mama don't take no mess.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

When a man says the word "yummy" in a seemingly sexy way, I find it creepy... or juvenile… or effeminate... or all of the above. On a side note, I also hate the word "pussy."


 
There are some words that just give me the heebie-jeebies and which, if I may be so bold, should be eliminated from our vocabulary. There are other words that are fine in one use, but completely disconcerting in another use. One example being the word “pussy.” You can use this word to talk about a cat, or someone who needs to grow a pair, but when used in reference to a woman’s va jay jay, it’s just gross. Meanwhile, the word “yummy” coming out of a man’s mouth is about as sexy as tight pants clinging to a moose knuckle — not at all… ever.

Yummy: a way to describe cupcakes, not my coochie

Once upon a time, I was sexing with ahottie. At first he described an ostensibly hot scenario, one in which I found it easy to imagine myself. But then, after I said something back, he responded with only one word, a word which always makes me cringe: yummy.

Yummy? Seriously? Did I just offer you a slice of pie? No, I didn’t; I offered you little ol’ me on a silver platter. And, while you’re welcome to eat me and find me delicious, delectable and scrumptious, please avoid from using the word yummy — you are not a five-year-old child, and I am not a cupcake.

Let’s put it this way, if I had a big ol’ cock and, therefore, the ability to grow a massive erection, I am guaranteed the word yummy would instantly make it flaccid. (I have often also testified that the sight of khaki pants would also make me go limp if I had a schlong, but that’s a topic for another time.) People have, on occasion, asked me what word I use instead during dirty talk. Well, maybe one day you’ll find out. But, typically, I let her speak for herself.

Pussy: the most sickening word since snatch

Now I’ll be the first to admit: From time to time I actually use the word pussy — but never in reference to mine or someone else’s downtowner. I’ll call someone a pussy if he or she is being a crybaby. Oh, suck it up, you fuck’n pussy! But I’ll never say out loud, “Ooh baby, my pussy is so wet.” Gross; typing that resulted in me blushing, shaking my head from side to side, and making a sour face.

Why do I hate this term for a tulip? You may remember learning about onomatopoeia in English class. This is an approach to writing in which the words used imitate the source of the sound that it describes. For instance, “A busy bee in the breeze buzzes through the trees.” When you read this sentence, you can almost hear the little bee swerve past, as the words seem to go bzz bzz — a lovely little image.

However, when someone says "pussy" it sounds slick and slippery and slightly disturbing… see what I mean? This word creates a far from charming depiction of what it describes, be it an accurate account or not. I’d image this is the reason so many people get uncomfortable when they hear the word “moist.” The word moist is sopping wet, saturated, soaked… and all-around sordid. I could do without a man using the word “panties,” as well… maybe because the word makes them sound — dare I say — moist?

And these words take creeptastic to a whole new level when said by someone with a lisp. For example: “Ooh baby your puthsy is tho wet,” “Sthweet jethsus are you moithsth,” or “Let me thslip off your pantiethz.” These examples provide all the more reason to eliminate the usage of such expressions.

So, remember: If you find that you simply must talk, please keep in mind that yummy is for cupcakes and pussy is for cats. Let’s not ruin this with a bunch of talk.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

The Trojan Magnum is the golden ticket of our generation




In Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, practically the entire world is obsessed with the idea of obtaining a golden ticket — and a pass into the most exciting and eccentric confection-creating castle. Anything that shimmers in the distance offers each ticket-hunter a glimmer of hope that they could, indeed, be one of the lucky ones to run wild like a kid in a candy shop.

Sadly, this is a fictional tale, and our simple lives are lived without the exhilaration of one day stumbling upon a golden ticket and therefore being invited into the land of the unknown. That is, until the day comes that a male or female sees a man tearing open a Trojan Magnum and feels the same excitement that swelled inside Charlie Bucket when he found that auriferous piece of paper which changed his destiny forevermore. (Big words, which, in our sense of the term “golden ticket,” basically translate to: a big dick cometh.)

They say it’s not the size of the boat but the motion of the ocean. And, in my personal experience I’ve found that sometimes the waves alone can do the trick. However, I’ve never heard of a man or woman choosing to ride the waves on a dingy instead of an ocean cruiser. And while a Magnum-requiring man-piece is by no means an obligation, it sure is a nice surprise — like running into an old friend who you haven’t seen for a while, or getting exactly what you wished for on your birthday.

After a woman or man eyes a golden ticket (or several, if he or she is lucky), the ticket-holder is taken on a voyage of extraordinary proportions. An epic journey, if you will, that results in one being pounded into the wall with such fervor that the man wielding this sword will have to grab his mate by the shoulders and bust he or she back out from the partition —like twisting an ice tray and popping the ice cubes within from their previous position.

After this affair has occurred, one’s bedroom floor may be littered with evidence of the exploit. It’s never fun to bend over to pick up and dispose of packaging aplenty — much like a criminal in an orange jumpsuit who has been fined with roadside cleanup, only without that nifty trash-picker-upper. However, finding Trojan Magnum wrappers on your floor the next morning is kind of like winning an Oscar for best performance. I’d like to thank the academy…

One is almost tempted to put this award on his or her mantle, or at the office for peers to examine and of which to be envious. Picture it: On your desk is a framed photo of you grinning wildly with one thumb up, and the other hand brandishing a shiny, golden, torn piece of plastic. This picture would represent your proudest moment… maybe you’d even send a copy of the photo to your mother for her to paste within your baby book. Baby’s First Monster Dong.

The photo would then be showed to all your family members and, later in life; upon victoriously winning the presidency, perhaps, it would be leaked into the media for the entire world to enjoy. Sigh. One can dream, can’t she? So, in summation, while a chance at touring the chocolate factory is a fantasy beyond reality, one can still hope, wish, and prey to stumble upon a golden ticket and go on an adventure of his or her own.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Manscaping is a non-negotiable.



Picture it: It’s a hot, boring afternoon and you’re invited to a friend’s house for a pool party. You put on your suit, pack up your things, and head out the door — eager for a day of fun. But then, upon arriving, you see that the entire backyard has been grown over with three-foot tall weeds, some of which quite prickly. The large, deep, refreshing pool is in the epicenter of this clusterfuck — much like a palace hidden within a treacherous moat.

This is how it feels when a woman is en route to a freak fest and finds herself face-to-face with an unkempt package. Now I know that men have found themselves in this predicament as well, but, for the most part, we women do our best to keep our cookies clearly accessible (although, I admit, I can’t speak for hippies).


Pardon me, your dong is dwarfed by pubes. While there are countless reasons this is a faux pas, the main reason a man should be discouraged from letting this mane go untamed is the fact that this wiry black hair is hiding the beast within. Does he HAVE a penis under that pubehawk? Most of the time, we don’t have the effort to find out. So, if the goal is to get some, please trim it up — if nothing else than to make it appear larger. (Don’t lie and pretend you haven’t tried this, smaller-dick-having guys.)

I own dental floss, thank you very much. This chaotic state of affairs is also detrimental to a man’s blow-jay getting attempts. If I wanted to put Alf’s nose in my mouth, I’d fly to planet Melmac (… and at least I’m 100% positive he eats pussy). When I see a hairy mass such as this but inches from my face, I think to myself (and once even said aloud) I’m not putting my mouth NEAR that hot mess! And why would I? There are seven orifices on my head and not one of them is welcoming to foreign hairs. And I’m not going to spend the following two hours pulling that shit outta my teeth. Listerine, maybe. But as far as gingivitis control, I have floss in my medicine cabinet and a dentist down the street.

Have you even considered the stank-factor? Another reason it’s important to maintain the terrain is pure and simple hygiene. You can’t just hang a pine-tree air freshener around your shaft. And balls are gross enough already. If you want me to even consider tea-bagging that shit, you better shave, pluck or wax it up — whichever you find less painful… or more, as the case may be.

Wine me, dine me, sixty-nine me. Obviously reciprocation is the name of the game, so if we women are going to always uphold a landing strip, triangle, or Brazilian; you can make sure your legs, shaft and balls are free from debris.

So, gentleman and douchebags alike, next time you’re planning to get laid, or have a go at face fucking someone, remember: it’s only fair, that everyone — man, woman, hermaphrodites, whatever — tidy up before the maid comes to clean house.