Even considering the stellar archive of posts I have amassed, you will not see any laurel resting going on around here.  I still have to think up shit to write about.  For inspiration, I looked to see what searches brought people over to the tiffanized side on WordPress.  A lot of the usual:  slutty clowns, ginny weasley giving harry potter a blow job, delorians.  I think I’ve covered those topics well, and don’t need to address them again.

But then I ran across “man nipples”.  If someone came to my blog looking for “man nipples”, they were certainly disappointed.  I have one, maybe three, man nipples in evidence over here. 

Until today.

It had been my every intent to title this post, “Nipples I Have Loved” and populate it with images of the useless mammaries of men I’ve slept with.  Oddly, none of my past lovers wanted to share their nipples with the world.  This may explain why I’m no longer sharing my nipples with them anymore.  I can’t tolerate a man who is stingy with his nipples.

If you came here today looking for man nipples, I am your servant.  I will cover the nipples of men–or uncover them, as the case may be–until I’m convinced that your curiosity has been sated.  On the surface, it hardly seems necessary; men have no shame about their chests.   They have stray hairs, wobbly bits, and bellybutton fuzzballs the size of a quarter, but they’ll whip off their shirts anywhere:  beaches, parks, hotel lobbies, wedding receptions.  This is probably why I was baffled when my exes refused to offer up their nip photos for my blog, a.k.a. “the greater good”.  C’mon, dude, you lifted your shirt at Sunday dinner to show my grandma how you can lick your own nipple, but you won’t snap a pic with your Blackberry and shoot it over to me?  You’re an enigma.

So first, a general overview.  We’ll start with a man nipple smörgåsbord (you’re welcome, Swedes), then break it down to the nipples of specific men. Brace yourself.

The Norm
 
No, not George Wendt’s nipples, though I have to say I wish I’d thought to Google image search that one, morbid curiosity and all that.  I’m calling these manipples ‘normal’, totally aware that there is no such thing as a normal nipple, my own personal nipples being proof of that.  I’ve branded these as ‘normal’ nipples based on the fact that, if during a romantic encounter of some sort I were to run across these nipples, I would not stop to think about them.  They are there, they are round and unremarkably pigmented, and I would move on to uncovering other hidden parts.

The Purposely Altered

I’ve run into a couple of these in my travels, and I think they are just grand.  One request:  if you are going to pierce one nipple, please pierce the other.  I’m a fiend for symmetry.

Also to be found in the “Purposely Altered” category is the tattooed male nipple.  I will get into these when I discuss my Favorite Man Nipples Ever, but let me pause to show you what may be the greatest use I’ve come across for the male nipple:

This fellow, while lacking some basic facial hygiene, heroically saved his man nip from going to waste.  Also, I think he is in a bar in the daytime, which is to be praised, or that is his personal liquor collection, which is to be worshipped.

Alternately, I have found what may be the worst use of male nipplage in public:

I will be the first person in line to see man-on-man action, but this does not flip my switch.

The Hairy Potter

Believe me when I say you are a lucky person not to have seen the entire picture.  There was a ripped muscle shirt and more hair.  So much hair.

The Pec

This is nice in a “traditionally and impossibly perfect” sort of way.  The tiny nipple, elongated and stretched by the underlying muscle, sits atop the pec like a brownish cherry atop a tan sundae.  Wow, that was more disgusting an image than it sounded in my head.  You get the picture (and I’ve got the HQ original, lucky me).

Test your Knipple Knowledge!
Match the male celebrity with their nipple:

A.	1. Barack Obama
B.	2. Jake Gyllenhaal
C.	3. David Beckham
D.	4. Johnny Depp
E.	5. Leonardo DiCaprio
F.	6. Ryan Reynolds
G.	7. Alex Skarsgard
H.	8. Peter Griffin
I.	9. Zac Efron
J.	10. Ryan Gosling
Answers: A-6; B-5; C-10; D-2; E-8; F-4; G-3; H-7; I-1; J-9

Vintage Mipples

Rebel Nipple

Streetcar Nipple (Marlon Brando)

They don't make mipples like this anymore (Paul Newman)

That last picture of Paul Newman is a nice segue into a little piece of self-indulgence I like to call Tiffanized’s Favorite Man Nipples Ever:

Frank Iero. My Chemical Nipples. Gah.

M Shadows from Avenged Sevenfold. I would've posted Zacky Vengeance and Synyster Gates too, but I thought that might make me explode.

Holy European Androgyny, Batman. (Louis Garrel)

Nick Hoult.

Technically, there are no mipples showing in that last picture, but WHO THE FUCK CARES?  Nicholas Hoult is stunning. 

No list of My Favorite Man Nipples Ever would be complete without Twinipples.

Taylor Lautner's mipples are still illegal until February 2010.

Kellan Lutz, arguably the nicest of the Twinipple pack. He rocked the Perfect Pec look while Taylor Lautner was still Sharkboy.

Robward. I know his left mipple was wonky in New Moon, but it's non-wonky and totally flickable in this picture.

There you go.  Those of you in apparent desperate search for male nipples need look no farther.  I’ve covered it all.  I’m all nippled out.

In the ongoing and not very interesting but for some reason all consuming story of my pee money–which, by the way, is still wrapped tight in paper towels and a Ziploc baggie–I’ve written a letter to the U.S. Treasury to ask what to do with it. Of course, my actual plan is to toss the cash into my next load of laundry, but I want to see what response if any I get from our fine government. I was bewildered to see that there is no e-mail address to send inquiries for damaged money; I didn’t realize that anyone still functioned without electronic communications. Determined as I am, I dusted off Microsoft Word and tapped out this highly professional missive:

November 25, 2009

Chief, Office of Compliance
Bureau of Engraving and Printing
Currency Residue Request
14th & C Streets, S.W.
Room – 321A
Washington, D.C. 20228

RE: Damaged Currency

Dear Sirs and/or Madams:

This is a little embarrassing. Yesterday, I had an accident that resulted in me urinating on a five (5) dollar bill. The accident was of the “money fell in the toilet” variety rather than the “I wet my pants” variety.

My question is, does urinating on paper currency render it “damaged”? Without going into the gory details of its retrieval from the toilet, I did rinse the bill thoroughly and it shows no signs (staining, water damage) of its ordeal. But considering the ick factor here, I would feel better knowing your opinion of how I should proceed with the cash. Money laundering jokes aside, can I throw it in the washing machine? Should I send it to you for replacement?

Until I hear back, I will keep the money quarantined in a zipper sealed sandwich bag.

Thank you for your time,

Tiffany ******

P.S. I tried to find the answer to my question on your website, but could only find this address and a telephone number. If you have time, could you explain why there is no e-mail address for your department? I am admittedly biased toward “modern” technology, but even my grandmother has an e-mail address, though she doesn’t know how to check her inbox, bless her heart.

Now I wait.  I anticipate at least six to eleven weeks, being that this is the United States government I’m waiting on.  I tried to walk the line between “boring letter that gets ignored” and “letter that gets my name put on a government watch list”.  I’m guessing I might even see this again should I try to run for public office in the future, but I’m sure it will pale in comparison to all my naked photos and drunken Tweets floating around out there.

I saw this video about Howie Mandel washing all of his money.  Smart dude.

A couple of hours ago, I had to pee.  I could buffer this confession with a euphemism, like, “I had to use the bathroom,” or “I had to do one of my little jobs,” but the “pee” is the crux of the story.  So I went to pee.  We have a lovely bathroom at work; matte pewter fixtures, purple walls, a large basin sink.  It’s very clean.  You see, “clean” is also important to the story, which is why it is being emphasized.  I went to “pee” in the “clean” bathroom.  We are all on the same page.

I settled in, content with my lot in life that I get to pee daily in such a clean, purple bathroom.  Mid-pee, I heard something rustle behind me, sort of like a leaf gently shaken loose from a branch in fall, and wondered what that could be.  I turned to look, and to my horror, that the neatly folded five dollar bill I’d had in my back pocket was now floating in the same toilet bowl into which I was relieving myself.  There was nothing I could do.  The pee had hit the bowl, as the saying doesn’t go.  I briefly said a prayer of thanks that this was not a “big job” I was turning out and finished my business.

Dramatic Re-Creation of Events

I wiped, stood, then considered my options with my pants pooled around my favorite black high heeled boots.  Flush the bill?  Throw out the money with the peewater as the saying doesn’t go?  Maybe if it were one dollar, but this was a five, and I’m a cheap bitch.  I was afraid to leave the room, lest someone come in and pee on my money*.  Like MacGyver, I searched the bathroom for something with which I could extract the money from the potty.  Unlike MacGyver, I came up blank and made a decision I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy:  I went in with my bare hands.  Actually, first I did a dance I like to call “I have to stick my hand in peewater”, which looks a lot like the “I just found a spider in my comforter” dance, only with the “I just did a shot of cheap tequila” face.  Then I went in with my bare hands.

I think at that point I blacked out, because the next thing I remember was washing the money in the sink.  My pants were up, the toilet was flushed, and the only indicator of my crisis situation was the cash being rinsed.    I grabbed a stack of paper towels, laid the bill on them, then covered it with another stack of paper towels while I washed my hands for twenty minutes, then soaped up and washed the sink, then washed my hands again before putting on half a bottle of hand sanitizer.

So the question is this:  what do I do with the bill?  Clearly I can’t touch it again without gloves; it’s currently still wadded up in the paper towels inside of a plastic bag.  I would also not feel comfy pawning it off on the kindly Indian woman at the Subway, half because I like her and half because I don’t want her to make anyone’s sandwich after she’s touched that five.  I’ve agonized over my options, and I’m polling on what it’s come down to:

*If I had a nickel for every time I’ve had to say this–well, I probably wouldn’t have to fish pee-covered bills from the toilet.

At least the O part. The jury is still out on the C part. I’m too lazy to be compulsive. Obsessive doesn’t seem to require any extra effort from me.

A few days ago, I notice that we have crayons in many different parts of the house. We have our regular vat of crayons on the desk, then some stray boxes of new crayons, then a couple of random bags of crayons that the kids brought home from school at the end of last year when they cleaned out their desks. I know it’s October. I realize the bags of crayons came home in June. I’ve already mentioned that I’m lazy; what more do you want? I need to consolidate these crayons.

Let me pause to say that I can’t see the tops of my living room tables for all the stuff piled on them. I haven’t dusted anything since March. There are more clothes on my bedroom floor than in my closet. Food is starting to vacate my refrigerator of its own accord, out of sheer disgust. But my real problem is with the status of the crayons.

Back to the story. I situate myself in the middle of the kitchen floor and divide the crayons into four categories: new, used but still good, off brand, and broken. I really only need two categories–keep and toss–but morbid curiosity about my personal crayon statistics makes me create four. I start sorting. I notice that at some point in my past, I’ve dated some of the crayons. DATED THEM. As though they might expire. I don’t get this. I did this myself, but I don’t get it. I laugh a little at my previous insanity, as though my current crayon procedure is any less ridiculous.

You're not fooling anyone.

I start getting pissed at the off brand crayons. I didn’t buy them. I will use a generic deodorant, I will buy a Coby television, I will serve store brand tuna, but I’ll be fucked if there is any other acceptable crayon than Crayola. What is this Rose Art shit? What happened is I bought the Crayolas for my kid last year, carefully labeled the box with her name, and the teacher put them all in one storage cabinet and doled them out like the effing coloring lottery. Some bastard kid brought cheap imposter crayons and walks away with the real thing while my kid toils away with a half-assed waxy crayon that provides no coverage. The damned things have “Crayon” written on the side in the same font as “Crayola” and someone hopes no one will notice. I notice. I decide that next year, I’m labeling every single crayon with her full name.

I need to be more careful what Internet sites my kids are looking at.

I get the crayons sorted. Broken ones in the trash. Who is busting these things up? Some of these crayons appear to have been involved in an IED explosion. My kid starts crying that I’m throwing away her crayons. I’m tossing what amounts to forty crayons out of the 500 or so that have accumulated in our home. She’s screaming she can use them for something. She wants to chop them up and melt them into new crayons like Martha Stewart does. Why? You can buy a new box for a quarter at Wal-Mart in August. She’s losing it over the idea that I’m throwing out the crayon nubs. I deposit the broken crayons into a paper bag to appease her. When she’s not looking I throw them out, an act I’m sure to pay for later when she goes looking for her precious broken crayons.

I’m considering carrying the off brand ones to last year’s teacher and asking her what gives. I imagine she’ll say it doesn’t matter which crayons they get, since they’re all pretty much the same. Okay, Ms. First Grade. Why don’t we just throw all the teacher’s paychecks in a hat and let you pick one at random? It doesn’t matter, it’s all money, dollars and cents you know. I decide I’m too lazy to actually go to the school and hand her the generic crayons so I throw them out. The kids don’t complain about this because they hate the cheap things as much as I do. I’ve raised them to be crayon snobs.

You will be spared, Bittersweet of 10/19/09.

So I’m left with the “used but good” crayons which are dated and the new ones which are not. I know it is going to bug me forever if I don’t date the new crayons and they’re in there touching the dated ones. I also know I can’t make this decision later because it has to be today’s date on them. I can’t go back through and sort them again and just date them for whenever, especially if my kids have used some of them. How will I know which Carnation Pink is the oldest? I might be faced with a do-or-die decision in which I have choose which Bittersweet to keep and I’ll have no basis for my choice. So I date them. About a hundred of them. I might have OCD.

On the other hand, I just gained a thousand self-esteem points, because I know I look hotter than that on the pole.

I have a confession to make:  I’m a masochist.  Not even one of the fun ones who likes to have her nipples clamped with Chip Clips or spend time on the correction bench.  I seem to own a special kind of masochism that makes me post my profile on Internet dating sites.

This would be the paragraph where I explain why I need to resort to the lowly world of Internet dating.  I would first assert my status as a non-loser, rattle off my killer schedule that proves it’s impossible for me to meet people in real life, and try to differentiate myself from the masses of drooling losers who pay $30 a month to have a computer set them up with a social reject like some sort of electronic shadchen.  I’m not going to write that paragraph, because you already know I’m a loser, and also because I don’t pay $30 a month; I use a free dating site.  Admitting to online dating is awkward, and there’s just no getting around it.  We’ll just push through and get to the point of this post.

How many times do you think I'll mention nipples in my post?

So every few months or so, I realize it’s been a while since I got laid asked out on a date, and I go to my trusty free dating site.  I update my profile, check carefully for spelling errors, make sure there are no nipples showing in any of my profile pictures, and cast my line.  Is that the right terminology?  To cast one’s line, like when you go fishing?  If it’s not, what I’m trying to say there is that I am metaphorically throwing my pole over my shoulder, thrusting it forward [God, it really has been a while, hasn't it?], and hoping my hook goes not into my leg but into the water where it will catch a manfish.  Wow, totally non-creepy.

The next hour or so is wrought with anticipation as I watch the replies roll in.  Some sick Pollyanna voice in my head tells me that one of these unread messages in my inbox could be the man who will change my future into a tandem-bike filled reverie.  As you can imagine, this has not happened in the history of online dating, no matter what the commercials might tell you.  I’m not sure if I would want it to, since any bike that requires my legs to coordinate with another person’s is destined to end up mangled in a ditch, as my legs barely coordinate with each other.  I’m watching the responses rolling in, and this is when reality jumps up and says, “HA!  You stupid bitch!  Do you think if Prince Charming existed he’d spend his nights browsing for single white women between the ages of 25 and 35?”  No, these are the motherfuckers who are looking for me:

HI

My God, where to begin?  With the message subject lined “hi”?  How about the one that says, “hi”?  Ooooh, there’s the guy who says “HI”–I bet he’s a take-charge kind of dude the way he uses ALL CAPS.  In this particular set, I managed to only open two:  “wow” and “for real..”.  Let me just say, it only gets worse when you open them.  The message inside of “wow” turned out to be a run-on sentence.  It wasn’t like a simple mistake, either; he took what should have been four or five sentences, jammed them together, then removed all traces of punctuation.  “for real..” at least used punctuation.  Unfortunately, that punctuation was the disturbing “/////” between every sentence.  For some reason those look like Norman-Bates-kills-blonde-chick-in-shower punctuation marks.  I read between the lines.

His message:   Hi.  ///// Saw ur profile. ////// What u doin this weekend? //////////

What I read:  Hi.  /slash/murder/scream/blood/ Saw ur profile. /want/to/wear/your/skin/ What u doin this weekend? /I’ll/keep/you/in/a/crate/in/the/basement/

Yeah.  Sorry Charlie.

I’m going to give these guys some helpful online dating tips because I am a nice person.  I really am.  I flip over beetles who have gotten stuck on their backs so they won’t die on the sidewalk.  When I see turtles on the road I’ll stop and move them so they won’t get hit by cars.  This is the same reason I give rides to my alcoholic neighbors walking to the convenience store for their evening 12-pack of Coors.

This post is my way of giving back to the community of men who will never have the pleasure of spending an awkward evening at a restaurant with me because their profile/message makes them look like a moron.  We’ve already addressed the subject line; let’s cover some other topics.

flymoneyguy4u

Your user name: You do not need to include the word “guy” in your user name; this is a given. If it contains a number in place of a word (e.g., “4″ instead of “for”), it has 2 go. <–See how irritating that shit is? Should also not read like a rap nickname, particularly if you are white and not Eminem.

Your tagline:  You are not looking for “the love of a lifetime”, or “someone to snuggle with in the winter”.  You are trying to get into my pants.   One of you mentioned trying to fill a missing void, which came straight from the Department of Redundancy Department, but at least it’s on the right track.

Your profile:  Use a picture that was taken this century.  If your profile says you are 38 but your photo is clearly your “casual pose” from your high school Senior portrait session, I am going to assume you haven’t been attractive to humans since 1995.  Include information about your actual lifestyle.  There is no way all of you prioritize “long walks on the beach” on your lists of interests.  I’ve been to the beach–there were no roving packs of men enjoying long walks on the beach, and according to your profiles, there should have been thousands of you.  Maybe you were all inside having a candlelit dinner in front of a fireplace at the time?  For serious, tell me what you actually enjoy.

My profile:  Read it.  It will give you insight into who I am as a human being, and thus, directions into my pants.  If you are not interested in anything below my picture, you are thrusting your pole in the wrong direction, bud.

Addressing me:  Don’t use the words “darlin’”, “sweetie”, ”angel”, “lady” or any combination thereof.  I will know you did not read my profile, because if you had, you would have gathered that I am none of those things.   Men who use these words without irony will not find my feminist theories endearing.

how u doin

Your message:  “How u doin” is not a message.  Neither is “u hott”, “hit me up on IM” or “great tits”.  I’m thinking you should have at least three sentences in there, one about what you thought of my profile, one that makes me want to go to your profile, and one inviting me to make the next move.  Don’t forget the punctuation.

I’ll be honest here.  I’m not trying to help these guys out.  I’m trying to help me out.  A week of reading these horrifying messages from men who spend two seconds putting their profile together, and I’m done.  The profile comes down.

This is when I usually I remember that I like being single and having the freedom to surf the internet topless in the living room while eating Kit-Kats for dinner and listening to Mickey Avalon at top volume.  After all, the Internet is rife with sites that sell sex toys whose spelling abilities I could give two shits about.

P.S. Nipple

I’m starting my search for an amazing Halloween costume.  My original plan had been to go as “Honeymoon Bella” but some bitches at TwiCon beat me to it and I’ve had to start from scratch.  Apparently, the Halloween Industrial Complex has decided that I’m going to be a slut for Halloween.  If you have a vagina, they’ve also decided that you will be a slut for Halloween.  There are infinite variations of this theme, but they all come back to the same thing.

Exhibit A:  The Firefighter

The revered firefighter.  It should call up images of rescued babies and kittens, not thigh high hooker boots.  The image on the left is of a firefighter costume, the one on the right is of a slut in a plastic hat.

Exhibit B: The Football Player

Okay, I’ll concede that the male football player is pretty sexy, even though he is inexplicably barefoot.  But at least he gets to have a whole shirt.   Bonus points if you noticed the number on both jerseys.

Exhibit C:  The Referee

A close relative to the slutball player, this may be the most blatant double standard of the post.  I think with this one, it is the high-heeled Chucks that pushed my ass over the edge.

Exhibit D:  The Hobo

When I first saw this, I was terrified that I’d stumbled across a slutty clown; I’m not usually afraid of clowns, but for this I was willing to make an exception.  The reality is that these are hobos, or at least one of them is.  The other is a hoboslut, a term I swore I’d never use again.   I don’t know what the hobos look like where you’re from, but around here, they almost never sport a keyhole cutout in their flannel.

Exhibit E:  The Hogwarts Student

I don’t know what offends me most:  the bastardization of a beloved literary series, the sluttification of the female costume, or the fact that the female Hogwarts model is supposed to be plus-sized.  If she is plus-sized, then I am too large to be seen with the naked eye.

Exhibit F:  The M&M

Come on.  The female costume isn’t even shaped like an M&M, unless you count those freaky disfigured ones you run across every so often (I never eat those–it just seems wrong).

Exhibit G:  The American Indian

I’m not even going to get started on the cultural inaccuracies here, because I don’t have time and I’m not an expert on Native Americans.  The guy on the left may look stupid, but the poor woman on the right is called “Pocahottie”.  I couldn’t make this shit up.

Exhibit H:  The Soldier

No wonder there’s been so much hullabaloo about women in the military.  I would imagine they do have trouble fighting like men if they’re wearing hot pants and knee boots.  That’s not the standard issue uniform for a female soldier, you say?  That’s right, that’s the slut uniform.  You understand the confusion–the site had the costume on the right labeled “Soldier”.

Exhibit I:  The Nutcracker

Okay, which of you sick fuckers has the nutcracker fetish?  Wait . . . Rule #57 of blogging: don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.  But a nutcracker?  You’re defiling the very sanctity of the most capitalistic of our religious holidays with a slutty toy in a weird hat.  Too far, costume people.  Too far.

This is going to be the first of several recounts of my trip to Hawaii earlier this month; I’d post them all at once, but I don’t want to inadvertently kill you with all the awesome.

Seriously, the whole effing state looks like a postcard.

I have a friend (who shall remain nameless, lest you all try to steal her from me) who invited me to come spend a week with her at her home on a Marine base in Hawaii. Believe it or not, I balked at first; I’m pasty white, I don’t fly well, and I’m not even getting into the amount of bikini grooming I haven’t done this summer.  Then she mentioned something about having access to 19-year-old Marines who were away from home for the first time in their lives, and I caved–I like them young and scared.

Not just for breakfast anymore.

At the Atlanta airport, I did four a couple shots of Patrón at 9 a.m.  This made me even more amiable than usual, and I was loving everyone on that airplane, including the retired Chicago cop I was seated next to, who will be lovingly referred to as Flashback Joe for the remainder of the post.  By the time we were over Arkansas, Flashback had asked me to marry him, and I agreed to give him my phone number when we disembarked.  I gave him my freeze-dried meat product they served us, and he gave me his stale roll.  Mind you, this man was close to forty when I was born.  But I loved Flashback Joe, and he loved me.  And then the Patrón started to wear off, and as happens with all romantic affairs, I began to notice his flaws.  Like the fact that he was seventy years old and looked fourteen months pregnant.

Mmmm, Colorado-y.

When we were over Colorado, he accused me of having poor housekeeping skills and lusting after other men (I was totally doing that, since I was watching “Twilight” on my iPhone).  Just before California, I met his daughter, a petulant young woman seated three rows ahead of us who took an instant dislike to me.

I'd ship this to Flashback if I had his address

Somewhere over the Pacific, I’d had it; the attendants had served us some sort of cheese bread as a snack, and Flashback ate his with open-mouthed enthusiasm as he prodded me to discuss my cooking abilities. Short experiment: sit very close to someone who has trusted you up to this point. Wad up a piece of cheesy bread in your mouth and chew it a little; then turn to your trusting partner and say “fettuccine alfredo” a couple of times. If your formerly trusting friend is not covered in flecks of your wadded up ABC cheese roll, I’ll send you seven dollars. I sure as hell had Flashback Joe’s snack speckling the entire right side of my body and I was OVER IT.

I turned my body and pretended to look for Hawaii on the horizon, even though there was at least two hours of flight left.  This did not deter Flashback, who took to grabbing my arm every ten minutes or so to introduce me to another of an indeterminate number of his offspring who were scattered about the aircraft.  I was appalled to be engaged to such a man, and announced that I didn’t plan to remarry until I was in my fifties [and he was dead].  He assured me that I would change my mind, and when I rejected that theory, he spat (literally, he was a champion spitter) that I would be dried up when I was fifty.  I stuttered and blinked like Kristen Stewart trying to be dramatic, and then I had an IQ jump, an idea sure to definitively snuff out the dying embers of our relationship.

I pulled out Pocket Edward.

Edward welcomes you to Honolulu.

Yes I, a full grown woman on an airplane with 400 strangers, pulled out my miniature plastic vampire and started to pose him in various ways, some grotesque, some obscene.  I dangled him from my fold down tray.  I put him in the barf bag.  I tried to situate him in a meditation pose, airline peanut in each hand, but that motherfucker DOES NOT BEND.  By the time Pocket Edward humped my travel pillow, Flashback Joe was pretending he did not know me.  Indeed, he didn’t speak for the remainder of the trip, and when we landed, I don’t even think he retrieved his luggage, so eager he was to get away from me and my freaky toy fetish.  This knowledge I now impart to you:  pull out a tiny plastic dude on a flight, and no one will fuck with you.

Note:  While making sure I got my descriptions of Pocket Edward correct, I pulled up the Amazon product page for same.  I was shocked to find several errors, including the assertion that P.E. is fully poseable (I can attest that he is most certainly not) and a description of Edward Cullen as a “shining” vampire when he clearly does not shine, but sparkle (P.E. disappointingly does neither).  I nearly died when I read under “Choking Hazards” that Pocket Edward contains a small ball and/or a marble, and may have a balloon concealed on his tiny person; I am now obsessed with finding all three.

If ad agencies kept fifteen year old boys on their payroll, they’d immediately realize the problems inherent in this sort of ad campaign:

All I could think was “blue balls”.  I had to rewind the TiVo machine just to find out what product it was for.  Apparently they have a whole campaign around the blue balls.

You see how a teenage boy could have nipped this shit in the bud–the idea would have never made it past the white board stage, what with all the giggling and guffawing and Beavis-and-Buttheading that would have been going on.

Then there’s this, which blows my mind every time:

At least Hardee’s did it on purpose, though hearing that creepy guy say “Creamy Balls” and an old woman say “Happy Holes” has permanently altered my soul.  If you can handle Morgan Freeman’s doppelganger uttering the phrase, “The A-hole tastes funny”, click this link.

I didn’t plan for this to be a Rob Pattinson blog, and I still don’t, because there are already a shit-ton of awesome ladies doing that job*.  However, this week my Rob DVD collection arrived (“Bad Mother’s Handjobbook”, “The Haunted Airman”, “How to Be” and “Little Ashes”), and I can’t think about anything else, much less blog about it.

I’d seen all of the movies online already, apart from “Little Ashes”.  After several false starts, I decided I should approach the film the same way I approach mediocre sex:  by drinking an entire bottle of wine first. Now, before the advent of Twitter, this would have resulted in my friends and co-workers receiving a disjointed series of drunken texts from me, but today I have the technology available to drunk Tweet the entire world.  I am nothing if not on the cutting edge of the intoxicated abuse of technology.

So here is a synopsis of “Little Ashes”, as drunkenly Tweeted by me.  There are spoilers in here for sure, so don’t bitch that I didn’t warn you.

I’m just drunk enough to watch “Little Ashes”. I’m going in, bitches.

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I totally want to do Little ashes Rob and i’ve only seen his eye so far

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Oh rob how could you? Boots? Hair?

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Is he pretending to be asleep?

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Please leg rob cut his hair and start kissing Frederico Lorca soon

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My ability to decipher Spanish accents while drunk? ZERO

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Awkward Robador.

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Is Robador wearing a top hat? He totes looks like Slash.

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I think Lorca just said he can’t leave Spain because he hates shoes.

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Oohb god the tuck just happened. lm dued [This requires a little translation into soberspeak:  "Oh, God, The TUCK just happened.  I'm dead."]

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Why the f*ck are Rob’s dalipants so short?

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Lorca, we’ve all had impure thoughts about Robador. It’s okay.

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So jealous of the naked model.

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“How do you feel about communal defecation?” GOLd.

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Yum. Shirtless fighting Spaniards.

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“I don’t want to be a ghost.” True dat.

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Cadacques moonlight scene = Isle Esme.

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What up with the purple headscarf situation? Ooh, kissing. syl.

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So, Dali is just not gay, I guess. Would have made a more compelling love scene if he was.

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<3 Lorca’s visions of Dali with topless can-can dancers.

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The “mustache” makes its first appearance. Blerg.

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Dali slaps, then kisses Lorca. Hot. Totally masochistic. I know what’s ving next. .

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Bald, laughing, painted Robador. Perfect visualization of how I am when I write. [This baffles me.  I do not write while painted, though I do laugh often and shaved my head that one time.]

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This movie is blasted long.

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Paps in Little Ashes totes ironic.

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I know Gala was older than Dali, but this actress easily has 25 years on Rob.

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Did not expect execution scene. Tears. Sad, drunk, wild tears.

So there it is.  I thought “Little Ashes” was a beautiful movie, and The TUCK was quite brief and in context.  I thought Rob did much better than a lot of reviewers gave him credit for as well, and I may or may not be slightly in love with Javier Beltrán now.  Maybe next time I’ll even watch it sober.

*These ladies being JAG at Random Acts of Rob, themoonisdown & unintendedchoice at Letters to Rob (they coined “The Bad Mother’s Handjob” and “The TUCK”, strokes of genius both), Amber at Rob My World, and justfp, justkg and justchristy at Thinking of Rob.  There are more, but these are the ones I go to every day because they’re fucking amazing.