Cosmo Thirteen: the Va-jay-jay Edition
There was a time when guys treated women with respect. We might sneak a peak at their bazongas, but we didn’t stare at ’em for more than a few minutes, and we would never call ’em hooters or milk wagons or love jugs. And we didn’t call women slags or skanks or sluts, and we didn’t refer to their Holy of Holies as a kebab or a quim or a bearded clam.
Or, God forbid, a va-jay-jay.
No, we called it by its proper name, pussy.
Pussy shows proper respect to a beautiful, wondrous organ. Think about it. A pussy is cute! furry! friendly! Men like to pet, stroke, and cuddle with pussies. (Many women do, too.) You wouldn’t hesitate to bring a pussy home to Mom.
I’m not sure what a va-jay-jay is, but I suspect it stays out too late clubbing, smokes and drinks to excess, has no interest whatsoever in short, bald hobbits, and probably associates with an overabundance of wa-wieners.
In this issue: Rihanna shows off her yellow Versace . . . women in danger . . . five things never to tell your guy . . . and guys masturbate (no, really?)
Leave Hillary Alone!
So said my son this afternoon. It has become an old, tired joke at Chez Walnut.
Leave Bill O’Reilly alone!
Leave tuna alone!
Leave kitty litter pans alone!
Yes, I’m making those up. Jake hates it when I make shit up and attribute it to him — so, Jake, please take note, I haven’t attributed ANY of that to you.
When he said, “Leave Hillary alone!”, however, I told him he really ought to search YouTube for it, since someone has undoubtedly done this.
Turns out, MANY have, but the Young Turks have one of the funniest versions.
Back to work on the Cosmo Thirteen. Stay tuned, droogz.
D.
Hillary jumps the shark
Not a good debate tonight for Hillary Clinton. From her pettiness at the outset (Waaah, why do I always get asked the first questions, waaaah, don’t you watch Saturday Night Live? You guys love Obama more than meeeee! Stick a pillow under him, why dontcha?) to her dog-with-a-bone act over health care, she looked desperate, not presidential.
The true shark-jumping moment came when Tim Russert asked Obama about Louis Farrakhan’s support for him. Russert wanted to know, do you reject Farrakhan’s support? Obama replied that he has repeatedly denounced Farrakhan for his antisemitism.
What does Hillary do? At 5:55 on that video: “You asked specifically if he would reject it [Farrakhan’s support] and there’s a difference between denouncing and rejecting . . .”
Hmm. You know, she’s right:
Reject 1 a: to refuse to accept, consider, submit to, take for some purpose, or use <rejected the suggestion> <reject a manuscript> b: to refuse to hear, receive, or admit
Denounce 1: to pronounce especially publicly to be blameworthy or evil
<they denounced him as a bigot>
Denounce is the stronger word, and that’s the one Obama used. You would think Hillary would have more respect for words, given that her hubs will probably be scorned for all time for his mincing of the word “is.” Words matter. But, I forgot — she’s not running on her rhetorical gifts.
In any case, Obama’s reply hit it out of the park (6:22). Bwaaahaahaha. And the audience loved it, too.
“Good, good, excellent,” Hillary replied — as if she had just scored a major victory. Riiight.
D.
My life needs more fingerpainting
Last year, M E-L turned me on to DonorsChoose.org (ah, and I see he’s promoting them with another challenge!), a charitable foundation that fixes up mini philanthropists with worthy causes. I donated some $$ to buy paints for an inner city 1st Grade class. Today, I received a nice packet from the teacher: a thank you letter from her, several photos, and thank you notes from the kids, too.
Funniest note was this one:
Daer Dr. Hoffman,
We make butfull pants our class make a boch of pickchrs togetr. thank you
You’re welcome. I’ve been told I have butfull pants, too.
The most perplexing note was this one:
Dear Dr. Hoffman Iieew gg goukoohoam
miBhftihciemusie
HirecwetegoActee
teieteegigmom
Um . . . wow! That’s great! Keep up the good work.
If DonorsChoose.org is trying to encourage repeat donations, it’s working. I want to give again. I noticed that on M E-L’s challenge page (linked above), there’s an untouched challenge to buy a bunch of kids their own copies of To Kill A Mockingbird. That one’s tempting. (No, you don’t have to donate the whole sum.) And that one to help struggling readers with graphic novels — do you suppose they would let me choose the graphic novels? (Almost anything by Alan Moore — who’s with me on this?) But I think I’ll let Karen look this one over to help me decide.
Kudos to a very cool organization. Check ’em out.
D.
Research
One of the advantages of writing science fiction which is, in truth, a satire on pop culture: I can buy OK! magazine and write it off on my taxes. Or, rather, I could write it off on my taxes if I could ever manage to make any money at this writing biz.
I have to ask myself: which celebrities do I pick on? Madonna and Cher are so yesterday. Paris and Britney have become too pathetic, too self-satirized. People still idolize Brangelina and they still think of Jen as one of their friends and oh, isn’t it so sad how heartbroken she is? There’s emotional investment all around with the Jenbrangelina story, whereas with Partney, who cares? Leave Partney alone, I say. Besides, after you’ve seen some drugged out rich girl’s much-abused stubbly va-jay-jay* in a high rez jpeg, there’s not much else to say.
Inevitably, I’m getting caught up in the Brangelaniston story, too. I’m a sucker for broken hearts and unrequited love, and (even if she is blonde) my heart goes out to a girl who looks like the girl next door, even if my girl next door, growing up, was a sixty-something-year-old nurse. Jen, if I weren’t married, I’d be there for ya, babe.
From OK! . . .
Though she did celebrate her birthday earlier this week with some of the cast and crew of the film, a friend of the actress tells OK!, “Almost every night when she finishes work, Jen goes back to her hotel and eats and drinks by herself. Just as often, her evening is a drink and a book. It’s pretty much what she does most nights in L.A.”
And when she is in L.A., friends say Jen spends most of her time with her white German Shephard Dolly, who she adopted in 2006.
Whom she adopted. But can I use the Jen and Dolly story? You betcha.
Sorry to take advantage of your angst, Jen, but if it’s any consolation, you’re going to be one of the good guys.
D.
*Va-jay-jay: my new word. Stay tuned for the Thursday Cosmo Thirteen: the Va-jay-jay Edition. I wish I were making that up.
It comes with a soundtrack, too
Yes, Balls and Walnuts is excellent. Thank you, Blue Gal! I’d send it right back at ya, but that’s not how the rules work.
The rule is to pass it along to ten (only ten?) other excellent bloggers, and I’ve tried to choose those who have not been chosen already.
Some folks who have made me laugh recently:
sxKitten (okay, okay, so I’m a sucker for lolcats)
The Smart Bitches (not that they need an award, but they are funny as hell)
and
Cintra (I ruv oo 2)
I know many of you won’t meme along with me, but if you’re in a love-sharing mood, go for it.
D.
Can’t write. Gotta cook.
It’s Karen’s b-day dinner. Karen, if you happen to get online in the next few hours, don’t look below the fold.
Friday Flickr Babe: Odyssey escapee edition
Steamy Cyclops, originally uploaded by rach_thegoat.
I dunno, maybe I just have a thing for Cyclopean females.
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I made La Puttanesca recipe which I listed yesterday. WOW. I used twice the recommended amount of red pepper flakes, which made it spicy enough for Karen and Jake. I would have liked it a bit spicier still. I used the full complement of garlic . . . definitely the right thing to do.
Recommended.
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From PRI The World: vote for the strangest book title of the year.
I Was Tortured By the Pygmy Love Queen is definitely for me*. I must know more! From the Amazon page, I see this one is published by Fem Fist books. Well, that sounds promising. Next, the write-up:
What evils await Captain Henry Mitchell on the island below? A U.S. Navy fighter pilot, he’s forced to abandon his Grumman after battling Japanese Zeros over the Pacific, but soon Japan is the least of his worries. Parachuting into rainforest canopy Mitchell is greeted by a lost tribe of pygmies and their insanely cruel leader, a female, a Caucasian westerner like himself who subjects him to unholy tortures both painful and erotic. How does she control the pygmies to carry out her sadistic punishments against him? What secrets are kept on this island? Secrets which she believes Mitchell has come to take from her? And how does a man deal with being tortured for answers to questions he knows nothing about? One strong man, stripped naked, bound and helpless, versus one female tyrant and her legion of little devils – who will win this battle?
What do you think — should I buy this one just so I can write a fun Smart Bitches Day post?
D.
*If I can stomach the political incorrectness of it all. But Pygmies on a South Pacific island — whaaaat? (Oh — wait — they’re lost. Gotcha.) And apparently it’s a white chick who tortures him. Is that better or worse, from a Political Correctness POV? She “controls” the Pygmies. That can’t be good.
Oh, I’m so confused.
Thirteen toppings for pasta
I’m going to put in a plug for homemade pasta. Is it a pain in the ass? No. (Pain in the hand, actually, since you have to do a bit of kneading.) Does it require special equipment? No. (But you’d have to be a bit nuts to try to do this with a rolling pin!) Does it taste better than store-bought? YES! Better even than “fresh” store-bought.
If you’re stuck with store-bought pasta, my favorite brand is De Cecco.
And now, Thirteen toppings for pasta.
Too much information
One of the problems with being a doctor is, folks think they can tell (or show) you anything. Anything.
I’ve lost count of the number of patients who have bared their breasts, dropped their pants, or lifted their shirts to show me one thing or another. I’m very polite when this happens. I never say, “What part of ear, nose, and throat don’t you understand?” Like the hero of my romance novel, I was once the recipient of a snide, “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” and I don’t care to hear that phrase in that tone of voice ever again.
Nevertheless, a few patients have crossed the line. The worst was a woman with a medical condition characterized by freckled lips. She thought her entire digestive tract was full of freckles, and that her poops were freckled, too. And she had the photo album to prove it.
One patient would bring in her used Kleenexes to show to her doctors. Now, 999,999 times out of a million, such displays are TMI. C’mon, it’s not that tough, it’s like the opposite of writing fiction: you can tell me your phlegm is thick and green, you don’t have to show me. “I thought you might be able to use the sample!” they say.
Um, no.
But in this one time in a million, those used Kleenexes helped me make a diagnosis (maybe). She told her doctors she was coughing up crystals, and none would believe her, even if she showed them the proof. Miracle of miracles, I remembered something from med school: Charcot-Leyden crystals, a sign of asthma. To this day, I don’t know if those really were Charcot-Leyden crystals, but I sent her to a pulmonologist, and IIRC, he figured it out.
I’m not the pointiest fork in the drawer, but I do know it’s abnormal to cough up pretty crystals. (On the other hand, I must be a relatively pointy fork, since I was the first doc to take her seriously and send her to a specialist.)
What bugs me the most is when friends or family members tell me stuff that’s (A) way too personal, and (B) way too far from my specialty for me to offer any sort of intelligent commentary. (Sis, don’t worry. I don’t think you’ve ever done this.) I’m not a gynecologist, nor am I a proctologist.
And then there’s the personal stuff. I’ve told you this before — the bizarre habit women have of opening up to me. I suspect it’s the Little Bald Hobbit phenomenon. I’m like a human teddy bear. You can tell anything to your teddy bear, right? It’s not like anyone ever made a teddy bear horror movie —
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Brownie points to anyone who can suggest an EASY Thirteen for tomorrow.
D.