I have seen some boy mass index diversification among the members, but it is still dominated by rich (white) assholes.

Here’s what freaked me out most about the new gym in the first few months, though: the locker room.  Generally, I change into my workout clothes at home and use the locker room to store my coat and backpack.  In my few minutes stashing and locking things up, naked women always surrounded me.  Not naked in the sense that they just got out of the shower and were changing back into their clothes.  That would be normal.  No, they were hanging out in little groups, chatting it up, gossiping, combing their hair, and putting on make up while they were buck naked.  And worse, many women had a tendency to bend over and lotion up before they put their underwear on.  Now many guys have gotten a dreamy look on their faces when I mentioned this.  But imagine bending over to tie your show and finding someone’s ass and cooch in your face.  It is just plain gross. Of course, as stylish, thin, rich naked women, their pubic hair was professionally removed.  (The gym knows it’s market: there’s a sign in the locker room advertising the “best Brazilian wax ever” can be obtained at the gym’s spa.)

So my victory this morning was especially sweet.  I noticed as I was grabbing my stuff that several women were getting dressed in their stylish, opaque or mesh bikini briefs or thongs.  Those women all had pubic hair clearly visible.  Now, they definitely maintained their bikini lines, so no pubic sprawl was going on, but they still at least had normal looking bushes.  And no one was lotioning up, so I didn’t get any vagina in my face, either.  Really, two victories for the price of one.  Go CUSS!