Here is the interview from the Sunday Times that got Dr. Watson, who discovered DNA, in so much trouble. He insists that Blacks are less intelligent than Whites, and says that ‘people who have to deal with Black employees’ know this to be true.
Jesus, what a fruitcake this guy is. It’s a good thing that everything he says is bonkers, or we’d REALLY be mad!
If you need a handcrafted Bobble Head of Dr. Watson, go here.
I went to get my mammogram expecting the worst, since that is my nature, but it wasn’t that bad. First, I got to wait for around forty minutes, so I read a New Yorker profile of Mort Zuckerman. He is a bigshot who owns some newspapers and dates powerful women. He seems like a dick.
I went into a room for x-rays, and chatted with the radiologist while she adjusted my torso into impossible positions. She was a nice black woman with a slight British accent, named Ruby. She loved my handbag. She reported that she loves Vivienne Westwood’s fragrance, Boudoir, which comes in a really cool bottle. It has been discontinued, so she isn’t happy. I recommended Flowerbomb, by Victor & Rolf.
Ruby didn’t seem to like the x-rays she took. My right boob looked different from how it looked on the x-rays I brought with me, which turned out to be from 2003. Where were the ones from 2005? I will never know, since the bitch who took them won’t admit to having them.
Ruby took more x-rays, and she wasn’t thrilled with them, either. She told me to go into another room, to wait for an ultrasound test. There, I called my husband, to cancel our lunch date. I enjoyed getting to sound stoic on the phone, since I wasn’t really worried. I am perfectly used to bad news, by now.
The ultra-sound lady was a brisk little Chinese person with long black hair. I could tell she was overworked that day, but she still took her time. She didn’t like what she was seeing. I asked her if it was anything weird, and she said it was probably ‘just tissue.’ I was not reassured. She was really concentrating on the screen and typing on a keyboard.
She finally told me to wait on the table, while she went to consult with someone. She returned with a doctor, who looked at the screen and said, “Yeah, I see what you mean. I agree.” She told me not to worry, it was ‘just tissue.’ I made her repeat this a few times and she ran off after telling me to come back in six months.
I thanked the Chinese lady and she told me her name was Fuchsia. Wow. I exclaimed how much I loved the name, and told her about a fantastic book whose unforgettable heroine was called Fuchsia.
I waited by the elevator, where several medical-type women praised my big handbag. Walking to my car, I contemplated the odds of meeting Ruby and Fuchsia in the same office. All they needed was a Scarlett for the complete spectrum of Redness.
In summation, my boobs are good for right now, but who knows. I plan to buy many more large high-end handbags with my time left on this earth, but never anything obvious and stupid like a Louis Vuitton. That is my pledge and my legacy.
If you like to swear, and who the fuck doesn’t, you will like this essay by Steven Pinker, who approaches the subject from historical, cultural, and biological perspectives.
He suggests that the act of sex can have so many hazards “including exploitation, disease, illegitimacy, incest, jealousy, spousal abuse, cuckoldry, desertion, feuding, child abuse, and rape” that it’s bound to be fraught with emotional connotations.
On the matter of the word ‘cunt’ though, he loses me completely. He notes that it remains one of the few words that still provokes genuine offense, like ‘nigger’ or ‘Jew.’ First of all, because I happen to be both a cunt AND a fucking Jew, I don’t even flinch at these words. Second, analyze this:
“Some people have been puzzled about why cunt should be taboo. It is not just an unprintable word for the vagina but the most offensive epithet for a woman in America. One might have thought that, in the male-dominated world of swearing, the vagina would be revered, not reviled. After all, it’s been said that no sooner does a boy come out of it than he spends the rest of his life trying to get back in. This becomes less mysterious if one imagines the connotations in an age before tampons, toilet paper, regular bathing, and antifungal drugs.”
Is Steven Pinker saying that in fact, the female V-area is repulsive in the absence of modern toiletries?!?
Ha! What a fucking pussy.
I don’t think I have it in me to watch Kim Kardashian’s new ‘Reality Series’ tonight, but I looked at a clip and here’s what it’s about. Kim and her Giantess sister argue about a dress. Kim’s boobs are threatening to explode at any moment. She installs a stripper pole in the house as a present for her mom and stepdad. Her stepfather is Bruce Jenner, who used to be on Wheaties boxes back in the day. Now, he’s a botoxed old queen still trying to look like a college kid. One of Kim’s little sister’s (Kylie? Kendall?) does a sexy routine on the pole which is genuinely tragic. Bruce walks in and pretends to be angry.
It’s a show about money, fame, Eurotrash, silicone, and nose jobs. Kim’s mom Kris has hacked off her entire nose, but I guess that’s how you land Bruce Jenner, whose wife once dated Elvis, I think.
Meanwhile, I’ve discovered that Kim has another Giantess in her life, a ‘model’ named Brittny Gastineau. That’s her in the photo. I’m impressed by her name as well as her frightening height and plastic-to-human ratio.
Let me know if you watch the Kardashians, please!
Just look at these boots. What the fuck! If I hadn’t bought that enormous handbag…..Oh well. And don’t worry, no one drowned while I was checking out the footwear at net-a porter. Although these boots would be worth drowning several people, at least.
When reporters outside her house told Doris Lessing that she’d won the Nobel Prize for literature, her response was: “Oh Christ!….I couldn’t care less.”
What a fabulous woman. At 88, Doris Lessing is working on a novel about her parents and World War I. She is utterly straight-forward, cranky, brilliant, restless, and unrepentant. I fucking love her.
Doris Lessing left school at 14, and stopped going to church when she learned about the Inquisition. Whenever I think of Doris Lessing, I think of R. D. Laing, who lived with her for a while in North London, just blocks from where I landed as a fifteen year old expatriate from California.
If you haven’t read any R.D. Laing, now is a good time to start. He was a radical psychiatrist who questioned the definition of sanity and ran a place called Kingsley Hall, where staff and patients traded roles.
Laing introduced Doris Lessing to Sufism, which I don’t know anything about. It seems like a crock of shit, but if it’s good enough for Doris Lessing, it’s good enough for me.
I love Nancy Grace, but I see I’m in the minority. Just mention her name in any group and people will groan about how awful she is. More than one person has said to me, “I’d hate to be accused of a crime and have her come after me!” I think the problem is that she always presumes guilt, in the most prejudicial and histrionic manner.
Go, Nancy! I love her righteous anger and her crazy eye make-up. I love her phone voice, when she says, “What’s your question, dear?” I love the way her show ends, when she goes from a furious tirade straight to a dreamy, nearly romantic gaze directly into the camera and whispers, “Goodnight, friend.”
I first discovered Nancy during the Scott Peterson case, and it wouldn’t have been half as exciting without her running commentary. Her rage and scorn was such that Scott Peterson had killed her personally. If someone could prove that Scott was on Mars at the time his wife disappeared, Nancy would have sneered, “Oh, right, uh-huh” and gone right back to her charge of guilty as sin. At times, it seemed she might have a stroke right on live TV!
The other night, my husband called me over to the TV and said “Look, you’ll love this one,” and he was right. Nancy was ranting about a woman who had let her baby drown in the bathtub while she shopped online for shoes. What a story. It has everything, including the perfect metaphor for this moment in time.
Who among us hasn’t let the baby drown while we’re shopping online? So to speak.
If you don’t like that perspective, how about this. Here is another woman with five children under the age of ten. Her neighbors could see that ‘something’ was wrong with her….she was unable to get out of bed for days at a time. One neighbor tried to get the authorities involved, but nothing happened. The woman’s mother filed for some custody rights and the woman responded with a restraining order against her mother. The woman appears to have Bipolar Disorder but Nancy Grace’s callers complained “Then why didn’t she get help?”
Why indeed. Our society seems to veer between a chilly contempt for the mentally ill and an excessive sympathy for the addict. Maybe this mother should plead Internet Addiction, in order to evoke some compassion.
Meanwhile, Nancy is expecting twins and I hope this won’t force her to take time off from her show. I hope motherhood doesn’t temper her thirst for vengeance or alter her make-up regime. I love her just the way she is.
The doctor who performed surgery on a disabled child in order to stunt her growth has commited suicide. Too late, buddy, is my feeling.
The family of the child, who they call their ‘Pillow Angel,’ had thanked Dr. Daniel Gunther for taking their daughter’s controversial treatment from ‘an idea’ to reality. They feel luck to have ‘knocked on the right door.’
One man’s Right Door is another man’s circle of hell, I guess. I think it’s safe to assume that the doctor couldn’t live with his decision. Too bad the little girl had no options, and has no escape hatch.
Now some woman in the UK wants to remove her disabled daughter’s uterus. Katie Thorpe is 15, and her mother wants to eliminate the nuisance of menstruation. She notes that the girl doesn’t need her uterus, since she’s not going to get married or have children.
I hope the doctor who’s agreed to perform Katie’s hysterectomy has the decency to commit suicide before, not after.
Today I received a message from Daily Candy about a new exotic pet I could buy, called the Ashera. I clicked on the link to Lifestyle Pets, a company that may or may not be a fraud.
The Ashera cat is described as a genetically engineered cross between an African Serval, an Asian Leopard Cat and a domestic cat that has been bred to be “fully socialized,” great with kids, etc. You can order one for $22,000.
There seems to be some controversy over this cat, which many breeders insist is actually a Savannah….a hybrid breed that hasn’t been fully domesticated yet and sells for around $500 each.
What’s wrong with the people who want these poor animals? Is it just the status of owning a $22,000 pet (in the case of the Ashera) or the thrill of knowing your cat might suddenly turn on your neighbor’s children and eat them?
Are Bridgette Bardot and Tippy Hedren down with this shit?
The picture picture on the left, above, is the Ashera. The one on the right is a Savannah. Either one would make a nice hat or bolero, in my opionion, but not a pet.
Tom Ford has generously given us a look at his naked body in Out Magazine, and I just can’t get over his butt. It is simply pristine! He is 45 years old, and yet, look. How does Tom maintain his impeccable butt?
Does he wax it? Is it microdermabrasion? Thermage? Fraxel? Photoshop?
Here is a quote from the interview about the shower image:
“I complimented their cocks in the shower,” […] “I told one guy, ‘Your cock is really good; mine is usually bigger than this,’ and he said, ‘Oh, it’s just the water—go stand under the shower.’” […] “If you behave that way and you respect people, I think they get it,” […] “They sense from me that I’m not going to give one of them a blow job. I just don’t do that.”
I love Tom Ford. What a gentleman! I remember when he was “Bisexual,” that’s how long I’ve loved him. His new perfume is horrible, but his Gucci years were magic.
What does Tom Ford mean to you?
