My friend Ewald gave me a knitted tongue and vagina for my birthday last year. What a sweet guy. He found them at a craft fair in Montreal. Toronto artist Shannon Gerard sewed up this super sweet finger fun set that I am holding in my hands, along with other notable genitals Ewald saw on the table that day.
Upon the realization that we were nearing the end of a short and uneventful summer, my girlfriends and I decided a ladies’ trip to the Hamptons was in order. Luckily, my friend Roxy’s parents have a place there, so we made a last-minute decision to pile on the train and head east for the weekend.
Sometimes I might pull together the perfect outfit, successfully swaddle my funky trunk butt/blimpy beer sac into a slim aerodynamic illusion of cuteness, only to be defeated by the reality of my stupid face. My big dumb head ruins all my fashion efforts like perching a drippy bag of sausage and marbles atop the old Xmas tree. Mysterious bumps and crusty pimps are ever-present, and sometimes scary black hairs will grow overnight. A single one of those fucks are as creepy as a spider pincer.
Last night my friend had such a sweet first date that he called to brag about it while he was still on the date and then the fucker turned up at the bar, smiling, with bags of groceries in hand - he had actually left her at home in his bed, six hours after the date had started - to stroll over to the patio where I was drinking whiskey just to tell me how well his date was going. "So how's your date?" I said, as he stood there, even though he had that British smug-face of his on, so I already knew how it was going. "Not bad, not at all bad," he said, "In the sense that on our first date she turned up and got STRAIGHT INTO MY BED without me having to bother with drinks or dinner." Oh, wow! I said. That reminds me of the time I went out with the illustrious Mattress King of San Diego. Except for every single detail.
Shoreditch is Williamsburg with more black lace, an addiction to hairspray, and no Sparks. Anyone who has hung out amongst the formerly fringetastic Ipso Facto clones may have noticed a decrease in the amount of lego ladies and an increase in eyebrow grooming (or an accentuation of a lack thereof.) Liquid liner isn't just for your lids, you know. Think Jennifer Connelly in Phenomena only darker and with a few less strays. To help me report on this East London trend, I have enlisted the help of the longtime queen (rather, Princess) of Shoreditch, Princess Julia. She's been a DJ and fashion icon for decades, has been in a zillion videos, and was famously the face of Visage's "Fade to Grey," and now co-runs P.i.X. Julia is a neutral source on this topic since she's chosen to live eyebrowless for years now.
My dentist yelled at me, my boss yelled at me, I ate bad sushi, and I was generally was having a shitty day when suddenly I GOT MAKEUP! Discerning blog readers may recall that this is the THRICE time that the Sephora Santa has brought Girl Christmas to Boystown, and you may also recall that each time we wrote about it, all the comments were like, "Grunt, grunt, way to shill for the MAN," or whatever, and all we can say is: Look out! 'Cause here we go again! Sephora! Sephora! The great bringer of cosmetics! This time the theme was nature and eco stuff. Yay, nature! Go green, man!
The other day I spent more than a day's wages on a (as in one single) bra from Agent Provocateur. Without getting too sassy and SATC, I will simply ask: Why do chicks do this? I've spoken to seemingly reasonable women who spend something like £1000 per year on undergarments, and yet lingerie is something that no one sees, ever, unless they do, in which case, if it is doing its job right, it won't be on for longer than four minutes tops. I have a couple theories I'm playing around with here...
Psst. Hey ladies. Here's a reminder that if you're looking for a darklord to munch your snatch free of charge, no strings attached, look no further: Louisville’s Free Face, aka George Kistner III aka Vampire Lord or simply God is still at your service. He's been around for a while now but times are tough right now so we thought we'd bring him to your attention again. But there are few things you need to know before he'll slurp your blues away...
What better way to celebrate a new presidency than with some good old fashioned corporate pilfering? In a bizarre manifestation of the economic meltdown, the really ritzy cosmetics companies have to give away $175 million worth of free makeup as punishment for patrician hoarding methods that artificially inflated prices. You took the day off to park it in front of the TV and let a few silent tears of joy slide from your ducts anyway, so why not be a real American and take a break to go hoard a bunch of shit you don't need? Or better, go to any of the fancy department stores, be just as rude to those counter cunts as they are to everyone else, stock up on the free Chanel, and give it away to the homeless.
Hi everyone. Sorry it's been a little slow around here today. I'm holding things up obsessing over these two girls, Petra Cortright and Neysa Malone, who're opposite sides of the same weirdo maniac dishwater blonde coin. They don't know each other (I don't think, and I'd be very surprised if they did) but in my mind we are all best friends/girlfriends who have sleepovers and do dirty things to one another at them. Or maybe I just do dirty things with each of them, but they don't touch each other. That's better. Threesomes are skanky. We talk though too, and I'm sort of the moderator in this scenario, trying to relate to Petra how Neysa's winsome Eurotrash/New Jerseyness is equally as strange as her own deadpan wilderness and that really their pop dreams and disillusionment are one in the same. I'm aware this is kind of creepy of me, but fuck it. Click below and watch some videos and see if you don't agree with me.
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