Tits and Bigfoot

I feel like this blog post title should win a goddamn award.  If someone wants to nominate me, feel free. 

So this post is going to be a collection of completely random shit from my life.  First, the Tits: 

Who is losing sleep over having a great rack?! Not me, son.

All right.  What the good fuck is going on here?!  “My boobs… they’re so HEAVY!  I wish I had something large and uncomfortable to shove between them.  That’ll help.”  And it’s so judgey – C cups and larger ONLY, ladies.  Makes you wonder if there is a guy on the phone when you order to verify that you got big knockers.  I have more than a handful myself, kids, and I can’t fathom the purpose of the damn thing.  How is wedging cock-shaped plastic between your Girls going to help you sleep better?  If I needed a huge brown and pink wanker between my ta-tas ALL NIGHT LONG, I’m pretty sure my husband would volunteer his services.  

Apparently, it’s called a “Kush” and you can see a close-up and read the hilarious customer reviews here.  

So, this can’t be a real thing, with a real purpose, in any case.  It’s gotta be some kind of sex toy in disguise, right?  Yet… just a few pages later…. 

Quite a selection, you must admit.

 

My doorbell just don't require this level of ringin'

So they’re clearly not shy about selling clitoral massage pumps.  “Gentle suction” my ass.  And look at that lady bottom right, holding the blue vibrator to her throat.  Someone give that bitch a map, some GPS, something.  She is a bit north of her intended destination, I feel.  My favorite comment from the reviews online:  “The suction thing hurts!”  Bwahahaha!  I fucking bet it does.  But you can’t really claim that you didn’t know what you were getting into.  That is an explicit little mechanism, pal.  See close-ups and read more hilarious reviews here. 

But such a selection means, terrifying as it may seem, that the titty shelf is foreal.  *sigh*  This is why the rest of the world hates us, America.  There are starving African babies and we’re inventing boob balancers.  

No lie, this is all from a catalogue called “Solutions: Products that Make Life Easier.”  It’s like getting SkyMall at home.    

Now this, gentle readers, is from my honest-to-god local news channel.  I cannot even make this shit up.  This is where I live.  Fucking brace yourself: 

 

Not only do I live within miles of people who foreal believe in Bigfoot, but apparently they kinda have a tween-girl crush on him: “He had beautiful hair!”  

Also, in case you missed it while rolling on the floor in your own urine just now, the newscaster’s name is Neill McNeill.  What a fucking douchebag.  At least Mr. I-tell-Bigfoot-to-Git-and-he-Gits hasn’t got a ridiculous name.  Well, not that we’re aware of.  Yet. 

That’s your weekly Southern update, friends.  As the 4th of July approaches, I just thought I’d take the time to examine what makes this country great:  Tits and Bigfoot.

America and Soccer

If I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again:  I do not get sports.  I’m not good at them, don’t understand them, and the single time I caught a football, I ran it into the wrong end-zone.  Fail.  Hell, I don’t even know if you hyphenate “end-zone,” kids. 

That being said, my semester abroad in England, during the last World Cup, made me seriously enjoy watching other people watch soccer.  Still don’t understand what’s going on, BUT there has to be something redeeming about a sport that makes an entire pub, teary-eyed with copious amounts of cider, ale and beer, clutch shoulders and sing warbly cockney songs while occasionally cheering or flinging crisp packets at the community television set. 

Holy shit, he's a fucking starfish!

 

Which is why it’s sad to be on this side of the pond during the current World Cup.  America, if you cannot embrace a sport beloved the world over (fucking literally, for once) that is like the Olympics but with more drinking and singing and vuvuzelas, then I do not know what to tell you except:  America, you used to be cool, man. 

But I’ve figured it out.  I know why American is so snotty about the whole thing.  It’s not that America just arbitrarily hates soccer… 

Is there this much rape in football?

It’s that we’re not good at it.  And sweet Jiminy Cricket with Rickets, does America like to be good at shit.   

Hear me out — I don’t mean we’re incapable of putting together maybe a decent national team (eventually), and I’m not saying there are not good American soccer players.  I’m saying that overall, we’ve sunk all of our energy into football.  This has not encouraged, either socially or financially, kids to be interested and engaged in soccer like they are in every other fucking place across the globe.  As a result, we are not that good at soccer.  It’s kind of like Math and Science in our schools — everyone is now handing us our ass.  The problem is, the longer we suck at it, the longer we’re going to act like dicks about it.  And the longer we act like dicks, the worse our soccer skills are going to get.  It’s a vicious cycle, loyal readers. 

Soccer looks fucking complicated.  I mean, to me, ALL sports look complicated.  But!  You can’t tell me that it’s more complicated to run into someone headlong in huge padding and helmets (REPEATEDLY) than it is to develop the fancy footwork I’ve seen as pretty necessary for controlling a soccer ball.  That shit takes finesse.  Football?  Not so much finesse as brute strength, head injuries and protective gear worthy of a bubble boy. 

Pictured: Finesse!

So instead of moping around, pissed that 1st-world countries devoid of basic bathroom facilities are kicking our asses, acting like our national past-time is as awesome (if football were that awesome, would we #1 have to have named it ‘football’ in a shady effort to borrow the glory of soccer’s original name? and #2 wouldn’t it have caught on in at least one other country by now?), let’s buck up and play nice with the rest of the globe, like forever.  I don’t want to be stuck in the country that gets invited, every 4 years, to the most awesome goddamn block party on the planet and yet keeps forgetting to RSVP. 

I want my beer.  I want my singing.  I want my fellow Americans to band together, learn something new, put the Revolutionary War behind us, and try being engaged for a change.  Isolation sucks, guys.  That’s why we’re told never to drink alone. 

We want to be the ones derping others, America

*  Pictures all courtesy of the hilarious “Up Next in Sports” site.

Students Gone Wild

Pictured: The End Result of my Teaching Career

 

It’s not that teachers are bad people, it’s just that we’ve made terrible life choices.

I guess it’s an ambiguous honor when you’re beloved enough by your students that they call you at 2 PM on a Saturday, frantically wanting to know where to find a large rubber dildo.

Actually, in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention 2 things: 1) the message was texted, and I mentally gave the student mental points for correctly spelling both “rubber” and “dildo” and 2) the student is a boy, who followed up text #1 with text #2: “Don’t judge me. I’ll explain later.”

When I called back with the answer (I mean, in all fairness, they totally picked the right person to tell them where to go sex toy shopping in my conservative one-horse/whore/dildo-shop town), my opener was, “Rubber or latex?” And then, later, the sign off from my own personal peanut gallery was, “I TOLD you guys she would know! Thanks! See you Monday for school!”

So either the entire baseball team is roaming my town on a misguidedly homoerotic shopping spree, or college is simply keeping young men too fucking busy to go boondoggin’ after chicks (as should be their wont).

I gotta just say: the image of burly young college dudes roaring around town in a Honda Civic (or similar), waving brightly colored plastic dildoes out the car windows really brings a smile to my face. Truly, this was why I got into teaching.

The Tudors: Showtime’s attempt at “history”

First up, I think HBO did a kick-ass job of portraying history accurately (I fucking hope it was accurate) in their show Deadwood, which is probably the greatest cowboy dialogue of our generation.  They also delight in throwing the word “cunt” around and you know how I love that kind of reckless offensiveness.  Private message to Ian McShane:  I would do filthy shit to you, cocksucker.

But meanwhile, in Showtime land, it seems the good writers and peons of the network have issued a hearty Fuck-you to any kind of historical accuracy regarding Henry VIII besides his number of wives, their hair color and number of offspring.  Also, it IS set in England, so they did technically get that right.  Well done, scripters. 

Because I am a huge British Renaissance nerd, I probably go into each show armed to the teeth with way too much fucking information.  So I’m not going to start listing the nit-picky things they fucked up like battle dates, seasonal continuity or what have you.  Seriously, it’s the HUGE, GLARING details that are way more fun to mock.  Here’s a little list I like to call: Top 3 Ways The Tudors are Fucking Up History!

3.  Everyone’s Teeth.  While it’s an over-stated and under-proved concept that everyone in Britain until, well, now, has had fucked up ideas of dentistry, there were actually a smattering of anti-tooth decay remedies available.  Of course, some of these involved alum, some involved retardedness (i.e. eating sugar to help combat mouth rot), and most people ignored them entirely.  Yet Showtime would have us believe that despite our modern concept of British teeth looking like this:

Instead, actually, Renaissance ladies looked like this:

Maybe she's really Canadian?

Suuuure, Showtime.  Thanks for playing. 

2.  Her Royal Hotness.  I do realize that beauty is a relative concept and changes over time, and of course female beauty is constantly subjected to current social conventions and concepts.  Nonetheless, Showtime has made some pretty creative casting moves, if any art from the actual time period is to be believed.

Exhibit A:

Catherine of Aragon: Sex Machine

Exhibit B:

It becomes more clear why Catholicism was disbanded...

Exhibit C:

 

There's something different here...

1.  The Royal Codpiece.  Since we’re going into the new season featuring Katherine Howard (the one who actually totally foreal cheated on him and LIKED it), I feel I should point out that there is a VAST difference in the way an audience will perceive a young woman who cheated on THIS guy:

Who wouldn't hit this?!

Vs. maybe understanding why the hell she might cheat on THIS guy:

You used to be cool, Hank.

Do we see the distinction?  One of these things is not like the others.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think it’s necessary to portray Henry as a slothful, turkey-leg devouring sociopath… And yet.  At 6’4″ and 350 lbs, his BMI rating would have been “42″ — you’re considered merely obese at a slim “30″ so brother was 12 full points over that.  I’m just saying that rippling pecs were probably not part of the equation. 

Also, most modern doctors assume that he was impotent by age 45 due to the weight and ulcers on his leg.  By age 54, he had to be carried everywhere on a chair, and he died a year later “amidst the horrendous stench of his bursting leg ulcers.”  Might some of these details not contribute to our understanding of a 19-year-old young woman not wanting to bone her husband?! 

Regardless, I’m still all set to watch the new season.  I can’t lie.  I’m just so pleased that they’ve turned my MA thesis topic into a fucking soap opera.  WIN!

A Lesson on Gender

So, I was out getting my drink on last night (as is, usually, my wont, though lately I’ve been too fucking tired after working on this Neverending House to rock out with my Martini out — where’s that goddamn Luck Dragon, Falcor, when you need him?!  Probably busy terrorizing school children… As is his wont.) and, in typical Sorcia fashion, managed to turn the conversation to an obscure medical tradition exploited in literature. 

Mommy drinks because you cry, children. 

And it struck me that you, dear loyal readers, might also be hankering for yet another little history lesson, since the last few have been so informative.  Here’s what I learned as an English MA degree holder about vaginas and penises as perceived in the Renaissance:

Galen’s One-Sex Theory

Galen was a charming motherfucker, so let’s get that out of the way first and foremost.  Left a fucking billionaire (or hunder-aire or whatever they had back then) at his prime boning years, he decided to philosophize about medicine.  And also about pussy.  Of course.  He’s the asshole we have to thank for bloodletting becoming popular, so thanks a lot for the bloody charade that medicine became for centuries, douche-bag.

He had, in his infinite wisdom, noticed that ladies have lady parts (“DOWN THERE” as my mother furtively hisses) and gents carry around some more external fishing gear.  Clever guy.  He ALSO noticed that penises, generally, tended to fit neatly into a willing vagina, leading us to consider that he had the most hilariously fun ”research” grant ever.   

So he comes to the conclusion that, naturally, women just have an inverted penis that we are mistakenly calling by another name, er, names (fill in the blank, here).  He actually compares your lady business with the EYES OF A MOLE.  Cause that’s how he rolls.  The comparison was that mole eyes and vaginas don’t open, they’re both just fine examples of how God likes to make mistakes.  That’s right.  Vaginas = FAIL.  From a book on gender, cited below: Pussies are, for all intents and purposes, failed cocks, or, “an imperfect version of what they would be were they thrust out” (28).  Cocks = WIN!

So there was just ONE sex, male (the “perfect” one, remember), and so girls were just infuriatingly imperfect specimens of that single gender.  Of course, these were people who mixed up semen and breast milk, figuring that, eh, what can you do?  It probably all comes from the same place.  In Galen’s defense, he did suggest, probably as a goddamn footnote, that it helped conception if women could be brought to orgasm (we had sperm too, you see, that was required to mix with Man Juice to make a baby). 

Pictured: Vagina

These are ALSO the same assholes who believed in the humours.  You know, we’re all made up of invisible elements that we can never risk washing off by taking a fucking BATH.  Along with the humours, there was also the idea that women were, by nature, colder than men.  So it was proposed that girl babies just didn’t get warm enough while buns in the proverbial ovens, and along with innate feminine laziness, was why they didn’t sprout a penis.  This fantastic theory lead folks to think that, perhaps, if women TRIED hard enough, or got overheated, that they might, at long last, turn into perfect males.  You get fucked-up apocryphal stories about sheep-herding lassies who become men after too-vigorous runs after the sheepies.   

To re-cap, then:  Essentially, bitches be too lazy to oblige their desperate male-heir wanting parents by popping a penis out.  Also, it’s mom’s fault, too, because her bun warmer is clearly defunct. 

People believed this shit (along with the horrifyingly erroneous assumption that slitting your veins was a good cure for the common cold) until the 1800′s.  That means we had TRAINS before we figured out that women were not innately lazier and more cold-blooded than men (though modern science has yet to explain Ann Coulter, so there’s that.  Well played, Galen).   

TRAINS. 

If you love this kind of stuff like I do (and who doesn’t?!), check out Thomas Laqueur’s book, Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud.  It’s magical.

Monday! Jews! Whores!

Yes, Sass-fans, in that order.  I awoke to this bright, crispy Fall morning and began it the RIGHT way — discussing Jews and whoredom.  Because I’m generous, I am going to share it with all of you, my dear loyal readers. 

1st:  Luker = Best friend who lives in Brooklyn.  We met in England and, despite a pesky 900 mile difference, are inseparable.  She does not, it should be noted, usually look like a whore.  On purpose. 

2nd:  This post proves the validity of my category, “Jews.”  It also says something about this blog that when I tried to save a picture, calling it, simply, “jew,” my computer told me that there was already a file by that name.  And “jew1.”  I had to make it plural. 

 3rd:  The following IM session has NOT been altered.  I just copied and pasted.  I only took out one name, since an innocent bystander didn’t need to be slandered this early in the AM.

LAST NIGHT:

LUKER    Gah srsly? Want to chat. Am playing spin thebottle diddywhat?

LUKER 9:49 pm
    Are you there? A hassidic jew just asked me to HAVE SEX WITH HIM FOR.MONEY

 TODAY:
 LUKER is available 7:24 am [Sorcia note:  in retrospect, I find this pretty fucking funny]

LUKER 7:25 am
    Woopl
LUKER 7:37 am
    hey-first off, sorry for those bizarre IMs yesterday
    and for that last one i sent you–totally a keyboard mash. i was using my phone

Sorcia 7:38 am
    LOL  Why did you not have sex with the hasidic jew?
    Oh, “woopl?”

 

LUKER 7:38 am
    lol yup
    sorcia the jew thing was so fucked up
    i was walking home alone

 

Sorcia 7:38 am
    HAHAHAH  That’s when those jews come out

 

LUKER 7:39 am
    well i heard these hurried footsteps behind me
    and was like FML

 

Sorcia 7:39 am
    Did he shake his forelocks and non-foreskin at you?

 

LUKER 7:39 am
    then they slowed down and he asked me for directions, and they were really bizarre directions, like he knew the answer and just needed a reason to talk to me
    so then he started walking along side me for a block
    and was like “do you like to meet boys”?”

 

Sorcia 7:40 am
    HAHAHAHAHAHA
    You. are. kidding.

 

LUKER 7:40 am
    NO I WISH I WAS
    and he was all soft spoken
    and had an accent
    i was like “uh, sometimes”

 

Sorcia 7:40 am
    Ewwww!!!!  Soft spoken, asking that question?!  Did he also offer a Jewish Van full of kittens?  Jewttens?

 

LUKER 7:40 am
    then he was like “what about tonight?”

 

Sorcia 7:40 am
    SHUT THE FUCK UP

 

LUKER 7:40 am
    I KNOW
    i might have asked him to repeat himself

 

Sorcia 7:41 am
    You’d have to do it with a sheet between you.  Those hasids are CRAZY

 

LUKER 7:41 am
    then, i took a huge step away and asked him to repeat himself
    and he was like
    ”will you be with me…..for money”

 

Sorcia 7:41 am
    HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

 

LUKER 7:41 am
    FML

 

Sorcia 7:41 am
    Please, please, PLEASE tell me you said yes
    Will you be with me…. for money.  That’s my new AIM status [Sorcia note:  Still is.]

 

LUKER 7:42 am
    i said “i’m not that kind of girl [glance down at my outfit] though apparently i look like one”
    THEN
    it gets more fucked up

 

Sorcia 7:42 am
    APPARENTLY

 

LUKER 7:42 am
    bc this hispanic guy and his gf come by and he shouts, “Hey, do you speak english?”
    at the jew
    obvs

 

Sorcia 7:42 am
    HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
    Well, it’s your night.  Maybe you look like a multi-lingual whore

 

LUKER 7:43 am
    loollolol
    well in that area the hassids own a lot of the property

Sorcia 7:43 am
    Not ALL.  Not, for example,the LUKER building

LUKER 7:44 am
        but its a largely puerto rican/hispanic population
    so THEN
the guy was all like, “Hey man, maybe you can answer a question for me. why the fuck is the rent so expensive? we just got kicked out, my girlfriend’s 2 months pregnant, etc etc”
    THEN HE ASKED THE JEW FOR MONEY SO THEY COULD GET FOOD
    AND THE JEW ALL AWKWARDLY TOOK OUT HIS WALLET

 

Sorcia 7:44 am
    HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Well, he had to be prepared, since he was anxiously awaiting to give you cash.  FOR YOUR VAGINA
    I would have seen that through

 

LUKER 7:45 am
    AND I WAS LIKE “I GOTTA GO” AND I BOOKED IT
    yeah im kind of sad i never heard what his offer was

 

Sorcia 7:45 am
    I know!
    It might have been totes worth it
    Just to have in your repertoire     

repartoire?

 

LUKER 7:46 am
    i totally left a drunken message on your machine about it
    i might sound hysterical
    bc i was laughing
    and also trying not talk loudly in the message

 

Sorcia 7:46 am
    HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

 

LUKER 7:46 am
    ”This JEW offered me MONEY for SEX”

 

Sorcia 7:46 am
    The dog just ran away because of my wild maniacal laughter
    I can hardly type

 

LUKER 7:46 am
    hahahahahah
    i had to tell you

 

Sorcia 7:47 am
    This is the greatest day of my life
    You ARE my blog today

LUKER 7:47 am
    YES!

Fuck Stick: Arts and Crafts Edition

A few days ago, I noticed that someone had jammed a brambly tree limb, its tip thoughtfully wrapped in what appeared to be a used condom, into my neighbor’s mailbox.  Actually, they thrust the prehistoric dildo down the back of the mailbox’s post, so it stood proudly aloft, announcing to the world, perhaps, that this was the house where lumberjacks came for a good old fashioned raping.  And by God, they were going to rape you SAFELY. 

Homemade Hillbilly's Sexy Time

Tampering with the mail? I wondered.  Federal offense be damned!  Or at least screwed with a wood pile’s reject!  Then yesterday, I noticed that the limb, condom still quivering and attached, had moved a few houses down, now serving as a warning to others, maybe?  Anyone’s house/shed/corn crib could be used as some terrifying backwoods fuck stick paradise?  Or could the stick have developed AI? 

 

Jude Law WILL fuck you with a stick

Maybe there are just roving gangs of Fuck Stick craftspeople, I thought, shrugging it off, since this isn’t hardly the scariest thing to happen to me in my neck of Bumblefuck Nowhere.

Aaaaand, then this morning.  SOMEONE was decidedly displeased to find the Hippy’s Happy Maker on their mailbox, so they did the only sane, reasonable thing:  They left the Fuck Stick Arts Council Coalition [FSACC, pronounced, "F-Sack"] a note:

Pictured above: the definition of "awesome sauce"

 

Pictured above: the definition of "Passive Aggression" (condom optional)

I think the more pant-staining hilarity of this moment really comes from the fact that these well-meaning folks wrote the note on their lawyer’s complimentary notepad.  I generously photo shopped out the details, but look close at the above pic and you can see their tag line, “A Full Service Law Firm”…  Though in the context of this wood craft, such delicate wording brings new innuendo to the term, “full service.”  But moreover, is the reference to the lawyer part of a veiled threat?  More bizarre, I think, is that now I’m wondering how long they’re going to leave it in their front lawn. 

And all this time, I thought “Fuck Stick” was just a nickname for this guy:

Seen here with the saddest monkey in the world

Live and learn!

A Short History of Offensiveness

Inspired equally by this post courtesy of ThinkinFYou and the despairing idiocy of my devil children, I thought I would post a brief and pretty accurate history of the WORST. WORD. EVER!!! 

When I was an undergraduate, a bumbling English Major with a penchant for research and way too much time on my hands, I latched onto the English Renaissance as my literary period of interest.  Now, it may interest most of you to know that William Shakespeare is almost single-handedly responsible for making “Cunt” a dirty word.  Thanks a lot, Shakes. 

“Cunt” was an old Gaelic word, one that literally meant “thingy” — see, even before remote controls and tool boxes, our limited human vocabulary was forced to come up with general catch-all words.  So if you were a Dark Ages wife, just straggling back from whatever terrible, soul-sucking labor you’d just engaged in, at the elderly age of 32, 10 sickly infants mewling and tied along with a hefty sack of manure to your stooped back, and your husband called, “Huswife!  Bring me yer cunt!”, then you would NOT, as modern readers assume, drops babies, poo and trou and present your withered loins to the poor man, probably fixing a wagon wheel or some such.  No, you would realize that he wanted the sack of manure you were holding, and his inquiry was roughly the equivalent of screeching, “Hon, bring me that thingy, won’t you?”  As women, apparently, for centuries we’ve had to interpret the wants and needs of our menfolk who lack any and all proper vocabulary for expressing it.  What did he want with your sack of manure?  Well, probably to mix with water into a paste to use as adhesive in holding that wagon wheel back in place.  Yes.  Travel sucked until about 1955.      

Fine, fine.  So “Cunt” = “thingy”… why all the hatin?  Eventually, we as a scabrous, filthy people, crawled our way out of the Middle Ages and pedantic adherence to the all-mighty, completely corrupt Catholic church, and entered into the glory of the Renaissance!  Hurrah! 

Probably taken just after eating a turkey leg and getting blown by a vassal

Henry VIII, being an incredibly powerful douche-bag, and never having learned anything about moderation, judging from his wives (6) and waist-line (126 inches), decided that he was going to say bollocks to the Catholic church, give himself his own damn divorce (thanksfornothing, Pope Jackass), and thus break England away from the “Bishop of Rome.”  Hurrah!  Well.  Sort of.  Because he freaked everyone out religiously, that also meant that Henry inadvertently invented the first group of religious assholes — the Fundamentalist Puritans.  These tools are, not coincidentally, the nut jobs who founded the first American colonies and spent their first few winters burning witches. 

Dance of Witch-Burning Joy

Yeah.  Those people. 

By the time Henry’s daughter, Elizabeth I, comes to the throne, all the Puritans who had failed to get their sad-faced selves on the Mayflower were moping around London, generally destroying happiness wherever they could.  In fact, they were such dicks about it, they would not even allow profanity on the Stage!  And we all know that entertainment consists of 90% swearing and 10% jokes about excrement.  What was a young playwright like Willy “Cock Joke” Shakespeare to do?  Well, he figured that most of London wasn’t legally retarded, so he relied on using seemingly innocuous slang terms to refer to all his down-there business writing dialogue.  The Puritans, not having the sense to hang out in pubs most days, would not realize the gentle mockery and thus be unable to demand theater closure due to “destruction of public decency.”  (THIS is why Sarah Palin must never again hold political office, kids.)

Soooo.  That’s why “thingy” came to mean “VAGINA.”  Hence, the play Much Ado About No-thing?  = Much Fuss over Not Getting Any Pussy.  Hell, even Merchant of Veniceends with a vajay-jay joke.  And because poor old “cunt” also meant “thingy,” the two terms were indelibly, and eternally linked. 

None of this is to suggest that the Renaissance was not, generally speaking, a fairly misogynistic time.  These people believed in Galen, an ancient ”physician” who wrote that lady parts were just inverted male parts, and thus women were just male babies who had been too LAZY in the womb to obligingly pop a dick out.  There were all kinds of apocryphal legends circulating about young girls who, upon getting over-heated or because of other too-masculine qualities finally had their inner dick pop out, probably horrifying a) their parents b) their husband and/or c) the family dog.  It’s true.  It’s called the One-Sex theory and it fucked over women for like 2000 years.    

So there is your short history of the word “Cunt.”  Don’t believe me?  Look it up, suckas.  I got a degree in this shit.

Hail to the Bus Driver

We were watching The Simpsons, some episode about the bus driver, Otto, when my husband, through forkfuls of my delicious Tuna steak said, casually:  “You know, in the 4^th grade I invited our substitute bus driver over to my fort after school.” 

Chortling on his young ideas about how camaraderie was formed, I managed to not spit up tuna into my napkin before asking, “So did he come?”

“He?”  More tuna is snickered into his back molars.  “SHE did not come, no.” 

“You were such a player.”  I noted, admiringly. 

“I hollered the question at her from the back of the bus,” he mused, dreamily.  “She was the step-daughter of our regular bus driver.  She was a Pennsylvania girl – sturdy.  She could have handled it.” 

 

Showing me the "clutch"...

This is the man I married.  I love literally everything about him.

Valentine’s Day: The Day of LIES

I hardly need to detail why I think Valentine’s Day is a crock.  I laugh myself sick when I hear on the nightly news that sales are down this year — just what the retail venue deserves after concocting a fake holiday in the first damn place. 

But upon closer inspection, when one of my fellow Humor Bloggers posed the following query, I realized I was probably just scarred at an early age:  “What was the worst Valentine’s Day gift you ever got?” 

My response?

The Time:  3rd grade, an era of pigtails, innocence and the first stirrings of a young girl’s heart turning to fancy…

The Place:  The playground, never a stable environment to proclaim love

The Gift: (Presented by little Mikey Cobb, my 3rd grade “boyfriend) A dead hummingbird. 

Because nothing says “romance” like avian flu and rotting bird eyes. 

 

What about you, dear, loyal readers?  Ever get a truly terrible Valentine’s Day gift?  Who was responsible and are you still speaking to them?