Karma, stereotypes and egg whites.

For someone who life routinely shits upon (I couldn't even pick a post to link as a reference there. Just go back to any given blog post ever and I'm sure you'll be caught up to speed.) I had a few lucky breaks last night. It started when I decided to do my laundry. Finally. Because it was either that or wear my white linen high school graduation dress to work today (...and Lord knows I'm not above that.) I would like the world to know that although I don't like doing laundry, I am an extremely responsible communal laundry room user. I set alarms and come back at the proper time, I always clean my lint trap and I don't drip detergent everywhere. Yesterday I bought a cozy throw blanket at Bed, Bath and Beyond and although all I wanted to do was crack that baby open and take her for a test drive, I decided to heed Bobby's (terrifying) warning and wash it before having a snuggle. (Lest I snuggle up to Indian garment worker jizz.) (Terrifying.) Being a large, cozy throw blanket, it didn't completely dry after the first go-around. Thus, I added an additional 15 minutes to the dryer, went back to my apartment and came down to retrieve it approximately 17 minutes later. Imagine my horror when I saw my brand new blanket sitting ON THE DIRTY LAUNDRY ROOM FLOOR. That's right, some asshat had removed my blanket from the dryer and crudely tossed it to the ground before putting their laundry into my dryer. "But Meg," I hear you say, "you were two minutes late to retrieve your laundry. Serves you right," Right? WRONG. There were blatantly other dryers available! This A-fuck just decided that he/she wanted my dryer and tossed my freshly cleaned, Indian-jizz-free blanket to the ground! I was livid. To even the score, I opened A-fuck's dryer to stop their time and threw in some lint for good measure. Immature? Yes. Deserved? YES.

Feeling satisfied, I went back up to my apartment and sat down to watch some Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team 4 on CMT but was completely distracted by how guilty I felt. Three minutes later, I couldn't stand it anymore and went back downstairs, picked out A-fuck's lint, closed the door and restarted the dryer. (Ugh. I'm a disgustingly good person. It's my cross to bear.) And then the most glorious thing happened: I found a ten-dollar bill under the dryer! Do you know how many $5 footlongs that will buy??? Two. So I snatched it up.

Just when I thought my night couldn't get any better, I noticed someone had abandoned a box of old books by the elevator. I browsed through them to see if there was anything good but they were mostly just old romance novels and a shit ton of dictionaries. But then, this little number caught my eye:

And don't mind if I do and don't mind if I do.

I went upstairs, curled up on the couch and opened to this question: "How about those Oriental cures—like powdered rhinoceros horn?" And I thanked god for what I had just received. I read on. And Ho. Ly. Shit. This book is the best thing to ever happen to me. Nothing will ever top it. Nothing will ever be this good or funny again. Ever. I might as well just kill myself because it's all downhill from here. I can honestly say that I spent the better part of last night curled up in a small ball, rocking back and forth, hysterically laughing to the point of tears while struggling to read passages to Co-Blogger Chris over the phone. My stomach muscles are killing me today.

I don't even really know what to say about this book. I think I just have to share it with you. I'm sure I could bust out some Gender Studies 101 bullshit about how society and sex norms have changed and T.G.I.Kinsey and all that jazz, but I think I'm going to chalk it up to this: misinformation—LOLZ!
Before I present you with my favorite questions and answers, please keep the following in mind:
1.) This is a real book
2.) It was a #1 Bestseller
3.) It was written by this guy:

4.) That man is a noted California psychiatrist
5.) Which means he has a medical degree
6.) It was written in 1969
7.) Again; medical doctor

We'll start with the section on Male Homosexuality because it's my favorite. Sorry lesbians, there isn't a section on Female Homosexuality. Apparently nobody has any questions about you. You scissor and listen to Sarah MCLachlan. Case closed.

What is male homosexuality?
Male homosexuality is a condition in which men have a driving emotional and sexual interest in other men. Because of the anatomical and physiological limitations involved, there are some formidable obstacles to overcome. Most homosexuals look upon this as a challenge and approach it with ingenuity and boundless energy. In the process they often transform themselves into part-time women. They don women's clothes, wear makeup, adopt feminine mannerisms, and occasionally even try to rearrange their bodies along feminine lines.

Couldn't homosexuals just be born that way?
A lot of homosexuals would like to think so. They prefer to consider their problem the equivalent of a club foot or birthmark; just something to struggle through life with. [I swear to God this is real. I only wish I was this funny.]

Can homosexuals change?
If a homosexual who wants to renounce homosexuality finds a psychiatrist who knows how to cure homosexuality, he has every chance of becoming a happy, well-adjusted, heterosexual. [SHOTGUN CO-BLOGGER CHRIS!!!!1]

What do homosexuals really do with each other?
An almost unbelievable variety of ingenious things. The usual homosexual experience is mutual masturbation. It is fast, easy, and requires a minimum amount of equipment. The chaps simply undress, get into bed, and manipulate each other's penises to the point of orgasm. Three to five minutes should be enough for the entire operation.

Don't homosexuals do other things too?
Certainly. [...] According to the homosexual, it goes something like this:
"Whenever I feel like sex, I drive down to the bowling alley. I walk into the men's room, find an empty cubicle, go in, take down my pants, and sit on the toilet. Then I wait. It never takes very long.
"Pretty soon another guy sits down in the next cubicle. I watch his feet. If he's a gay guy, he'll slide his foot over and kind of nudge mine. That means he's 'cruising.' If I'm interested, I nudge back. Then we get started.
"I always use a piece of toilet paper to write some kind of note—usually I just say 'Do you suck?' Sometimes if I have plenty of time I add something else like, 'How big?' I throw the paper on the floor, he picks it up, comes over into my cubicle, and sucks my penis. That's how it ends—sometimes I suck his penis but usually I just go home." No feeling, no sentiment, no nothing.

Are all homosexual contacts as impersonal as that?
No. Most are much more impersonal. The majority of gay guys, when they cruise, dispense with the courtship. They don't even have time for footsie or love notes on toilet paper. [TIME OUT! Best emo band name ever: Love Notes on Toilet Paper. Ok, TIME IN!] A homosexual walks into the men's washroom and spots another homosexual. One drops to his knees, the other unzips his pants, and a few moments later, it's all over. No names, no faces, no emotions. A masturbation machine would do it better.

Surely there must be more to homosexuality?
There are dozens of variations but they all have this in common: the primary interest is the penis, not the person. [...] They generally go by aliases. Harry, Dick, Peter, are the most favored.

Isn't homosexuality kind of dangerous?
Homosexuals thrive on danger.

"S and M"? What does that mean?
Technically, sadist and masochist. Literally, trouble. Those who combine homosexuality with sadistic and masochistic aberrations are among the cruelest people who walk this earth. In ancient times they found employment as professional torturers and executioners. More recently they filled the ranks of Hilter's Gestapo and SS.

What about masculine homosexuals?
Homosexuals have a tendency to overdo this sort of thing. There never was a man more manly than a butch. Butches lean heavily toward masculine trappings such as leather motorcycle jackets, tight pants of coarse material, super-masculine shirts, heavy boots, and other exaggerations of men's wear.

Don't a lot of heterosexual men dress the same way today?
Yes and no. [...] It is the exaggeration that gives them away. Two men may wear what superficially appears to be the same shirt; the homosexual's is just a little tighter, a little brighter, just a little more.
Recently, the gay guys have been leaning toward costumes. A good example is engineer's pants. White denim trousers with vertical blue stripes have long been worm by locomotive engineers and fireman and hardly anyone else. Homosexuals decided that this line of work was very butch and appropriated the uniform—tight striped pants with a bright red bandanna around the neck. [...] Peel off the top layer of a butch and there is a queen underneath. Their underwear is truly amazing. Some take pleasure in men's shorts so tight they can barely meet the needs of nature. Others choose briefs so brief they barely exist. Most butch underthings are little better than skimpy athletic supporters. The ultimate IS an athletic supporter—two straps and a sack attached to the tails of a super-tight shirt. It works fine—the shirt is always tucked-in, the genitalia held tightly. The only problem is that the poor follow can't bend over!

Why do homosexuals do that?
[His] desire to display his genitals. They are his stock in trade and he wishes to show them to best advantage. What a good up-lift bra is to a prostitute, a good pair of undershorts is to a homosexual. [Yes he did just insinuate that push-up bras are only worn by prostitutes.]

Aren't homosexuals afraid of being arrested?
Maybe they should be, but they aren't. Lack of fear of the consequences is one of the puzzling characteristics of homosexual behavior. [...] Homosexuals have a compulsion to flaunt their sex in public. A public washroom is frequently their stage. Bus stations, parks, bowling alleys, are haunted by gay guys. [I would kill to see the episode of Scooby Doo where they solve a mystery at a haunted gay bowling alley...]

But all homosexuals aren't like that, are they?
Unfortunately, they are just like that.

What about all the homosexuals who live together happily for years?
What about them? They are mighty rare birds among the homosexual flock.

How do male homosexuals get along with female homosexuals?
About the only thing they have in common is their contempt for straight arrows, the term they use for heterosexuals. Any relationship that exists between them is based on grudging mutual tolerance.

All homosexuals don't find their partners on the street, do they?
For the average homosexual there are not too many other alternatives. Church meetings, singles groups, blind dates, family introductions, are exclusively heterosexual territory. Not even the ultimate in commercialized sex, computerized dating, has found a way to cash in on homosexuals. [Ah, Grindr. My how things have changed.]

Homosexuals have their own language?
The list reads like a menu. Here are a few:

Fish: Woman
Fishwife: a male homosexual's real wife
Seafood: a homosexual sailor
Chicken: young homosexual
Meat: penis
Buns: buttocks

Other homosexual expressions come right from the vocabulary of the heterosexual prostitute with whom gay guys have a lot in common. [Jesus fucking Christ...]

Do: suck a penis
Nelly: effeminate homosexual
Auntie: an aging homosexual
Fag Hag: a woman who is attracted to male homosexuals
Wrinkle-Room: gay bar frequented by aging homosexuals.

This is just a sample—the list goes on and on.

Why do so many homosexual expressions refer to food?
Food seems to have a mysterious fascination for homosexuals. Many of the world's greatest chefs have been homosexuals. Some of the country's best restaraunts are run by homosexuals. Some of the fattest people in the world are homosexuals. [I swear to all that is good and holy, I have never laughed so hard in my entire life as when I read that last statement. Like, thought-I-might-die-struggling-for-air-laughing. "Some of the fattest people in the world are homosexuals." A medical doctor. I have nothing left.] [...] Since Nature did not anticipate homosexuality, the male has not been equipped with glands to secrete a sexual lubricant. Thus the first problem that two gay guys have to solve before making love is lubrication. Many homosexuals favor cooking grease. Salad oil and margarine are commonly used. Among gourmets, butter and olive oil are preferred. But it doesn't stop there.
Most homosexuals find their man-to-man sex unfulfilling so they masturbate a lot. Much of their masturbation centers around the anus. The question, of course, is what to use for a penis. The answer is often found in the pantry. Carrots and cucumbers are pressed into service. [...] Egg white is also considered a good lubricant. Sometimes the whole egg in the shell finds itself where it doesn't belong. Sausages, especially the milder varieties, are popular.
The homosexual who prefers to use his penis must find an anus. Many look in the refrigerator. The most common maturbatory object for this purpose is a melon. Canteloupes are usual, but where it is available, papaya is popular.

Isn't that Unusual?
Actually "kitchen masturbation" is harmless compared to some other forms of rectal recreation. When homosexuals drink, things really happen. Nearly every intern in the emergency room of a large city hospital has seen this:
It is two a.m. Sunday. A young man stands forlornly at the emergency room door. He is about twenty-six years old, short, thin, with long bleached-blonde hair. He is drunk but sobering up fast. Sweat clings to his powder blue silk shirt. [It took me about 15 tries to get that out when I was on the phone with Chris. I got to powder bl—and died.] The patient walks with a strange, bent-over, crab-like gait. [...] Pants off, on his hands and knees, chest on the table, anus in the air. The intern inserts the anuscope, flicks on the light, and there it is: a whiskey glass. He breathes a sigh of relief. Whiskey glasses are easy, relatively speaking. He snaps on a special rubber-cushioned clamp, squirts in some lubricant, the gay guy gives a little gasp, and it's out.
The doctor says, "I always worry when I see these guys come in. They all have this funny walk and I know they didn't sit on a tack. I just pray it's a shot glass—they're a cinch. It usually happens like this: Two fags are having a big time on Saturday night, you know, drinking and whopping it up. The queen rolls over and waits for his boy friend to give him the works; only he slides in the first thing he has in his hand instead, usually the whiskey glass. [...] It's the off-beat stuff that gets me. Like this time this old fairy hobbled in. I flipped him over, slipped in the scope, started to snap on the light, and almost flipped—his whole damn rectum was as bright as day! Someone had slipped the poor moron a flashlight—he was the most turned-on faggot in town."

Do all homosexuals do these things?
They like a tight fit. [I swear to god I'm not making this up.]

[Now, moving on from homosexuality. Let's go to some more random, less "fancy" questions:]

That's find if the vagina is too big—what about something for a vagina that's too small?
A vagina that is really too small is very rare indeed. Most often the hymen is to blame. That small bit of tissue that stands guard at the gates of love sometimes does its job too well. Even the most determined mightnight battering by a nervous and sweating bridegroom is occasionally insufficient—it will not yield. The following morning the tearful bride and red-faced groom appear at the doctor's office. In this case the scalpel is mightier than the penis and in a flash of the gleaming knife the portals swing wide. Nature's defect undone by Man! [I don't know what part of that answer hurts my vagina more.]

Does the wife or girl friend have something to do with a man's impotence?
In many cases, she does.

What about masturbation and the blind? [I swear to God.]
Until recently, blind people were shut off from the rest of the world socially as well as visually. One of their few sources of sexual gratification was masturbation. In blind schools masturbation was made more difficult because those who masturbated could not tell if they were being observed. [I. laughed. So. Hard.]

Ok I can't. I can't do anymore. NEW BLOG RULE: Whenever I'm too busy with "real work" to blog, I'm going to transcribe a few ridiculous questions and answers from Dr. Reuben's Everything You Always Wanted to Know...because trust me, there's so much more.

In the mean time, lesson learned: karma is real and you should never trust a gay man alone in your kitchen.

NYC Prep: Why the Royal Family Stopped Inbreeding

I don't think it's going to come as a shock to anyone when I say that I love Gossip Girl. Because I do. I love it. If I could take it down to City Hall, marry it, go home and fuck it, guess what? I would.

It might also not come as a shock to anyone when I say that I love shitty reality television. Because again, I do. I really, really love it. Just yesterday I discovered the CMT reality show, World's Strictest Parents. In this hee-larious show, rebellious white trash teens are sent to live with super-strict, equally white trash families to reform their troubled ways. I watched two back-to-back episodes yesterday. That's two hours of my life I will never get back. And I am in no way mad about it, because that shit is comedy gold.

So, given my love for Gossip Girl and shitty reality television, you can understand how excited I was to watch the premiere of Bravo's new reality show NYC Prep last night. For those of you who don't schedule your life around Bravo programming like I do, NYC Prep follows the lives of six teens attending New York City's most elite prep schools. It's basically a real life Gossip Girl. Yeah, that's right. A real life Gossip Girl. I squealed like a piglet when I first heard about it. My little curly-cue tail went pencil straight with excitement. I hadn't been this amped up for a television show since Real Housewives of New Jersey, and lord knows that shit didn't disappoint.

NYC Prep premiered at 10 o'clock pm last night. It was an hour long. I watched it at Laura's apartment. Guess what I did at 10:33 pm? I walked out.

Yeah. Let's let that statement burn for a little longer.
















WALKED. OUT.

Hurts, don't it? Because it sure as shit hurt me! But I didn't have an option! I was so overcome with confusion and disappointment that I had to physically remove myself from the situation. It was that bad. But not so bad it was good. It was just straight-up bad. These "children" are horrible, horrible human beings who do not deserve the attention that having their own television show will harbor. Why—OH WHY—do we, as a society, keep rewarding stupidity, greed and general god-awfulness?! Here's a little laundry list of what upset me:

1.) Two of the main characters on the show have lazy eyes. Not one; TWO. That's 2 out of 6. This means that 33% of the cast has a lazy eye. WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?!?! You people are rich as sin! How have you not remedied this situation already?! I can literally feel the individual blood cells flowing through my veins right now—that is how fucking fired up I am about this. You stupid little twats have PERSONAL GOD DAMN SHOPPERS; I think you can afford a motherfucking eye patch. Can I please tell you something? Right now, at the very moment that I'm typing this, I have a giant zit, square in the middle of my forehead. If I knew, today, that a camera crew was going to walk into my office and fucking follow me around and broadcast their footage to the entire god damn world via Bravo TV, you bet your balls I'd be crying my face off at the dermatologists, begging them to do something about it. A Hormone shot, a steroid shot, a skin graft—anything. And it's just a zit! You little shits have LAZY EYES! I can't concentrate on the offensively overprivileged things coming out of your mouth because I'm too busy watching your left eye roll around your eye socket like it's a god damn Magic 8-Ball! Do you have the money and means to fix your wonk eyes? SHAKE, SHAKE, SHAKE! My sources say YES! Of course you do! Fix the god damn thing!!!!!

2.) PC.

What in the fuckity fuck is wrong with you, kid? I mean god damn. I understand that you're trying to go for the whole I'm-a-total-asshole-and-that's-my-shtick-Chuck-Bass thing, but you might want to tone it down just a tad bit. There's a scene where one of the Lazy-Eyed Twins is talking to PC about how she wants to have a benefit for Operation Smile. PC guffaws, rolls his eyes and goes on a rant about how it's just so in right now to help a cause and Operation Smile is just so passé. ARE YOU FOR FUCKING SERIOUS?! Here's a little life lesson for you, kid. See this?

That's a camera. And see this?

That's a boom mic. The boom mic and camera work in tandem to record and broadcast everything you say and do. People don't tend to react too kindly to overprivileged assholes featured on Bravo television. Don't believe me? Go have a talk with the hollow shell of a former socialite that is Kelly Bensimon. I'm sure she'll have some good pointers for you about how to pick up the pieces of your shattered life.

3.) Right before I walked out, there was a teaser for an upcoming scene in which the other Lazy-Eyed Twin has a meltdown because although she's not dating PC, he flirts with another girl. To which I said, out loud, "I thought he was a homo?!", threw up my hands and walked out. Girl, I know you got one eye pointing towards the heavens and one eye pointing towards the homo, but as someone with two functioning eyes, let me help you out: that kid is a closeted homosexual. Remember Olivia's super gay cousin Nevan on The City? Remember how he was a one-man gay pride parade and yet "loved the pussy?" And remember how we all laughed at him and sort of felt sad for him at the same time? Yeah, well, PC is that guy minus five years. I recommend you take the time and energy you would spend chasing PC and direct it towards finding yourself an eye patch or a good optometrist. It'll save you a lot of heartbreak and eye-related headaches in the future.

4.) Taylor. Taylor is the show's "Jenny Humphrey" equivalent. She goes to public school, lives on the Upper West Side and struggles with her feelings of financial inadequacy. She's two devastating things: adorable and desperate to fit in with douchebags. Baby angel. I just want to take you in my arms, hold you, gently rock back-and-forth and whisper, "everything's gonna be alright," before softly kissing you on the forehead. My poor little Tay-Tay. Sometimes not fitting in is actually a good thing, depending on who you don't fit in with. If you were surrounded by a bunch of Nazis, would you think "Oh raspberries! I don't fit in! Better punch a Jew in the face so they'll invite me to their Nazi tea parties!" or would you think "Gross! Nazis! I better get out of here!"? I would like to think you would choose the latter. Overall, her entire situation just breaks my heart and I can't watch her sell her hymen up the river to fit in. I say good day to the entire situation.

5.) They all have blackberries at age 14. Do you know what I had at age 14? A subscription to Nickelodeon magazine and no period.

I just can't get behind this show. Not only has it made me not want to have children (ever), it's also robbed Gossip Girl of a bit of it's magic. Because now I know that the real Blair Waldorf has a wonk eye and a crush on the closeted kid. Thanks a lot, NYC Prep. You know how the captain of the Titanic felt so guilty about what he had done that he shot himself in the head and went down with the ship? Yeah, well, NYC Prep producers take note. It would be the honorable thing to do.

Things That Blow My Mind:

- There are four seasons worth of Sweet Valley High episodes on You Tube. Word. The fuck. Up.

- I was out to dinner with my parents the other night, discussing the social impact of the classic 1982 film Grease 2, as you do, and mentioned how smokin' hot I find Max Caulfield aka Michael Carrington:


I was then informed by my parents of the following:
1.) Maxwell Caulfield was on Dynasty as playboy Miles Colby (who later went on to marry Fallon Carrington aka the namesake of my future unborn daughter) in the 1987 spin-off The Colbys. Full. Circle.


2.) Maxwell Caulfield is married to Juliette Mills aka TABITHA THE WITCH FROM PASSIONS.


=



The fuck?!

3.) Juliette Mills aka Tabitha the Witch from Passions IS HAYLIE MILLS' SISTER.


My mind is thoroughly blown.

- Speaking of Maxwell Caulfield, this is quite possibly the most homosexual photograph in existence:


So there's that.

- Praying mantids can eat small vertebrates such as tree frogs, small lizards and mice. That's fuckin' insane to me. That means in the battle of praying mantis v. mouse, the praying mantis would win. Insane. This keeps me up at night, and I am fully aware of how pathetic that is.

- Sometimes I feel completely cut off from the world because I work alone (like any good superhero) and given my anxious tendencies, I don't watch the news or read the newspaper. I figure if something major happens, someone will eventually tell me or I'll read about it on Gawker. Last night my sister was over and mentioned "the airplane crash." My reaction: what crash? The look of pure horror and judgement in her eyes was astounding. She asked if I was being serious. I said yes. She asked again, but not in a buddy-buddy, oh girl, you so crazy! kind of way, but more in a genuinely concerned about my well being kind of way. Oh, I'm sorry! I watch Dynasty all day, what do you expect? It's perpetually 1981 in my world. The most newsworthy thing in my mind is Reagan getting shot.

So yes, I'm pathetic and slow and way late on the ball and blah blah blah, but holy shit—the Air France crash: WTF?! This is blowing my mind. Not only is it completely disturbing because the plane vanished, but they had like an hour of turbulence in the air leading up to the crash. That gives me the chills and makes me want to vomit all at once. AND THERE WAS AN 11-YEAR OLD BOY ON BOARD FLYING ALONE BACK TO BOARDING SCHOOL! I can't stop picturing him as Harry Potter! It's breakin' my heart! What do you think those people were thinking during that final hour? And they say the plane went down 1-3 miles under sea. MILES. Like that timed thing I didn't run in middle school. MILES. This is blowing my mind in the worst way possible. ALSO! The plane hit a wall of thunderstorms? Now I haven't flown in a year or so, but don't planes have radar? Alex's iphone has radar for Christs' sake. It was able to tell us how long we had to stay outside at happy hour until the rain hit the other night, I'm sure it could tell when you're about to hit a wall of thunderstorms. You know, so you don't plummet miles into the sea.

...'Eh...this is why I live in 1981. I'll be watching Sweet Valley High and gently rocking if you need me.