Saturday, September 24, 2016

Jockey Briefs: The Workhorse of Underwear

Don't let anyone tell you sensible isn't sexy, because it is! This blog post could be an infomercial for Jockey cotton bikini brief underwear, but it's not. It's simply an admission that I am turning 39 in a matter of weeks, and am officially past the point of wearing lace dental floss between my ass cheeks and pretending I'm okay with that. Visible Panty Line ("VPL") be damned!

Underwear is like a car in that way. When you're 16, you care about driving or riding in a convertible or a Jeep or whatever. But by the time you're creeping up on 40 it's like, gimme the minivan or a Volvo station wagon. And Jockeys are the minivan of underwear.

My mom wears these, and so do I. Sure, my mom is 71 and is two sizes smaller than me (BITCH!!), but the woman is an M.D. and she is not fucking around with comfort. Yes she is a grandma, and really Jockey underwear are therefore granny panties, but I'm not a grandma, and still I love these.

They're not hot, they're not sexy, they're not getting you laid or acting as the repository for dollah billz, and they almost look weird WITHOUT half a bush coming out both sides of the leg elastic.

But you're old AF, and you don't want to get laid by a man most days anyway. At most, you want to get laid by your vibrator and catch a few reruns of Friends. And you're making most of your bills in direct deposit, as opposed to having them directly deposited into your crotch on a stripper pole.

Jockey bikini briefs: the workhorse of underwear that tells the world--and ESPECIALLY the opposite sex--that you give fewer fucks than you ever have in your life.


Friday, September 23, 2016

If You Have Balls, You Need "Scrotox" Today!

Do you have the balls for "Scrotox?" 

An alert reader sent me this article from Glamour magazine, reporting on the latest trend in testicular fashion, and if you have balls, you need to know about it.

Apparently a "ball lift" is a thing, because no man wants his balls dangling down to his knees as he gets older. And it's also a thing, I'm pleased to report, to inject your scrote with a neurotoxin in order to make your sack appear less wrinkly to all who might gaze upon it. That's why you'll see Fox News print headlines like "Clinics See Increase in Men Requesting Botox in Their Scrotums." (Scrota? Scroti? Fox News was never much for Latin). 

Anyway, for the bargain basement price of $3,100 you can pay a doctor (?) to put you under local anesthesia and cram your nads-bag full of poison for extremely valid cosmetic reasons. 

Unless you're in the adult film industry and your scrotum is a tool of the trade, you might question the utility of Scrotox.  All I can say is that if you're skeptical of Scrotox, you've never felt a nice, smooth nut sack treated with a neurotoxic protein produced by the bacterium Clostridium Botulinum and related species

What's a little (potentially fatal botulism) here and there? Not to mention bleeding, pain, redness, swelling, muscle stiffness, fever, cough, sore throat, runny nose, flu symptoms, dizziness, headache, muscle weakness, nausea, diarrhea, difficulty swallowing, shortness of breath, itching, rash, dry mouth, ringing in your ears, anxiety, difficulty urinating, burning and pain on urination, urinary tract infections, respiratory symptoms, and increased sweating in areas other than the underarms?

It's aaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllll worth it for a pair of wrinkle-free stones.

I kind of want someone to start a direct-marketing line of wrinkle creams for balls and ball sacks, because I'm thinking MOST men don't want to stick a needle in their balls, but nor do they want them to be WRINKLED FFS. DISGUSTING! Still, it's nice to know that Scrotox is there as a last resort to solve the sheer humiliation of a shriveled-up cajones hammock.

Finally it's not just women who have to "rejuvenate" their junk. Now dudes have to do it too! 

Huzzah for Scrotox!










Thursday, September 22, 2016

Double Rainbow in Juneau: WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!

This morning, Juneauites awoke to a rare-ish double rainbow and an even rarer fluorescent pink sunrise. AT THE SAME TIME. 

And so we had to ask ourselves (as you do) when you see a double rainbow: WHAT DOES IT MEAN?! If by some miracle you don't know what I mean by "WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!," just search "double rainbow" and "WHAT DOES IT MEAN?" on YouTube, and thank me later.

Anyhoo, here was Juneau's double rainbow, and I think it's a good omen. Here are 5 things this double rainbow surely means for Juneau:

1. That whale sculpture's gonna put Juneau on the fuckin' MAP, baby!

2. We'll get 36 inches of fresh pow at Eaglecrest before Christmas.

3. The price of oil will skyrocket to $200 a barrel and we'll all live like Saudi kings!

4. The lawyers suing the city over the cruise ship head tax will get hired away by Donald Trump, and they won't have time to keep trying to bankrupt the CBJ.

5. Juneau buy/sell/trade, Craigslist, etc. shall from this moment forth feature only things like brand new food processors for $15, instead of a shoebox full of crumpled up, "gently used" thong underwear for $30 OBO.

Rainbow photo: Meghan Lindquist, Facebook





























Sunrise: O.H.M.

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Do Not Let Them Gaslight You

That should be the title of this Shel Silverstein poem, because that's really what it's really saying in simple, straightforward words. It's advice that any child can understand, but that so many adults, myself included, have trouble following.

Technically, gaslighting is a form of psychological abuse in which another person makes you doubt reality and your own sanity. I'm using the term more loosely, to include situations in which you doubt yourself because of the way you feel others are perceiving you, or because you're simply too willing to defer to someone else's judgment or society's expectations. And it makes you feel unmoored and crazy.

Today I had an emotionally draining day for various reasons. I decided to call a friend. One I've known for years and see often, but don't feel like I spend as much time with as I would like. I cried a little bit as I told her how special she was to me. The "voice" told me that it is important, when you have those thoughts, to share them, although we rarely do. Society wants us to wait for weddings and funerals to say how we feel about each other, but really there's never a better time than the moment it occurs to you to tell someone you love them.

The same is true, I think, of drawing boundaries to preserve your own sanity and self-respect. Even at almost 39, I have a hard time doing that. I am often too quick to accept things and situations that feel wrong to me, and then I don't do anything about it until something inside me breaks. I gaslight myself, in a way, by constantly elevating the judgment, actions, and opinions of others, in all kinds of situations, over my own.

Shel Silverstein had a knack for subtle, accessible profundity. This is a great poem that reminds you not to let the world gaslight you, and not to gaslight yourself, either. 

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

CNN: Constitution Now Optional

Today CNN did what Congress hasn't done for decades: amend the United States Constitution!

And not just ANY amendment either. Nope. CNN just made that whole due process thing a privilege that apparently must be earned, rather than a fundamental precept of our Republic since the 1700s. 

Good for them though. CNN and all its partners in cable news media should be very proud of their journalistic integrity lately, especially the critical role they've played in pimping a megalomaniacal sociopath for ratings.

But who cares, right? 

We're gonna build a wall, turn refugees into Skittles, ban taco trucks, proudly display swastikas on our foreheads, and threaten to kill people who kneel during a song. 

Might as well make the whole Constitution like an "opt-in" sort of a thing. And anyone who criticizes any of it, welp, SEE YOU IN COURT!


What is it With Crazy People and Skittles?

First it was a rent-a-cop murdering a kid for holding a package of Skittles. Now it's our almost-future-maybe-if-God-truly-does-hate-us President invoking the popular candy to his own nefarious ends.

In this Trump campaign ad, which for obvious reasons is currently breaking the Internet, Cheeto Jesus compares Syrian refugees to Skittles. 

Skittles. As in the tiny little hard balls of brightly-colored high fructose corn syrup that make rainbow drool you can dangle over your kid brother's face while pinning him down on the shag carpet.

Apart from the fundamental offensiveness of comparing human beings fleeing a war-torn country to a popular children's confection, this ad is objectionable because of its sloppy metaphor.

So Syria is a bowl, right? ... and the Skittles are the people living in Syria, see? ... and your hand is America, m'kay? ... that reaches into the bowl of Syria and uh... eats? ... a handful of Syrians ... and like most of them make you sick, but taste delicious with little nutritive value ... But three of them are cyanide. You follow? You with me?

Like this literally sounds like a conversation that takes place over an awkward family meal, during which your racist uncle is trying to explain his beef with refugees, despite having never encountered one in person, in terms that make sense only to him.

Forget about racist. This ad is even more offensive because of how straight up stupid it is. 

The true victim in all of this is the Skittles brand, which may never recover from this endorsement. Oh who are we kidding? All publicity is good publicity.

Just look at Trump.

UPDATE: Official response from Skittles: "Skittles are candy. Refugees are people. We don't feel it's an appropriate analogy. We will respectfully refrain from further commentary as anything we say could be misinterpreted as marketing."

SKITTLES FTW.

Monday, September 19, 2016

On This the Nineteenth Day of the Ninth Month in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Sixteen, My Kids Did the Fucking Dishes

Hark! 

For I say unto you, this day shall be a Holy Day. 

On this, the nineteenth day of the ninth month in the Year of Our Lord two thousand and sixteen, my kids did the fucking dishes.

Unbidden they crept to the sink, the prodigal son and his fair sister, for whom the bonds of consanguinity are no barrier to kicking each other really hard off a loudly-bouncing blue yoga ball for no fucking reason whatsoever.

They who so quickly and rudely leave their rations at the table after having supped, without so much as a word of thanks, owing to their foolish parents who too often yield to their audacity and then spend the next five minutes telling them (in so many words) that they need to develop some fucking manners or they'll die alone.

Tonight, let a choir of angels standing behind the light of a thousand suns sing out with joy never before known to She Who Gave Them Life:

"MY KIDS DID THE FUCKING DISHES!"
AAAAAAHHHHHHMMEEEEEEN!