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.