New friend Tiggr wants me to contribute some erotica for her Fantasy Friday. When she asked, I wondered whether I might get myself into trouble doing something like that. My patients find this blog every so often, and a number of my pals in nursing lurk here, too.
Then I wondered if it was even possible to get myself into any more trouble than I’m already (potentially) in. Well, I guess so. I could do something unprofessional, like break doctor-patient confidentiality. (Don’t get your hopes up cuz it ain’t gonna happen.) I could pull a Full Monty. I could say snarky things about hospital employees and refer to them by name. See? Lots of naughty things I could do.
With those possibilities in mind, writing some narsty erotica seems tame, doesn’t it?
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Feeling ill today, which is why I’ve been quiet. More tomorrow.
D.
I’m clickin’ on my blogroll, and since I’m Type A, A for Anally Alphabetical, I like to start at the top, which means good friends like Tam and Suisan get neglected unless I kick myself in the ass and say Y, start with Y this time! Which means I always neglect you folks in the middle. Sorry.
So when I read Beth’s blog, I followed her link to this YouTube of the Solid Gold dancers. I’m not a Solid Gold kinda guy, however, so the video, while quaint, stirred nary a memory. No, I’m a Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert kinda guy. A quick YouTube search yielded this video: Abba singing Mamma Mia on Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert.
Oodles of fun.
D.
PS: Apropos of a certain recent sculpture, Pandagon has a link to Tom Waits’s “Chocolate Jesus.”Â
Reports of Voldemort-sympathizers among the HARBL prompted the Hogwarts faculty to send an observer to their most recent meeting. Minerva was the logical choice, but stubborn as ever, she insisted she liked a good hard pounding as well as the next slag; and Hagrid declined this opportunity to acknowledge his true self. I drew short straw.
With my drab attire and poorly coiffed hair, there was little chance I could pass myself off as bisexual — though, if there were no other way, I might have invited young Weasley along; the boy would provide believable cover. But there was another way. I swallowed a polymorph draught and soon became the dentists’ daughter: Granger.
I set out for the HARBL assembly, sharing my most simpering smile with each passing classmate. How difficult was it to feign the malapert’s identity? Not difficult at all. I had borrowed the library’s dustiest tome and now hugged it to my apricot-sized breast, spouting inane trifles like, “There’s little truth Rabastan Lestrange waterboarded Frank and Alice Longbottom; he himself admitted to using the cruciatus curse!” Blah, blah, blah. I needn’t have bothered; by custom, everyone ignores the impudent child.
Mere feet from the oaken door, I espied Granger herself heading for the meeting, her face a mask of lusty purpose. Who knew! And now, I had to think quickly, for fast approaching was Edvardus Moot, the transsexual Hufflepuff Chaser.
“You!” I cried out, eager to get in the first “You!”
“You!” quoth the real Granger.
Came my riposte, “The warp of your cardigan has come loose,” and when she looked down, I struck her with my ebony wand, then hustled her into a vacant broomstick closet. After applying a hasty Immobulus spell to the vain little oaf, I hastened to the meeting.
So I’m thinking maybe I should have kept that last one under wraps indefinitely, eh?
Here. Go look at some cute kitties and puppies.
D.
Not the Goddess Hymen. But after fruitlessly wading through hundreds of naughty images this morning to find a picture of the Goddess Hymen, I decided Ceres was close enough.
This morning, I opened my New York Times Book Review (March 25, 2007) to find Alex Kuczynski’s review of Virgin: The Untouched History, by Hanne Blank. Reading it purely for its Continuing Medical Education merit, I was struck by the following:
Blank’s thorough scholarship is to be commended, even if I found my eyes glazing over during passages about the Protoevangelion, an apocryphal Gospel from the second century A.D. that describes the courtship of Joseph and Mary; the rise and fall of convents; and the difference between annular and fimbriated and crescentic hymens. While the author admits that, as pieces of tissue go, the hymen is “really awfully dull,†she nevertheless devotes an entire chapter to it.
Annular? Fimbriated? Crescentic? Clearly I have major holes in my education! A quick google led me to the discovery that there are, per Our Bodies, Ourselves, six different types of hymens. I also discovered that the procedure to rebuild a hymen, hymenoplasty, heretofore common only in those retro corners of the globe where men still care about such things, is on the rise in America:
For her 17th wedding anniversary, Jeanette Yarborough wanted to do something special for her husband. In addition to planning a hotel getaway for the weekend, Ms. Yarborough paid a surgeon $5,000 to reattach her hymen, making her appear to be a virgin again.
“It’s the ultimate gift for the man who has everything,” says Ms. Yarborough, 40 years old, a medical assistant from San Antonio.
This, too, is still one of the dark places on Earth.
As a surgeon, this gives me the creeps. You might assert that a hymenoplasty is no different than any other type of cosmetic operation, but I don’t think the argument holds up to inspection. Cosmetic surgery is all about correcting deformity or restoring beauty. Hymenoplasty reconstructs a bit of tissue for the sole purpose of destroying it all over again.
And then there’s Ms. Yarborough’s claim that this is the ultimate gift for the man who has everything. Has your man had everything, Ms. Yarborough? Have you given him that threesome he so fervently desires? Would cost a tad less than $5000, I imagine.
I think a guy who would allow his wife to undergo unnecessary surgery just for the once-in-a-lifetime (until the next hymenoplasty) opportunity of ripping through the surgical site, maybe that’s a guy who doesn’t deserve everything.
My hymen-google also led me to Wikiality, the Truthiness Encyclopedia — yes, Stephen Colbert has his own version of Wiki! This is from Stephen’s article on Virginality:
According to many Youth Ministers, what we’re trying to avoid having to actually having to talk about here is far more than just the act of “doing It.” While the liberal media wants to undermine virginality and corrupt America’s children by insisting that virginality concerns sex alone, the truth of the matter is quite different. Virginality affects your entire essense as a person; that’s why it’s so shameful to talk about It. Virginality is not available to godless liberals, gays, lesbians, terrorists, or people who have non-abstinent sex before they are married. Virginality is only for Christians, Republicans, and Amerisexuals.
And what does Stephen have to say on hymens?
I read somewhere that your hymen will grow back in one to two years if you don’t have any more non-abstinence “sex” and don’t do masturbation. LikeaVirginality can happen much more quickly for boys, who don’t have to worry about that pesky hymen in the first place.
There ya go, Ms. Yarborough. This from a doctor — Dr. Stephen T. Colbert, DFA, no less. If your husband wants a hymen-bearing wife so much, make him wait for it.
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My opinion? We waste way too much energy worrying about virginity and the loss of innocence, and put way too little energy teaching our kids about love, about what it takes to maintain a successful relationship.
But that would require teaching by example, which is beyond most people.
D.
For a change, I have some real, honest to Gaaaaah bitchery for today’s Smart Bitches Day post. To wit: Maddie Faraday, heroine of Jennifer Crusie’s Tell Me Lies, is too stupid to live.
I don’t often bail out on a book when I’m past the 100 page mark. I really don’t usually bail on mysteries, no matter how far I am into the book. But in Tell Me Lies, I made it past page 200 and THEN bailed.
I don’t care who done it. As far as I’m concerned, Maddie deserves to get framed with the murder of her cheating, embezzling husband Brent. She has done nothing to earn the love and protection of stock-hunky-hero C.L.; she hasn’t even earned the love of the Requisite Crusie So-Ugly-Is-It-Even-a-Dog?® dog, Phoebe. She definitely doesn’t deserve to retain custody of her lovely daughter Em. The woman will be the death of that child. There should be a special Darwin Award for people who take not only themselves but their children out of the gene pool.
I mean — seriously. Hiding the murder weapon in a Spam casserole? Why is she even touching the murder weapon any more than she has to? And the crap she does with the embezzled money. Why, why, why? Why, if not to further the plot?
And that’s the real bitch of this novel. If Maddie’s gonna get set up, let the murderer set her up. She shouldn’t set herself up. She especially shouldn’t set herself up since she knows she’s the number one suspect!
Soon after Maddie stashed the gun and the money, I closed the book in disgust. Enough already. I admit I’m tempted to flash to the end, but only if it’s to read about Maddie cleaning the Women’s Prison toilets with a bristleless toothbrush; to see her visited by C.L. with a new girlfriend it tow (“Sorry, Maddie, but she was there, and you weren’t. Have a good life”); and to watch as her daughter is raised by Maddie’s evil in-laws, who will lie to the girl and tell her that her mother died in an attempted prison break.
Yeah, sure, I’m cruel. I’m a bastard, in fact. But I wasted over 200 pages of my reading life on that book and I want ’em back.
Oh — forgot to say it. Better late than never.
Spoilers!
D.
Here’s a change: I’m going to write up a recipe before I’ve ever tried it. I’ll post a followup to let you know how it turned out.
Regulars here know about my favorite Indian cookbook. Last night, I made potato samosas and chicken in creamed coconut sauce; tonight, I’m making a meat curry (gosht kari). Follow me below the fold for some curry, baby!
Lurkers, here’s your chance to say hello. I’d love to check out your stuff.
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Anyone up for live blogging this evening?
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And can anyone explain to me the vicissitudes of blog traffic? Total suckitude this week — isn’t anyone searching for cameltoe photos any more?
D.