And You Can't be an Idiot...Can You?

Note: Parental Advisory. Explicit Content.

She Can’t be a Whore…. Can She?

Every guy wants his girlfriend to have a little experience in the bedroom, right fellas? But my question today is, how much experience is too much experience. Guys, have you ever been with a woman that you really liked and she did something while making love that made you look at her a little different? Or what about when it comes down to oral sex, you never want your girl to be a pro. I know that may have sounded a little crazy but trust and believe, when your with that special lady, and she decides to go down on you, for the first 30 seconds it is going to be the best time of your life until your mind starts to wonder, ”She’s a little TOO GOOD at this, Damn! How many times has she practiced?” Now you cant even concentrate cause your thinking your girlfriend is a WHORE!

Just a little food for thought.

Okay. I was innocently blog-surfing and watching License to Wed (bad but delightful, as is my preference) when I came across this post from Distinguished Gentlemen. Apparently, this guy gets suspicious upon receiving...oh, I'll just say it, head, that's "too good." I'm going to go out on a limb here and ask just what, as many call, the fuck? As simply and briefly as possible, together we're going to break this down.

"When it comes down to oral sex, you never want your girl to be a pro."

I am so sure. Having many college-age male friends as reference points, I feel confident in raising my imaginary gavel with a hearty, "Objection, Your Honor!" at this statement. Since when do guys not fully appreciate and hope for the best oral attention they've ever gotten? Does he mean "pro" as in, she used to be a prostitute? Okay, that I understand, even though, I mean, everyone deserves a second chance, and all. But still. A fully-functioning, hetero male doesn't want his girl to be really, really, really good at head? Something in the milk ain't clean.

"Your mind starts to wonder, 'She’s a little TOO GOOD at this, Damn! How many times has she practiced?'”

Color me naive, but I was under the impression that if a guy is receiving mind-blowing head, what on earth could he possibly be thinking except "I'm in love!" and not, as this blogger seems to think, an accusatory, "why is she so good at this?" Who the hell cares? She's good and she's being gracious enough to share her skills with you, and here you are complaining. Just plain ungrateful.

"Guys, have you ever been with a woman that you really liked and she did something while making love that made you look at her a little different?"

What ever happened to "to each his own"? If there is any place where this statement holds true, it is in the bedroom, people! What, her tastes are a little more kinky, imaginative, or, heaven forbid, a little different than yours, and suddenly she's some sort of nympho freak? Seems a little closed-minded to me. And frankly, a little misogynistic. This piece takes me back to the days where women were expected to accept and suffer through sex as opposed to being willing participants, or--heaven forbid!--have wide and varying tastes and experience levels.

Not to mention, no sane woman would EVER think, "Holy shiz. He's really good at 'lingus. I don't like where this is going."

Get the HELL out of here.

Rest In Peace, Uncle Bernie

Last night, Middle Sister and I were talking about how Bernie Mac was the only funny comedian in The Kings of Comedy. I'd planned to watch it this evening. When I woke up this morning and checked my email, I found this:

Hollywood woke up this morning to the news that actor-comedian Bernie Mac has passed away due to complications from pneumonia. He was 50. (E! Online)

How badly does this suck? Bernie Mac was my favorite comedian. I quote him at least once a day. Fuck. The tears might come. He was kind of immortal to me, always around; even though he said he was retired he would always have a funny-ass cameo in some random movie (Charlie's Angels 2, Pride, Transformers). I'd come to love those cameos. I still watch reruns of The Bernie Mac Show. Below is the funniest clip from Kings of Comedy. Rest in peace, Mac Man.

OMG...GMO

*GMO means "gross me out." Try and keep up.

At VS, a Clacker looked up from the table of cotton panties she was folding and asked me, "Do you smoke?"

Blecch. Nothing but 19 years of home training kept me from making a disgusted face as I answered with a pithy "Er, ah, I do not."

She continued her conversation with a fellow smoking Clacker, during which I found out that more of my co-workers light up than I knew, including one who I really do not like. Finding out she smokes gives me more reason to dislike her, so I couldn't even be too appalled.

Now, before hearts get all atwitter, I think we can surmise that I am one of the least-judgmental people on God's green earth. You wanna move to a nudist commune? Get an abortion*? Have a man-2-man wedding with Little Richard singing "Tutti Frutti" a capella as you walk down the aisle in matching purple catsuits? Fine! Send my invite and let's party! I have my opinions about other things, of course (Z-list fame-whores, porn stars, sexploitation in general), but if there is one thing that revolts me to the point where my like for you instantly goes down two points, it is the pulling out and subsequent lighting of that hateful little orange-tipped deathstick.

*Oh yes. I went there.

Don't get me wrong, though. If one of my friends started a Marlboro habit tomorrow, that is not to say I would, like, not be their friend anymore (I won't, however, date smokers) or anything. I'd put in my two cents and say that I find smoking reprehensible, and that would be it. I'm not going to constantly reiterate the importance of healthy lungs. It's their life, their lungs, do with it what you will. You have every right to smoke, and I have every right to find it gross. Such is the way of the world.

In my next post I will lighten the mood with shopping, movies, and other daily mishaps. There is raw footage of my interview with TAT at Warped Tour which must be uploaded on Youtube. Not to mention, I want to think more about that purple-catsuited wedding...

Stuck

This just in: at this very moment, Middle Sister has an INSANELY HOT guy friend over. I only got a fleeting glimpse of him, but hot damn, he is gorgeous. In my house, currently, there is one of the hottest guys I've seen since Tex, and he's with my sister. My younger sister. Blimey. If that's not an unholy indication that life isn't fair, then, well, I just don't know what is. And I'll tell you this for free: if he becomes anything resembling her "official" boyfriend I will find it very, very, very hard to continue living.

But on the whole I am happy that at least someone in my family (besides my parents) has found true and everlasting love. Let it be known that I am not a jealous spinster sister-- just yet. I fear it may be a-coming.

Have things gone unchanged? Why am I just starting to write an article that's due tomorrow, being aided in the procrastination department by popcorn, Vitamin Water, and iTunes? While wearing sweatpants? And my hair is messy, to boot! Honestly all I need is my lucky hat and it's like I've gone back in time.

Earlier I was on Facebook and stumbled across someone's profile whose very face utterly pissed me off. And a dear friend of mine* was fraternizing with the enemy! I almost fell off of my chair; what the fuckity-fuck is THIS all about?! I can't.

*Please, no one take offense to or read too much into this. I am melodramatic more than I am scorned or possessive. I'm just joking around, using a touch of exaggerated flair, if you will, to give readers a chuckle at my good-natured expense. Don't take Lucky very seriously, it will only give you a headache!

Fuck. I really do have to do this article that I had all summer to work on. I've learned nothing from last year's bleary-eyed nights spent in front of this very laptop! But I feel quite un-creative at the moment, making it hard for me to write anything of use, and I'm also quite tired. Maybe I will just let the Devil take the hindmost and do this tomorrow, at TV Station. Eh, I feel disaster might befall that plan, so it looks I'm going to have to take it on the chin and produce. I need some inspiration and right now all I feel is bored. With precious little to show for myself except for a paragraph and a full stomach due to all those delicious snacky-snacks. I've still got my appetite, at the least.

Update: In need of tequila. Evening has turned into a facsimile sham of a fiasco; hate being nosy, nerdy spinster older sister. Want to simultaneously scream, vomit, and gouge eyes out. Must throw self wholeheartedly into work in hopes of becoming professional ice-queen to whom the petty dealings of others have no effect. Might resort to dark chocolate bar hidden upstairs.

Behind the Wheel of Life

Just another few minutes of peace, please. I know I should spend more time with the family since I'm going back to school soon, but if there were ever a time to sulk quietly, today would be it.

Quickly: I cannot wait for Gossip Girl to come back to me. September 1st, get with it.



Had one of those hellishly annoying days where it seems as if everyone's goal in life is to utterly piss you off. Got into argument with mother about choice of outfit ("Just take off that vest!"). Was feeling rather self-conscious about outfit, but no sooner than I had stepped out of the car did Miss Manners coo, "I love your outfit"? Interns Eazy E and Intern Special K (I can't remember if I've already given her a name and forgotten it but she is quickly becoming my favorite colleague) followed suit: "How cute do you look today?!" Ha. Fermez la bouche, mother! She thinks I dress the way I do just to spite her...pity, most of the time I don't think about her opinion about clothes. It would take too much work and before you know it I'd be dressed like one of those "stylish" middle-aged women. I don't have to dress like a "hip" 40-year-old. I'm a fucking awesome 19-year-old, thanks.

Ugh. If that wasn't enough, I just found out that I've been making illegal left turns for, oh, two weeks. Unfortunately, my lesson came at the honking horns of the other drivers, apparently trying to let me know that my turn was null and void. But sheesh! What if I knew the rule and decided to flout it? Isn't my prerogative to break the law, if I so choose? Drive on, I say!

Last night, Youngest Sister and I added to my canon of horrible films with the melodramatically violent and horrendous Never Back Down. A shitty movie-faceoff between it and Britney's Crossroads would be a draw, but because of the gratuitous amounts of well-muscled, sweaty man-flesh, Never Back Down prevails. Still, a contender for being the Best Worst Movie of Our Time.



You don't have to thank me.

In Another State of Panic

So I'm minding my own business on the couch, snacking on a plum and watching Crossroads--a severely underrated cinematic adventure in my opinion--when a many-legged creature scuttles across my basement floor.

Now I am not a wimp in most cases (excepting in bugs and such), so I planned to kill it with a well-placed SMACK! of a magazine, but by the time I finished screaming bloody murder (I put my hand over my mouth first; it is almost 3am), The Thing was gone from my line of sight. I don't know where it went and, frankly, LIKE HELL I'M MOVING FROM MY SAFE PLACE AND INTO THE WILD to hunt for and kill this thing.

Lucky of the Yukon I am not.

Varsity Un-Blues

Fashion Student's birthday party was today, a pool party that I coincidentally arrived late at so that I wouldn't have to actually get in said pool (I don't own a bathing suit and am not exactly itching to go buy one). I only planned to stay for a little while before returning back home to eat pizza, but ended up staying until 1am. Along with FS and Scoop was Blondie, and the four of us were the only senior varsity cheerleaders back in high school, and we got to strolling down Memory Lane. Scoop, as usual, did not disappoint with her knowledge of all the post-high school gossip, and we exchanged boy stories and memories and laughs and "no you didn'ts!" hours after everyone had left.

Oh, high school, how I sort of miss thee. God, I loved being a cheerleader. That was four years spent in the shortest skirt I will (probably) ever wear in my life without looking like a total hooker. Not to mention, my team was my family. I used to be a shy little thing before I became a cheerleader, and, well, by the time I graduated, I was affectionately known as "loud and crazy."

It's fun to go back and fill in the blanks so many years later. For instance, cheerleaders had "buddies" on the football team that we would make bags of food for and wear their jerseys sometimes on game days, and mine was the captain and quarterback of the team (yes, I was that girl. We didn't date though. I wasn't that girl). I did have a tiny crush on him that resulted in lots of victory hugs and high-fives and extra treats in his bag (sometimes I did this for all my buddies, to be fair), yet I figured that I'd still only be little more than "some cheerleader" to him. Well, fast-forward to tonight, when talking about old friends and his name came up, Scoop said to me, "Oh, yeah [Quarterback] really liked you." When I asked, "Really?" She responded, "Uh-huh, he like, loved you." Not in a crush-y way, obviously, but a "she's a sweet and cool girl" kind of way. Which, even years after I graduated, still provided me with a happy little glow of satisfaction. He was the high school quarterback and Prom King. I mean, come on.

On another bright note, I went to the dentist today, and despite my mom's constant clucking otherwise, my jovial dentist exclaimed, "You have beauuuuutiful teeth!" So ha. But don't you hate when your teeth are all...oooky after a trip to the dentist? I tried to right that wrong with pretzels and a club sandwich, but...no. Sometimes I am eternally six years old.

PS: this is yet another reason why I love John Mayer.