Godammit, I’m Mad!

Anthony Weiner is a gift from god for people like me who are struggling with depression.  His predicament (no pun intended) is so bizarre and tawdry, and yet Shakespearean. If character is destiny, Weiner is screwed, or as he would put it, “First I’ll make you gag on my cock before I make you cum.”

Let me say first that I was on his side, in terms of refusing to resign, until I read the text of his online chats with women he’d never met and had no intention of meeting.

It wasn’t the fact that he was a reckless horndog that provoked my disapproval. I was ready to accept the fact that the internet is an irresistible siren song to anyone with a “weakness.” Whether it’s a weakness for shopping, for social networking, for gambling or for porn, the internet makes it perilously convenient to indulge.

According to friends I discussed this with, “sexting” is now common among fifty percent of teenagers. It’s a Brave New World out there, where not much is considered too personal, not to mention sacred.

I will admit to chatting online in a flirtatious manner.  Years ago I was chatting with someone who suddenly suggested “Send me a picture of your C**T” and the word was not cunt. I was so stunned and horrified, I shut the chat window and felt deeply shaken. I had no idea that people spoke to strangers like this. I learned that it’s the wild west out there online.

With Weiner, I imagined his sexy chat was something along the lines of “Baby, You’re so pretty, What are you wearing?” Big deal. Maybe he’s bored when his wife is busy and he’s just having a little tame sexy banter…. I don’t feel that calls for his resigntion, since it’s his personal business and he didn’t run for the Priesthood. Better to have a politition with a sex drive than Bush or Nixon, who seemed more interested in abusing the constitution than in getting laid.

But no matter what liberal  principles you think you have, it all goes to hell once you read Weiner’s raunchy efforts at seduction.  The deal breaker for me was “Pussy Juice.” It’s just a big NO in my world.  You can’t listen to a congressman talking about jobs or taxes or healthcare once he’s said Pussy Juice.  It’s over. He is toast.

So basically, for me at least, it comes down to literary aesthetics rather than any moral judgement. Sexting online isn’t a crime that would make someone unfit to serve as a congressman or mayor. Sending pictures is pretty lame but again, no real harm. Lying about it is only natural: You would want to avoid embarrassing your family. But a man’s game does reflect his sensibility. And “Pussy Juice” cannot be condoned. If only he could have said “Are you wet?” instead.

I cannot emphasize this enough but it must be repeated: Words matter! Choose them like everyone’s looking.

Opinions or objections?

Ali knows that Fashion Editors like attention! Her umbrella is a good way to stab underlings and to teach Tavi how to really block the view at a runway show. See how she has artfully exposed her belly button, too.

A good Fashion Editor needs to glare. Perhaps her assistant has mispronounced “Margiela?”

Athif is rocking the shit out of this season’s pagan feather and fur accents. His bedroom slippers say: “I make the rules, you just follow them!”

Skye is a goddess and she knows it. Don’t make her mad.

Here, Skye rocks the Wonder Woman look that brings Anna dello Russo to her knees. Sunglasses and crazy head-wear are key to Fashion Editor Style.

Kate is shit with a camera, because it’s not her job, damn you! Her job is to strut around in her clunky heels, waving her fan and barking “Show me something else!” and “Who’s going to carry me up those stairs?”

Enna knows that Fashion Editors can look like hookers and still feel superior. Her mini-dress and heels say “Fuck me!” while her expression says “Fuck off!” She probably learned this from Carine Roitfeld, who is jealous of her radiant youth.

Behold TheShoeGirl. What’s not to love? As you know, she is sex on wheels. Her cigarette and BlackBerry show that she means business. Her fur and heels are forbidding, but the flash of tummy makes her almost human.

Note the oversize sunglasses and the bossy attitude.  Classic Fashion Editor.

Finally, a special treat: Sister Wolf flaunts her Fashion Editor Style in front of her admiring dog. Leather shorts from Queen Michelle, Fluffy gilet from Queen Marie, vintage gold Gucci sunglasses (that you can buy if you’re interested.)

Thank you, Fashion Editors! xoxo

*Those of you who didn’t step up to this challenge, Grrrr.  Next time, no excuses.

Last night, my husband expressed his disappreciation of the acting on True Blood. I agree that the acting is terrible. But I suggested to him that it might be worthwhile to see Anna Paquin and Stephen Moyer having sex, given their hotness.

My husband claimed to have no interest at all in a sex tape with Bill and Sookie. Upon reflection, I wondered if I wanted to see any celebrities having sex. If you’ve seen the Pam and Tommy opus, you know exactly what I mean, right? It’s just tragic and disgusting.

Are there any celebrities whose sex tapes would appeal to you? Angie and Brad, maybe? Or is it all just awful?

While searching for dreadlock remover (imagine a little sad-face thingy here) I came across this wonderful product for use Down There.

“Rid yourself of the unwanted grays and give hair down there a beautiful boost of color that’s destined to brighten up more than your smile.”

Now my only problem is deciding between Black Cherry or Midnight Blaque. I’m leaning toward the latter because of the spelling. The hair on my head, or Up There I should say, is really dark brown, not technically Blaque. I don’t want to give anyone a fright.

The Down There business is topical because I had coffee with my sister today and complained about the word “rump.” I read in The Cut that Kate Moss shows off “her rump” in a new video. I was so upset by this usage that I nearly fired off a letter to the editor. Why “rump” for godsake? Can’t they say “ass” or even “butt” or in the worst case scenario maybe “backside?”

Then we moved on to the word “tush” which also annoys me. When I discovered that there’s actually a song called Tush, I nearly had a stroke. Now there’s a magazine called Tush. It’s a word to use with a two year old, like pee pee, but then it should be dropped asap.

Anytime I hear the term Down There, I think it bespeaks a revulsion for sex and body parts. The GiGi color product manages to add an Australian slant by calling this crap “Color Down Under.” Here’s an idea! Next time you hear someone use the term Down There, scream: “Where, Australia?”

First of all, she is fat, let’s just admit it. I saw her on TV with David Letterman, recalling how hurt she was when the tabloids called her “fat”.  Then she talked about her ex-boyfriends, and her new reality show.

Have you ever seen someone on TV who is so stupid that you want to cover your eyes? This is the true horror of Jessica Simpson. She brays loudly and inappropriately after making awkward jokes, all the time being fat. I had to turn away out of common decency.

Now I find that she’s involved with Billy Corgan, who wrote a song for her new show. I know how much everyone hates Billy Corgan but I love him!  Loved him, I guess. Why does he want Jessica Simpson?! Is it because she’s “sexual napalm?” Isn’t napalm a bad thing? And what if he wants a coherent conversation after the napalm?

I’m just depressed about the whole thing. And don’t tell me she’s not fat. She’s not fat like her awful sister didn’t have a nose job.

It goes with everything, and it’s only $24 at Urban Outfitters.

When my friend R suddenly proclaimed herself skeptical about the G Spot during Christmas Eve dinner, I told her she was preaching to the choir. According to R, that idiot “Dr. Oz” was on TV trying to teach people how to locate the G Spot by using the roof of the mouth as a model of the female Area.  (Sorry, can’t use the V word.)

So here’s my analysis of the G Spot situation, and R backs me up on this.

The G Spot is a male fabulation, designed to put women back in their place after the superiority of female sexuality became common knowledge. In other words, since women have a better capacity for orgasm, lets find a way to make them feel inadequate again.

Ladies, are you feeling me here? Why do we need a mysterious “Spot” that almost no one has located, when the C Spot is RIGHT THERE and works great?! I love reading about how some women feel an urge to pee when you press their G Spot, while other women experience a special “V—-al Orgasm.”  Since that theory makes the whole deal seem kind of dubious, newer studies suggest that only SOME women have a G Spot. In that case, let me say that I personally have an H Spot, as well as Spots I through LMNOP, but I’m not going to tell you where they are, since you probably don’t have them.

When I googled G Spot, I came across an piece at Ask Men dot com, about the Male G Spot! I was thrilled! R and I had postulated the existence of an M Spot for men….a nebulous place somewhere between the balls that had to be pressed from a certain angle to be triggered.  How gratifying to imagine men probing desperately for a Spot that isn’t there!

I was disappointed, not to mention saddened and completely grossed out, to learn from Ask Men that the Male G Spot is up their butt. THAT’S RIGHT, you heard me. Up their butt. Ask Men suggests that guys get comfortable and relaxed before attempting to locate…..oh god, I can’t go on. It’s just too tragic. Who are these dummies they write for at Ask Men? It should be called Ask Idiots. Or maybe just “Duh.com.”

While I personally can accept some things on faith, other things (like the moon landing) I’m not too sure about. The moon landing, I’d say there’s a fifty per cent chance it happened. Immaculate Conception, zero per cent. Loch Ness Monster, YES, that one I feel good about. But the G Spot is nonsense and I’m not buying it.

Opinions, anyone?

Oh god, I was minding my own business (relatively) on facebook, where I have recently reconnected with an old friend. There on his profile page I was accosted by an idiotic comment from a creep I once had sex with!  Ugh, WTF!

Would you like to hear the story?

Okay. I was single and between marriages and apparently desperate for companionship. This creep was the friend of my friend (I think) and he bore a vague resemblance to someone I had once adored.

In my head, I named John Blodgett “The Facsimile.” He was nine years younger than me and never tired of mentioning the age difference. I was around 33 but thanks to him I felt like Old Mother Hubbard.

He was studying English literature somewhere and was a terrible writer. He took himself more seriously than anyone I’ve ever met, before or since. He hated his mother. He liked Faulkner, never a good sign.

We finally slept together and it was disastrous. He did not know shit from Shinola. I was mortified. I didn’t relish the teacher role; it was bad enough being the older woman. Each time, it got worse instead of better. I wondered if he was deliberately trying to withhold pleasure and frustrate my needs.

One night, we were driving home from somewhere and he started drinking at the wheel. I was alarmed but he just laughed and drove faster. That night, he told me that things weren’t working for him. I listened in disbelief. How could such a loser want to dump me?

No matter how many times I reviewed it, I couldn’t understand what had happened between us. I felt cheated and wanted my money back. I wrote him a letter, calling him a Facsimile and giving him an honest evaluation of his writing. I suggested that he get a map of the female anatomy, and advised him to procure both a psychiatrist and a nose-job.

He wrote back, saying he planned to use my letter in his English class. I replied with the promise of a lawsuit. At some point, he attempted to ‘make friends.’ I either ignored him to told him to fuck off.

Ah, life is funny, isn’t it? I haven’t thought of him in years and years. Here is what he wrote on my old friend’s facebook page:

I’m really interested in hearing more about your (former) restaurant and your entreprenueurial career in general. You are one of the few people– maybe the only one I know– who’s managed to carve out a prosperous nontraditional work life. I’m getting burnt out on teaching in the inner city and it’s only going to get worse. Just a couple of days ago a respected teacher friend of mine was accused (quite brazenly & unfairly) in the New York media of inappropriate touching with his students and– poof!– a distinguished 25+ year career in teaching is down the toilet. I think I need to start thinking of alternatives to being at the mercy of crack babies with ghetto attitude. I admire what you’ve done and envy your cabin.

Hahaha!  What a fucking cunt™!

Have you ever decided to find something that you can’t find? When this condition becomes extreme, I think it’s a disorder, but I forgot what it’s called. If you look in the same drawer three times in a row, it may then be OCD, but I’m going to call it “desperate.”

I spent nearly an hour looking for something that should have been where it used to be, but now it’s gone. I may have hidden it so cleverly that I’ll never find it. Someone will eventually find it when I’m dead. I hope they’ll find a way to  send a message to me just to solve the mystery.

While I was looking, I did come across my copy of Lady Athlete, a tawdry old bodybuilding magazine in which I appeared as one half of “Sisters in Iron.”  My sister and I lifted weights together at the old Gold’s Gym, where we were a constant annoyance to everyone except the owner, who named us Morticia and Vampira.

We agreed to be in the magazine on condition that all photos were taken in the gym. We were stupid but not stupid enough to pose in bikinis for perverts. When the magazine came out, we each got a free copy. I remember laughing until we cried at the demented text, which was full of lies and described us approaching the weights like “animals stalking their prey.”  They also described us as moving together “like a well-oiled machine,” which was funny because we argued continuously.

So I found the magazine and wondered if it still existed.  A Google search took me straight here to ebay, where some guy happens to have one copy of my issue! If only he’d show the back cover, where I’m gripping a dumbbell with a look of perfect serenity on my face.

Anyone wishing to blackmail me can buy this magazine for only $21.25!

Still feeling annoyed and unfulfilled, I tried to find comfort in sanctimonious rage over at Dan Savage’s blog. I knew he’d be furious about something. While there, I read a letter that took me here, to AVEN, the Asexuality Visibility and Education Network.

As it turns out, there’s a whole new world of human rights we haven’t even worried about! Asexual people don’t want to be marginalized, godammit! Just because they don’t want sex, they are just as god made them and deserve whatever it is they want.

I know you’re all feeling the same as me: More sex for the rest of us! Who would knock it?! Listening to the Dresden Dolls while I type this, I think I would like to have sex with both of them, as a gesture of support for AVEN.

You just have to ask, What the hell is wrong with these guys?

Both Michael Hutchence and David Carradine would have no trouble getting laid. Or even, getting laid in some unconventional way. So why risk death just to get off?

Apparently, this is a largely male endeavor. But don’t anyone pipe up that the reason for that is the more persistent male sex drive. Women have Needs, too. But women don’t seem to need the specter of death to add that Certain Something to sex.

Woman aren’t as likely to enjoy playing Russian Roulette, either. What is it about men that craves a brush with death? I assume it gives a rush of adrenaline, like when you nearly get hit by a car. But why do they require this boost to the experience of orgasm?

A gay friend explained that it’s all down hill for men after 16. Their sensations are duller with time, he insisted. Bummer, if that’s true! Is it, though?

I asked my husband. I wondered if the auto-erotic asphyxiation appeal was like eating blowfish. If it’s cooked the right way, it’s delicious; if not, it’s poisonous and you’re dead. I don’t know about anyone else, but I have no interest whatsoever in trying blow-fish.

The husband explained that he has always been touched by how the appetite for sex is so universal – no matter who you are, or how old, you’ll walk over burning coal to get some.

But I still wanted an answer. He thought it was pretty normal for some people to keep trying to improve their experience. Like some people are happy with a scoop of their favorite ice cream, but others think, This might be nicer with something added.

I asked him, But what if when you come, it’s already 10 on a scale of 1 to 10. Why would you be worried about trying for 11? In fact, I noted, speaking for myself, if it were any more intense, I’d pass out.

“Exactly!” he replied, happy to have effectively conveyed the point of auto-erotic asphyxiation.