When you break a glass, a good way to make sure you got every last little sliver is to just take off your shoes and socks and walk around. It's guaranteed that if even one rogue piece evaded the bristles of your broom, it will come out of hiding to lodge itself in your foot in less time than it takes to say “Shit, I missed a piece.” Glass and the soles of your feet are locked in some sort of epic, time-honoured magnetic love-hate relationship. They cannot resist each other. Plus, in these trying economic times, I think it's important that we do what we can to make sure no one ever has to bail-out the bandaid factories.
You're welcome.
Showing posts with label Wisdom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wisdom. Show all posts
Monday, March 16, 2009
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Words to Live By
It's been 2008 for 21 solid hours now, and yes, I've been up for every one of them (and more than that besides). I've used the time wisely (well, I did floss at some point, so that counts) and have already crafted my motto for the new year. In fact, I've had to whip it out more than once today alone, and I predict it will quickly become one of my all-time favourite excuses:
It's not my fault. It was tropical drink night.
It's not my fault. It was tropical drink night.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
How to discover your underwear is inside out in 12 easy steps:
1. It was a nothing-special kind of day, so I chose my underwear accordingly. I picked a so-so pair, not the big ones that I only wear when I'm grumpy or bloaty (or god forbid, both) and not the cute ones that I was saving for going-outness. Just a plain-jane pair of panties, high cut with blue and orange stripes which I learned the hard way not to wear underneath white linen skirts.
2. Jason doesn't think I should bother with the cute underwear when going out with someone other than him. I think it makes him nervous. But they say beauty comes from within, and though I'm pretty sure that's an ugly chick's way of saying that personality counts, I prefer to interpret it in the foundation-garment kind of way. Lingerie makes the outfit, even if you're the only one who knows it. It puts the grrr in you. But husbands think fancy panties should be just for them.
3. This is a case of what I like to call "boy logic", also known as "flawed logic" or else "not logic at all". I like for my underwear to match the occasion, and let's face it, if you party hard enough, at some point your underwear is going to be showing. This is an important life lesson that I have learned along the way (unfortunately, I internalized it during my commando phase but luckily this was in the age before digital photography).
4. I recently revamped my whole underwear drawer after my eureka-discover of the hipster panty. But then my sock drawer looked sad, so I've been refreshing it too, one pair at a time. But then I realized that I needed some of those short little ankle socks that you wear with your yoga capris to make your calves look slimmer, and the thing about athletic socks is that they're always sold in bunches, like bananas. As if you could have no use for one banana or one pair of tiny socks. Fruit of the Loom does socks now too, I guess, and they've taken it upon themselves to provide the two-tone sock. Was there a rash of sock tragedies that I didn't hear about? Millions of people where mis-wearing their socks, creating untold havoc, and possibly bunion aggravation, and Fruit of the Loom thought this is our fault for making socks uniformly white. If only we could colour the toe-part and the heel-part gray, and the gray would be like a beacon to the people: toe goes here! heel goes here! And all the sock tragedies would dry up and we would all live happily ever after. And from what I can tell, that's exactly what happened.
5. Obviously Fruit of the Loom takes us all for a bunch of retards, but I could live with their toe-goes-here philosophy of life, if only an even greater atrocity had not been committed by these fruity bastards (do you think the apple costume is going to make me back down? you're not so cute, apple. the grape guy, maybe, but I could take him. I could take the whole fruit salad). The latest in sock technology is the resealable bag. Resealable! To keep the freshness in? I'm perplexed for two reasons: first, I always assumed the bag was just packaging to keep the socks together until you got them home, put them in your sock drawer, and then started losing them one by one over the weeks and months and years like everyone else. Do other people not have sock drawers? Do you just have bags of socks strewn about your house? And second, assuming that there are some people out there who do keep their socks in bags instead of drawers, are you really afraid the socks will go stale if you don't keep the bag closed tight?
6. With 6 new pairs of socks, it was clear my socks:pants ratio was vastly out of sorts, and so a-panting did I go. It used to be that all you needed to know was your size, and perhaps your height, and you were set, but lately the world of pants has exploded into considerations such as how fond you are of ass-crack, camel toe, and whether you like your thighs to look like sausage barely contained in its casing, or sausage ready to burst out of its casing. To "help" make it "easier" to shop for pants, they've now given arbitrary names to the pants. The only trouble is, every store has its own cheesy naming process. One store names all of their pants after cities - there, I find I am a 'Rome' and that the people of Chicago must have a very strange idea of pants. But the next store has its own set or rules and you have to shove your ass into a whole new round of pants all over again.
7. I see by the Old Navy commercials that they too have jumped aboard the naming process with Diva, Flirt, and Sweetheart jeans, "something for everyone." Next to diva and flirt, 'sweetheart' sounds very much like a synonym for 'fat friend', doesn't it? And in the commercial the diva has a man practically sucking on her toes, and the flirt is touching up her makeup as a man looks on and imagines what her lipstick will look like on his cock, and the sweetheart...the poor sweetheart has a puppy. No one wants to get with the sweetheart. The commercial, in 30 seconds or less, condemns the sweetheart to die alone with her predilection for covering her kooch and leaving ample room for hips and thighs. Sigh. I think I'll stop wearing pants just on principle.
8. Or not. Generally people make a big stink about 'no shirts, no service' but pants seem to be optional. Nevertheless, for propriety's sake, and for my fondness for spending other people's money, I obligingly will continue to wear pants. But I refuse to be a sweetheart, which I am sure is to be our generations word for 'spinster' and will soon be only spoken in hushed tones and italics.
9. I finally found some unnamed cargo capris, but there was a hitch: as I headed for the change room, I prepared myself for the incongruity of low-rise pants over underwear that are not. What I did not prepare myself for was the big blue ribbon that floated up out of my ass. Like a dog chasing its tail, I twirled around a few times trying to identify this unknown entity, and found that it was the (rather large) tag of my underwear, and that I had indeed been wearing my underwear not just high on my hips but all the way inside out the whole day long.
10. Half naked in the dressing room, I was hit with a wave of self-pity, and not the usual I-hate-my-belly-god-why-did-I-have-that-extra-piece-of-cake-damn-that-button's-about-to-blow way, either. No, I pitied myself for having the kind of day where I could walk around with my most basic, most intimate layer just completely in the wrong and never even know it. It can't be a good omen, can it, to be rubbing on the wrong side, seams pointing outward, everything in disarray. Life cannot be right when your underwear is wrong.
11. Which begs the question: if you have worn your underwear inside out for more than half the day, do you even bother switching it? Keep in mind I am still in the dressing room, which is the vilest place there is for being naked, not wanting to put your butt where other butts have been (not even wanting to put your feet where other feet have been, but what choice have you got?). And so you hop on one foot while trying to insert the other into an unfamiliar hole (ahem), which may or may not even be the right size, and which as almost certainly be folded or tagged in such a way as to make you trip or fall over, the pressure of which springs open the unreliable change room door and there you lie on the grubby floor, pants around your ankles, breasts splayed for all to see, forcing you to purchase hundreds of dollars of clothes just to ease your embarrassment and make it all seem worthwhile (but in reality, the overpriced blouses will hang droopily in your closet, unworn, until you donate them to goodwill 3 years later, with the tags still on). Or something like that.
12. Long story short, I threw the underwear out. I mean, obviously they're cursed. I have no need for underwear that have it out for me. I get enough shit from my vests.
2. Jason doesn't think I should bother with the cute underwear when going out with someone other than him. I think it makes him nervous. But they say beauty comes from within, and though I'm pretty sure that's an ugly chick's way of saying that personality counts, I prefer to interpret it in the foundation-garment kind of way. Lingerie makes the outfit, even if you're the only one who knows it. It puts the grrr in you. But husbands think fancy panties should be just for them.
3. This is a case of what I like to call "boy logic", also known as "flawed logic" or else "not logic at all". I like for my underwear to match the occasion, and let's face it, if you party hard enough, at some point your underwear is going to be showing. This is an important life lesson that I have learned along the way (unfortunately, I internalized it during my commando phase but luckily this was in the age before digital photography).
4. I recently revamped my whole underwear drawer after my eureka-discover of the hipster panty. But then my sock drawer looked sad, so I've been refreshing it too, one pair at a time. But then I realized that I needed some of those short little ankle socks that you wear with your yoga capris to make your calves look slimmer, and the thing about athletic socks is that they're always sold in bunches, like bananas. As if you could have no use for one banana or one pair of tiny socks. Fruit of the Loom does socks now too, I guess, and they've taken it upon themselves to provide the two-tone sock. Was there a rash of sock tragedies that I didn't hear about? Millions of people where mis-wearing their socks, creating untold havoc, and possibly bunion aggravation, and Fruit of the Loom thought this is our fault for making socks uniformly white. If only we could colour the toe-part and the heel-part gray, and the gray would be like a beacon to the people: toe goes here! heel goes here! And all the sock tragedies would dry up and we would all live happily ever after. And from what I can tell, that's exactly what happened.
5. Obviously Fruit of the Loom takes us all for a bunch of retards, but I could live with their toe-goes-here philosophy of life, if only an even greater atrocity had not been committed by these fruity bastards (do you think the apple costume is going to make me back down? you're not so cute, apple. the grape guy, maybe, but I could take him. I could take the whole fruit salad). The latest in sock technology is the resealable bag. Resealable! To keep the freshness in? I'm perplexed for two reasons: first, I always assumed the bag was just packaging to keep the socks together until you got them home, put them in your sock drawer, and then started losing them one by one over the weeks and months and years like everyone else. Do other people not have sock drawers? Do you just have bags of socks strewn about your house? And second, assuming that there are some people out there who do keep their socks in bags instead of drawers, are you really afraid the socks will go stale if you don't keep the bag closed tight?
6. With 6 new pairs of socks, it was clear my socks:pants ratio was vastly out of sorts, and so a-panting did I go. It used to be that all you needed to know was your size, and perhaps your height, and you were set, but lately the world of pants has exploded into considerations such as how fond you are of ass-crack, camel toe, and whether you like your thighs to look like sausage barely contained in its casing, or sausage ready to burst out of its casing. To "help" make it "easier" to shop for pants, they've now given arbitrary names to the pants. The only trouble is, every store has its own cheesy naming process. One store names all of their pants after cities - there, I find I am a 'Rome' and that the people of Chicago must have a very strange idea of pants. But the next store has its own set or rules and you have to shove your ass into a whole new round of pants all over again.
7. I see by the Old Navy commercials that they too have jumped aboard the naming process with Diva, Flirt, and Sweetheart jeans, "something for everyone." Next to diva and flirt, 'sweetheart' sounds very much like a synonym for 'fat friend', doesn't it? And in the commercial the diva has a man practically sucking on her toes, and the flirt is touching up her makeup as a man looks on and imagines what her lipstick will look like on his cock, and the sweetheart...the poor sweetheart has a puppy. No one wants to get with the sweetheart. The commercial, in 30 seconds or less, condemns the sweetheart to die alone with her predilection for covering her kooch and leaving ample room for hips and thighs. Sigh. I think I'll stop wearing pants just on principle.
8. Or not. Generally people make a big stink about 'no shirts, no service' but pants seem to be optional. Nevertheless, for propriety's sake, and for my fondness for spending other people's money, I obligingly will continue to wear pants. But I refuse to be a sweetheart, which I am sure is to be our generations word for 'spinster' and will soon be only spoken in hushed tones and italics.
9. I finally found some unnamed cargo capris, but there was a hitch: as I headed for the change room, I prepared myself for the incongruity of low-rise pants over underwear that are not. What I did not prepare myself for was the big blue ribbon that floated up out of my ass. Like a dog chasing its tail, I twirled around a few times trying to identify this unknown entity, and found that it was the (rather large) tag of my underwear, and that I had indeed been wearing my underwear not just high on my hips but all the way inside out the whole day long.
10. Half naked in the dressing room, I was hit with a wave of self-pity, and not the usual I-hate-my-belly-god-why-did-I-have-that-extra-piece-of-cake-damn-that-button's-about-to-blow way, either. No, I pitied myself for having the kind of day where I could walk around with my most basic, most intimate layer just completely in the wrong and never even know it. It can't be a good omen, can it, to be rubbing on the wrong side, seams pointing outward, everything in disarray. Life cannot be right when your underwear is wrong.
11. Which begs the question: if you have worn your underwear inside out for more than half the day, do you even bother switching it? Keep in mind I am still in the dressing room, which is the vilest place there is for being naked, not wanting to put your butt where other butts have been (not even wanting to put your feet where other feet have been, but what choice have you got?). And so you hop on one foot while trying to insert the other into an unfamiliar hole (ahem), which may or may not even be the right size, and which as almost certainly be folded or tagged in such a way as to make you trip or fall over, the pressure of which springs open the unreliable change room door and there you lie on the grubby floor, pants around your ankles, breasts splayed for all to see, forcing you to purchase hundreds of dollars of clothes just to ease your embarrassment and make it all seem worthwhile (but in reality, the overpriced blouses will hang droopily in your closet, unworn, until you donate them to goodwill 3 years later, with the tags still on). Or something like that.
12. Long story short, I threw the underwear out. I mean, obviously they're cursed. I have no need for underwear that have it out for me. I get enough shit from my vests.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Jamie to the Rescue
Some time ago I expressed my sheer and utter delight at having become the internet's leading source on goat sex. Since then, I have made impressive gains in the fields of grandma sex, fuckfests of all kinds (not just the Friday variety), morning erections, and last but certainly not least, the inflatable date category, otherwise known as blow up dolls.
Ah yes.
And as always, I am inundated by questions that people ask (read: Google anonymously) in earnest, but probably find unsatisfactory answers, judging solely by the absolute crap offered up sneakily disguised as truth on Kill the Goat.
Out of guilt, and possible libel suits, here is my attempt to rectify the situation:
1. I'll start today with whomever had the pressing need to know about who "rimmed her mistress."
First, let me highlight the fact that it wasn't me, no matter what you've heard.
And that's assuming you mean rimming as in applying coarse salt to a margarita glass.
If you're talking about old Colonel Angus, I'm afraid I'll have to plead the fifth. I mean, remember when we found out about President Clinton and the black kiss he supposedly shared with Monica? That didn't go over so well for him, now did it? So I'm thinking that pornos aside, the whole anal-oral thing exists mostly behind doors (and hopefully, mostly behind dental dams). So the only advice I can offer you is this: if your mistress is having a series of "this one time, at bandcamp" moments, well, maybe you should pick up your rusty trombone and join her.
Just stop looking at me like that.
2. Another oft-repeated question is "Do women hate hosiery?"
Clearly, these are all google hits from males. I don't think there's a female over 11 who would have to ask that. If you don't believe me, just ask whoever bluntly googled "pantyhose makes your crotch sweaty." Does that sound nice to you?
No, I thought not. The truth about nylons is this: they were invented to counter the feminist movement.
With such fragile, finnicky things as the only barrier between our untouchable skin and the big, bad world, men thought that surely they could keep us daintily in the home, doing nothing more streneous or adventurous than ironing on the highest setting.
But they were wrong. We ditched the nylons; now we're wearing pants and the whole world has gone to hell, and there's not a single woman left who doesn't curse the rare occasions that she tries to contort herself into lycra-induced purgatory.
3. Another young, naive individual happened upon Kill the Goat searching for "what makes men irresistible."
There is only one thing that makes a man irresistible: money. Preferably, lots of it. No matter what your moma tells you, no matter how many issues of Cosmo you've read, no matter how addicted to Dr. Phil you are, everything else is just pluses and minuses.
Cash is foolproof.
4. To the deluded individual who wondered "do straight men wear thongs?":
the answer is an unqualified and resounding no. Just no. That's all you need to know. If you need convincing, you can look here, but note, it's for the strong of stomach only.
In fact, my good friend L. assures me that gay men don't wear them, either. So who is wearing them? Just the trannies? Do we want to know?
No. No, we don't.
5. And finally, let me address a growing concern that has hit the internet like a storm:
Ben Affleck's long toenails. Now, I don't know Ben Affleck, or his feet. I don't even remember having seen a picture of his uncovered foot. But the internet runs on the fumes of rumours, not facts, and who am I to say I'm better than the internet?
Ben Affleck, shame on you. May you be cursed with drinking problems and low box office returns and shotgun weddings for possibly (but maybe not) inflicting your gross toes on the world at large.
Because whether you're Ben Affleck or not, here's the thing: if you leave your house in sandals, you have a duty to humanity to have presentable feet. No one's toenails should ever be anything but extremely short. Even a woman with the french-pedicure thing going on makes me throw up in my mouth a bit. Trim, people, trim!
Ah yes.
And as always, I am inundated by questions that people ask (read: Google anonymously) in earnest, but probably find unsatisfactory answers, judging solely by the absolute crap offered up sneakily disguised as truth on Kill the Goat.
Out of guilt, and possible libel suits, here is my attempt to rectify the situation:
1. I'll start today with whomever had the pressing need to know about who "rimmed her mistress."
First, let me highlight the fact that it wasn't me, no matter what you've heard.
And that's assuming you mean rimming as in applying coarse salt to a margarita glass.
If you're talking about old Colonel Angus, I'm afraid I'll have to plead the fifth. I mean, remember when we found out about President Clinton and the black kiss he supposedly shared with Monica? That didn't go over so well for him, now did it? So I'm thinking that pornos aside, the whole anal-oral thing exists mostly behind doors (and hopefully, mostly behind dental dams). So the only advice I can offer you is this: if your mistress is having a series of "this one time, at bandcamp" moments, well, maybe you should pick up your rusty trombone and join her.
Just stop looking at me like that.
2. Another oft-repeated question is "Do women hate hosiery?"
Clearly, these are all google hits from males. I don't think there's a female over 11 who would have to ask that. If you don't believe me, just ask whoever bluntly googled "pantyhose makes your crotch sweaty." Does that sound nice to you?
No, I thought not. The truth about nylons is this: they were invented to counter the feminist movement.
With such fragile, finnicky things as the only barrier between our untouchable skin and the big, bad world, men thought that surely they could keep us daintily in the home, doing nothing more streneous or adventurous than ironing on the highest setting.
But they were wrong. We ditched the nylons; now we're wearing pants and the whole world has gone to hell, and there's not a single woman left who doesn't curse the rare occasions that she tries to contort herself into lycra-induced purgatory.
3. Another young, naive individual happened upon Kill the Goat searching for "what makes men irresistible."
There is only one thing that makes a man irresistible: money. Preferably, lots of it. No matter what your moma tells you, no matter how many issues of Cosmo you've read, no matter how addicted to Dr. Phil you are, everything else is just pluses and minuses.
Cash is foolproof.
4. To the deluded individual who wondered "do straight men wear thongs?":
the answer is an unqualified and resounding no. Just no. That's all you need to know. If you need convincing, you can look here, but note, it's for the strong of stomach only.
In fact, my good friend L. assures me that gay men don't wear them, either. So who is wearing them? Just the trannies? Do we want to know?
No. No, we don't.
5. And finally, let me address a growing concern that has hit the internet like a storm:
Ben Affleck's long toenails. Now, I don't know Ben Affleck, or his feet. I don't even remember having seen a picture of his uncovered foot. But the internet runs on the fumes of rumours, not facts, and who am I to say I'm better than the internet?
Ben Affleck, shame on you. May you be cursed with drinking problems and low box office returns and shotgun weddings for possibly (but maybe not) inflicting your gross toes on the world at large.
Because whether you're Ben Affleck or not, here's the thing: if you leave your house in sandals, you have a duty to humanity to have presentable feet. No one's toenails should ever be anything but extremely short. Even a woman with the french-pedicure thing going on makes me throw up in my mouth a bit. Trim, people, trim!
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