It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 75

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. Or people I work with. Or anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or my OB-GYN.



Today's topic: Priorities

Actual article published in a local newspaper on Thursday, January 12:

Sex Doll Worth $250 Stolen in Iowa City Knifepoint Robbery
Police said the clerk at an Iowa City adult entertainment store was robbed at knifepoint early Thursday morning and chased out of the store.



According to Iowa City Police, officers responded to Romantix Pleasure Palace, 315 Kirkwood Ave., at 3:01 a.m. Thursday for a report of a hold up alarm. As officers were responding, a store employee called 911 and reported a man had entered the store, displayed a large knife and attempted to enter the employee area behind the cash register.


Police said the employee jumped over the counter and ran from the store. The suspect pursued for a short distance before turning back and stealing merchandise from the store.

A store employee said that the suspect got away with a “high-quality sex doll.” The doll is valued at $250 and media reports that the doll was worth $1,800 are erroneous, the employee said.


Iowa City Police Sgt. Denise Brotherton said the employee was able to run toward a nearby convenience store.

The suspect is described as a white man, 5’8”-5’10” and 165 pounds. He was wearing a black coat and scarf over his face and carrying a backpack. Police said the knife was described as a large hunting knife with a 6-8 inch blade.

Iowa City CrimeStoppers is offering a reward of up to $1,000 for information leading to the arrest of this suspect. Anyone with information is asked to call CrimeStoppers at 358-8477.

I think it's a real shame that there are no federal programs available to provide people with porn.  Here's a guy, obviously suffering from a severe case of blue balls, who has been forced into a life of crime to support his porn habit.  He obviously has feelings; the store IS called "Romantix".  Why should he have to live his life using pillows or sofa cushions, when the rich people can have access to a "high quality sex doll".  We're not talking Donald Trump - this wasn't the $1800 doll it was originally rumored to be. 

Iowa City Police:  I'd be looking for a guy

who looks suspiciously like Ryan Gosling.

If you're going to turn to a life of crime, don't steal obvious things like food, clothing, or Twilight movies.  You need to be the guy who robbed the porn shop for a rubber girlfriend.  When you go to prison, you are going to be the COOLEST DUDE THERE.  And in demand for parties, I would guess.  And speaking of cool guys at parties, it makes me wonder...

Where was Current Husband going yesterday,

and why did he borrow my scarf and hunting knife?

Hello, $1000!

(BTW, do you see how this man suffers for my lack of impulse control? 

FINE.  I'LL TAKE A STUPID PICTURE FOR YOUR BLOG!)

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Happy Valentine's Day, Bitches!

Honestly, I have no idea why I just said that, but I'm going to tell you that for some odd reason, it felt good.  I swear that I am 100% sober.  But I am drunk on blog love.

Nigella Lawson said on NPR today that she is to Valentine's Day what The Scrooge is to Christmas, and I have to say that I'm a bit the same.  I love Current Husband, he loves me, that's super.  So why is it that I get irritated every Valentine's Day?  Let me give you my rundown of irrational reasons I'm bugged by Valentine's Day:

1. Flowers.  My sister-in-law owns a greenhouse, and this is one of her busiest days, so I hope you all buy flowers from your locally owned florist.  That said, I get really pissed at the pressure put on people to order flowers.  I would much rather get a random bouquet of flowers during the year for no good reason than to get flowers on V Day or birthday.  I did get flowers today, for probably the third time total in the 20 years I've been with CH, and they were lovely, but I was the only woman in the building who got them, and honestly I felt a little guilty, like I had to say, "No, really, I'm usually totally disappointed with the rest of you today."  Anniversaries, however, are flower occasions, especially on anniversaries divisible by five.  There were flowers at the wedding, it seems like a nice reminder.
2. Candy.  Sweet Baby Jesus, how much candy can I stuff in my craw in one day?  After Halloween, I ingest more chocolate today than during the rest of the year combined.  It's because everyone is getting chocolate, but no one wants to eat it all because we're all on the downside of eating ourselves into a coma from Thanksgiving through New Years and we're all thinking, "Oh hell, I'm fat again and swimsuit season is coming - please someone else eat the rest of this chocolate!"
3. Music.  I have to listen to the Top Hits station because of my teen/pre-teen, and have you heard some of what passes as relationship music?  Rihanna's new song is about S&M, it actually repeats "S S S S and M M M" and the chorus says "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me".  I'm sorry, aren't you the girl who was beaten silly by Chris Brown?  Who is your manager?  Then the rest of the songs are "Let's get drunk and crunk and glitter on the floor and take off our clothes and ride the disco stick".  But whatever you do, DO NOT KISS OR RESPECT ME.  Because then I will tire of you.  My God, I'm old.
4. Porn. I love the ads for Doctor John's porn shop or whatever it is, and they say, "Come here for all of your sex toy and fetish needs" and "It's Valentine's Day all year here!"  Yes!  My idea of Valentine's Day is a gag ball and leather studded chaps.  Giddyup, Valentine!  Now spank that ass!  And how many husbands are saying, "Yes, I need to get my special lady friend a Valentine's gift AND I  like porn, so I can hang out in this porn shop for a few hours, and then buy her a gift that says 'I intend for you to pleasure me this holiday'." Brilliant.
5. Dinner.  This one is Nigella's, not mine.  She said today that one reason she hates Valentine's Day is that some couples use it as the one night a year they go out for dinner, and then you end up in a restaurant with 20 couples who have nothing to say to each other.  I don't necessarily agree with Nigella on this one, because I am always up for an excuse to go out for dinner, but I do avoid VD because you can never get in anywhere because of the Valentine crowd.  I like to dine on the Thursday after, because it's quiet then.  Happy Valentine's Day, food.  I love you.

I'm not trying to bust St. Valentine's chops.  I think it's sweet and wonderful when someone takes a moment to appreciate the ones they love.  I just get annoyed when it's contrived because Hallmark and FTD guilt people into it, and then there are these expectations that can never be met.  And the guys who use it as an excuse to hang out in a porn shop and buy crotchless underpants for their 2-month girlfriend.  However, crotchless underpants after being together 20 or 30 years says, "Hey, I'm still curious about what I can talk you into" and shows interest.  Wanting to see someone in crotchless underpants at 45?  That's love, people.

Happy Valentine's Day, Wifers!  I give you all a big sloppy kiss!  And crotchless underpants!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 46

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. Or people I work with. Because there are many things I don't need you people to know about me. SO STOP READING, CO-WORKERS. You know who you are.




Today's topic: Gleedophilia

This week, Whoreticulture Friday is all about being on top of today's hot and fresh headlines.  Who is hot and fresh this week?  Some of those nutty kids from Glee.  You may be thinking to yourself, "Julie, this is a far cry from cock rings," but to you I say, "Is it, gentle reader?  IS IT?"  Because according to next month's issue of GQ magazine, those Glee Girls are fresh from Berlin and the Reeperbahn District.

The Parent's Television Council is upset about the photos because they claim they are bordering on pedophilia, but I disagree.  No one looking at those photos is thinking about little girls, they are thinking about Catholic school girls playing dress-up in fetish clothing.  Completely different.

And must we ALWAYS assume that when a 24-year-old woman wants to be photographed in her panties and bra and knee socks and stillettos and favorite lollipop it is SEXUAL?  I can offer some non-sexual takes on these photos.  It is the Liberal Media Bias Legislating From The Bench as Career Politicians who Approved This Message.  That's where the misunderstandings happen.

"My blood sugar is low.  So.  Low. 

Which is what made me forget to

wear pants to school and simulate

fellatio with a blow pop."

"I am so angry with myself for

forgetting that spike heels will

ruin the gym floor!  I deserve to

be roundly punished!"

"This is totally my favorite shirt from

the Gap because it has spandex in it,

so it's really flexible, like me! 

Wanna see me put this fuschia

pump behind my head?

"Yay, reading!  We love books! 

Look, here's a book on Exploitation! 

I'm going to bend over in my short skirt

and high heels to read it!

"I did such a good job polishing this bench

that you can see my vagina in it! 

Hooray for Brazilians!"

Okay, this one actually pisses me off.
When are we going to stop objectifying men?
This poor, innocent young man is forced to palm
those supple buttocks in a way that says,
"Hey, I'm up for two chicks at once!"
when he is clearly uncomfortable about it.
And?  Do we *need* to see his forehead?
Get a hat, dude!

See?  It's all just media slant.  And as they say, Glee is not being marketed toward teens AT ALL.  And if my teen sees these photographs, which is not likely because thank goodness there isn't any kind of crazy space-age worldwide web that will bring up these pics every time she types "Glee" in Google, she won't think they are cool at all, because they are purposely set up to be as unsexy and uncool as possible.  I mean, how many teenage girls are eating Blow Pops?  That is SO fourth grade.  And knee socks?  Please. 

I just hope the boys DO see these pictures in GQ, because they send an important message: Even if really hot girls with smokin' bods are squirming all over you and forcing their buttocks in the palm of your hands, you should KEEP YOUR CLOTHES ON and STICK TO YOUR VALUES.  If more boys would behave in this way, teen pregnancies would go way down.  So thank you, GQ.  Thank you for caring about the youth of America, and reminding us that no matter how strong your favorite female characters are on your favorite show, they are really just sluts deep down inside, trying to get a man.

*julie slow claps for GQ here*

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 45

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. Or people I work with. Because there are many things I don't need you people to know about me. SO STOP READING, CO-WORKERS. You know who you are.

Today's topic: Mommy the Sex Toy Dealer

First, I must apologize for no blog on Wednesday a.m., but The Son sprained his foot badly at football practice, and we did the whole Convenient Care/x-ray/crutches thing and he is out for the rest of the football season, and I was just not really in a bloggy place that night, so sorry for slacking!

Today already feels like one of those days when I am going to lose followers, so let me say before I begin this edition of Whoreticulture Friday that I really enjoyed the time you spent on my blog, I apologize in advance for offending you, and you will be missed.

So.  I was approached last week about selling sex toys on my blog.  Oh yes, Wifers.  Cock rings for everyone!  It's like Christmas, if Christmas was absolutely not about Jesus and we all had Spanish Fly instead of eggnog.  

(Today is also starting to feel like one of those days when I will be going to hell, so let me say to Jesus that I really enjoyed the time I was in your favor, I apologize in advance for offending you, and I will really miss heaven.)

As many of you know, bloggers get approached fairly regularly to whore out products on their blogs.  Most of these proposals are scams, and no one ever gets paid.  Unfortunately, the adult sites seem to be the only legitimate companies paying people to advertise for them.  This say a LOT about the Internet.  Since 66% of my blog posts are about kids and families and 33%, or more namely, Whoreticulture Fridays, often are about sex, I will probably not be advertising for this company.  However, since they gave me a topic, I will promote them for free today, provided they don't sue me for posting some of their photos.  Sounds like a fair exchange, no?  Eleven Creations, by reading further in my blog, you are agreeing to let me post some photos, okay?  Good.  I'm glad we got that settled.

So the company is Eleven Creations, and they seem legit.  Too legit to quit, even, because they've been in business for 18 years, which means that they started up right about the time I started harassing Current Husband to marry me because it seemed like he was getting the milk for free and therefore not purchasing the cow.  Moo.  Let's take it slow, like foreplay.

They say this is for the big finger.  

So THAT's what we're calling it these days.

This finger talk makes me harken back to New Year's Eve, 1992, when CH and I were spending the night with a very good couple friend.  We had all been drinking and playing Taboo (an excellent, and innocent, game), and the clue was Moonlighting.  The woman, who was drunk as a skunk in a funk, started telling her husband about how she had forgotten to tell him that she watched a porn the other day at home, called "Moonlighting", and that she had masturbated using "TWO FINGERS!"  CH and I hadn't known them that long, and we looked at each other like, "Best New Year's party EVER! Tell us more!" because we knew we'd talk about it for years, and the husband was trying to shut her up and saying to us, "Um, she didn't really do that, she'll be so embarrassed tomorrow" but we knew the truth because their gifts to each other were still under their Christmas tree and Santa brought him the banana-sling type underwear for men who are hung so we already knew they were funky that way, and then we woke up the next day hung over and he made us biscuits and gravy and Lord did we ever both want to throw up but we didn't because it would've been rude, especially after the underwear and masturbation thing.

Oh, are you still here?  What was I talking about?

 Oh yes.  Cock rings.

Did you hear that?  It was the sound of people Unfollowing me.  Sorry folks.  Pray for me.  I would like to say that while I find it irritating that the model on the box (pun intended) looks like Megan Fox, I love that her boob is a little on the saggy side, like she's dropped a couple of calves.  That is a 40-year-old boob, my friend.  Also, I always find it irritating when things are purposely misspelled.  "How It Workx"?  Come ON.  So you are selling cock rings and bondage tape and Spanish Fly.  Is it necessary to lower yourself to BAD SPELLING?  Be a classy, educational sex company.  I don't want to know HOW IT WORKX.  I want to know How It Works, and what Freud might have thought about it.  Make me feel SMART for using your cock ring with the pulsating tickler, batteries included. Or at least for reading the box if I'm not actually going to use the product.

Bondage tape. Pretty in Pink.

This purports to be the best selling couples product, but I'm guessing that the best selling couples product is actually a tie between Ben & Jerry's Super Fudge Brownie Chunk and Tylenol PM.  As a public service, I will tell you that if you go to Eleven Creations, stay away from the DVD and Love Dolls sections, unless you just haven't seen enough rectums today.  I, for one, haven't seen a rectum in five years since I changed my last diaper, and I have no plans to go on a Scavenger Hunt for one anytime soon.  I'm not judging, I just know I'll be reaching for either the Ben & Jerry's or the Tylenol PM tonight.  But you other couples go have your fun.

So there you have it.  My brush with fame in the sex trade.  I'm sure I would have made over $10 in commission by the end of this post, just on the Bondage Tape alone, but it just isn't my thing.  I appreciate the offer, EC, and it's nice to be wanted, but contrary to popular belief, I'm not the selling-sex-toys-on-my-wifey-blog kind of girl.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 42

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. Or people I work with. Because there are many things I don't need you people to know about me. SO STOP READING, CO-WORKERS. You know who you are.

Today's topic: Where The Wild Things Are

Okay, so I don't need you to tell me my posts have been lame lately, but I'm so tired *she says in whiny preschool voice*.  Here I am, it's 11 p.m. on Thursday, I'm on my third halfish glass of screw top pinot noir, and I still have a freelance project to complete.  Before tomorrow.  And I have this DAMN FULL TIME JOB!!!  Man, those paid full-time positions really eat up one's non-paid fun time.  Because I have yet to see a Classified Ad that reads

WANTED: Obscene person to write weekly 

column about Whoreticulture.  Must be 

completely immature, narcissistic and 

willing to shock.  Full benefits and 

ONE. MILLION. DOLLARS.  

Starts immediately.

Dude.  That must be the screw-top wine talkin'.  As a matter of fact, after glass number two, I went in to kiss Current Husband goodnight, and he looked at me in much the same manner that George the Superpet might look at me if he wants a Snausage, and I said, "Oh for Chrissake, REALLY?" and he nodded yes and looked really pathetic so I agreed to have sex with him, but I told him I had a lot to do and he wasn't on my TO DO list, so he needed to keep it under five minutes.  He agreed to those terms, and we engaged, but I made jokes the entire time, like randomly saying "MOO!", and he ended up telling me to shut up if I wanted to get back to my TO DO list.  I agreed to those terms and here I am, all showered up and blogging.  How's THAT for TMI!?!  Just another Thursday night in A Day in The Wife.  Literally.  Except that it was Five Minutes In The Wife.  CH is one lucky guy, no?

So anyway.  Back to the blog.

At The Full-Time Job, I work next to a graphic designer named, if you can believe it, George.  And every time I say the name George, I say it like I am talking to George the Superpet.  I just can't help it.  And?  George the Designer is young and single and thin, and so I take it upon myself to be like Mrs. Claus in Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and say things like, "EAT Santa, EAT!" except that I say George.  And I tell him that if he has a double espresso, he should eat more than a granola bar or his stomach lining will disappear.  And I tell him that he should buy a house.  And that he should clock out at 5 p.m. and leave his work at work.  I swear one of these days his skinny, yet long, arm will reach out and superpunch me.  I am mothering George, and I've never really been the maternal type.

So they are putting a new roof on our somewhat large building, and you can hear the sound of the powertools all friggin' day, which is a nice accompaniment to the concrete-breaking-with-a-backloader that starts in front of my house at 6:30 a.m.  Yesterday, I'm sitting at my desk, trying to work, and thinking the tool they are using is making sounds like someone is ripping a huge fart.  Then, George and I have the following conversation:

(large ripping noise)

G:  "That sounds like moaning."

ME:  "I know.  It's like we're witnessing porn being filmed!"

(awkward silence)

G:  "I meant like 'Where The Wild Things Are'."

(awkward silence)

ME:  "Yeah, me too."

 Beloved Children's book, or pornography? 

You be the judge.

And we both go back to work.  But every single time that damn tool is used, I think about large monsters from Where The Wild Things Are having sex.  Which sort of ruins the childhood innocence.  Thanks, George, for porning up my childhood.  Now I need to bleach out my brain.  The funny thing is that every time the power tools run, George is sort of giggling to himself, and I'm thinking, "HA! He is thinking about porn now too!" so maybe I ruined Where The Wild Things Are for him as well.  Or his girlfriend is getting super lucky.  

You're welcome, Girlfriend of George.

 I'm sorry people.  It's 11:34, I'm half crocked and still have a paragraph to write.  But really, I've managed to embarrass CH AND my co-worker George, so I consider this a job well done.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and remember, only FIVE DAYS LEFT in the Super-Lame-Maybe-I-Shouldn't-Bother Bloggyversary Giveaway.  It does have books by BOTH stalking victims Stacey Ballis AND Jen Lancaster, so that alone makes it worth your time.  That, and the super-creepy lock of hair from George the Superpet.  Perhaps I can get George the Coworker to pose as well.  Have a great weekend!  And Mom - I totally did NOT have any of the sex.  I'm just telling a story.  I'm an entertainer, not a historian.  Those kids were adopted.

Taking My Teen to a Sex Den

Last weekend, I took Oldest Daughter to a Sex Den.

Actually, I took her to two of them. They were on fire, red-hot, hunka-burning-love, bulge-in-the-jeans-in-your-face places, and to my great joy, OD was stone cold, like an ice cream cone next to a volcanic fajita pan. Where are these lusty locales? In the mall, just two doors down from each other. We shopped in Hollister and Abercrombie and Fitch.

"Steve leaned against the post and 

watched his children play on the playset 

while planning his and Jenny's 

15-year-anniversary celebration."

Any parent who has walked past either of these stores knows what I'm talking about. They are Temptation personified. They post gargantuan, blown up pictures of washboard abs and bulging jeans, pump their lusty, eat-the-ripened-fruit perfumes out of the doors, and crank their roll-on-the-beach-in-the-sand-with-us-and-hope-you-don't-get-knocked-up tunes at the highest decibels.

They hire people who look like models - anyone with a BMI over 20 or in need of Proactiv need not apply.  There is always a model employee folding and re-folding t-shirts by the front entrance, which looks like a surf shack people sneak into after a few beers to make out, and they greet you.  If you are over 22 and come in alone, they say, "Welcome to Hollister, let me know if I can help you" and they smile at you like "I'm sorry you got old and can't wear our clothes."  If you are under 22 they smile and say, "Hey, what's up?  Welcome to Hollister!  Holla if you need something!" and if you are the cash cow adult accompanying the person under 22 you don't exist until you approach the register.  There, they await your debit card and look at you with a kind expression that says, "You must hate being old and missing all of this fun!"  And then they hand your purchase to you in a bag with naked men on it.

"Beth asked if he took the dresser out 

to the garbage for Bulky Item Day, 

and he said 'Yes, but it kinked my neck' 

and she said 'well we can't afford 

the co-pay this month, 

let me try to adjust it for you'."

A couple of years ago, OD would actually avert her eyes if we were to walk past either of these stores, or Victoria's Secret.  She physically couldn't bring herself to look at them, because they always have the 10-foot-tall black and white artsy photos of naked college kids.  I asked her once, "Why do you put your hand in front of your eyes?" and she said, "Because the pictures are gross and those stores are for older kids", NOT adults, mind you, but as though she somehow wasn't ALLOWED to look at the stores until she reached middle school or had the sex education day films.  I thought "Well this is ridiculous - she's seen Current Husband and I walk around the house half-dressed!" and then realized "OH.  No one looks at us and thinks 'I'd like to tap that'." Because when we are half-dressed, we are usually saying things like, "Mother of Pearl my back hurts, would someone rub it?" or "Is it just me or are my varicose veins actually BIGGER?"

"Would you feel this mole on my back?  

Does it seem cancerous?  My elbow hurts 

when you bend it like that, do you think 

I have arthritis?  I can hear your knees 

cracking.  Put my tank top down, 

you can see my stretch marks! 
And don't even TRY to grab my tits, 
the kids might walk in!"

Now when I take OD into these stores, she can manage to walk in, but she doesn't dwell on the naked pictures.  She doesn't ogle the male model employees...that I notice.  She actually looks at the clothes and tries to figure out which colors will go best with what she already owns.  She looks at prices and only buys a few things that are on sale, as we make her use her own money at these places so she can appreciate how expensive sex advertising can be.  And she doesn't buy into the "wouldn't this t-shirt look great hiked up to your bra?" or "these jeans are meant to be worn down to the coin slot" philosophy.

"Jeremy looked toward the shed and thought, 

'Damn all this rain, this yard is going 

to be impossible to mow' and regretted the 

Scots Turf Builder he had applied only 

the week prior.  'I swear to God the next 

place we buy is a condo'. "

Abercrombie and Hollister are hot for her, but for now?  She's so cold.  We've always said she can't date until high school, and she is starting eighth grade in the fall.  Lately, her popular question has been "Does high school start the summer between eighth and ninth grade, or after ninth grade actually starts?"  I'm hoping Siberia sticks around for a while, but I'm realistic enough to know a thaw is coming. 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 25, UPDATED

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: Cupcake porn.

It's coming...it's coming...it's coming...pant pant pant ...
but I am awaiting permission to use a couple of photos.  Of vagina cupcakes.  Because if you use pics of vagina cupcakes without permission, particularly ones made with rainbow fondant, someone is going to show up at your door and punch you in the uterus.  But they are well worth it people, and may possibly put you off of eating cupcakes for a spell.  AND, I am so excited, Graham the Australian Dishwasher Installer is coming over at 11 to install my new dishwasher!  I have been without one for FIVE FRIGGING MONTHS and I am dying over here to fire it up!  Photos of Graham, if he lets me, on the blog Monday.  Whoreticulture Friday?  Later today.  On Friday.

9:37 a.m. 
I've spent the morning cleaning my house so Graham the Australian dishwasher installer doesn't think I'm raising my children in filth, which, essentially, I am.  But does he need to know that?  No.  He is installing my dishwasher, and I need him to think I'm at the top of my game.  I hope he lets me take pictures of him.

I haven't heard from the one vagina cupcake girl yet, but I think I have a solution, so let's carry on with this thing.   There is a seedy underground in the bakery world, and I'm finding it focuses on one main area - cupcake porn.  Lest you think I am trolling the internet for bakery snuff films, let me explain how I found genitalia pastries.  Current Husband was making some breakfast for himself, and said, "Hey, come look at this bagel, it looks like a vagina!" and I'm thinking "Is he coming on to me?  Because I haven't had my first cup of coffee" and he says, "No really, look at it" and I did and yes, it did slightly resemble a vagina:

 CH promptly slathered it with cream cheese and wolfed it down.

I, on the other hand, passed on breakfast.  Not that I have any problem with bagels, and I can totally see how women can get really sick of long johns and all of their baggage and move on to bagels, but I just wasn't hungry anymore.

This incident left me thinking:

1. Is CH like the kid in The Sixth Sense, but instead of seeing dead people, he sees vaginas?  "Look at that tire, it looks like a vagina."  "Look at that coffee mug, vagina." "Duct tape - vagina. "
2. Are there lots of food items that look like vaginas?  Oh yes.  Yes there are.

  I Googled "Vagina Cupcakes", 

and I hit the motherload.

The best ones, far and away, are the rainbow vagina cupcakes.  They are bright and cheerful and have personalities.  The person who made these cupcakes has apparently had her photo of them stolen a million times, because she will essentially stab you in the Fallopians if you use it, so I will send you to her instead of posting the picture.  They are gorgeous, check them out by clicking here:

Platter of Vagina Cupcakes, coming up!

Aren't they pretty?  It's like Rainbow Brite.  Wouldn't OB-GYN's love it if more vaginas looked like this?  Wouldn't it make their jobs more exciting?  The question is, would you eat one?  And what flavor would these be?  Because I would lean toward Red Velvet, just on authenticity.  Or Strawberry.  It would depend on the time of the month.  But never, ever chocolate, because that would seem less like sexy and more like a medical issue.

Think Rainbow Brite is the only variety of Vagina Cupcake available?  Think again!  Here is a snatch of what's available at another blog, at www.craftster.org, member name "squidknit":

 How about those little ball-bearing clitorises?  

And this crafty baker said she did varying 

degrees of bush to represent all vaginas.

Cute, but again...could I really open wide and take a huge bite out of this?  And the sprinkles?  Could I have those in my mouth?  In the spirit of equality, I will say that I would also have a very hard time taking a bite out of THIS:

 Holy shit, what did you do to that delicious cake!?!?

 And really?  Do those blue veins indicate some kind of STD?

At least a circulatory problem.

These photos come to us courtesy of www.bachelorettesuperstore.com, where they have all kinds of naughty items described lovingly in this pretty cursive font.  Here is a somewhat nicer penis cake photo from their site:

Would I let a penis with googly eyes near my Precious Lady?

If I ate the one on the right, would I be a Purple Penis eater?  Are these The Penises of Sesame Street? Big Bird, Oscar the Grouch, Cookie Monster, Bert and Ernie?  This is what I think about when I see stuff like this.  (I know, it's sick, but I can't turn it off.)  I think what this photo really illustrates is that it doesn't matter how much you doll it up, dicks are just ugly, and not that delicious.  From what I've heard.  My favorite penis cupcake still goes to this big winner:

Clowns with erections.  It just doesn't get creepier than that.

I want to know a couple of things - 

1. Have you ever made porno pastries?
2. Could you eat a genital cupcake, or would you succumb to the "ish" factor? 

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!  I'm going to have a carrot.  NO!  A banana.  NO!  A donut...Aw, crap, I'll just have another cup of coffee.

 

 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 21

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: Celebrity Marriages.

"I always just hoped that, that I'd meet some nice friendly girl, like the look of her, hope the look of me didn't make her physically sick, then pop the question and... um... settle down and be happy. It worked for my parents. Well, apart from the divorce and all that!"

- Tom, Four Weddings and a Funeral

I'm sorry, men, but in the words of the poet Jon Bon Jovi, you give love a bad name.  Celebrity husbands?  I'm talking to you.  Is it a particular plague among celebrity husbands, or is it just that no one cares enough that Phil McCracken of Dubuque, Iowa, is screwing around to put it on the cover of People?  Does Joe Blow screw around as much as your average Hollywood husband or wife?  This question, coupled with my obsession with Girl Scout cookies and therefore acid reflux, is what keeps me awake at night.  (Really, it's the cookies.  I know lots of people cheat.)

Sandra Bullock is only the latest Hollywood wife to discover her husband has been burning the coal in someone else's furnace.  Before her Brad left Jennifer for Angelina and Reese caught Ryan with Abbie and Sadie caught Jude with Sienna (who caught him with the nanny) and Uma caught Ethan with Ryan (who was the nanny) and Halle caught Eric with everyone.  Let's not forget Elin or Vanessa Bryant in sports or Elizabeth Edwards and Silda Spitzer and Jenny Sanford and Mrs. Larry Craig and Mrs. James McGreevey and Mrs. Bill Clinton....Really.  I could go on forever.

Famous women caught cheating on their men...um, maybe Madonna and A-Rod?  Farrah left Lee Majors for Ryan O'Neal?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?

To right this wrong, I have developed a simple multiple choice test for women to give their famous husbands.  Answered honestly, I think it will save some heartache.  You're welcome, Hollywood.

1.  You ask me on a date.  You:
a) Ask me if I want to stay in or go out.
b) Take me to In 'n Out Burger.
c) Say you'd like to screw my sister.

2.  While dating, I have to leave town for work.  You:
a) Read Jane Austen's "Sense and Sensibility"
b) Take a class in sensitivity.
c) Watch the porn movie "Scents and Spankability"

3.  We decide to marry.  You propose:
a) In Paris.
b) On the beach.
c) an open marriage.

4.  As a hobby, you:
a) drink screwdrivers.
b) like carpentry.
c) screw everything.

5.  When you text me, you sometimes:
a) send me links to funny videos.
b) tell me you love me.
c) call me the wrong name.

6. Your favorite drink is:
a) A daquiri
b) Whiskey, neat
c) Beer bong between the stripper's tits

7.  Your biggest personal problem is:
a) Organization
b) Communication
c) Herpes

If he answers A to most of these questions, he might be gay.  Best to keep him as a movie or shopping date for a while.  If he answers C, YOU fail for keeping him around this long.  Jesse James?  You had me.  You were the poster boy for not judging people by their looks, or their tattoos, or their porn-star ex-wives.  You start playing around with tattooed biker chicks for a little fun, and next thing you know:

 You're guilty conscience is forcing you to make bad fashion choices.  

That's right, Jesse.  You earned those overalls.  Perhaps regular pants irritate the sores.  Even Larry the Cable Guy is saying, "Hey man, just because we dress alike DOESN'T mean we have anything in common!"

Perhaps what these men really need to do is not get married.  They aren't doing women any favors by marrying them.  Honestly?  Sandra Bullock has other options.  And who wouldn't want to be with Jen?  (Hmm.  Okay, bad example.  But she seems like a really fun girlfriend!  Take ME to Cabo, Jen!)  But Reese, Uma, Halle, Elin, heck, even Hillary could hook up with someone else.

I understand that good people cheat.  I completely see how people get from Point A to Point B.  I get it that if you're feeling down and troubled a la James Taylor, and someone approaches you at just the right time and tells you how amazing you are when your partner doesn't seem to notice, you will be tempted to stray.  But as the child of a marriage with adultery, can I propose that if you can't be loyal and true, then don't stay married.  Period.  And if you do get married, and then repeatedly cheat, I hope you get potato salad in your pants.  You may still be a good person, but you deserve the itches.

And Jesse?  I hope you really enjoy your time in the garage, because I think you're going to be tuning your own engine for a while.  Let me suggest another quote from Four Weddings and a Funeral for your next relationship:

"Charles:  Let me ask you one thing. Do you think - after we've dried off, after we've spent lots more time together - you might agree *not* to marry me? And do you think not being married to me might maybe be something you could consider doing for the rest of your life?
Carrie:  I do."

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!
EIGHT HOURS LATER:  When God gives you a gift, like Jennifer Love Hewitt vajazzaling, and you don't use it?  Well that's just a crime.  I will discuss the hiring of someone to vajazzle you on Monday.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 8

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: Songs with Sexual Innuendo

It's 6 a.m., hey what do you hear?
My man on the radio is crystal clear
White stuff soakin' up the atmosphere
My head is clear, I let out a cheer
Let my dreams come true
I'm ready, Momma Nature's gotta come through

My head's on fire and I'm startin' to shake
To do me right you gotta give me a break
I'll give you every guarantee I can make
I'm wide awake, make no mistake

I'm dreamin', take me away
hey hey what do you say
C'mon baby hurry, I need a flaky flurry
I'm down on my knees to pray

I don't need much but a punctual gift
I wanna stay in bed for a second shift
A lotta white stuff gonna give me a lift
So make it swift and let her drift
I want it more than anything (I want it)

Let me preface this by saying that I KNOW I am getting a lump of coal in my stocking (As a matter of fact, it's at the top of my wish list, nudge nudge, wink wink). But since this blog IS called Whoreticulture Friday, I know that you understand I am going to be naughty, not nice. As with all Whoreticulture Friday posts, if you take the responsibility of reading the post, you are agreeing to not let your children read them; you are going to forget everything you read when you are done; and you will still respect me in the morning. My lawyer will be contacting you for signatures.

SO. When you read the song lyrics above, what do you think is the most appropriate match? Is it:

A. On the soundtrack to the porn classic, "Jack Off Frost"?
B. Used as the score for an informational video about STDs?
C. The third song sung by 7th graders at the concert tonight?

Oh yes. You KNOW the answer. (But I will tell you that I made up "Jack Off Frost" - it's not a real film...yet) It is, of course, C. And those are the REAL lyrics.

Tonight I attended Oldest Daughter's winter chorus concert. And before I address the song, I have to talk a bit about the actual event.

I dropped OD off at the Middle School at 6:40, which gave me 20 blissful minutes in which I sat in my car, slammed a vanilla latte, listened to music, and contemplated the beauty of Iowa covered in snow and ice at night while not driving on it. At 7 p.m., I walked into the Middle School and looked at the packed bleachers for a place to squeeze in. I saw a spot and crawled over people who wouldn't move over to get into what must have been the last space in the bleachers. There was a reason it was the last spot. Let's make a checklist of what would make this the worst concert experience possible:

• screaming toddler to my left
• mother of screaming toddler shushing him by yelling "USE YER INDOOR VOICE!"
• woman in front of me exhibiting full-on coin slot, and I'm talking silver dollar size
• man behind to the left taking cell phone calls during most of concert
• woman to the right texting during most of concert
• someone whose dinner of sausage gumbo didn't agree with them
• AND THE WINNERS - the couple who were shoving, not brushing, their knees into my spine over and over and over during the entire concert, even though I was sitting side saddle with only 3 inches of my butt actually on the bleacher so as to avoid their knees

Oh yes, parents. You've been to this concert. Elementary programs have individual seating in folding chairs, but you've been spoiled, my friend. From Middle School on, you are in the bleachers and inevitably sitting on stranger's laps and extracting their DNA to take home with you as a parting gift. Mmmm.

And really. At what point do you get that you turn off your cell phone, or at least silence it, when you walk into a concert or a movie or a wedding or a funeral? (Did I text during the U2 concert? Yes. But it was at Soldier Field and I was DRUNK, which is strongly discouraged during Middle School concerts. But apparently not prohibited. And for the record, of nearly 40 texts I sent during those two hours, 36 of them were sent with only two or three characters, so they don't count.)

Back to the song. It's called "Snow Day", but could just as easily be called "Ode to Puberty" or "My First Nocturnal Emission". I am sure the chorus teacher innocently picked this song, thinking, "Hey, the young kids might like singing something that isn't a traditional song...this has a jazzy beat, and it goes well with Scotch" because anyone who would willingly take on teaching Middle School kids to sing with their voices changing and all of the hormones deserves to drink on the job. Really. You Middle School chorus teachers? Get a pass.

So on the trip over to the concert, OD has a "talk" with me, because sadly, she probably knows how my mind works.
OD: "So, Mom, on our last song, you'll probably see a lot of kids laughing."
ME: "Why?"
OD: (blushing) "Um, well, there are some lyrics that are...funny...especially to the boys."
ME: "Like what? I need some examples."
OD: "Can't you just know that it will be funny, and DON'T LOOK AT ME DURING THE SONG!"
ME: "What is it, it can't be THAT bad."
OD: "Um, 'I wanna stay in bed for a second shift, a lotta white stuff gonna give me a lift'."
ME: "Oh."
OD: "Do not laugh. And do NOT look at me, okay?"
ME: (Laughing and looking at her.) "Okay!"

So of course, I'm chuckling during the song as the boys, who previously could barely be heard, start belting out the lyrics, their breaking voices shooting over the crowd like an unexpected jolt of...joyous song, of course. Don't be nasty.

And of course, I am eagle-eying OD, and she is eagle-eying me back, and we are both laughing, along with every Middle School kid on those risers, and I realize that she told me so I would be in on the joke, which makes me want to cry with happiness at my bonding moment with her except that it is a moment of sexual innuendo over a chorus concert song at Middle School and then I am feeling a little like this could get me on the sex offender list, so I start frowning. But it was still funny. Damn that my daughter knows I have the maturity level of a seventh grader! But I will leave the adult behavior to CH, because I can't get that Snow Day song out of my head.

No pun intended.

What have we learned today? Nothing. Except maybe that Middle School never changes. Happy Whoreticulture Friday! Have a great weekend!

What Can Brown Do For You?

Laura was surprised to see the dark shape of Sukey, the brown cow, standing at the barnyard gate. Ma went up to the gate, and pushed against it to open it.
"Sukey, get over!" She reached across the gate and slapped Sukey's shoulder.
Just then one of the dancing little bits of light from the lantern jumped between the bars of the gate, and Laura saw long, shaggy black fur, and two little, glittering eyes. Sukey had thin, short, brown fur. Sukey had large, gentle eyes.
Ma said, "Laura, walk back to the house."
Ma ran with her into the house, and slammed the door.
Then Laura said, "Ma, was it a bear?"
"Yes Laura," Ma said. "It was a bear." - Little House in the Big Woods

So maybe that morning the bear got up late and didn't have a chance to wash her hair and she put on a cap, and it was cold in the Big Woods, so she had to put her brown fleece jacket on to stay cozy warm while she strolled around the barn looking for a venti skinny vanilla latte. And then Ma comes outside and starts calling her a cow, saying "Move it, Sukey!" and smacking her on her big bear butt, which she has been a little sensitive about lately after a fall of eating fat, tasty bunnies.

It could happen. I'm just saying maybe we should look at it from the bear's perspective.

This morning I had an early morning "meeting" with a friend of mine who enables my Starbucks addiction, but I am not much of a morning glory, so I pulled on my trusty brown corduroy cap, which is both stylish and fall-like. After surviving 40 winters in the Midwest, one would think I am used to the dipping temperatures at this time of year, but alas, I am a creme puff. (Did someone say Creme Puffs? Drool.) So I pulled on my equally trusty brown fleece jacket and a scarf and headed over to the opium den the world knows as Starbucks. And I did get a skinny vanilla latte. And it was delicious.

After my "very important business meeting" was over, I drove to my local car dealership for a scheduled oil change in my family minivan. Because I rock that minivan. I left the keys in the ignition and Linkin Park turned up in the CD player so that the guy who would be changing my oil would understand that I am a tough mother. Don't even try to upgrade me on unnecessary wiper blades or the most expensive synthetic oil produced. I'm onto you people. Because I listen to Linkin Park. The connection is very clear.

I walk into the service area to check in my van, and there is a lovely little old lady and her daughter in front of me, deep in discussion with the service bay manager. The check-in area is behind a cinder block half wall, so you can only see people from the waist up. I'm peering over the cinder block wall, looking at the various vehicles up in the air and thinking about how fun it would be to stay in the car while they change the oil, drinking coffee and reading my book while the lift raised and lowered, when I hear someone ask me a question.

ME: Smiling in direction of questioner, a guy who works there. "Huh?"
GUY: "Do you need me to sign something?"
ME: Still smiling. "Huh?"
GUY: Walking closer. "Do you need me to sign something?"
ME: Getting confused. "Huh?"
GUY: Walks around cinder block wall, wiping his hands. Gives me a once-over, and he turns red. "Uh, okay, they'll be with you in a minute."
ME: Smiling again. Oblivious. "Okay, thanks!"

I stand there for a minute, take a drink of my coffee, and look down at my brown arm. And then I think about my brown cap. And I realize that he just mistook me for a UPS driver.

So much for stylish and snarky. He thought I was delivering those fancy new fexor valves. (Because it's all about ball bearings these days.) I was not a Hot Momma, as I had envisioned in my cute corduroy/fleece/Linkin Park world. He was coming to see what Brown had done for him. To make myself feel better, this is how I think it was really going down:

(Porn movie base playing - Bow chicka wow wow...)
GUY (Looking like CH or Edge): "Do you need me to sign something?"
ME: "Oh yeah. I have your package. Right. Here."
GUY: "Then let me sign it for you."
ME: Slowly unzip my brown fleece jacket. Unbutton sexy UPS shirt.
(Bow chicka wow wow...)
GUY: "My lift is raising." He grabs a can of Castrol 10w30.
ME: I wink. Unclasp brown UPS bra. Breasts fall out and smack against concrete...SCREECH! Fantasy over, due to aging and gravity. But at least he didn't call me Sukey and smack my hindquarters.

And I guess that's all Brown did for me today. You can bet I will be wearing my stylish gray cap and black fleece tomorrow instead.

This is the last Laura Ingalls Wilder post - thanks for enduring LIW Month, and you can sample a little Linkin Park, "In The End" on the player.