No Shit!?!?

The first difference I found between the US and the RD (Repulica Dominicana) was the bathroom situation. Even in the nicest neighborhoods in Santo Domingo, it is not possible to flush toilet paper down the toilet because the city’s septic systems can’t handle it. You have to throw the used toilet paper in the trash. All households and public bathrooms in restaurants, shops, etc. keep a little trashcan next to the toilet for this purpose.

Second, my husband and I learned that most neighborhoods don’t have running water 24 hours a day, no matter where you live. When we arrived at J.’s apartment, she told us that they don’t have running water between 11 pm – 6 am. If you need to use el baño during those hours, J. keep a ginormous garbage can in her shower that was full of water. You’d have to scoop out water from there to flush the toilet (or take a shower).

These bathroom challenges looked like peanuts, however, compared to the outhouses that dotted the countryside. On Monday, Dec. 26, we embarked upon a road trip to rival all road trips, and we set off for the Southwestern part of the RD. Our goal was to get to Lago Enriquillo, noted for being a huge saltwater inland sea with an exotic island in the middle of the lake with crocodiles, unusual iguanas, flamingos, and rarely, a creature that only exists on the island of Hipaniola is almost extinct, called a solenodon.

By the time we pulled into the park, I had to pee worse than I’ve ever had to pee in my entire life. I got out of the car and every step I took, my bladder screamed like a mad motherfucker. J.’s novio (boyfriend) asked the ranger where the bathroom was and he led me down a path. J., her novio, and mi esposo (my husband) stayed behind to pay the park entrance fee and arrange for a tour of the island. The deeper I went into the park, the more concerned I grew about ever seeing mis amigos again. I mean, who builds a bathroom that far away from the ranger station? On the other hand, I didn’t care if this guy led me into the forest and sacrificed me to the iguanas as long as I could pee first.

Finally we got the outhouse. There were two “stalls,” each with two toilets (!) and a urinal in them, side by side. Did I mention that I’ve never had to pee that badly in my life? Seriously, it was bad. If not, I don’t think I ever could go in a bathroom that looked like this: Let me note that the flash on my camera added tons of light to the picture, because in reality, this outhouse was fucking dark. In fact, when I shut the door it was pitch black. I actually had to re-open the door quickly right tbefore I went so I could locate one of the two toilets to pee in. (I guess that you can use the outhouse with someone else and not worry about seeing the other person do his business since it is so dark, but that still freaks me out.) Then when I closed it, I just hoped for the best – that I was in fact squatting over a toilet and not peeing on the floor and my own shoes. Also, I hoped not to pass out while I held my breath because the stench was beyond overwhelming. It was also wretchedly hot. Thank god my mysterious digestive illness did not decide that now would be the time to whip up a special shit treat because I think I would rather have shit myself.

I thought that I had incredibly huge cojones for peeing in that outhouse. I was wrong. I didn’t know what incredibly huge cojones (or possible insanity) was until mi esposo, J., and her novio came wandering down the path to find me and also decided to use the outhouse. Both J. and mi esposo had to take dumps. I warned them it would be nasty. J. walked into an outhouse and right back out again. J. is hard core, having done the Peace Corps in an indigenous village with no plumbing at all and doing a lot of work in extremely poor areas of the RD, but she said that her desire to shit left her the second she saw what was in the toilet and then accidentally breathed. (Her desire to crap, in fact, evaporated for the next 18 hours it was so bad.) Mi esposo – a man who works in finance and stays in five star hotels when he travels to Europe for business – went into the outhouse and didn’t come back out. I started to get worried. What if he passed out in there? Every few minutes I called out to him to make sure he was OK. After what seemed like an eternity, he emerged from the shitbox, drenched in sweat (as there was absolutely no airflow and it was like 100 degrees in the outhouse) and triumphant. J. commented that as seasoned veteran of outhouse crapping, she was super impressed by his endurance. Mi esposo commented that he was glad that he had been lifting weights at the gym to build up his quads, as it made it much easier to squat for his entire shit session.

I learned two important lessons that day: the first was to be grateful that I will most likely never need to use a toilet under these conditions again; the second is how truly and utterly amazing mi esposo is. His ability to adapt and make the best of any situation – no matter how shitty (ha ha) – is a wonderful trait.

Ultimately, I ask: would you bring yourself to pee or shit in a situation like this? If not, perhaps a good new year's goal would be to train more in the event that you find yourself in such a situation. Either way, have a happy New Year!

Attention, Attention: Bratz Dolls Wear Thongs!

Shocking, I know. My friend send me a clip of an ABC New Story about a mother who bought her kid some Bratz Dolls for Christmas. When her daughter looked under tthe doll's mini skirt, she was horrified to find that the doll had on a thong. The kid had the good sense to think that was nasty, though. Good for her, especially with all those reports that girls as young as nine wear thongs and g-strings. (Although who knows whether this is a real trend or one of those media scare pieces?)

Here's a question that occured to me as soon as I saw the piece was about Bratz: Why the fuck would anyone be surprised that the dolls wear thongs? Everything else they wear is inappropriately sexy, especially Bratz Babyz (my emphasis)? If you are giving your kid a hooker baby doll to play with, should you really be worried about protecting her innocence? Barbie's got nothing on these demented dolls. Yeesh.

I'm Baaaaack...

I returned to New York late last night from my fabulous adventures in Republica Dominicana, which I will recount in great and gory detail over the next few days. One of the first things that I needed to do upon my return, however, was laundry. Almost every place I stayed in had ants, and I actually put some of my clothes in quarantine for fear that I may have picked up some unexpected souvenirs during my escapades in the countryside, if you get my drift.

As long as I was going to wash any clothes that came down with me and my husband to the DR (or RD in español), I figured I might as well finish off all the clothes that were sitting in the hamper from before we left. This pile included the Cosabella red thong with the rhinestone B that the Giant Stuffed Penis so elegantly modeled last week. I gathered all the laundry up and began the annoying process of taking things down to the building’s basement laundry room, which for reasons of extremely poor architectural design, is only accessible through the elevator. There are no stairs.

A few hours later, I was relieved to be brining up the last load from the dryer. I was holding my laundry basket and speaking with one of the building’s staff about our time in the DR when another resident got off the elevator. She was holding a pair of tiny red underwear between her fingers as if she were holding a mouse by the tail. “I found this in the elevator,” she told the building staff member with disgust. “Someone must have dropped them.”

I could not have been more mortified. “Uh, those are mine,” I declared meekly. I grabbed them quickly, my face about as red as the underwear themselves. If you are going to lose underwear in the elevator of your building, it’s better if you lose a granny pair or anything less risqué than a Cosabella thong with a rhinestone B. Shit, I’ve got to be more careful with this kind of stuff. Not only was I horrified by the thought that people now think that I actually wear these types of things, but now I have to wash them again. And, now that I think about it, I think I was not supposed to dry them. Ooops.

Off to See The Wizard

This evening my husband and I are headed off to visit my friend J. in the Dominican Republic. J. is my oldest friend; we've been friends since her family moved onto my block on April Fool's Day when I was in 4th grade. J. doesn't subscribe to the school of self-censorship, which leads to much hilarity. Once we were having dinner at a restaurant with my husband and my friend Steph. Steph, my husband, and I all got our dishes, and J. was waiting for hers for about 30 seconds before she exasperatedly burst out, "What are they doing - jizzing on it?!?!" At that exact moment, the waiter appeared with her pasta. Fortunately, he didn't speak much English, andd thinking she was asking for something else, he whipped out the parmesean cheese grater adn asked her if she wanted cheese. Steph, Husband, and I shouted, "Yes! She loves cheese."

Anyway, that's why J. is lovable and we'll have a great time touring the DR. I doubt I'll have internet access for most of the trip, but I'll be back in full force with absurd, amusing, insane, and annoying rants and more pictures! The new year will bring the thong experiment as well.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

I hate beauty products. A lot. I wear no makeup. My feeling is that this is what I look like, so why pretend it isn’t? Why on earth would I get up early, sacrificing precious minutes of sleep, to smear crap on my face so that I look like something that I do not actually look like? Plus, makeup is expensive. If I don’t buy it, I can waste my hard earned dollars on other useless products, or save it for retirement. I’d rather look semi-fugly in my youth/middle age than be forced to eat cat food in my old age.

Speaking of old age, I am pretty sure that I will be a wrinkled old hag (as opposed to the smooth faced old hag I am now) when I am older. This is because I never, ever use moisturizer, unless my face is so dry that portions of it are cracking off, which has happened. You know what? Old people have wrinkles. Deal with it. I will be proud of my wrinkles, as I am sure that I will have earned every single one of them, especially frown lines. (OK, laugh lines, too.) Moisturizer that doesn’t gum up my pores and cause acne is too expensive. Why waste it on daily use unless I have to?

Here is another horrifying confession: I shun tans. I like being pale. My people are from cold areas. We are very white so that we can soak up every ounce of Vitamin D and not get rickets. It serves a purpose. Tans are like makeup for the entire body. I've gone on vacations to warm places and when I got back, people weren't convinced that I actually went where I said I was going. I'm sure I'll be as ghostly pale upon my return from the DR next week as I am today. (Part of my shunning of the sun will result in me having less wrinkles when I am older, but so goes it. Hopefully it will also result in me not getting skin cancer as well.)

Part of the pressure to look perfect comes from an increasingly unreal standard set by the media and beauty industry. Thanks to photo retouching on magazines, ads, etc., I always feel like I am some super fat fuck. The truth is that I am just a regular average person, and in fact, don't look that much worse than models before they were touched up. My friend forwarded me a link to a campaign sponsored by the Swedish government to combat increasing rates of plastic surgery in their country, which they understood was partly due to ludicrous beauty standards that no real person can achieve. The http://demo.fb.se/e/girlpower/retouch/ allows you to deconstruct a magazine cover and undo the touch ups. Look, the model is very pretty before the touch up, there's no doubt about it. It's amazing how much retouching they do, though. They don't show how armpits and legs are airbrushed so that no stubble shows, but it's still great.

Be a CUSSie and resist the power, whether it be the pressure to be artificially hairless and smooth, have a ginormous bust, or perfect white teeth!

Ancient Hieroglyphics and the Cosabella Rosetta Underwear

Have you ever looked at the care instructions for undergarments? It's all these little symbols that mean nothing to me. I spent all this money on a good bra recently and then realized I had no idea what I was supposed to do to clean it.

The arrival of my Cosabella Talco thong was an unexpected breakthrough. I looked at the label to see how to care for it, and much to my surprise, it had explanations next to each symbol. So if it winds up being good for nothing else, I can definitely get good use out of it by using the label to figure out how to clean my other lingerie.

This is the label on my Calvin Klein g-string. (Sorry it is blurry.) Even if it were not a blurry picture, what the fuck does it say? Using the Cosabella Talco Rosetta Underwear, I now know (from top row, left)
1. to wash in hot water (the little picture shows a trapezoid with water and a 30C in it);
2. not sure what a triangle with diagonal stripes means;
3. tumble dry (a square with a circle in it with a dot in the circle);
4. no iron (an iron with an X through it); and
5. (I think) no dry clean (a circle with an X through it).

Other symbols from the Cosabella Rosetta Underwear:
- a trapezoid with water and a hand in it = hand wash
- a triangle with an X through it = no bleach
- an iron with a dot in it = cool iron
- a square with a circle in it with an X through both shapes = no tumble dry
- a circle with a P in it = dry clean advised (not Parve, to those of you who keep kosher)

I can't believe I own underpants that are supposed to be dry cleaned. Nutty.

Smooth and Silky

I am pleased to report that Operation Smooth Legs and Pits is successful. Interestly enough, I found that it is easier to shave my right leg and pit than my left leg and pit. I think it is because, as in politics, the right is more compliant. It'll just sit there are let things happen. The left resists and thinks for itself. While this is annoying sometimes, at the same time it makes me proud. Go lefties!

Silhouettes on the Shower

One thing I will not miss about my gym when it is razed to make way for luxury condos and an even fancier gym (with a pool!) are the showers. For reasons that I cannot remotely understand, all the showers are stall with opaque glass doors. When someone goes in the shower, anyone walking by can see the showerer clearly. Do I want people seeing me wash my cooch? Does anyone? It seems that some people don’t mind. I guess those are the same women who wander around the locker room naked, style their hair naked, put body lotion on while completely naked, and sit in groups around chatting while naked. I just find it beyond creepy.

Fantasy Up for Grabs

I called the Victoria’s Secret telephone ordering line today to inquire about the status of the $12.5 million Fantasy bra, featuring the world’s second largest diamond. A nice woman named Bonnie took my call. I told her I was wondering whether the Fantasy bra was still available for purchase or whether a rich old Texas oil magnate bought it for his young surgically enhanced wife/mistress yet. She hesitated for a moment before saying that she hadn’t heard that it was, but didn’t think so. I said that I suspected that might be the case, we both laughed, and wished each other a happy holiday.

I guess my husband hasn’t bought it for me yet. Ha ha.

In Brief

What is Sexy? The answer to that question, posed in a Victoria's Secret marketing campaign from this past fall, is clearly not the following underwear:



Man, this model is straining to make these briefs sexy. She's trying so hard, she's a little contorted. Of course, I own two pairs in this style. They might not be sexy, but they sure are comfortable.






Theo looks very nice in my pair of Victoria's Secret briefs. I like that these make him feel relaxed enough to model them in a sitting pose. I'm pretty sure that I bought the briefs at one of the semi-annual clearance sales Victoria's Secret always seems to be having. You can get some good deals there. However, even the best deal or cutest bear model cannot hide the basic hideousness of these undies. First, they are some weird lilac. Second, they have butterflies and flowers on them. They look like they were made for an overgrown second grader. Sometimes I don't know what I am thinking when I buy things. I will say that they are very comfy to wear.

Even the Giant Stuffed Penis and his merkin look silly, but comfortable in these underwear. The other pair that I have in this style are the same green swirl pattern as the scary and disturbing string bikini ones that Theo modeled on Dec. 7. What is most interesting about these granny undies is that pubes from unshaved snatch still hang out, despite the slightly more substantial coverage. My friend Steph reviewed the picture and commented that she thought that the merkin didn't, in fact, hang out enough to be accurate.

Fold You

I am very excited. My friend Steph gave me an awesome book for Hannukah called "Very Naughty Origami: The Art of Turning Pure Paper in XXX Conversation Pieces." How fun is this going to be?

I Don't Care If They Can Consent, It is Still Gross to Have Sex with Women Who are Your Daughter's Age

I recently read in Entertainment Weekly that Rod Stewart is a dad for the 6th time at the age of 60. His current wife is a spry 34. I wondered what the hell was wrong with his wife, and for that matter, every cuntface idiot who married a guy who could be her father.

This is another rant about stupid things that women do that infuriate me. Why on earth would you not be utterly disgusted by a guy who wants to fuck a woman who is his daughter’s age, or worse, younger? Has that not occurred to people that such a desire is extremely nasty and perverse? Not that I ever want to compare adult women with children, but think about it: if your paramour expressed his sexual attraction to you when he was a young adult and you were an infant, it would be child abuse and molestation. No matter what, you can never close that age gap. An older guy who lusts after younger women has a problem. Of course, our culture fetishizes the sexual desirability of young women, so you almost can’t blame them, but I will anyway because I am mean and judgmental and older men leeching onto much younger women gross me out.
I have given extensive thought the topic and decided that there should be no more than 15 years separating a couple or else it gets gross. That’s for either sex. Really, I don’t think more than 10 years, but I’m willing to stretch a little and go out to 15. Otherwise, you just get women with weird daddy issues (assuming the guy is older, as is usually the case) and perverted old men trying to pretend they are young while they show off their Electra-complex women. The rule means that Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher are safe, but that Bill Clinton, Tony Randall, Rod Stewart, Bruce Willis, Kevin Costner, et al. are disgusting.

How 'bout Some Air Freshener in Here - Someone's Wearing a Thong!

A few years ago, the woman winner of Boston Marathon had her period at the time of the race. As she crossed the finish line, blood, piss, and diarrhea were dipping down her leg. I was thinking about this brave and amazing woman a few nights ago at the gym as I pounded away on the treadmill and my crotch was super sweaty and I nearly peed myself at one point, which always happens when I run hard. I was quite grateful at my cotton bikini briefs for absorbing most of it (although I admit the crotches of my running pants permanently reek, no matter how many times I wash them).

Now that I am the proud owner of a hideous orange thong with a rhinestone B monogram, I suspect that sweat will begin trickling down my legs. My friend insists that thongs are great to work out in, and is excited to go workout together while we each wear a thong (this is not as kinky as it sounds). I think she will be very sorry as I begin stinking up the gym with crotch rot, but we’ll see. It’s an experiment, and I am all for scientific inquiry and unbiased results.

My Thong Song

My Cosabella Talco thong with a rhinestone monogram B arrived in the mail today. My only disappointment with it is that it is red, not orange as it appeared in the picture on eBay. It's actually kind of cute, too, and feels rather pleasant. A quick look at the label indicates that it is 92% viscose and 8% spandex. (Who knew viscose was so soft/silky?) Not very breathable, and yet totally wedged into your ass. The Giant Stuffed Penis is very excited to model it. His "fat" isn't bulging too badly at the sides. I guess a medium/large size will give you more room. Nice. Even with the merkin hanging all out all over, he looks quite dashing, if I do say so myself. Perhaps this type of undergarment is more wearable with an unshaved snatch than I thought.

As I mentioned at the time I bid on this thong, I was excited because it had the rhinestone monogram B on it. Obviously, Suzanne does not start with a B, so that made it even more amusing to me. Then I remembered that one of my best friends calls me Bee all the time as a nickname for the other nickname she gave me, Bitch, which is of course a nickname for Bea-yotch. (Although according to a recent comment posted on this site, it should actually be IB for "ignorant bitch." I know I should not keep bringing it up, but that still cracks me up. Man oh man.)

The back of this thong also makes me laugh and laugh. What is up with the butt cleavage? It seems like there is an extra dip at the top above the butt so you get top and bottom crack. (Maybe all thongs actually have room for ass cleavage? I'm a thong virgin, so I don't know these things.) Damn, this should be fun to wear. I'm doing some more laundry tomorrow - one benefit of working from home since the strike prevents me from getting to my office - so I should be able to try them out before I go to the DR on Friday.

According to the price tag, this baby cost $30 at some point at Neiman Marcus. While it seems that it was on sale, and I'm guessing deeply discounted for whoever bought it, peeled off the sale tags, and put it up on eBay for $2.99, I still feel like I got a good deal. I've never owned anything from Neiman Marcus before, either. So this is a two-fer: first Neiman Marcus item (albeit indirect) and first thong.

My Gym Tragedy

I found out something horrible this afternoon – my beloved gym, source of two CUSS victories and countless episodes of contemplation on women’s grooming fads – is closing! Worse, it is being torn down and luxury housing is being built on the site. The horror! The horror! I hate luxury housing. Why can’t we seem to build anything else in Manhattan these days? I could deal with it if it was affordable housing, mixed income housing, or even supportive housing, but I am sick of the increasing gentrification in my neighborhood.

The gym will reopen as an even more luxurious gym in the new building. Unfortunately, this means that it will probably be full of even more stick thin, hairless, pointy-toe shoe wearing wenches. Bah! In the meantime, I don’t know where I am going to drag my fat ass to work out. I guess if the strike never ends, I could walk 14 miles to and from work five days a week and I won't have to worry. It’s all crap! Go away, evil luxury housing.

The only good news is that this is not happening until October 2006, so I have 10 more months to use the locker room and find my face square in someone’s ass or shaved cooch as I look up from tying my shoes. Not that I want my face in someone’s ass or cooch (shaved or not), but it does seem to inspire many interesting trains of thought in me. I’ve learned so much about thongs and g-strings at my gym. I will miss it so.

Maybe If I Were A Stiltwalker...

The transit strike in New York City has reminded me of the importance of practical footwear. My friend and I were talking this morning about how last transit strike, in 1980, led women to wear gym shoes with their suits as they walked to work. The habit hung around even after the strike ended, as comfort continued to win over "style" in communting. How sad that we have forgotten such an important lesson.

According to Neiman Marcus, these $645 Manolo Blahnik shoes are for “Daytime.” Yes, because it is so practical to wear to work. It just adds the right touch of glamour to every secretarial/teaching/waitressing job. Perfect for commuters as they jam onto the subway:

Guy: Excuse me, ma’am, but your shoe is grinding a hole in my foot!
Shoe wearer: But that can’t be – my heel is nowhere near your foot!
Guy: No, but the fucking point on the tip of the toe is drilling a hole in my heel! Back the fuck up!

Anyway, if you hate me, want to cause me pain, and have lots of money to waste (or if you want to make me laugh/cry at the sadness of spending $645 on a fucking pair of heinous shoes), I wear a size six. Shoes like this are one reason I could never get into Sex and the City.

Tsk, Tsk! Bad Suzanne!

So last night/early this morning, the following comment by my blog nemesis was left on my little post about g-strings:

Belle said...
you're an ignorant bitch. stop posting on my site.
12:53 AM

My, my. Someone has a bee in her bonnet (or maybe a g-string in her ass. That certainly makes me crabby). I may have called Belle a cuntface whore here, but I never said she was stupid. I think that calling me an ignorant bitch is completely unfair. I may be a bitch, but I am actually a highly informed one. (Unlike Belle, I didn't need to work at Fox News to learn that they are tyrants.)

My dear Belle should remember that she made her blog public. Not everyone has to agree with it. I’m sorry if I shattered her sheltered cool existence as one of four women, four anonymous blogs, four scandals, and one city, to paraphrase her little description of her downtown lifestyle as one of the privileged beautiful people. She did ask readers if we’d watch a show about her life in New York. Pardon me and my ignorance if I happen to think it sounds like a clichéd Sex and the City rip off. (The one time I watched Sex in the City, I didn’t like it, either. It was great that the characters were such great friends and always there for each other, but I couldn’t relate to any other aspects of their lives. Somehow I don’t think that will come as a shock to anyone.) At least when I posted my comment on her site, I bothered using correct capitalization in my sentences.

Anyway, I will certainly stop posting on her site, although she can’t stop me from complaining about her on my own. The funny thing about this “one city” is that it is home to thousands of people who lead radically different lives. It’s what I love about New York and thrive on, and I hope that Belle one day understands that. (It would also be great if she learns to write, but that’s hoping for a lot.)

The Results Sure Stink

After 14 hours of wearing the g-string, I still did not find it comfortable, although there were moments were I forgot I was wearing it. Mostly it felt like I had a wad of toilet paper stuffed in my t’aint. I was surprised that my naked ass was fairly comfortable, even though I was wearing corduroy pants. I suppose the whole experience could have been worse. However, after I took it off last night, I did verify that farting directly on a string in your ass really makes it reek.

Help Me!

My day wearing a g-string is almost over, thank goodness! Just when I think I am getting used to it, I go to the bathroom. As I pulled down the undies, the sensation of a string disentangling itself from my ass crack is beyond distubing. I'm also convinced it is drying my crotch out, but I think that is just paranoia. Having a string in my ass makes me paranoid.

G-String Side Effects

Britney Spears wears g-strings/thongs. Xtina wears g-strings/thongs. They dance around a lot on stage and their asses look fine. No one feared all the jiggling would lead to earthquake-like consequences as the earth shook. They also have personal trainers and ridiculously tiny and taut bodies. I do not. I seem to have in fact caused the metal button on my pants to snap apart today, leaving me to hold my pants closed with two binder clips. How disastrous would it be if of all days, today was the day my pants fell down, exposing my ass to the horrified general public? How sad would it be if it happened at work and I was fired for indecency that goes above and beyond my usual low standards of behavior at the office?

Back to Britney. Several post-baby photos of her have appeared in magazines and overall I’d have to say she looks like a normal healthy person. If she had a post-birth tummy tuck (as Demi Moore and other celebs have definitely had done), they did a bad job since her body looks like mine (average) with a slightly flatter lower gut and much bigger boobs. However, I’m not sure what happened to her face. It appears very large, as if it had expanded onto her neck. Sometime in October, I blogged that I was taking a new medicine with a potential side effect of “enlarged face.” Britney’s current look is exactly how I pictured this would look. Disturbing. Perhaps she is also on Entocort EC. Or maybe her g-string is too tight, and blood is trapped in her upper body, swelling her head.

On Second Thought...

Remember how George W. Bush said this at his little "Mission Accomplished" aircraft speech and stunt spectacular a few years ago regarding terrorists in Iraq? And the terrorists in Iraq responded by doing exactly that? I do, and I should have learned a very important lesson from good ol' Uncle George, which is never do something that he does because he is an evil asshole.

Anyway, I did not learn. And when challenged by my friend to try wearing thongs and g-strings, I said, "Bring it on!" Now I have string in my ass. It's not the string that is the most uncomfortable thing about the g-string that I purchased on Saturday for $2.99 at the Calvin Klein underwear store in Jersey Gardens, washed on Sunday, and am wearing this very instant. That part, surprisingly, is not bad at all, although it is strange to be wearing underwear and at the same time have my ass completely exposed. No, it is the snatch patch part that is the problem. It has extended itself into my ass. I feel like there is a ball of toilet paper wedged there. Sometimes, if I get my period unexpectedly and don't have proper materials with me, I will jam some toilet paper in the area to prevent messy and embarrassing incidents. (Although the worst of all worlds is the potential for the toilet paper to dislodge and fall out my pants leg in front of people...) It feels sort of like that.

My First G-String

You may recognize CUSS’s thong and g-string model from his first appearance on this blog on a Dec. 6 post. Yes, please give it up for the Giant Stuffed Penis!

The Giant Stuffed Penis is a natural fit for the position of CUSS thong and g-string model. First, his furry balls are oddly shaped a bit like a butt, allowing for an excellent perspective on how a thong or g-string might wedge itself into my actual ass and make me horrendously uncomfortable. Second, Giant Stuffed Penis’s balls are a much better approximation of my hips, so it is a much more accurate depiction of my flab bulging out of the underwear (although, for the sake of full disclosure, my husband confirmed that they are actually slightly wider, making the indentation caused by the string a bit worse than it is on moi). Finally, Giant Stuffed Penis and I agreed that he needed a merkin (a pubic hair wig, to those who are not in the know – included Microsoft Word, which has indicated that merkin is not a word and suggested that I replace it with marking, jerkin, merino, marlin, or Merlin) to truly illustrate how god awful those of us who resist the wax, razor, depilatory, or other means of vagina hair removal look in such ridiculous “underwear.”

Anyway, it gives me great pleasure to present Giant Stuffed Penis wearing my latest purchase for the sake of research. As previously mentioned, I got this yesterday at the Calvin Klein underwear outlet store in Jersey Gardens. The sign said they were 7 for $21, so I was nervous that I would be unable to buy one pair for $3.00, but in fact they only cost me $2.99!


A close look reveals that the "underwear" wishes the reader to "have a fantastic day" and has some childish drawings of a rainbow, hearts, a lightning bolt, and what I think is an eyeless teddy bear and a faceless other critter. Looking at this while I wear it is actually going to give someone a scary nightmare, not a fantastic day, but I appreciate the sentiment. Maybe Calvin though that this message and the cave painting-quality drawings would to hypnotize the viewer into believing that this looks appealing on an actual woman. He was wrong.

I washed the g-string earlier tonight and will wear them myself tomorrow (although for the life of me I can’t think of what pants I might wear them with, as my ass will be completely fucking naked, sagging down and jiggling about if I actually have to move faster than a snail’s pace, and rubbing whatever pants I wear.) Does this picture look like I will be comfortable wearing this g-string tomorrow? No it does not. In fact, it makes me want to cry a little. Or laugh a lot. Maybe I will wind up doing both. I suspect the string will not smell very well at the end of the day.

I figure it is best to wear them tomorrow for fear of a transit strike on Tuesday. There is now way I want to be walking untold miles around the city without quality ass support, or so I suspect. (I am trying very hard to keep an open mind, but when I tried them on tonight quickly, I could already tell that we - that would be Calvin the g-string and I - are going to have problems.)

The G-String Nightmare

Seriously, now that I purchased a g-string for my underwear experiment, SWoUR (Sensible Women's Underwear Rules) has been tormenting my subconscious. I tried the artificial fabric patch-and-string concoction on last night over a regular pair of undies (the low rise maroon bikinis from Victoria's Secret that Theo so attractively modeled for this site) and I looked like a balloon that was about to explode as some bratty kid squeezed it. No, not pretty. Then I went to sleep and had twisted dreams about g-strings, flab, and pubic hair. I woke up in a sweat. I can only hope that reality will not be as jiggly.

Itchy & Scratchy

Now that my regrowing leg hair is well on its way to reclaiming my legs, they itch like hell. The subsequent absent minded scratching has led to little bruises and bloody pits. Inner thighs also itch like hell and have a gross-o rash. Only a few more days until Phase II of Operation Smooth Legs and Pits. Until then, agony. Then, in another week, agony returns. It is a vicious cycle, friends. Oh yes it is.

Hudson News BUSTed!

The world never ceases to surprise me. The tiny Hudson Newsstand outside of track 108 at Grand Central Station sells BUST, a feminist magazine. I no longer am an ardent BUSTie these days; too much focus on feminist make-up and crafts and being a “girlie feminist.” (If I want to read about make-up, I’ll read Glamour, thanks.) But it’s still awesome that they are being sold at tiny newsstands. Rock on, Hudson News!

Nice, Very Nice

Today I went to an outlet mall in New Jersey and was able to secure a pair of Calvin Klein g-string underwear for $2.99. They say "have a fantastic day" and have weird pictures on the snatch pouch. Very exciting. Soon I shall be able to begin the g-string and thong experiment, and a sexy stuffed animal will model them for this site.

Also, in doing some online research regarding g-strings, I came across this picture:


(Does this model guy not have the most fucking enormous dick ever? Or are his undies stuffed? I am quite curious.) Also, I learned that there are thongs and g-strings made for men. It just seems that women are bigger suckers and wear them more often. As my friend told me earlier tonight when I mentioned that I bought a g-string, you know it's time to do the laundry when you are actually wearing a thong. How astute.

Sometimes, A Woman's Gotta Do What A Woman's Gotta Do

I am going to visit my friend in the DR (Dominican Republic, for those of you who don’t live amongst Dominicans in NYC) for Xmas and my 30th (!) birthday. I asked her if I can wear jeans all the time, or if it will be too hot. She said I may wear jeans if I want but that I should also bring my bathing suit. I asked her if that meant I should shave. “Of course you should!!!!” she replied.

This posed a huge dilemma for me. I haven’t shaved my pits since Thanksgiving and my legs since I was in Israel in August, so shaving would be a time consuming task, as you can imagine. Plus I really don’t want to have to shave while I am there. That leaves me with the two-step process. First, I have to hack off the fur on my legs and in my pits with a regular razor. By regular razor, I am referring to men’s razors, which are generally much better than women’s razors. Women’s razors may have longer or wider handles, and come in pretty colors, which is totally why they cost much more than men’s razors, but the blades themselves are far worse. Men get sharper blades with better safety features so that they don’t hack their faces to pieces. Women’s razors tend to shave off large swaths of skin along with the hairs, although sadly I have noticed that despite the fact that I shaved off a big chunk of skin on accident, hair sometimes remains behind in the bloody pulp of my leg. I so hate shaving. Plus it has been fucking frigid in NYC lately, so I really need the fur for extra warmth. I swear it makes a difference.

Anyway, I began Phase I of Operation Smooth Legs and Pits on Tuesday night. Since I hadn’t shaved for so long, it took me about an hour to remove the appropriate amount of leg hair. I even had to shave my freaking inner thigh (the horror! the horror!) in case we went swimming. I feel naked. Pits were a bit faster, but still annoying.

Phase I needed to occur early enough so that little hairs could start sprouting again before I went on my trip. Thanks to my Eastern European Jewish heritage, this does not take more than a day or two. On Thursday night, Phase II will begin, which is when I use my special electric razor/torture device that will yank the little guys out by the root. Fortunately, these machines have improved greatly since Mossad invented the EpiLady and pretended it was actually created by three average Israeli women. I think mine is a Remington. If this is done well, I will be carefree during my trip and I will not embarrass my friend. It certainly involves a lot of planning and effort, though. Fortunately, I do not bother with this often.

Thank God We've Found Cures for All Serious Diseases, or Else How Could We Use Resources for Silly Surgeries

One of my always delightful colleagues told me about a small tem he read on Slate.com today about the increasing popularity of "virginity restoration surgery" and "vagina tightening." These charming procedures are undertaken by women to please their husbands, often as anniversary gifts. They cost anywhere between $2,000-$5,000, and doctors are happy to set up financing plans. I love the fact that thousands of low-income women who need surgery because of uterine, cervical, or breast cancer die every year because they can't afford it, but that our medical profession is always looking out for the best interests of all women by helping us have more pleasing twats.

It is actually quite ironic that this came up because I was just at my biannual appointment with the breast surgeon for a check up. (My mom had breast cancer when she was 33, so I gotta be extra careful.) Happily, the titties are fine. However, I was reading a magaine (Women's Health and Fitness) while I waited over an hour for the fuck ups at the radiology place to fax the correct paperwork to the doctor. (Paperwork they were supposed to give me when I picked up my films last night.) Anyway, there was a full page add for doctorssayyes.com, a website referring women who need plastic surgery of any type to kind, generous doctors who are willing to finance these utterly unnecessary procedures to "help" women live better lives. Again, I love that doctors won't fucking finance a life saving procedure, but god forbid you should have the curse of small boobs and not be able to cope with it like an adult and feel that your entirely life will literally change for the best if you get giant tits or lips, suck the fat off your ass or belly, or reshape your vagina, of course they will help. This type of surgery is for true emergencies. Especially for 16 year olds who are getting breast implants.

I want to know why doctors haven't come up with brain restoration surgery. Any woman who would have her vagina tightened or a fake hymen put into her to please a guy is clearly in medical need of thinking skills. As for the doctors (frequently, but not always, male) who prey upon these fucked up socially created insecurities, they should lose their medical licenses immediately. Since when does "do no harm" mean cutting people up and inserting crap into a healthy body for no medically necessary reason?

I can't wait to pack up my granny undies and Theo and move into a cave where I don't have to live in a society where I am considered strange and "judgmental" for objecting to this insanity.

My Worst Date Ever

My first year at NYU, I had a crappy work-study job at the student newspaper in the classifieds department. I was somewhat friendly with one of my co-workers, Paul Snatchco. (Seriously, that was his real name, although it might have been spelled Snatchko.) I think the only reason that I contemplated friendship with Paul at all was because his last name is so damn awesome, since he was a fat, horny, foaming at the mouth anti-choice Catholic. (One day at work he asked me to read what he earnestly described as an objective paper on abortion that he wrote for a class. The paper’s opening paragraph was about babies in the womb crying and screaming as they are mercilessly torn out by surgical tools wielded by evil doctors during abortions. I told him it was the most trashy bullshit that I’ve ever read, and that he needed to learn what the definition of objective really is.)

Anyway, one evening I went to hang out with Mr. Snatchco and his friends, whom I’d never met. I, for slightly inexplicable reasons, became interested in his arrogant/insecure friend Dan. I also became friendly with Dan and Paul’s other crew members, Peter and John, and often joined them for lunch or dinner in the dining hall. (My friend and I began calling Dan’s posse “the Disciples” since their names were Peter, John, and Paul. That still cracks me up.) To make a long story short, in early December, I asked Dan if he wanted to see a movie and was elated when he said yes.

Sadly, this turned out to be the worst date I ever went on, although at least far more amusing in retrospect to what had been the worst date I ever had prior to this date, at which my date spent a part of the evening calling cab drivers “turbanheads” and cursing them out as he sped along the Kennedy Expressway unsafely. (You’ll all be reassured to know that this fine gentleman is in the military in Iraq now, helping the “towelheads” get democracy.) Anyway, back to my worst date ever. I knew things would not go well when Dan showed up with Peter in tow. “Hmmm...” I thought, “Maybe he misunderstood my invitation.” We took the subway to Lincoln Center, which back then seemed worlds away to me, and bought tickets for “Immortal Beloved.” (Which I never would have chosen on my own, but I’m glad I saw it because it was great.)

The theater was packed, but we managed to find three seats together. Then right before the previews began, Dan said he had to do something and would be right back. The previews started to roll. No sign of Dan. I was fidgeting and worrying where he went. The movie began. No sign of Dan. Now I was really anxious. Peter told me to relax, that he’d be back. Dan never returned to his seat, and I again point out that it was an amazing movie because I enjoyed it despite the circumstances. When the movie ended, Peter and I got up to leave and I wondered if Dan had left before the film, when he popped up out of nowhere to go back with us. The asshole fucking sat somewhere else to watch the movie. I was highly annoyed. What the fuck was that all about?!?!

We talked about the movie on the subway trip back to Christopher Street. When our stop finally came, we all got up and moved toward the doors. I got off the train. Peter exited the train. Dan walked back to his seat and sat down. The train doors closed, and off he went to some mystery destination.
I was fuming. I ranted to Peter about what a fucking asshole Dan was and if he hadn’t wanted to go, he should have just said so instead of ditching me. What kind of dickhead does this to someone?!?! Peter was sympathetic. He said that Dan’s behavior was totally unacceptable and that I deserved someone who would treat me much better. A little alarm went off in my head: I was set up. It was true that Dan never intended to go on a date with me, but Peter did. Since they both knew that I was interested in Dan, and would turn Peter down if he asked me out, what better way to get me on a date with Peter than to have me go out with Dan and Peter and have Dan ditch us so it could turn into a date with Peter and he’d win me over by soothing my hurt feelings after being treated badly? Now I knew that Dan was the kind of dickhead who knew that his friend liked the girl who liked him, so he tried to help his friend, which is really sweet in a fucked up way. It’s some seriously fucked up logic and a fairly diabolical plan from my standpoint, but I have to admit that it was clever. Unfortunately for Peter, I still had no interest in him. I just had hurt feelings and, ultimately, a good story to tell about my worst date (or is it dates?) ever.

This is a Public Service Announcement

Warning: I won my eBay auction and will soon be the proud owner of a bright orange thong with a sexy rhinestone letter B. I also realized that the letter B would be perfect as "B" is one of my friend's nicknames for me (short for Bitch, natch). Even better, I discovered that I have $3.50 in my paypal account from random online surveys I answered that paid me through paypal. So the thing only cost me $3.44 directly! I made out like a bandit, as I think this ridiculous purchase actually sells for over $20 in my gym shop.

My thong purchase reminded me, however, that people who suffer from any or all of the following conditions should not wear thongs or g-strings:

1. Extremely jiggly ass
2. Cellulite
3. Assne (ass acne)
4. Unshaved snatch

I am not saying this to be cruel. I am saying it as a public service. If you have a super jiggly ass, you need the support of underwear with a butt. A thong or g-string just increases the jiggle factor by letting it all hang free. Cellulite just looks like shit, so why would anyone want to frame you dimply cottage cheese heiny in a thong as if it we as smooth as a baby’s bottom? (I recognize that often goes hand in hand with #1, but some very toned folks are afflicted with cellulite.) Assne is a combination of problems that underwear solves for jiggly butt and cellulite. You want some good breathable undies (no nylon crap) to protect your ass (practical), as a naked ass rubbing against jeans or other materials is only going to make the situation worse. Believe me, you also want to hide the fact that you have assne. Finally, someone without routine pubic maintenance is going to look ridiculous in a thong, as they tend to be high cut and quite unforgiving.

I am afflicted with more than one of these conditions, which is why once the underwear challenge is over, I anticipate a quick return to nice cotton undies. In the meantime, this is a warning to the world that the thong experiment will soon commence.

Golden Shower

Who the hell remembers where I read about this (as you probably figured out by reading other posts, memory is not my strong suit), but a few years ago I learned that it is, in fact, possible for women to pee standing up. It is by no means as simple as it is for men (believe me, penis envy exists – but only when women walk into disgusting bathrooms), but it can be done. The technique is:
1. Spread labia and put finger at top of urethra;
2. Angle urethra up;
3. Pee.

It takes practice, and whatever article I read advised potential practitioners to perfect the technique in the shower before trying it elsewhere, or risk pissing all over yourself and your clothes. One woman in the article claimed that she got so good that she could just open her fly, pull her undies aside, and let go. Generally, I am a very good squatter, but you never know when that will not suffice, and it still requires me to get close to some nasty toilets. I became slightly obsessed for a few months with the concept of peeing standing up. Of course, this upset my husband greatly as it entailed me peeing in the shower a lot to practice, and as a newbie, sometimes missing the drain (my target). (He should be appreciative that all I did was pee, which is easily washed away, whereas some guy wrote into the sex column at Time Out New York earlier this year and said that his girlfriend shits in the shower and smooshes it down the drain with her feet. Now that is seriously nasty.) I got bored with it after a while, but I still think it is an awesome skill to acquire.

Plushies, and Puppets, and Barbies - Oh My!

It seems that I am not the only one who has pushed plushie-dom onto people, albeit unintentionally in my case. (I can’t speak for the others.) Not long after I posted my request for more stuffed animal models on Dec. 2, someone posted a comment wondering what a plushie was. I emailed back to him directly with a definition (later posted on the blog), and his shocked response (reprinted with permission) was this:

Who would do such a thing? Although I do remember having these stuffed puppets (Goldilocks and the 3 Bears) and the hole that you stuck your hand in was different on Goldie - it was right where her pussy/sphincter should have been...omg...I could have been a plushie as a kid!

See? There are some really fucked up toy manufacturers out there.

I think that the perversion is not really limited to stuffed animals, either. I once read a short story in an anthology of stories “inspired by Barbie.” The book could have been totally obnoxious, but fortunately the writers were some fairly twisted individuals and it was a fun and disturbing read. One short story by A.M. Holmes, who is a seriously demented thinker, was about a boy whose sister’s Barbie comes onto him and he eventually succumbs to her wily plastic ways, and masturbates onto/fucks the doll in a climatic ending scene that was both nasty and hilarious. I’m sure that this has happened in real life, but I’ve never heard of a Barbie fucker fetish. I’ll have to do some research into that.

Thwarted! The Quest for (Ass) Crack (Undies) on the Cheap

As I was entering the gym last night, I noticed a sign in the window of the gym shop that said “Holiday Sale, 30-50% Off.” I assumed that meant that everything was on sale since it did not say select items on sale, so I was excited. This might be a good chance to begin the thong/g-string challenge that I accepted from my friend. I ran 4.05 miles (yay!), then wandered into the shop sweaty and gross. I pointed to the small counter display of Cosabella thongs and g-strings (my friend told me these were a good kind to try, but of course they are outrageously expensive) and asked if they were on sale. I was hoping they’d be 50%, not 30%, off. Unfortunately, it seems that my assumption that everything was on sale was incorrect. “They are not on sale,” the lady informed me. So much for that plan.

However, the need to buy these undies on the cheap (especially since I fully expect to never wear them again once the challenge is over) made me remember my old friend eBay. I can see how buying underwear on eBay might be skeevy, but let’s face it: Victoria’s Secret and other lingerie stores have been caught reselling underwear that was worn and returned. If I get something new with tags (NWT in eBay parlance) and wash it first, it is really no different than buying something in the store.

First I did some research and determined that Cosabella sizes run small (of course they do – they’re designer undies from Italy - I should have known), and that a size small/medium is supposed to fit a woman who wears anything from a size 2-8 and a large should fit ladies wearing sizes 8-14. To be on the safe side – the last thing I need is an ass string digging into my crack – I decided I should get a M/L.

An eBay search for Cosabella yielded some good options at major discounts, all NWT. Being the cheap bastard I am, I found this pair starting at 99 cents (originally $15!)

with shipping of $3.85. I entered my maximum bid of $1.15, figuring that $5 for the experiment would be a reasonable amount. Sadly, I was outbid by someone who was willing to pay a whopping $1.40.

I was forced to bid on this thong instead:
It is hard to see, but they sport a rhinestone initial B on the corner. And they are orange. I wish I could download a picture of the back because it has a special low cut string that I can't really explain, but I wasn't able to. (Supposedly, the style is Talco, but I also couldn't find any other pictures of the back online.) I bid $2.99 and the shipping is $3.95. I think $6.94 is a lot given that a) I never expect to wear them again and b) my initial is not B. They seriously crack me up though, and the fact that I’d have orange undies with the wrong initial and double butt cleavage only makes them more tempting. Bidding ends in 20 hours, so I will keep you posted...

Something Borrowed Sounds to be the Right Price

I am ridiculously frugal at times. When I was in junior high - we’re talking late ‘80s - I decided that jeans should cost no more than $20. (The big trend back then was Z. Cavaricci’s, which were running a criminal $78 as pair and horrified me.) In my heart of hearts, I still believe that jeans should cost no more than $20, although I am prepared to pay up to $35 without bitching too much.

My desire to save money, however, has often led to situations that wind up costing me more in the end. For example, I didn’t want to spend a lot on my wedding dress when I got married over five years ago. While I know that my wedding special and it should be the happiest day of my life and all that shit, in theory, I will only wear my wedding dress once. Why would I spend hundreds of dollars (or worse, thousands) on a dress that I’ll wear once when I don’t even want to spend $20 on a pair of jeans that I wear zillions of times? I decided to buy my wedding dress eBay. I found one that I liked that came with a veil and got both for about $100, including shipping. The problem was that the dress was a size 16 - a real size 16, not a wedding dress size 16, which if you’ve ever shopped for wedding dresses, you will know if often a real size 8. I hate the bridal industry for so many reasons. I was about a size 6 or 8 and short, so I usually wear petites to compensate for my lack of a torso. As you might imagine, the dress was, uh, rather large on me. Having it taken in would be pointless it was so huge. So I put it back up on eBay, minus the veil, which I kept and used. The dress resold for maybe $50 to a very nice buyer who turned out to be a drag queen, which I found out when I went to her website and saw some unsettling pictures. (This was no RuPaul.) I would not have paid $50 for the veil I got with the dress (although I did like it and used it), so now I lost money and realized that I have the same taste as homely drag queens.

Anyway, my bubbe was increasingly mortified that her oldest grandchild was buying used schmattes on the internet for her wedding, and decided she’d buy a dress for me. Being an incompetent bride, I didn’t realize that shopping for your dress is a huge mother-daughter bonding event among normal women, so I went with my bubbe and sister while my mom was at work. (I still feel bad about that.) At the Jessica McClintock store in Woodfield Mall in Schaumberg, IL, I found a dress I liked and that bubbe adored. It cost $385, which was much more than the $250 I thought was a reasonable amount for a fancy dress, but I bought it anyway. The idea of spending almost $500 (after taxes and a minor alteration) on a dress that I would wear once continued to annoy me long after the wedding, so when our first anniversary rolled around, I decided that I would wear it out to dinner. My husband donned his tux, which he insisted on buying because he is too snobby to rent one, although I told him not to waste money on buying it. (Sure enough, it no longer fits him now that he lost 40 lbs. Harumph.) Now every year we dress up in our wedding finery, although my husband's pants look like fly fishing pants and are held on by suspenders and he is swimming in his coat, and go out to dinner. My dress is filthy from tromping around on the subway and buses. But it feels like I got my money’s worth, so I am happy.

Let Them Eat...

My friend’s sister walked into her office wearing a beaver coat last winter. One of her co-workers saw it and went nuts. He kept waving PETA literature in her face and telling her what a monster she is to kill innocent animals to wear their fur. My friend’s sister tells the guy that he’s a hypocrite because he is wearing leather and also eats hamburgers all the time. Slaughter houses aren’t exactly hotels, you know. The guy defends himself by saying that at least he uses the whole cow. My friend’s sister doesn’t miss a beat. “And how do you know I don’t eat beaver?” she says and walks away.

Later, she tells her family the story over dinner. Her grandmother was very proud of her for standing up to the office ideological bully. “That’s right! You tell the world that you eat beaver!” she beams.

Quick Little Compare and Contrast Quiz

Both models to the left are wearing low rise bikinis from Victoria's Secret. (Theo is representing me with my hairy legs and stuffed look, although he has a much flatter stomach than I do, so some imagination is needed.) Questions:
1. Which model looks sexier?
2. Which model looks more like a regular woman?
3. Why would anyone assume that by buying these underwear, they will look as sexy as the model with the purple shirt?
4. Shouldn't a topless model in only a scarf and underwear look sexier?

Answers:
1. The model with the purple sweater.
2. Theo the Teddy Bear
3. I have no idea, as I understand that I will always look more like a furry fat bear than an airbrushed lingerie model.
4. Yes, but Theo is not airbrushed. He's pretty damn cute, though.

Just Deal with It for the Next 40 Years, OK?

Approximately three weeks before my 12th birthday, I woke up with a stomach ache one morning. Because I disliked many aspects of school and preferred to stay up all hours of the night reading, I frequently woke up with a “stomach ache.” However, this day was different. My sides hurt like hell, and so assuming that a major bought of diarrhea or something was in store for me, I convinced my parents to let me stay home. I went back to bed, hoping it would go away if I out-slept it.

When I woke up a few hours later, the discomfort was worse than ever. I went to the bathroom and waited for an eruption, but none came. After a while, I figured it was safe to leave the toilet and move into a pleasant day of watching TV and reading. Then I noticed the blood. Oh shit. I should have known better, really. I’d read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret at least two years before. Margaret’s friend warned her about cramps. On the other hand, Margaret and her pals were demented enough to actually want their periods, so what did they know?

At some point earlier in the year, it occurred to me that nature would inevitably screw me, so I obtained a free sample of tampons in the mail after I saw an ad in Seventeen magazine assuring young women that you can use tampons from your very first time. I shoved one in with no problem, and crying, I called my mom at work.

“I know why my stomach hurts,” I sobbed.
My mom was alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“I got my period!!!” I was howling by now.

I don’t know what she said next, but I’m sure it was some sweet thing meant to calm me down before getting practical. “Do you need some pads? I have some in my closet.”
“No, I used a tampon.”
“What?!?! Is that a good idea? I better ask the doctor.”
“No!!! Forget it!” I was enraged. What the hell did she need to call the doctor for? There was nothing he could do about it. And what was it his damn business anyway. I was sorry I said anything. “I’m going back to bed.” I slammed the phone down.

A few hours later, she called back to check in. “How are you feeling?” Without waiting for much of an answer, she went on. “I spoke to Dr. Sherman, and he said congratulations,” she informed me. I was outraged. “Congratulations?!?! Congratulations?!?! Easy for him to say. Blood isn’t going to ooze out of his crotch every month for the next 45 years. Asshole! Tell him to fuck himself!” (I swear I said this.) My mom ignored my outburst. “Well, he also said it’s OK to use tampons.”
“Goodie for him,” I replied sarcastically. “I’m using them anyway.”

My mom’s reaction to the tampons threw me, though. She claimed she was afraid I’d get toxic shock syndrome and every once in a while drag up some story to scare me out of using them. “You know so-and-so who works with your dad?” she’d ask. “Well, his son’s girlfriend used tampons and got toxic shock syndrome. They rushed her to the hospital, but it was too late. She died.”I think she also clung to the belief that you weren’t a virgin if you used tampons, and that was a major thorn in her side. Well, she didn’t have to worry about that. Those slender regular junior sized blood suckers that I used barely made a dent in me. If a few years of youth gymnastics didn’t bust my hymen completely, no lame small tampon was going to finish the job. Which, quite frankly, is a dumb thing to worry about anyway. But my mom is weirdly old fashioned. It’s sort of cute.

Virginal My Ass!

I understand that normal brides want to look extra-sexy on their wedding, I really do. However, I do not understand this g-string veil from Victoria’s Secret. Sure, some guys find those sex workers in Thailand who blow smoke rings out of their poons to be exciting, but if you need to crap out a veil to entice your new husband, there are already problems in your marriage. Get an annulment.

Or perhaps you are trying to look “modest” or “shy” by wearing a veiled g-string rather than just a g-string. Put on some underwear – an ass veil is just pathetic, if not actually funny.

The best part is – I swear – that this thing plays “Here Comes the Bride.”

These are a Few of My Favorite Undies - St. Eve

My sister and her husband came to visit me and my husband in New York over Memorial Day weekend, and we took them to Century 21 departement store, which is a fun store in lower Manhattan that sells designer (and not-so-designer) stuff at discounts. My sister bought a pair of jeans for $16, which she was pleased with. I bought these underwear that say "I Love Justin" on the ass for $2.99. Basically, I saw them and another pair that I swore said "I Love Anton" as we browsed in the lingerie department. I was surprised and delighted that they had undies that said "I Love Justin," even if I thought Justin and Anton were sort of random names to have. No wonder why they wound up at a discount store, I told my sister. She looked at me oddly and said that the underwear referred to Justin Timberlake. Then I realized that the other undies actually said Ashton, not Anton, which made a lot more sense. Anyway, they are great undies as they provide very full ass coverage. (Note how Theo's entire body basically fits in them.) I wish they were all cotton, but 95% will do. I try not to wear them to the gym, though.

The following three pairs of St. Eve underwear I got in the children's department of the Kohl's outlet store in Gurnee Mills Mall in Gurnee, IL. They were a fairly good deal, like 3 for $10.

It's hard to see, but these underwear have three little mice on them. The back says, "lil' troublemaker." The dot over the i is actually a small heart. I think they are hilarious. However, as a children's XL, I admit they are a little lower than I'd like and provide not very good ass coverage. I guess the 12 year olds who normally would wear such cheeky undies don't actually have such large cheeks....


These are cute undies that sort of look like boy's briefs. They have little butterflies on them and say "flutter by..." I'm not sure what that means. Maybe it is a polite message to go the fuck away if you are looking at a 12 year old girl in her underwear. Since I am, in fact, not 12, these underwear are super small on me. I look really horrifying, so I think anyone who sees me in these will be glad to flutter by before their retinas detach. The mice undies are a different cut and thus fit better.


These undies have little hearts on them and a weirdly pleasing color combo of yellow and pink. They are also those cute fake briefs that fit me horribly. Theo looks very nice in them, though.


Thanks again to Theo for his skillful modeling services. He has one more upcoming photo shoot, and then he will retire. Future modeling of underwear (including any ridiculous g-strings or thongs that I buy as part of my experiment) will be done by another plush friend-turned-model.

The 3rd Thing I Discovered About Airplane Bathrooms that I Forgot to Mention

I forgot to mention that I also noticed that airplane bathrooms, regardless of what "class" they serve on the plane, have the type of lighting and mirror positioning that allowed me to discover, unhappily, hairs in new places on my chin. Quite upsetting. I am convinced that my chin hair growth is directly tied to my husband's use of Rogaine. Since he frequently neglected to mention that he had it slathered on his head, I would come up to him to cuddle, and subsequently wind up with Rogaine on my chin. He denies that it would do this, but if Rogaine is supposed to stimulate growth in areas where there are hair follicles, then I don't see why it wouldn't turn a minor problem into a much bigger one on my chin. (Think about the implications for other areas! Ha ha ha...) My only consolation is that many of my friends seem to be battling chin hairs, so I'm obviously not a complete freak.

My Return Smells So Sweet

OK, I have once again returned from a whirlwind weekend of travel, which denied me internet access since Thursday, but also led to some important insights into airplane bathrooms (again). I went to Chicago again this weekend, but this time as a long-planned trip to pre-celebrate my 30th birthday. Since I was presenting at a conference in DC on Friday, I had to fly to Chicago from there. My husband flew to Chicago from New York. Since I was not traveling with my husband, I flew in coach. When I used the bathroom on the plane, it stank.

However, on the return flight to Chicago yesterday, my husband used his stockpile of upgrades and we were able to fly in first class. When I used the bathroom, it had a pleasant scented air, and I discovered a small air freshener attached to the door. This made me realize two things:
1. People flying in first class or business class do not have to contend with smelly bathrooms, so with this issue out of the way, it seems more possible to become a member of the mile high club. Perhaps wealthy people or frequent travelers are also more flexible, which would further increase the odds of a bathroom sexual encounter on a plane, although the bathroom is stationed directly across from the prep area used by flight attendants for meals, so I wonder if (hope?) they would stop two people from entering such a tiny room at the same time, especially given that the bathroom was right behind the cockpit.
2. A small air freshener costs less than $1. Why the fuck can’t the major airlines put one in the coach bathrooms? Fucking cheap bastards. ATA must be the airline with the most common decency.

True Love (in Plush)

Based on the extremely large success of the giant stuffed penis, I decided to make my college roommate a giant stuffed Glenn Danzig doll. She was totally in love with him, and frequently told people that she was saving her “golden snatch for Glenn.” This way she could literally sleep with Glenn whenever she desired. I even made a big dick for Glenn, as you might note from the bulge in his sex faux leather pants made out of felt.

(Incidentally, the silver scribble over Plush Glenn's face is the actual autograph of Glenn Danzig, who I completely disturbed when I presented the picture of me with Plush Glenn for an autograph at a comic convention I accompanied my friend to so that we could see him. Now, if you have ever heard Glenn's music or worse, read his comic books, which are extremely violent and sexually graphic, frequently in the same scene, you will find it as hilarious as I do that I made him nervous. On the other hand, I find it fair to say that if anyone came up to me with a Plush Suzanne, I'd also think a restraining order would be a reasonable option, although a short, hairy, and fat 21 year old is a lot less scary have a short, hairy, and buff heavy metal rock star.)

A Tale of Two Titties

One of the best decisions I ever made was to have breast reduction surgery, or as I like to say, have most of my tits chopped off. The problem with huge, saggy boobs is that they weigh a ton. I’m only about five feet tall, for crying out loud. Most of me was my boobs. It became very hard for me to carry around my chest and anything else, like a backpack or purse. My shoulders and neck hurt like hell and my bra straps were starting to dig canals into me. I was growing increasingly worried about finding a gondolier guiding tourists down my back some day. My decision to have the surgery ultimately led me to another good decision, which was to lose some weight before I got my tits cut off. See, the nice thing about big boobies is that they create a tenting effect on t-shirts. I used the tent to full advantage to hide my gut. I feared if the tent poles disappeared, then my gut would hang out for the world to see. The thought horrified me, so I got my ass in gear and joined a gym.

Anyway, having plastic surgery is a farce. Plastic surgeons make a living from reminding you about what you hate about yourself physically Thus I was met at my initial appointment by a man who looked like a weasel/child molester who told me how terrible I looked, and had me pose for diagnostic pictures topless and with my gut hanging out. The Polaroids were then sent to my insurance company as proof that I had the ugliest boobs in America and that they needed to pay to fix them, lest I destroy the patriotic spirit of all red-blooded American males. (No, I didn’t worry that the pictures would wind up in the wrong hands. Playboy wasn’t going to be contacting me any time soon unless they wanted to blow a year of their budget for airbrushing.) The insurance people agreed that I endangered my own health and the nation’s love of perky breasts, so they approved the procedure, and I was good to go.

I arrived at the hospital bright and early on the day of my surgery. Weasel doctor drew what appeared to be a diagram of football plays on each boob, outlining where they’d cut. Basically, the game plan was this: the center was to chuck my nipples aside, the quarterback would put them in a little jar to preserve them, and then the wide receivers would flay me in two smooth plays, scoop out tissue and fat, hack off any excess skin, and then sew me back up and replace the nips. Touchdown! I’d have cute new little boobies. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if the center threw wide and the wide receivers forgot to replace the nipples. I hoped I could at least take them home in the jar of formaldehyde and keep ‘em as a souvenir. Anyway, I was given anesthesia, said good-bye to my old tits, and hut, hut, hike, I was out like a light.

The end result was amazing. The surgeon may have been an egomaniacal weasel - at my follow up appointment, he repeatedly praised himself for his brilliant “art” work; I liked my new tits a lot, but didn’t appreciate being treated like a sculpted lump of clay - but he made my saggy old lady boobs into adorable lovable little natural fake titties. (Natural because they there’s nothing fake in them, but fake because they didn’t get this way naturally.) It was literally a load off my shoulders, although for weeks afterwards I had no feeling in my chest, which pretty much meant that anyone could cop a feel without me noticing. This made me a little paranoid when riding on a crowded subway, but it was still much better than heaving around boulders on my chest. It’s been almost seven years since the surgery, and I couldn’t be happier, although I do sometimes search the internet to see if the pictures were leaked to any saggy boobs fetish sites. Fortunately, the pictures seem to remain safely hidden away in a secret storage facility somewhere, much like the Ark of the Covenant and other relics.

After going through so much to get rid of my ginormous boobs, I find it hard to understand why anyone would pay good money to have bigger jugs tacked onto them. I’m sure women with implants would question why I paid good money to get rid of mine. But let me tell you again: that shit hurt. I’d think that lugging around a big silicone tit bag would be no different. I’m not against all implants, either - it’s obvious that breasts are as important to the women who wear them as they are to their partners who desire them and our society’s obsession with ogling them. It makes perfect sense to replace breasts lost to disease or accidents. But it doesn’t make sense to me to fuck around with perfectly good titties so that guys stare at your chest instead of your face when you are trying to have a conversation with them. Unless, of course, a person is irredeemably ugly and it costs less to divert attention from your ugly mug to your jugs. But I doubt most women find themselves in such a dire situation.

These are a Few of My Favorite Undies - Victoria's Secret

There is nothing shameful in owning undies from Victoria's Secret, even if their models create unrealistic expectations - that's what models are supposed to do. Anyway, I own several pairs and one lightly padded bra (and used to own a lot of Victoria's Secret bras way back in college, which I discovered still in my dresser and childhood bedroom and which will appear here in the future).

I got a coupon in the mail for a free pair of seamless underwear from a new line that they rolled out several years ago. I love free things, so I rolled in and picked these up. They're a weird lycra blend and I try to never wear them to the gym because they don't absorb sweat as well as cotton, and for reasons I don't understand, my crotch sweats like a mad motherfucker. (I'm sure you all wanted to know that, but it is true and explains my love for cotton undies.) These are also slighly oddly sized regular briefs. Anyway, I got another coupon for free undies from this product line from Victoria's Secret, and got a pair of bikinis in white. They too are oddly sized. In fact, despite the clear labeling on each pair which says one is a bikini and the other a full brief, they are the same size. Whatever. They were free, so I'm not really complaining, even if it seems like I am. Theo finds them adequate, by the way.



These are actually my favorite style from Victoria's Secret - low rise bikini underwear. I have three total pair, the maroon pair at left so dashingly modeled by Theo, a pink pair (I seem to have a lot of pink underwear), and a gray pair. I look nowhere are appealing in them as Theo does. They are really too low and my gut dwarfs them. But the are comfy, cotton, and mostly cover my ass, so that is good. They also tuck nicely into low rise pants, as low rise underwear should. My main complaint is that when I bend over in low rise pants with such low rise underwear, I look a lot like the plumber from "Saturday Night Live" skits in the 1970s, albeit with far less ass hair. Too much crack though.

Literally these are the worst underwear I can imagine. They look like shit on poor Theo, who was a good sport and agreed to appear on the internet in them anyway, and they look worse on me. At least theo looks like he merely has two garbage bags attached to his front and back. I have fat bulging out everywhere. Unfortunately, I have three pairs of these: the charming leafy print shown at left (which I also have a pair of briefs in, I just realized, thus I have more pictures to take), a red pair, and a blue pair I am wearing at this very second. I really hate them. I wear them anyway since I spent good money on them, but can't wait until they develop a big hole so I can trash them without feeling guilty. The only plus is that they are all cotton.

Damn, I now remembered that I have some regular bikini undies from Victoria's Secret as well as the regular cotten briefs. So stay tuned for a second Suzanne's Victoria's Secret Underwear fashion show.

My Attempt at a Normal Hot Gossip-y Post!

Yay! My computer access is back...

Anyway, last night I was on my way to a pro-choice event (the real pro-lifers, let's be honest, are pro-choice since we support living women) in New Haven and reading Entertainment Weekly on the train. There's an article about Brokeback Mountain and it had lots of pictures of Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger. My initial reaction was so "girlie" gossipy: Jake Gyllenhall is so fucking hot. But you know, Peter Saarsgard, who is not in this movie, is also fucking hot. I thought that if only Peter was cast in Brokeback Mountain instead of Heath, I could see the appeal of two guys having sex. I've never really thought about gay porn (although I have a female friend who swears it is good shit), but thinking about Peter and Jake, it makes sense.

See, here I was going to just post a normal "girlie" gossip-y thing about thinking that an actor was hot, but I fucked it up. I try to be normal once in a while, I really do. I just can't help my twistedness. It always triumphs in the end. (I wish Peter would too - ha ha ha...)

Quick apology/warning on Pearl Harbor Day

I got one post up a little late this morning, but I am having some very serious connectivity problems at work (like, not being able to log onto my computer, for starters) and some small ones at home - as punishment for working at home over Thanksgiving when I should have been taking it easy, I seem to have infected my home machine with the same viruses we are suffering from at work. So bear with me as new posts might be slow in coming. I apologize if that means you will have nothing to read while trying waste time at your own work. (I am quite bummed about it, believe me.)

Damn, That Chick is Hot!

Reflecting upon the gift of a giant stuffed chick that my boyfriend’s roommate in college gave his girlfriend in 1995, I wonder if there was some sort of desire that my roommate’s boyfriend had. He always was claiming that lesbians made him hot, so maybe he gave his girlfriend a giant stuffed chick so he could watch them together. (Seriously, check out the lips/beak on this chick. Angelina Jolie has nothing on those!) It’s like some super weird fetish – a lesbian plushie fantasy.

These are a Few of My Favorite Undies - Designer and Not

Theo is sporting my all time favorite kind of underwear - Jockey bikini briefs. They provide excellent front and rear coverage, and the elastic bands at the leg hold them firmly in place. Wedgies are never a problem! (Although I did buy a few pair that were a size too small and the elastic is so tight that they practically cut off the circulation to my legs.) I have these undies in many fine colors: light blue, dark blue, white, gray, beige (ecru if you want to be fancy), and as seen, pink. They are 100% cotton and come in packs of three for $15. (I wait for Macy's or other stores to have a sale and usually get them for $12, which I still think is a little pricey, but they are worth it.)




In this shot, Theo is luxuriating in the designer undies of Calvin Klein. Generally, I do not buy single pairs of undies (I like them protected in a tidy box or bag), and certainly not designer undies, but I was in Chicago for a conference last November and had a minor situation, which led me to purchase them. (No, I did not crap or piss my pants.) I was staying at my parents' house in the 'burbs and commuting downtown to the conference. My fancy gym happens to have a branch across the street from where the conference was held, so I packed a gym bag and planned to workout while I was downtown. As I was heading downtown, I realized that I forgot to pack a pair of clean underwear to change into after I worked out and showered. Fortunately, the Lord & Taylor (or was it Marshall Field's?) at Water Tower place was having a sale and I ran in to buy some (hopefully) clean undies to change into after my workout. These cute CKs were marked down to $2.99 (about 75% off), which is a fair price, so I bought them. I love the fake fly on the front. I thought that they'd be huge, but sadly, my ass is much bigger than I thought, and I should have gotten a bigger size for better ass-and-gut coverage. Still, they are good enough, and Theo definitely looks very nice in them.

Tomorrow, Theo will bring a Victoria's Secret quartet to life.

Snuggle Up to a Giant Stuffed Friend

In 1995, I seem to have developed some subconscious subversive desire to turn normal people into deviant stuffed animal lovers. That year, my boyfriend’s college roommate bought his girlfriend a three foot tall stuffed fluffy yellow chick for Christmas our second year at NYU. My boyfriend told me that it cost $200, and I was disgusted by such a waste of money. He asked me if I would think it was a waste of money if it were a giant stuffed penis. I said I thought that would be cool, but doubted that they made such a thing as it might threaten a fragile male ego. He laughed and agreed. That’s when I decided to make a giant stuffed penis and give it to him. I went home for winter break, bought a lot of flesh colored furry fabric, made a pattern, and sewed away.

When it was ready, I packed it in a large box and sent it to him at his parents’ house, where he was staying for the holidays. His parents were naturally curious as to what could be in such a large box, but my husband tried to delay opening it until they weren’t around since he knew I had sent him the giant stuffed penis and he wasn’t sure how they would react to it. Eventually, they pestered him enough that he opened it in front of them. They were shocked into silence at of such a magnificent handmade gift. Finally, his dad spoke. “Why did Suzanne send you a giant limp penis?” he asked. From then on, he referred to it as “that thing.” Perhaps he worried that my boyfriend’s mom would abandon him for plushie penis pleasure?


Parental commentary on the giant stuffed penis did not end there, though. Nope, right after I sent the giant stuffed penis, I went on a school trip. My mom called my boyfriend to make sure that the “package” arrived. When he verified that it had, my mom told him that the giant stuffed penis not only made a great showpiece, but also a comfortable back rest. You just nestle your head between the balls and lean back along the shaft. My boyfriend uncomfortably thanked her for the advice, but he had to admit that she was right.

I Love Stuffed Animals, But Not That Way, You Sick Bastard!

I freely admit that my husband is not the only one I sleep with. My other companion is Theo. He’s my teddy bear. I’ve had him since I was 12, although he looks like he’s been around way longer than that. I know it is wrong for a 29 year old to take a teddy bear to bed with her, but I just don’t sleep as well without his head smashed under my chest, my arms wrapped around him. Look, don’t get me wrong; I’m no plushie.

Plushies (and their counterpart, furries) burst into mainstream attention in an episode of CSI last season. Not long before it aired, I had read an article in some magazine (sadly, I can’t remember which one) about the subject, so I was super excited to fin some of my favorite TV characters bringing the topic into the homes of millions of Americans. For those of you who missed this brilliant television moment (or the magazine article), plushies (as previously noted) are people who get off on stuffed animals. Furries are people who dress up in animal costumes and have sex with other people decked out as animals. It’s sort of like bestiality, but not mentioned in the Bible specifically, thus stigmatized in a different way. Perhaps there was once an 11th commandment, “Thou shall not dress as an animal and fornicate with another dressed as an animal?” or “Thou shalt not covert thy neighbor’s stuffed animal?”

A Random Post Not About Underwear, Shaving, or Sex in Airplane Bathrooms

I love one-room museums, especially ones with attendant gift shops that are approximately the same size as the museum itself. The Museum of American Financial History does not disappoint on this measure. The museum itself is one room, roughly divided in half to accommodate temporary exhibits and their permanent collection. At the time of my visit, the temporary exhibit was on migrant farm labor from the immigrants’ perspectives, which was extremely odd for a museum that celebrates the glories of exploitative capitalism. (A mea culpa, perhaps?) There was also some contemporary artist’s “currency art” proudly on display.

The permanent exhibit includes a plate for printing bank notes and securities, a ticker tape machine that prints personal messages for visitors, and “seats” on the trading floor of the stock exchange. Other neat items: an original ticker tape from Oct. 29, 1929 saved by a broker in Boston, and the last “emergency cash” check signed by a President. (In the days before ATMs, presidents would bring these along on their travels.) The entrance to the museum includes a re-created trading room of a brokerage from the 1960s, including a dartboard with sections reading “Bankruptcy – Lose turn and all $” or “Price is up 20 points.” I was quite disappointed to find that the poorly scaled model person pictured in the room on the museum’s brochure is no longer there. (Maybe he hit the bankruptcy section and jumped ship, a long tradition on the Street.)

Mmmm, Smells Good - Where Am I?

I discovered something this weekend that made me question my understanding of how the world works: ATA, airline of the unwashed masses (myself included), has great smelling bathrooms. Seriously, they must pump in some light incense or something, because they really smell nice. In the past, I’d come to doubt the existence of the mile high club (see Nov. 15, It's a Bird, it's a Plane... It's Super Fucker! ) because every plane bathroom I’d been in had been so gross smelling that only someone into autoerotic asphyxiation could possibly want to have sex in it. But ATA’s bathrooms actually smell almost sexy. Of course, there was inevitably pee on the floor, which kills the romantic setting in my opinion, and the bathroom is still too small for any two non-contortionists to possibly get it on without risk of injury, but at least one of the obstacles to kinky plane sex was removed. Go ATA!

We're #4! We're #4!

Typing unshaved into a Google search engine yields many fascinating sites. CUSS & Other Rants is the fourth site listed. Damn, the horny folks who click on that link must be disappointed.

These Boots Were Made for Sitting, but These Boots Were Made for Ass Kickin'

Have no fear. If you want to be really uncomfortable and wear gold lame stilletto heel boots with very pointy toes, but can't afford to wear designer duds, Aldo offers you this alternative for $170:

I can see Paris Hilton slumming it in these. I can also, in my mind, see her fall and break her nose. I find that very funny. I can't help being mean.


Not that I am totally innocent when it comes to impractical boots. I did drop 219 bucks (including tax) for this beauty from John Fluevog. While boots with buckles may not be appropriate to wear to work, these babies sure are comfy. And kick ass looking. I don't worry about falling in these and breaking my nose. But don't tell Paris Hilton.

Par(is)adox

Paris Hilton presents me with a humongous conundrum: on one hand, she seems like literally the most useless person on earth, and yet on the other, her useless seems to provide a number of jobs to the economy.

For some time, I was advocating a special tax for the offspring of the super-wealthy who literally have no skills, talents, or abilities. I called it the Paris Hilton tax. The idea was that compared to the benefits that Paris provides to society, she uses up far more than her fair share of resources by merely breathing the air. Hence, Paris Hilton and her ilk owed large amounts of money to society to repay us for allowing them to breathe. Eventually, they will either develop some usefulness (and thus pay a reduced tax) or lose all their inheritance and become the skid row drunks they would have been all along had they not been born wealthy and privileged.

However, I soon began to see that Paris Hilton, in her uselessness, actually supported jobs for other people, some of them even very well-paying! For example, photographers and paparazzi. How many photographers would not have jobs if Paris weren’t showing up at all sorts of events in ridiculous outfits? Fortunately, Paris also enables tons of gossip columnists and tabloid magazines to publish the photos, thus creating all sorts of jobs for writers, editors, and subscription salespeople. These are all fairly well-paying jobs, too! Paris is really a mini economic engine, and this was just the start. She also financial supports the work of:

1. Clothing designers


2. Stylists


3. Publicists


4. Personal assistants


5. Chauffeurs


6. Maids (probably not very highly paid, though)


7. Wait staff at trendy restaurants, who she hopefully tips well


8. Bartenders at trendy places


9. Drug dealers (OK, so that’s sustaining an illegal job, but it still provides income to hard-working individuals)


10. Sales personnel at trendy boutiques


11. Pilots


12. Flight attendants


13. Hotel staff, most importantly the concierge

Etc., etc. I’m not saying that she solely sustains all of these jobs, but certainly more so than I do. Taking this useless-person-makes-other-productive train of thought, it doesn’t seem fair to make her pay extra taxes. However, life isn’t fair. It sure as hell isn’t fair that a bumbling idiot will never need to work a day in her life when people a jillion times smarter, thriftier, and more deserving struggle to make a decent living.

Therefore, I decided that Paris Hilton and other wastes of space like her, despite their important contributions to the economy of the service industry, should pay special taxes.