That’s not true. I love this video. I love this song. I do, however, have some things to say about it, and nothing makes me happier than creating a numbered list.
1. Red tennis shoes, or maybe deck shoes, on a grown up, presumably straight man. Even allowing for the fashion clusterfuck that was the eighties, the mind still boggles.
2. Someone–a director, a manager, a camera guy–decided that despite the lyrics providing the perfect opportunity for a video with a storyline, four straight minutes of Rod Stewart dancing was the way to go. We can only assume that person had never seen Rod dance. The jogging in place at 1:58 is a particularly sexy move.
3. The hair–is it a mullet? The mole, which may have its own mullet, but I can’t tell because the video has such low resolution. The wardrobe choices that decompensate as the video wears on; at one point the man put on a pastel pantsuit that made him look distinctly like Rose Nylund. And yet, he marries supermodels on a regular basis.
4. This song contains one of my favorite romantic lines: You’re just a dream
And as real as it seems I ain’t that lucky. This may at least partially explain the supermodel wives.
5. The paint spatters. The A-Ha “Take On Me” video effects. The closeups of his bangs. This is what videography students base their “Video Effects of the 80s” projects on.
6. A long time ago, you [read: old people like me] would purchase a computer called a Commodore 64, so named because it came with only 64 KB of memory. Wrap your brain around that shit: an entire setup–monitor, keyboard, printers, wires–all for 64 KB of memory. Needless to say, the computers did very little except read floppy disks which held at most about 1.4 MB. As a point of reference, it would take about three 5 1/2 inch floppies just to hold the mp3 of the song in the video. Back in those days, there was a program about a little stick dude named Alfredo who couldn’t win for losing. No matter what he tried to do, he failed, usually spectacularly and heartbreakingly close to achieving his goal. One of these little sessions was called “Alfredo’s Lost Cause” and the version I had was set to an 8-bit soundtrack of “Some Guys Have All the Luck”. And that, my friends, is how to make a short story long.
For reasons that are still shrouded in mystery to me today, as a teenager me and one of my friends were obsessed with Rod Stewart. We listened to the albums, we giggled and joked, we even went to see him live (I was on painkillers from a dental procedure and freaked out when a giant soccer ball full of confetti exploded above my head). At some point during this awkward adolescent phase I penned what I still consider to be a fine limerick about Rod Stewart:
I just saw this classy blurb in one of my friends’ Facebook status updates:
You pass the North Korean border ILLEGALLY – you get 12 years hard labor. You pass the Afghan border ILLEGALLY – you get shot. You pass the American border ILLEGALLY – you get a job, driver’s license, allowance for a place to live, health care, education and billions of dollars spent so that you can read a document. We carry passports in other countries or face jail time. Repost this if you agree.
Um, do not agree. I don’t want the United States of America to model any behavior on the North Korean or Afghan governments.
The same person joined the group “It’s not racism stupid! You are here ILLEGALLY!” Seriously thinking about unfriending unless they can explain how the police in Arizona are going to determine who is an illegal immigrant if they don’t go on skin color, clothing, language, or occupational or cultural cues.
I don’t like people being in this country illegally either. Undocumented immigrants are at risk for abuse, are sometimes afraid to seek medical care or police assistance, and are often underpaid and overworked by entities who can threaten them because of their status. In my perfect world, we would be manning the borders to assist those seeking a better life rather than seize, detain and return them. But then again, I’m not selfish and stingy and afraid.
Today I got an e-mail from my friends over at PerpetualKid.com. Well, “friends” is a liberal term; I bought some crap from them at some point (possibly while drunk, or at least buzzed) and apparently gave them permission to beg me to buy more crap from them in the future. I doubt they’re concerned about how my divorce is turning out (fine, thanks) or are planning to invite me to their son’s wedding (I wouldn’t go anyway, so there). I wouldn’t add them on Facebook since I’ve never met them in real life or on a Twilight blog. They aren’t my friends, is what I’m saying.
I feel like this has gotten off to a defensive and weird start. The marketing department at PerpetualKid.com has me on a list to which they sent a mass e-mail about their new product, THE WORLD’S LARGEST GUMMY BEAR. I’m not yelling, they just caps-locked it right through their product description. I understand why, though. Check this bastard out:
Five pounds. Bigger than a football. I've given birth to smaller things than this.
I read the e-mail three times. Who would buy this thing? I’m going to go ahead and make the assumption that anyone with thirty spare bucks laying around has no need for a giant, sticky, 12,000 calorie anything. Thirty bucks is a night out at Applebee’s. Thirty bucks is a big bottle of Patrón for you plus a tiny bottle of Patrón that you can photograph your baby holding and hope child services never finds the picture. Thirty bucks is a pair of last season’s Anne Klein pumps. Why would someone drop thirty bucks on a single piece of candy?
If that someone was, say, me, and that someone was, say, drunk, this question would be moot. I have no ability to turn down something I want while intoxicated. Irish men, deep fried snack cakes, free puppies, I will invite them all into my life without question after three Stellas. With the advent of internet shopping, iPhones, and single-click purchase features on shopping apps, I find that on Mondays more often than not the UPS man introduces me to some item I found irresistible while straddling a barstool at Buffalo Wild Wings on Friday night.
I’ve found that these purchases occur in two major ways, the DARE and the WANT. The DARE is how I ended up with my most recent purchase, the GeMagic Deluxe Kit. How else was I going to make my What What Pants?
The DARE conversation goes something like this:
ME: Yes they do make those. I totally saw it in an infomercial.
THEM: No way do they make a dog bark translator.
ME, pulling out iPhone: Wanna bet?
THEM: Holy shit.
ME: Told you.
THEM: I dare you to buy it.
ME: I totally bought it.
I love a good dare. When I play Truth or Dare–which doesn’t happen as often in the life of a thirty-something divorcee as you’d hope it would–I always pick dare. I’ll do just about anything. It’s ridiculous, and the more drunk I am, the more ridiculous stuff I’ll do. It’s honestly a miracle I’ve never been arrested for public nudity or trespassing yet.
The WANT is usually a visceral, infantile drive to purchase something because I have to have it. The WANT purchases are usually made when I’m alone, and my inner monologue goes something like this:
ME: I want that.
ME: You don’t need it.
ME: But I want it.
ME: You can’t afford it.
ME: But I want it.
ME: You can’t fill your life with material things.
ME: Watch me. Or you. Whatever. I’m fucking buying it.
Actual things I’ve bought while drunk:
Not one, but TWO sets of Twilight trading cards. In my defense, the second set was signed by Peter Facinelli, so it’s NORMAL.
NKOTB’s “The Block”. There are no explanations for this one. I didn’t just download it either, I bought the actual damn CD.
I watched this on television in 1985. Twenty five years later and four beers in, I decided I needed perpetual access to it. Ringo Starr is in it. Yeah.
Twilight vehicle window decal. If I’d been drunk when I’d received it, it would probably be on my car right now.
2003 Volvo XC90 on eBay. Fortunately I didn’t meet the Reserve Price, or I’d be wheeling around in this bitch right now.
Things I found in my history that I must have passed out or gotten distracted before I managed to buy them:
Autographed photo of Don Knotts shaking hands with Andy Griffith on the set of “Matlock”. Obviously, I probably should actually own this.
Dog socks with little suspenders to help them stay put. I can’t decide if this is adorable or sad.
Wow. They weren't cheap, either. I think that my low Visa limit gets the credit for me not buying these shoes.
0:00-0:23 Twenty-three seconds of Oprah is too much Oprah.
Either Dakota Fanning needs to lay off the Pall Malls or Skype audio sucks rancid goat balls.
0:29 Who the fuck is Joe? I feel like there is a tech named Mark ready to hit the “go” button on the footage and Dakota just made up a name and now Mark is all pissed because it was supposed to be his turn to shine.
0:34 President Obama needs to issue a decree or executive order or whatever to force Taylor Lautner to wear snug black tee shirts all the time. No exceptions.
I'm joining the Black T-Shirt PAC
0:40 I see why the human boys were betting on Jacob in a fight. Edward looks like he could be taken down by a sick four-year-old girl.
0:54 Three thoughts:
1. FOR ALL THAT IS HOLY WHAT IS ON JASPER’S HEAD?
2. Carlisle looks like Francis the bully from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure.
"I know you are but what am I?"
3. DEVIL WIG ON JASPER’S HEAD! GET IT OFF! OH THE HUMANITY!
1:00 Riley. Fuck yeah. He looks like he’d be down for more than just a stupid leg hitch.
Those aren’t bears! Or maybe they are. They sure don’t look like wolves.
I can see why Angela would get confused.
1:14 Angry Edward. I want this to be the tent scene so BAD. I want that to be the look on Edward’s face when he sees Jacob’s fantasies about Bella. But it doesn’t make sense that he’s wearing a tie in a tent, so it’s probably the post-graduation scene when Edward finds out that the newborns belong to Victoria and they’re coming after Bella. I’m so worried that the tent scene is going to lack passion. People, I’ve been reading a ton of angsty, filthy fan fiction in the past 18 months–a ton–and I need there to be sexual frustration that I can feel in my front pocket when Jacob, Edward and Bella are in the cold tent.
Edward Cullen, now with more angst.
Wet Riley. Fuck yeah X 2.
Who knew Inferi could be so hot? Shit, wrong franchise.
1:28 Charlie Bewley . . . let me pause here to say that I want to have 17,853 of Charlie Bewley’s babies.
1:31 Really? This is a vampire battle? I expected something more nuanced than “head on collision”, probably because I, you know, read the books.
Is it in Jackson Rathbone’s contract that he must look like a deranged labradoodle in every trailer? He does not pull off the crazyface.
It's easy, Jackson. Just pretend you're attacking a member of the Summit wig department.
Okay, that diving/spinning thing is pretty cool. That’s what I was picturing for a vampire fight. Is that Alice?
1:37 FUGLY RING. Are those pavé diamonds? I talked about this months ago on LTT, Slade. I hope that the “re-shoots” going on in Vancouver right now are these scenes with a better ring. You went full Stephenie Meyer on us here. My disappointment–it is palpable.
No, it's not my mother's ring. I picked it up at the Gold & Silver kiosk at the mall.
1:39 I hate you as Victoria, Bryce Dallas Howard. You are not Victoria. It’s like watching a soap opera where they have a substitute actress while the actual actress is recovering from a herpes outbreak or something: “Today the role of Victoria will be played by Bryce Dallas Howard, who had to get a tan to play a vampire.”
Still hoping this is a practical joke on the fandom.
1:42 A lot of this trailer looks like New Moon. I think we’ve got some recycled footage here with our shirtless Jacob.
The watermark in the lower left makes it look like Taycob has an Oprah tattoo.
1:44 Charlie Bewley, looking fuckhot again. Also, some other people.
1:45 I still hate you, BDH.
I always crack up when Robward knocks down a tree or something. It’s not supposed to be funny, but it totally is.
I stopped watching here. It was going back to the Oprahfest.
Wait, I lied. May 13? Rob is spending his birthday with Oprah? That makes me feel all sickly wrong inside.
So it’s Wednesday night and I find myself slippery and in a bathtub full of muddy water reading books on dating. I hate this with an intense passion. How the hell did I get here?
The slippery part makes enough sense. I hit the tanning bed on the way home. I don’t do this often, just enough to keep my skin from becoming transparent. The cute, young, orangish girl behind the counter asked if I would like to try this new double bronzing product called Mad Monkey or Funky Banana or something of the sort. I do not know what a ‘double bronzer’ is. I know that once I had the stinky stuff smeared all over my expanse of lillywhite flesh I realized that I was supposed to wash my hands immediately afterwards, no small feat when you are oiled up and naked in a stall in a public venue. I rubbed my hands on the towel and hoped for the best. When my eight minutes were up, I came out and asked the girl what I could expect from my unwashed hands, and she giggled and said, “Oh, your palms are gonna turn orange.” Nice. So I have this to look forward to, anyway. As soon as I came home I hit the bath, whereupon I realized that this slimy shit does not wash off easily, that my skin has taken on a decidedly chemical odor, and that my bathwater turned brown when I got in. There is no way this product is not going to make me more attractive, right?
Actually, I should say my bathwater turned brown-er. It started out pretty brown. It is amazing to me that I live in a neighborhood, pay a mortgage, drive a decent vehicle, have electricity, but no clean water. I’m living the American dream until I turn the tap, then it’s the fucking third world with it’s shitty water quality. My house is like Mexico–don’t drink the water, they say. Usually I have bubbles to mask the color of the water, but apparently bath foam does not play well with weird stinky slippery bronzing shit that I think the girl gave me as a joke because seriously, I smell terrible and I might turn orange over here.
So now I’m reading dating books. I got a divorce because I wanted to be on my own, but then two years later, I find myself dating. I hate dating. I feel like a moron when I’m on a date. I don’t feel strange in the slightest hanging out with female friends, so why do I become a flaming idiot when a man is involved? Why can’t I just be myself? Enter the dating books.
The first book is about flirting. I’m a pretty good flirt. I mean, I doubt anyone I’ve been attracted to has wondered if I was attracted to them. I’m a natural. Book One confirms it. Onto Book Two.
Book Two tells me that I’m dating the wrong guys. They are all wrong for me, and I need to set higher standards. Except that my standards are already too high, and I’ve probably already discarded a guy who would have been the Right One but I was too much of a snob to notice it. Book Two has multiple personality disorder. Onto Book Three.
Book Three I will tell you the title of. Book Three is called How to Date in a Post-Dating World. Post dating world? What the hell? People don’t date anymore? How do you explain all the leg shaving and dinner check wrangling I’ve been doing for the past four months? This book tells me that I should be planning to hang out or hook up, both of which run the gamut from casual sex to marriage. The best parts of this book are the horror stories about bad dates. I could add a couple to the mix, like the guy who kept sniffing me and insisted that a stranger across the room didn’t like him. This book ends with the ominous advice to “be the bean” which I’m guessing refers back to something I missed when I skipped the entire middle section of the book.
The last book is about single dating as a parent and seems to mostly give you tips on how not to get caught having sex by your kids, what to do if your kids catch you having sex, and how much the therapy is going to cost you when your kids catch you having sex. I avoid these issues by not having sex at my house when my kids are here. Geography is key. I myself prefer to have sex out of state to remove all possibility of being caught by my kids.
I didn’t find what I was looking for in these books, which is an answer to the intense insecurities I have about myself. After all, I once chose a relationship path that failed. It didn’t fail all the time, but where it did fail, it has left me shaken. I left that relationship feeling unloveable. What if I do this again? What if that guy I like, who seems to like me, who treats me well, who makes my toes curl in bed, what if I choose to make him my only guy, and it fails fifteen years from now? My soul can’t take it.
I’m going to need some sort of extended warranty, with small-print stipulations like “the Party with the Penis promises to (a) ignore all sagging and stretching of the parts of the Party with the Vagina or (b) finance the repair and/or replacement of said sagging and stretching parts” and “the Party with the Penis agrees to maintain a separate residence to which he can retreat when the Party with the Vagina decides to lay about the house and sigh dramatically while eating chocolate for days on end”. In return, I, the Party with the Vagina, promise to bake the Party with the Penis cakes on his birthday, and love the way he smells after he’s been working on his car, and let him snorgle my cleavage while we watch bad kung fu movies. No games. No one with the upper hand. No one feeling ignored, or lonely, or ugly, or crazy. After 33 years I’m beginning to think this is an impossibility, that I’m going to have to fashion together a reasonable facsimile of a relationship by buying a Rabbit, stocking up on loyal dogs, and watching a lot of romantic comedies.
I have to go now, having just remembered that:
1. I have to bake a pie tonight, a payment from a sign stolen off of the PATH train in New Jersey and
2. I left groceries in the car, including all the pie parts, when I rushed in to wash off the Monkey Lotion.
Except for these songs. WordPress has provided this nifty player, so you can listen by just clicking the little arrow. Or not, since you’ve probably heard each of these songs several times today if you’ve left your house, or turned on your television, or spent more than two minutes awake and not wearing noise-cancelling headphones.
“Last Christmas” by Wham!
Yeah, we're totally straight.
Easily my favorite Christmas song. Firstly, you have to love a musical act that finds it necessary to include punctuation in their name. Wham!, Panic! at the Disco, . . . And You Will Know Us By the Trail of the Dead–these are all my people. Secondly, the lyrics make it sound like maybe someone carried around a year-long grudge after their crappy gift was returned. Last Christmas/I gave you my heart/but the very next day/you gave it away. Was that a gold-plated heart on a cheap chain that you bought at the Gold Connection kiosk at the mall? Because I would have returned that garbage too. Thirdly, I imagine George Michael singing this to a guy, which makes me feel really progressive.
“Feliz Navidad” by Jose Feliciano
I don’t know the words to this song. I’m under the impression that “feliz navidad” is the Spanish equivalent to “Merry Christmas”, but I like having the rest of it shrouded in mystery. I’m worried that if I Google the lyrics I might find out that Spiro Agnew is not actually mentioned, and this will RUIN CHRISTMAS FOREVER.
“Mele Kalikimaka” by Bing Crosby
Last year I had to have a root canal a week before Christmas. This sucked in a way that I can only describe as falling somewhere between “flat tire in an ice storm” and “sitting on a public toilet seat you thought was fairly clean but realizing too late that it was wet”. I decided I wasn’t going in bareback for this event, so I coughed up the thirty bucks for the N2O. I highly recommend this. In fact, if you have a dental care regimen that is keeping you away from procedures requiring nitrous oxide, you may want to stop doing that. I had a high old time on this stuff. I was in the chair for two and a half hours, during which time “Mele Kalikimaka” played three times. True to its reputation as laughing gas, the nitrous oxide elevated the mildly enjoyable song to absolute hilarity for me, and the dentist had to stop every time it came on so I could degiggle myself. At one point, the entire staff came in to watch me, I was so entertaining. Really, stop brushing. The N2O is worth the pain and dental bills.
“Santa Baby” by Eartha Kitt
What on Eartha Kitt . . . ?
Once upon a time, there was a miraculous claymation program called “The PJs”, subtitled, “The Last Funny Thing Eddie Murphy Ever Did”. Every now and again, Thurgood Stubbs would break out a ridiculous statement of surprise or exasperation, my favorite of which was, “What on Eartha Kitt?!?” At the time I didn’t know who Eartha Kitt was, but I assumed based on her name that she was a giant woman whose girth rivaled that of the planet. Later I was introduced to the tiny goddess who sat right down at a White House luncheon and had the balls to tell Ladybird Johnson that her husband was fucking up in Vietnam. Eartha died last Christmas, but she did “Santa Baby” in a way that Madonna and Marilyn only wished they could.
“All I Want for Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey
Normally, Mariah Carey at the microphone sends me running for the earplugs, but she owns this song. Also, this song is pivotal in “Love Actually”, my favorite Christmas movie that’s not really a Christmas movie, even though Carey didn’t sing the version on the soundtrack. It makes me want to show up at some guy’s door with a boombox and a series of posterboards telling him I will love him until he’s a rotted corpse, but I’m guessing that move doesn’t work in reverse.
“Do They Know It’s Christmas” by Band Aid
When I was nine or ten years old, it was en vogue for bands to do massive concerts and put out compilation records for charity. Live Aid, Farm Aid, Band Aid. Pick a noun and add “Aid” to the end and you’ve got an instant 80s fundraiser. This song is like “We are the World: Christmas Edition.” The participating artists reads like an eighties who’s who: Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet, Culture Club, George Michael, Kool and the Gang, Sting, Phil Collins, Jody Watley, Bananarama. Actually, I don’t love this song as much as I love to hate it. The lyrics are steeped in privilege: “Well tonight thank God it’s them instead of you.” Yes, this is the point of altruism, to feel superior to people dying of hunger and disease. Who approved that line? I’m looking at you, Bob Geldof.
“Christmas in Hollis” by Run-D.M.C.
This song has it all: illin’ and chillin’, a morality story about returning dropped wallets, collard greens. I thought I was a real badass with this song. My budding white girl brain thought I was getting a peek into the holiday customs of African American families. I felt quite diverse. Since then I’ve experienced several Christmases with black members of my own family, only to find out they do pretty much the same boring crap that white people do; discovering this was worse than finding out about Santa.
“Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” by U2
This is the first song I knew was a U2 song, and I decided right then and there that I would spend at least one Christmas with a man begging me to come back to him. This has yet to happen.
“I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” by Gayla Peevey
The only song on earth that could make me overlook the painful grammatical inaccuracy of "rhinoceroses".
You love this song too. I know you do, because only two kinds of people say they don’t love this song:
So which one are you, huh? Liar or robot? That’s what I thought. Besides, this song resulted in an actual hippo being purchased, which blows my mind. Immediately following this post I’m sitting down to pen the lyrics and music for “I Want a Gorgeous Young Guy to Move Into My House and Clean it All Day Until I Come Home at Which Time I Want Him to Pleasure Me and Feed Me Tasty Things”.
“Blue Christmas” by Porky Pig
The first time I heard this I had to pull over, I was laughing so hard. Since then, I’ve become somewhat immune to its LOL-inducing abilities, but come to my house in a week and I guarantee you’ll find me full of tequila, splattered with chocolate and powdered sugar, giggling through mouthfuls of Muddy Buddies while this song plays on a loop in the background. Not because of Christmas, it’s just what I do every Monday night.
“You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” by Thurl Ravenscroft
You're as charming as an Orc
Holy shit. I just found out the name of the guy who sang this song. He sounds like a World of Warcraft character. This is based completely on my uninformed bias, since I don’t follow World of Warcraft and have no idea what the character names are like. Bonus: the song is completely constructed of insults you can use year-round. “I wouldn’t touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole” is my personal favorite.
That’s it. All the Christmas songs I can tolerate. Basically, you’ve just been subjected to an elaborate public compilation of my holiday mix tape. Merry Christmas.
I am as lazy as I can possibly be to still function in regular society. I cannot be bothered with seeking out blogworthy topics, especially since approximately seven people read each post. Actually, about fifty of you read each post without commenting, which leads me to believe you are as lazy as I am. I can’t fault you for this. I take your silence as evidence that I have so thoroughly covered each issue that you are saturated with information and have nothing to add to the mix. You are welcome.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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,
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.
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.