Saturday, July 30, 2011

Stop Calling My Vagina a Kitty, It's Been Around For Years.

I can't seem to get away from the poon this week. I was up last night, suffering a bout of insomnia that I was trying to kill with a bottle of wine, and hoping to find some good infomercials to share with you all. Instead, I came across the "Hail to the V" campaign by Summer's Eve... which I had thought was only an online nightmare. After all, the internet was invented for pussy, right?

In case you don't know, here's the "Hail to the V" campaign.  There used to be more, which included talking hands posing as racially stereotyped vaginas. You'll have to imagine what I'm talking about though, because happily, Summer's Eve removed those ads within two weeks of being posted; likely because the comments on their YouTube channel were overwhelmingly negative.  Because that's what every woman wants, a talking vagina.  IT'S WHIMSICAL, BITCHES!

So... yeah. I get it, you have a dying product. People don't douche anymore... and I certainly don't feel the need to buy a whole separate soap for my cooter. So why not try the last ditch effort, the shock & awe campaign?  The swan song of advertisers... when all else fails, at least get people talking about you. Which is working- I'm writing about you.  It still doesn't mean that I'm going to buy your douche. (Side rant: Not buying your product doesn't mean I don't love my vagina.  Nice try with the guilt advertising though.)

So now Summer's Eve only has one commercial on their YouTube Channel... Men fighting for some tang. They have a point... Helen of Troy. Cleopatra. Guinevere. Well. That last one is fictional, but still. I see where you're going.

They also have some favorite videos... which lead me down the rabbit hole (pussy hole?), and I stumbled across this, from That'  Pretty sure this is still Summer's Eve, posing as some random passerby that happens to really love vagina.  Just an FYI, don't let the innocuous cat puppet (ugh... kitty) fool you, the site is pretty NSFW.  It's a blog all about vaginas... including the vagina mold gallery that someone has created.

I just post it, I don't make it, people.

I don't like puppets, I'm not hugely fond of cats, and hey, using a cat puppet debunks the what you're saying about how you don't like people using euphemisms for vaginas, but I will admit that this guy's voice does make me laugh... and the Georgia O'Keefe reference earned a chortle. 

But it does make me wonder, what's up with the whole vaginal pride movement? Do we really need one? My irritation about this comes from the same place that gives me agita about people who spell women "wombyn" and have Menarche parties

I'm not much of a joiner, and crap like this is the reason why. I don't want to go to some kid's party because she bleeds on a regular basis...LIKE HALF THE POPULATION OF THE PLANET DOES. I also don't want to have a party to watch you eat your placenta. If you want to eat what amounts to your own giant scab, be my guest. Just don't include me, and don't be surprised when I am horrified that you've done so if you choose to tell me about it. It's gross. You know it is.

I'm not saying that women shouldn't have pride in themselves, or their femininity. But shouldn't this pride celebrate the power of the female mind, and not the fact that we have functioning reproductive organs? Can I start pride movements for other organs?  Because I have a really bitchin' spleen I want you all to know about. 
Since this is a YouTube kinda post, I'll leave you with this.  Happily, the pregnant women that I've been closest to haven't been smug... but I think that's why we're friends in the first place. They haven't lost their goddamned minds, they just had a baby. And I appreciate them for this.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

I Swear I Don't Look for the Crazy. IT FINDS ME. Or: how the informal nature of social media has killed one's sense of propriety.

Wowza. Someone turned the dial all the way up to crazy last night. So... this story has hella long backstory, but it's worth it.

Anyway. I'm on the Twitter. I also like to eat lunch. So if you use key words in your Tweets (boobs wang penisy), people can find you and follow you. So there's a certain restaurant that started following me. It sounded good, so I went to get food from there. I had a little trouble finding the place, had to pass by a homeless dude masturbating TWICE to get there, but fuck it all, I was determined.

I got there, the guy behind the counter gave me a free cookie and a wink. My, how flattering!

Got back to the office, tweeted the Homeless Diddler story and Thanks for the Cookie to said restaurant.

Suddenly, I had a new follower! It's the cashier. Hey, no problem. Seemed nice. Seems nice in DM's (that's Direct Messages, for the Twitter uninitiated). We flirt via DM for a day or two over the weekend, because that's what the kids do nowadays.

Last night, the Twitter is all up in arms about how hot it is. Said restaurant is very excited about the heat. I am not, and decide to tell them so, which starts the DM frenzy with cashier guy again. The following is cut and pasted from my DM feed. Names and avatars have been deleted using my mad photo editing skillz to protect the pervy.


Tick Tick

Tick tick tick

Tick Tick Tick Tick


So. YEAH. I have a kitty in my pants and baby talk and free food is all it takes to get to see it. Meow.

I recognize that I could have ended the conversation sooner, and that this is what some may view as an utterly misguided attempt at flirtation (REALLY, though??). Here's the thing. You've probably read some of my previous posts, and most likely, you know me personally. I'm a robustly foul-mouthed girl, and I have ZERO problem with dirty talk, texts, photos multimedia, smoke signals blahhhhh potato. However, I usually like that sort of messaging to happen some time after the "So, do you like dogs?" level of conversation.  Or when our actual real life interaction is something more than me giving you my lunch order. 

Questions, yeah sure. I'll answer questions. I wear panties. I've had sex before. However, I can't remember what your face looks like. Let's not start dog-earing pages of the Kama Sutra just yet. 

PS, when you intimate that you're predicating our dating success on the answer I give to how many times I'll fuck you during a week, I lose faith in men as a species and crawl into bed and imagine that Neil Patrick Harris is straight and wouldn't ask me how wet my pussy gets before asking my last name.
Awesomely, as I've been cobbling this post together, "My Heart Will Go On" has been playing on the radio. Sheer fucking poetry, I tell you.