pesky pirates prove puzzling
I CAN DRESS MYSELF
I have a fancy dinner/dance/fundraising auction thing to go to this weekend, and had been wondering what to wear. I was sort of planning to bust out one of my vintage skirts, and hope that with twinset, heels, and earrings it could pass for fancy in dim lighting. Then I idly wandered into Nordstrom and ended up buying a dress that was (a) a size smaller than my usual* and (b) marked down from two hundred dollars to seventy. The dress is a little witchy and possibly even a bit goth, but there will be no children there to question me, so who cares. Bust out the dark lipstick and ask the DJ if he has any Bauhaus!
*Yay! No wait, I mean, eh. No number on a tag is going to define my social acceptability. So why did I get a little thrill out of wearing a smaller size? Because being a modern female can be a near-constant fight against the deeply rooted urge to appease your oppressors, yo. Read on!
A WASTE OF SEVEN DOLLARS
Because it was cheap and because I like getting mail, I recently subscribed to Women’s Health. I regret it wholeheartedly. I have not disliked a magazine so much since the days of my brief subscription to the useless and retrograde Parents.
Women’s Health contains some of the most fat-phobic bullcrap I have ever read, and I don’t know how its staff can not be thoroughly ashamed of themselves. Some of the content is fine, in a mainstream magazine kind of way: workout routines, your standard looks-like-editorial-but-is-really-advertising beauty and fashion “articles,” some junk about relationships. But there are weird little things sprinkled throughout, like tips on how to stop yourself from eating. There was a bit on exercises you can do while doing other stuff—squats while you brush your teeth! Tighten your abs in your desk chair! Hey, I have an idea. How about you be present in the moment? How about you pay attention to something other than your body? How about you exercise when you exercise, and live your life the rest of the time? Just a suggestion.
SMOKEY THE SEXUALLY EXHAUSTED BEAR
LT and I were talking about recipes and cooking, or maybe I was talking and he was listening. I was saying how much I hate it when a recipe is written in such a way to suddenly reveal that you should have made the Mango-Cilantro-Baby-Duck’s-Tongue Salsa the night before, that something has to simmer for a crazy length of time, or that you need an ingredient that is hard to run out and get at the store, like rose petal jelly or four cups of grizzly bear jizz or something like that.
LT: Grizzly bear jizz?
Me: Well, it’s not an ingredient in any recipe I know of. It’s just an example of something hard to obtain.
LT: “He was last seen running toward the woods, carrying a measuring cup.”
Me: Four CUPS! Why did I pick that amount? That is a LOT of jism.
LT: Bear had better be taking his vitamins.
Me: I wouldn’t have the first clue how to wank off a bear.
LT: I’m so glad that you don’t.
Me: Do you bring specialized forest porn, or just talk dirty to it?
LT: It would probably be better just to wait for commercially harvested grizzly bear jizz.
Me: And then we’ll be able to buy it on Devon. [ed. note: Because you can buy just about anything on Devon. You can walk around my neighborhood and buy a baby goat’s head, a live chicken, a sari, chopped herring, and a chiming alarm clock shaped like the Kaaba.]
We thought it was amusing. But perhaps you are offended. My apologies.
Notable Irish pervert James Joyce was terribly excited by the whole idea of interspecies handjobs. Look, he’s playing pocket pool.
Note: while I was looking for that image, I also found these on my computer. Where did they come from? Who cares? They’re marvelous! And they both can have suggestive connotations, provided you have a dirty mind.
—mimi smartypants tells James Joyce, in no uncertain terms, to put it back in his pants.