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Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.
Today's topic: Female Fossil Fuels
Here is my morning routine:
But Julie, don't you have a subscription to People magazine? Why would you go to US?
Yes I do have a subscription to People. It's classy celebrity gossip. US Weekly is a trashy gossip rag, and their information is totally unreliable. That is why I only look at it online, without paying them anything. I like to lower myself to their level, as cheap freeloading trash. It's starting to sound like one of Tiger Woods' fetish festivals with his call girls.
So today I am sitting at my computer, coffee cup in hand, when I pull up this headline on US:
A source tells Us Weekly that Jessica Simpson had a, ahem, windy moment during a business meeting for her denim line in late January. "While one of the executives was speaking in a room full of five people, Jessica let out a very loud fart," says the insider.
"Her mother [Tina Simpson] was there, and it prompted her to turn around and yell, 'Jessica!' The tension was extreme. No one knew what to say."
It wasn't Simpson's first brush with public flatulence: She famously cut loose on an episode of Newlyweds, telling then-husband Nick Lachey, "You love my stinky ass," and professed her fondness for between-the-sheets poots (a.k.a. Dutch ovens) to a radio station in 2008.
And to this I say: What. The. Hell.
I hate you, US Weekly, for making me feel SORRY for Jessica Simpson. Yesterday I read a story somewhere that Jess was donating a bunch of shoes to Haiti, and all I could picture was a bunch of poor earthquake victims toddling around in four-inch-heeled patent red leather cougar shoes, and I thought "You dumb cow, send money, not your reject shoes." And then today, you make me feel sorry for her. Because isn't it totally obvious that her mom farted and then blamed it on Jessica? I have an announcement to make:
I fart.
Sometimes publicly. And I miss the days when I could blame it on my kids. "Whoa, YD, someone has a smelly diaper!" and people look at the cute baby and smile sympathetically and say, "Oh, I remember those days!", unaware that I had the #5 on the Taco Bell Value Menu only a few hours earlier. Suckas!
Current Husband knows this about me, and he is appreciative of it because it lets him off the hook. The children are suspicious, but I can still get away with blaming it on CH or George the Superpet, because he is 106 pounds and is truly the burpiest, most flatulent dog I have ever met.
Before CH and I were married, I worked at a high-end retail store in Ames while CH finished school. Many nights we would order daVinci's cheesesteak hoagies (you Ames and Lincoln people know what I am talking about - they are absolutely divine. If there was a daVinci's here, it would create a whole new food pyramid.) and drink a couple of beers. This didn't always bode well during my morning shift at the high end retail store.
Once, I had to let one fly. Being generally respectful of other people's space, I moved to the front of the store by the door, but unfortunately, another clerk followed me up there. It was too late. Desperate, I looked around for someone or something to blame. Just then, a street work crew caught my attention, and we had a Bingo.
"Wow, they are really going overboard with the sulfur on that street work!" I said.
"They sure are!" exclaimed Beulah, the sweet older woman who worked with me, and wouldn't have believed that a nice girl like me would pass gas publicly. But I am the daughter of a bricklayer, and some things come easier to me than to other women.
An open apology to the world: "Excuse me. I am sorry."
I can start today with a clean slate.
RESOLUTION #13: Stand next to Jessica Simpson the next time I have gas, and then yell, "JESSICA!!!" Or maybe don't stand next to Jessica Simpson, but yell her name anyway.
Happy Whoreticulture Friday! Have a great weekend, and please fart responsibly. Remember, Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein's Taxidermied Advice Squirrel site starts Monday. Send your life questions to him at todd.hotnuts@gmail.com.
Here is my morning routine:
- Press snooze button three times
- Swear
- Brush teeth
- Pour coffee (thus negating positive effects of tooth brushing)
- Wake up mini-teen
- Swear
- Surf Internet
- Make lunches
- Put on jeans, shoes, and drive various offspring to various schools
- Remember I didn't put on a bra. Wish I had. Particularly when it's 11 degrees out.
- Eat breakfast bar, drink more coffee, surf more Net.
- Get to work.
But Julie, don't you have a subscription to People magazine? Why would you go to US?
Yes I do have a subscription to People. It's classy celebrity gossip. US Weekly is a trashy gossip rag, and their information is totally unreliable. That is why I only look at it online, without paying them anything. I like to lower myself to their level, as cheap freeloading trash. It's starting to sound like one of Tiger Woods' fetish festivals with his call girls.
So today I am sitting at my computer, coffee cup in hand, when I pull up this headline on US:
Exclusive: Oops! Jessica Simpson Farts During Business Meeting
Thursday – January 28, 2010 – 10:05am
Let's end this meeting on a high note!A source tells Us Weekly that Jessica Simpson had a, ahem, windy moment during a business meeting for her denim line in late January. "While one of the executives was speaking in a room full of five people, Jessica let out a very loud fart," says the insider.
"Her mother [Tina Simpson] was there, and it prompted her to turn around and yell, 'Jessica!' The tension was extreme. No one knew what to say."
It wasn't Simpson's first brush with public flatulence: She famously cut loose on an episode of Newlyweds, telling then-husband Nick Lachey, "You love my stinky ass," and professed her fondness for between-the-sheets poots (a.k.a. Dutch ovens) to a radio station in 2008.
And to this I say: What. The. Hell.
I hate you, US Weekly, for making me feel SORRY for Jessica Simpson. Yesterday I read a story somewhere that Jess was donating a bunch of shoes to Haiti, and all I could picture was a bunch of poor earthquake victims toddling around in four-inch-heeled patent red leather cougar shoes, and I thought "You dumb cow, send money, not your reject shoes." And then today, you make me feel sorry for her. Because isn't it totally obvious that her mom farted and then blamed it on Jessica? I have an announcement to make:
I fart.
Sometimes publicly. And I miss the days when I could blame it on my kids. "Whoa, YD, someone has a smelly diaper!" and people look at the cute baby and smile sympathetically and say, "Oh, I remember those days!", unaware that I had the #5 on the Taco Bell Value Menu only a few hours earlier. Suckas!
Current Husband knows this about me, and he is appreciative of it because it lets him off the hook. The children are suspicious, but I can still get away with blaming it on CH or George the Superpet, because he is 106 pounds and is truly the burpiest, most flatulent dog I have ever met.
Before CH and I were married, I worked at a high-end retail store in Ames while CH finished school. Many nights we would order daVinci's cheesesteak hoagies (you Ames and Lincoln people know what I am talking about - they are absolutely divine. If there was a daVinci's here, it would create a whole new food pyramid.) and drink a couple of beers. This didn't always bode well during my morning shift at the high end retail store.
Once, I had to let one fly. Being generally respectful of other people's space, I moved to the front of the store by the door, but unfortunately, another clerk followed me up there. It was too late. Desperate, I looked around for someone or something to blame. Just then, a street work crew caught my attention, and we had a Bingo.
"Wow, they are really going overboard with the sulfur on that street work!" I said.
"They sure are!" exclaimed Beulah, the sweet older woman who worked with me, and wouldn't have believed that a nice girl like me would pass gas publicly. But I am the daughter of a bricklayer, and some things come easier to me than to other women.
An open apology to the world: "Excuse me. I am sorry."
I can start today with a clean slate.
RESOLUTION #13: Stand next to Jessica Simpson the next time I have gas, and then yell, "JESSICA!!!" Or maybe don't stand next to Jessica Simpson, but yell her name anyway.
Happy Whoreticulture Friday! Have a great weekend, and please fart responsibly. Remember, Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein's Taxidermied Advice Squirrel site starts Monday. Send your life questions to him at todd.hotnuts@gmail.com.
