The antidote to low hit rate suckage: equal parts virgins, panties, and mucus.
From Fukuyama Hiroaki, author of How to Talk Dirty in Japanese and English, we have this statement:
With regard to recent postings about the sexual promiscuity of young Japanese ladies, I find it quite shocking. It seems to be the second part of an orchestrated racist campaign of Japan-bashing to tarnish the reputation of Japanese girls.
This internet article, entitled “All Unmarried Japanese Girls are Virgins,” purports to be an antidote to said “racist campaign.” I’m not sure what good it will do to combat one sweeping generalization with another, but I do know that you forfeit the moral high ground with statements like this:
Regarding the rape of the 12-year-old Okinawan child, I have been called upon to voice my opinion about the 12-year-old girl who was raped by three Afro-American savages. This was truly a great tragedy for the poor girl. Now she will never be able to get married and live a happy life. She is forever tainted in the eyes of Japanese society and no respectable Japanese man will have anything to do with her. Those three savages got off easy.
Afro-American savages? Forever tainted? The rape did indeed happen, but why respond with racist slurs? And why hold it against the victim?
On a lighter note, Backless Lingerie offers specially designed panties which will allow you to show as many inches of butt crack as you’d like without showing any trace of underwear!
Quote:
Let’s be frank: What if you could wear truly invisible panties with complete confidence – no peek-a-boo thongs, no panty lines, ever? Fashionistas from Vogue to Cosmo agree – visible thongs, once popular thanks to Christina Aguilera and Pink, are a thing of the past. Though the jeans keep getting lower, it’s no longer cool to flaunt those g-strings. What’s next?
Man oh man. Butt crack, g-strings, peek-a-boo thongs, Christina Aguilera . . . soon, my hit counter will be burning a hole at the bottom of the page!
Yesterday, Michelle mentioned how a discussion of mucus boosted her hits. And I thought, why didn’t I think of that? I’m the archbishop of mucus. But enough self-linkage. Surely there are other interesting mucus sites on the Web.
This website explains how your cervical mucus changes during your fertility cycle.
Wordspy has this definition for “mucus trooper”:
mucus trooper (MYOO.kus troo.pur) n. An employee with a cold or the flu who insists on showing up for work. —mucus troop v.
That reminds me . . . no doubt you’ve all heard this, but a panel of linguists chose Stephen Colbert’s neologism ‘truthiness’ as the 2005 Word of the Year, and they’re not giving Colbert credit. He’s been bitching about it this week on his show, and with good cause. How dare they not give a writer credit for his words!
Back to mucus. For you paranormal romance writers, make sure you thoroughly understand ectoplasm — ghostly mucus — because without it, those cosmic copulations are hella painful.
Although . . . I’ve heard you can use specially designed personal lubricants, such as Astral Glide.
My first case got bumped by an emergency. Can you tell?
D.
. . . but what the hell!
CNN.com: Mummified Body Found in Front of TV
Quote:
Johannas Pope had told her live-in caregiver that she didn’t want to be buried and planned on returning after she died, Hamilton County Coroner O’Dell Owens said Monday.
Pope died in August 2003 at age 61. Her body was found last week in the upstairs of her home on a quiet street.
Her daughter and granddaughter lived downstairs. They and Ms. Pope’s caregiver all believed she would come back to life.
I think I can forgive the three-year-old granddaughter for thinking that, but the other two?
Here’s how to make a mummy, circa 2006. Prop dead body in front of TV. Leave the air conditioner running — forever. Enter room occasionally to spray body with Lysol.
Don’t let the air conditioner breakdown, ‘cuz guess what, folks — that’s how the neighbors figured it out.
D.
Before I get rolling, will some legal-type person tell me if I can get in trouble for writing a fake Alan Rickman blog?
I know, I know — I’m ruining the magic. But this way, I do get credit for convincing Maureen to take her clothes off.
My hatred for team sports is deep and abiding.
Wait, let me qualify that. I used to enjoy watching team sports. As a ten-year-old, I liked going to high school football or basketball games, for I had discovered that I was the perfect height to collide with shorter high school girls’ breasts. Crowds, man. They’re a bitch.
Participation, that’s what got me down. I grew up at a time when sports defined the boy, and I had a narrow definition indeed. To appreciate my problem, one needs a sense of proportion.
Yes, I had a bat, and yes, my teensy mitt swam over my teensier fingers. Maybe my dad or my brother taught me how to hit and catch, but if they did, I don’t remember it. I do remember being the last kid picked for a team, always, regardless of the sport — even kickball. And I wasn’t even half bad at kickball.
Elementary school softball: nearly every time at bat, I would strike out. I’d pray the ball would hit me, because then I’d get the walk. Invariably, the team captains made me an outfielder. The other outfielder knew that if the ball popped my way, he would have to catch it or there would be a home run for sure.
That went on all through elementary school and junior high school. In high school, we had several options for physical education. I took weight training every time, which allowed me to hang out with the stoners and the cholos and the ninja-wannabes — other guys who hated team sports as much as I did. My people.
I thought I had escaped the horrors of baseball, but in 10th grade I became involved in the B’nai B’rith Youth Organization. Our parents thought BBYO was a youth group designed to help nice young Jewish boys meet nice young Jewish girls. In reality, BBYO helped me meet other nice young Jewish boys who shared my burgeoning interest in pot and alcohol. But, wouldn’t you know it, the bastards liked to play baseball on the weekends.
Week after week, I dodged the invitation, and they would manage to round out their numbers by asking cousins, little brothers, or that kid across town who did pretty good in the Special Olympics. But one weekend, I couldn’t escape; they made it a point of honor. I’d be letting my brothers down.
And I thought: You’re going to guilt trip me? You sons of bitches. I’ll teach you what it means to let you down.
They figured it out by the end of the first inning. By the third inning, their oft-repeated refrain had become music to my ears. I’ve repeated it to my son and my OR nurses — it never fails to get a laugh. Thanks guys. I can still hear your warm words of encouragement.
D.
Notice the look of keen intelligence on my face:
I’m about to make either an earth-shaking discovery or a momentous poopie. One of the two.
D.
Maybe it’s seasonal affective disorder, our interminable rain, overwork, not enough sleep, lack of exercise, or crappy diet, but I needed a new toy to cheer me up, so I bought myself a scanner. We had a scanner, a decrepit creature abandoned by its maker (we couldn’t find a driver for Windows XP). But this new puppy is state of the art: an HP Scanjet 4850. Not top o’ the line, but more scanner than I need.
I debated with myself what to give you first. A photo of my dad’s parents dancing cheek to cheek? Perhaps a photo of my parents at half my present age, sitting next to one another on the beach? Maybe I should put up the photo of my mom’s dad in a Nazi uniform. (Nope. Gonna save that story for another day.)
No, I decided to post clear-cut evidence of my early attempts to ruin my son’s liver.
Be honest. You have a picture of your son or daughter like this, don’t you? It’s one of those irresistible photo opportunities.
That’s Carta Blanca, by the way — damn near unavailable in Northern California, but it’s our favorite beer. And Jake’s, too, by the look on his face.
Disclaimer for the humor-impaired, the gullible, and the meddlesome: the bottle was empty.
Nearly.
D.
I had hopes that yesterday’s post would vault my hits into, if not four-digit territory, at least above-250-hits-a-day territory, but no, I gave you Alan Rickman, and what do you do? You stay away from your computers. You spend time with your families. The nerve.
Mind you, the post itself was a shmata, chazzerai, but the comments . . . oy! To die for.
I spent the day catching up on my Tangent assignment. With the way my work days have been, I knew that if I didn’t post my review today, I wouldn’t finish it until next weekend. I’m already late on it, but Eugie is such a sweetie, she hasn’t even griped.
I can’t believe tomorrow is already Monday. I am so not into this work thing.
D.
Here’s how my mind works.
I’m thinking about all the various spoof blogs I know: Madonna’s Personal Blog, Harriet Miers’s Blog!!!, and Mel’s Musings (Mel Gibson’s Blog), and I’m wondering, what other famous people have fake blogs in their honor?
If anyone deserves a Harriet Miers-style blog, it’s George W. Bush. Google George Bush’s Blog and you’ll get this defunct site (last update, June 6, 2001). Then there’s Bush Blog!, which at least updates a bit more regularly (last entry, December 17, 2005). GOP.com, the Republican National Committee’s official blog, is the funniest of the three. With a headline like Economy Continues to Thrive, you know they have writers who will give The Daily Show a run for its money.
After that, I get the bright idea of looking for God’s blog. Turns out, He has several, like this one, or this one, which I rather like. Maybe I just dig the idea of God singing a Barry Manilow song for Jesus’ birthday.
But what really gets me is this one, called Godblog. On June 3, 2002, someone named Steve Jones set up Godblog on Blogspot. His tag reads,
Some of the amazing stories that people have told me or I have experienced about God doing stuff.
and his one and only entry reads,
No link. Nada. Talk about a let-down.
So, Steve? Put up or shut up. If you don’t want to run Godblog, that’s cool. It’s easy as pie to destroy your blog — believe me, I know. But leaving up a blog that reads
Some stories of God’s amazingness
with nothing else to back it up depresses the hell out of me, and I’m agnostic.
Anyway, what we really need is for one of the God’s Blog guys to start leaving entries on George Bush’s blog. You know, to mess with his mind.
GEORGE
(the Lord, like Death in Terry Pratchett’s novels, should always write in caps)
YOU’VE DONE QUITE ENOUGH, GEORGE. TIME TO STEP DOWN NOW, BEFORE LUCIFER AND I ARE FORCED TO FIGURE OUT SOMETHING WORSE THAN HELL.
J.
Yeah, something like that.
D.
. . . with a quiet, manly kind of love. You know, the way John Ireland loved Montgomery Clift in Red River — no, wait, that’s not quite right. I dig Corwin the way Sal Mineo dug Jimmy Dean in Rebel Without a Cause . . . no, no, no, that’s not it either.
Maybe I love him the way Claude Rains loves Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca — hey, wait, you mean that’s gay, too? (See David Thomson’s essay, Film Studies: Gay films? Well there’s ‘Raging Bull’ and ‘The Godfather’ for starters…)
Well, I certainly don’t love him the way Laurence Olivier loves Tony Curtis in Spartacus, or the way Jake Gyllenhaal loves Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain. Damn it all, aren’t there any role models in Hollywood for good, beefy, MASCULINE love?
Hmm. Maybe I love him the way Jake Barnes loves his fishin’ buddy Bill Gorton in The Sun Also Rises. I can always count on Papa Hemingway for confidently heterosexual male-male bonding, right? Right.
Anyway, I owe this gush of enthusiasm for Jeff Corwin to my son, who found this repository of Jeff Corwin video clips. They’re all great, but we especially enjoyed Jeff’s “Never before seen movie segments!”
So, Jeff, I love ya ‘cuz your heart is in the right place, you care about animals, you’re a ham like me, and you’re funny as hell.
That and the fact you’re so damned hawt.
Jeff, I wish I knew how to quit you.
D.
P.S.: If you want a serious treatment of the history of gay themes in Hollywood cinema, you can do no better than The Celluloid Closet, 1995. Great stuff.
From Maureen:
“In lieu of an actual post, I stole this meme from Miss Snark’s Blog this morning.
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don’t search around and look for the “coolest†book you can find. Do what’s actually next to you.”
I’m having Jake read The Golden Compass, and it really is right next to me. Here’s the sentence:
But her mind was on John Faa and the parley room, and before long she slipped away up the cobbles again to the Zaal.
Beneath that book, I have Jorge Luis Borges Collected Fictions. Page 123 puts us smack dab inside “The Garden of Forking Paths,” one of my favorite fantasy short stories. Sentence five:
That was why unconsciously I had fully given myself over to it.
Fun and easy. I’d do Strunk and White, too, but there’s no page 123.
I tag the first five people who read this post ;o)
D.