Dig you some Jack LaLanne

I cannot afford to die, it will ruin my image.

That's the sort of thing Jack LaLanne says. You ever say anything that cool? Hell no. You're not Jack LaLanne.

Jack LaLanne was the first guy to do exercises on the idiot box for your 1950's housewives. Imagine how those broads swooned over that jumpsuit. Look at the belt on that thing for chrissake!

You have all this crap today, your "Biggest Loser," your Fit TV, your infomercials. What is that crap? It's crap. Jack LaLanne wasn't crap. Jack LaLanne was the genuine article. You can bet Jack LaLanne got his share of trim back in the day. And Jack LaLanne earned every sweet slice of pure-butterscotch-bleeding American ass that was served up to him.

Dig some original Jack LaLanne:



(Your humble hostess does not expect you to watch all eight minutes of the posted vid [although your humble hostess did watch the entire eight minutes and 23 seconds, along with too many other Jack LaLanne YouTube clips to enumerate], but your humble hostess does recommend schlepping through at least the first minute in order to view the opening graphic with the darling little cartoon Jack LaLanne.)

Your 1950's housewife chicks would watch ol' Jack LaLanne. They'd be holding the chair back, doing their leg lifts. Then they'd start thinking about reaching over and unfastening ol' Jack LaLanne's jumpsuit belt with one hand and (ahem) reaching for something else.

Pretty soon, your 1950's housewife chicks were rubbing one out in honor of ol' Jack LaLanne.

(Say "Jack LaLanne" out loud three times, just to see if anything happens. Go on, do it for your humble hostess.)

If you're going to the land of Jack LaLanne, you've got certain obligations, like dropping in on the Power Juicer square, where you'll find ol' Jack hanging out these days.

You go to the organic market? You'll see your stacks of 25-pound bag juice carrots. Jack LaLanne might be 173 years old, but he's down with the contingent that's piling those mothers into their Prius's. (Your humble hostess once had a juicer. The juicer of your humble hostess mystified your humble hostess. Your humble hostess no longer has the juicer, but your humble hostess does not allow her negative juicer experience to deter her from writing an obscure post about Jack LaLanne that is full on nonsensical parentheticals.)

You dig Jack LaLanne because Jack LaLanne is Jack LaLanne. If you had to choose between bedding Jack LaLanne and Hugh Hefner? You'd be down with the Power Juice; and that is what your humble hostess calls justice.

You can pass the carrots anytime now, baby.

I'd like to put plant grass or vegetation across the state where any vacant lot and sell it for gas

The perfect gift

Dear you,

This writing thing may be the lifeblood of my soul, but behind the curtain, the process rips me apart. I start things and never finish them. I start things, finish them and throw them out. When I finish things and submit them to the towering Publication Gods, they are usually rejected again and again and again. Sorry, they say as I blink and sigh and fall down.

That’s what it’s like out there in the big bad world. But in here with you? In here with you, it’s different.

I love you.

When my chosen craft swirls insanely around me and I can barely hang on, you’re my safe harbor. Throughout all the pass-overs and rejection and pain, you lick my wounds with your praise and arguments and observations. And on the days when I don’t think I can manage one more word, you’re here, magically unlocking that door. I swing it open and the world shimmers with possibility once again.

What would I do without you?

You are my muse, my raison d'être and the object of my desire. Without you, my words would be paltry raindrops dotting the ocean. Don't you doubt this for one minute: I never take you for granted.

There is no end to what I want to give you. I search endlessly for the loose corners. When I find one, I gently tug it in hopes of pulling away a layer and getting that much closer to the human condition. When it falls away like a shed skin, I am at once bathed in the joy of truth and devastated by the daunting task of reporting it to you.

I weep at your feet and beg you to forgive my shortcomings. I laugh and I cry and I breathe. I write. And when you read my work, that is the most precious gift I know. Thank you.

Merry merry. Happy happy.

Love,

Erin

It says merry Christmas and happy smoking 200 times

Hey Clevos--Snow Days at Progressive Field? HELL YEAH!

Some bona-fide genius at the Cleveland Indians home office decided to transform Progressive Field into a winter playland for the off-season. My silly cam pics don't do it justice, but if you are anywhere near Cleveburg and you have kids or you just dig winter fun, take this advice: pile everyone in the car and head downtown for the Cleveland Indians Snow Days.

Okay, so I sound like a sap, but the whole venue thrums with that magical holiday feel that--until yesterday--I thought downtown Cleveland had lost for good. Kids are snow tubing and skating and building snow forts. Everyone is smiling. You humble hostess was bounding up and down the steps along all the frozen seats like an idiotic teenager.

Open-air fire. Peeps noshing on snacks and hot cocoa.

Hay maze for the little kids.

Movie clips playing on the big screen. Yo penguins!

They had heaters going in the Indians dug-out. The Goat sat in there like he was playing for the home team. Batter up, Goat!

The quarter mile skating rink snakes all along the field. Man-o-man, everyone had a blast.

Hey snowman, we'll be back before you close up shop for the season!

*  *  *

Belated holiday greetings from Hugh

Ho. Ho. Ho.

Since I'm up to my kringles in elf duties, dig this essay I wrote on Hugh and the girls for the Cleveland Free Times a few years ago. It was one of my better efforts.

* * *

You know you make me want to shout

A serving of cheescake courtesy of the NRA

Candy-ass vol. two: Torani sugar free flavored syrups

Artificially flavored sugar free coffee syrup is the zenith of candy-ass. I think we can all agree on that.

If one confined one's consumption of said syrups, however, to marginally acceptable flavors such as chocolate and hazelnut, one might expect a get-out-of-jail free card for one's candy-ass indiscretions. But pumpkin pie? Gingerbread for chrissake?

I don't have one alibi.

If you stop associating with me on account of this, I'll understand. A person can only ask so much from another person.

That said, I am not trying to take you down with me. I shall stand stoically alone before my sins. But--and not that I'm suggesting anything unseemly here--if you are in, say, World Market or some other candy-ass place (not like you would be or anything) and you see a bottle of Torani Sugar Free Gingerbread Syrup and you accidentally buy it, and you go home and accidentally pour some in your coffee and take a sip, you will find it tastes sort of like Christmas in a sparkle spice* way you can't really put your finger on.

In the process of trying to put your finger on that elusive something, you might be reminded of a Dagoba Chai chocolate bar,  which has the same subtle spicy thing going on (with itty bitty flecks of crystallized ginger to boot), and might be the most perfect goddamn thing you could slide into the stocking of your Goat or Goatess. (But not that I'm trying to take you down with me by suggesting you buy a chocolate bar that, as of the penning of this post, is indelibly tethered to a candy-ass sugar free coffee syrup or anything like that. And to the person out there who's about to contrast the non-sugar-freeness of a Dagoba Chai bar to the sugar-freeness of the candy-ass syrup, please don't and instead go to hell).

The O'Brien hasn't tried the Torani Sugar Free Pumpkin Pie flavored syrup yet, so don't ask for some cosmic chocolate connection for that. Can't you people do anything for yourselves?

Christ, this is exhausting.

You see that neon yellow pour spout in the chocolate? I put those in my candy-ass Torani Sugar Free Flavoring Syrup bottles and when someone who is not yet down with the entire Erin O'Brien experience comes over for a cuppa, I get totally jacked when they see me upend one of these mothers into my coffee cup at 9:00 in the morning and think for a split second: is she pouring whiskey into that cup?

(tee-hee!)

About the only non-candy ass element to this entire orchestration is the can of Hills Bros. coffee lurking behind all those Torani bottles. Your Hills Bros. is one of the few shitty old-time coffees you can actually understand on account it still comes in an actual can you can use for cleaning paint brushes after the coffee is gone. (Don't try and find a coffee can that requires the employ of a can opener--they all have these space-age tinfoil seals you peel off, which is satisfying in it's own way but no where near as good as piercing through the tin with the can opener like with your authentic old-time coffee cans, and hearing that pffft noise as the fresh coffee smell wafts up.)

People, this is what my life is like all of the time.

# # #

*please don't tell anyone I said, "sparkle spice."

# # #

Blob love

Dear readership,

Please view this evocative footage while your humble hostess struggles to pen yet another brilliant post that exposes the human condition by way of some inane detail such as a disposable hand soap dispenser.

.

Lifted from the indubitable and intrepid Bridget Callahan.

* * *

Merry merry

On Walt, coasters and kids

I have to start with the roller coasters.

Coasters are quietly cerebral. Apart from the screaming teens and speed, they have to be visually artistic and daunting from ten miles away as well as ten feet away--it's all part of a coaster's thrill. I imagine those factors are a huge challenge in every coaster's design, as well as all the other obvious components of physics, safety concerns and aesthetics.

Enter Disney World.

The coasters and thrill rides at Disney are mostly inside buildings. I cannot tell you how that struck me. That the Disney "imagineers" cut through so many of the exterior design challenges by simply covering the business end of the rides? I thought it was as brilliant a thing as I'd ever seen--transcendent, if you will.

I felt that same sort of awe as I compiled this story on NewBridge, Cleveland's newest alternative center of arts and technology.

Read the feature and you'll see what I mean. Disney's coasters may be a far sight away from the at-risk students of NewBridge, but the glittering impetus of approaching an old challenge in a new way tethers them in some strange way for me.

I hope with all my heart that this new Cleveland venture succeeds.

* * *

You keep sayin' you got something for me

The good witch

I'm taking up witchcraft.

Not the Wiccan gig or any of your black magic, or your voodoo, or your dark arts. The O'Brien is blazing her own trail.

I'm going to need an outfit, something special but not too over the top. I'm thinking the vintage stewardess look: shorty-short, go-go boots and that shimmery frosted lipstick. Let's face it, the 1970s-era stewardess is the chick every woman wants to be and the chick every man wants to go to bed with. (If you're going to be a witch, that's the sort of detail you've got to carve out right at the starting gate. I'm a professional like that.)

Hell, I already have the hair.

This is totally going to work. I come down with a spell, and baby, that hocus pocus is going to deliver.

To hell with the cauldrons and black cats. As soon as I get suited up, it's energy ball 101. You scoop up a wad of energy and pack it like a snowball. It may not look like much, but that energy ball is full of popping electric magical sparkage. I'll hurl this mother at you and you will see the light.

Amen, brother.

You want a potion? Have a Pabst Blue Ribbon.

No PBR? Try this: Get fifty cents. Go to the corner store. Buy a Heath bar. Open it up and take a bite. Now your rolling that crunchy buttery toffee around your mouth and life is perfect. Even if all you're doing is thinking about eating that Heath bar, life just improved.

Man-o-man, I am one good witch!

Flying pigs? Check.



I could get you hooked up with one of these, but baby, that's the premium service.

(Did I just get you to click on that link? tee-hee!)

Get a load of this: I can make a Goat ride a bicycle.



I cannot keep this all to myself. But if I tell you the secret, you have to promise to spread it around. That's how you puff up your mega-witch power, by zapping as many people you can with it.

Okay, here's the incantation:

You love me. I love you.
You hate me. I love you.

~~abracadabra~~

* * *

Tropical rain shower

I am in the Health & Beauty aisle at the discount grocery puzzling over Suave versus V05. An older man in a dingy overcoat grumbles a few feet to my right. It's not quite 8:30 a.m.

His head snaps to as his eyes lock on mine. "Can I ask you a question?" he blurts, red-faced. He's clutching a crumpled bit of paper--presumably his shopping list.

I blink once, twice. My options are limited. "Of course," I say.

"What the hell does 'tropical rain shower' smell like?" he asks, jabbing the list in my direction.

My options dissolve further. "I cannot answer that question," I say.

"Tropical goddamn rain shower," he mutters, turning back to the rows of bottles. "What the hell is tropical goddamn rain shower?"

"Maybe it smells like wishful thinking in Cleveland in December," I offer, but he does not respond. Instead he scowls and grabs one of the products.

I gingerly pluck an $0.89 bottle of V05 Sun-Kissed Raspberry Balancing Shampoo from the shelf and sneak a sniff to verify that it will be an acceptable to my 13-year-old daughter. I drop it into my cart along with a bottle of the corresponding conditioner. The man continues ranting beneath his cap of wiry gray hair.

"Good luck," I say, never more sincere.

"Tropical goddamn rain shower," he says.

Three miles to the east, a woman gasps in the throes of orgasm. In the south, a gun fires. In the north, the gray water roils. A baby's cries pierce through the west.

I exhale, swallow a diamond, and push into the rest of my life.

* * *

Salad days

The college years are both formative and exhilarating for young people.

Encouraging the co-ed to express her creativity by exploring her eclectic and whimsical tastes serves both form and function while nurturing the learning environment.

Engaging in a variety of healthy activities helps students maintain vigor and interest.

The importance of adequate rest cannot be stressed enough.

Consuming sufficient liquids is also crucial,

 as is proper nutrition.

Collegiate friendships are not only a necessary component of social recreation, they also build a network upon which students may rely for much needed interpersonal support.

While graduation day is a culmination of pride, hard work and accomplishment, it is also a solemn time for reflection  and humility.

*   *   *

Today's photos, featuring your humble hostess and an array of associates, were taken circa 1983-1987 at Ohio University and the surrounding Athens area.

*   *   *

Addendum per request:

The weekend visit home often includes special sharing time with old friends.

*   *   * 

Sweet dreams

I am a liberal

Being liberal means having patience with the ignorance of others.

As a liberal, I consider anointing the flesh at the crease of my elbow with patchouli oil to be one of life's simple pleasures.

I attend documentary films that feature the heart-wrenching stories of those less fortunate than me in order to feel closer to their experience.

The films I attend are shown in vintage art theaters that have been lovingly restored by members of the surrounding community.

The word community is special to me. I support communities.

Others are charmed by my self-deprecating good humor, which is the hallmark of any good liberal.

I disdain irrational religious practices such as the handling of snakes unless said practices are being practiced by peoples indigenous to remote corners of South America.

When I drive on a road constructed with recycled debris, my heavy angst abates, however fleetingly.

Of course I support local, sustainable, free-range, organic foods; but in an effort to embrace the intolerant Right, I entertain a modicum of disdain for the previous string of adjectives by occasionally admitting that I find the distinction "local, sustainable, free-range, organic" somewhat cloying and redundant.

I find tie-dyed clothing whimsical.

I find the word "whimsical" whimsical.

I own a handbag crafted from recycled rice sacks that was purchased by a liberal friend of mine while she vacationed in Southeast Asia. My liberal friend, however, did not enjoy said vacation so much so that it would have infringed on her respect for the people of Southeast Asia.

I am good-naturedly disappointed in my inability to achieve the Lotus position.

I am concerned about my carbon footprint, but more concerned about others who are not concerned about their carbon footprints, so I am concerned about their carbon footprints for them. I refer to this practice as carrying the carbon footprint of others, which subtlety suggests burden without actually using the word burden.

I am, as a liberal, ashamed of my use of the word burden in the previous entry and realize that, in saying that I did not use the word burden while intentionally using the word burden, I have just practiced passive aggressive behavior. 

The materialistic love I have for my Apple Computer products is disappointing mostly because it is not disappointing enough.

I believe in the Children.

* * *

This is the turn right here

Poetry. Absolute poetry.

* * *

Revenge post

This post goes out to all those über-hipster Apple Store employees who look at the rest of us as if we are something they've plucked from the bottom of their shoe when we have the audacity to step into their Blessed Domain in order to spend nine zillion dollars on a piece-of-shit electronic gadget in a sleek skin that was made in China like everything else in the world and we absolutely DO NOT NEED.

Nice Fruits in them there Looms, Mr. Apple Store employee!

~~photo courtesy of your humble hostess~~

* * *

Eighteen is porcelain **UPDATED**

The Goat is in possession of a mysterious list that advises him on the material with which each marital anniversary gift is supposed to be constructed. For example, the one year anniversary was paper (I got tiny paper mache Christmas ornaments). I suspect the 25th year is silver and 50th is gold.

The internet undoubtedly could reveal the mystery list to me. Due largely to my profound belief in hubris, however, I do not seek this knowledge.

The Goat and I were married 18 years ago today and this morning I discovered this venerable year goes to porcelain.

Despite my magnificent photographic skills, its difficult to see that the rose is porcelain (it is). Happy anniversary Goat.

I swear I can hardly keep my pants on.

*  *  *

UPDATE 7:10 p.m. EST Nov. 28, 2010: That ol' Goat had a little dark blue box for me at dinner.

I love my Goat when he gives me porcelain roses. I love my Goat when he gives me little dark blue boxes.

And I love him when he doesn't.

*  *  *

Turkey dregs?

You poor bastards obviously need a diversion or two, so here you go:

1) Here's my turkey bone soup recipe. That is the best goddamn turkey bone soup you will ever eat, hands-down.

2) If a straight married chick makes out/plays boobie squash with Cat Cora, is that considered adultery? Please advise.

3) The Goat's smoked turkey was 100 percent kick ass yesterday, but you can't make turkey bone soup out of a smoked turkey carcass. That is what is known as a cruel irony, people. 

3.4) Leftover candied yams for breakfast? HELL YEAH.

4) Behold one of my favorite selections from Gawker's 7 Best Deep Fried Turkey Disaster Videos.



5) This note is included because you can't have a list with just four items on it.

5.7) The numbering system for this list is the product of a complex equation involving a high-thinker, editing and dumbassery. Don't ask any goddamn questions. 

* * *

Heavenly perfection of life

Oh dear reader, you cannot know how blissful I was tramping among this venerable graveyard, my fearless associate in tow as I clicked and sighed and nearly wept with the undiluted joy of life.

Upon this hallowed ground men trudged to work 120 years ago in Ohio's November gray in their gray rough dungarees, their lunch pails filled with cold meat pies baked by women they'd made love to just hours before.

Bricks and rails and smokestacks, craft and shape and motion. Beautiful, majestic rubble.

This place was never more alive.

And then, oh dearest reader, oh then did my eyes spy something so spectacular, it nearly paralyzed me with disbelief.

Was it full up with feral animals? Dangerous caving floorboards? A menacing villain thumping upon a peg leg?

No.

My fearless associate and I found none of that. Mr. Myer's sturdy factory held only a host of secrets, a vial of magic and a couple of ghosts. For them, I am very thankful indeed.

Have a safe and wonderful holiday.

Love,

Erin

* * *

Further reading: F. E. Myers and Bro. Pump and Hay Tool Works

Further viewing on Flickr

* * *

Meghan McCain is a smart little broad and Erin O'Brien would buy her a beer any day of the week.

* * *

"The way (Palin) is running for president is either sheer genius or ultimate insanity."

* * *

McCain for The Daily Beast.

food for thought

sometimes when i have leftover steamed green beans i take them straight from the fridge and make a sandwich with wheat bread and a layer of sour cream and then a real perfect-like layer of beans lined up like matchsticks and then i drizzle hot sauce on that. if i don't have sour cream i use cottage cheese or cream cheese and i love it

in the photo is steamed broccoli chopped fine mixed with Kashi (the breakfast pilaf) cooked way perfect and then there is some tamari and olive oil and hot sauce in there and it is weird as shit and i eat it i don't care. click on that pic and take a look at how weird it is. you eat this and man-o-man your colon will so thank you. i'm no way saying anything about the reese's stick mo fo's.

this is the worst thing ever but i don't care. sometimes i take the ice cream carton and a jar of peanuts, open it all up on the counter, and i get a spoon of ice cream and i put three or four dry roasted peanuts (whole effing salt not reduced or any shit like that) right on top of the ice cream and when you put that mother in your mouth it is so good you will praise Jesus. the other little known ice cream trick is to take a regular ritz cracker and put a good spoon of ice cream on that effer and put another cracker on top and eat your mini ice cream sandwich over the sink cause it is a major crumb-o-rama but it kicks serious ass

i make and cook and eat regular stuff too but let's face it nobody cares about manwich

American joke

A guy walks into an airport.

Guy gets his naked picture taken, gets felt up, whatever. He boards his plane, flies to his destination.

He gets off the plane, rents a car and drives to Joe's Guns-N-Donuts. The guy buys a donut (glazed chocolate cake, no sprinkles), buys a gun.

He gets back into his rented car (a Toyota Camry, ice blue) and drives to a mall. He walks through the perfume cloud in front of Macy's, goes by the carts selling sunglasses and remote control helicopters. The guy eats his donut.

He shoots seven people, kills three of them--a mall walker guy, a woman who was looking for a goddamn pair of jeans that fit, and a 17-year kid in a droopy eminem tee.

Ha.

* * *

You better take it easy, this place is hot

The intrepid O'Brien is still Hard at Work with her Important Work. Hence, her faithful readers are obliged to continue forging on, making due with these dreadful inanities for the time being.

The O'Brien thanks her faithful readers for their patience and continued support. Original content to return eventually. Until then, unsatisfied readers may choose to enjoy some classic O'Brien.

Here's a funny: VanTique

And here's a serious: Morning Shift.

* * *

Divinity

Featured in today's photo, we have your humble hostess's hairbrushes soaking in a bath of water, 20 Mule Team Borax, and a dash of lemon-fresh Joy. 

Your humble hostess constructed the brilliantly recycled vessel specifically for this purpose.

Your humble hostess believes every aspect of this practice moves her closer to holiness.

* * *

Greetings from the Bluegrass State

No, it is not a hoax. Yes, I checked.

Life. Is. Beautiful.

* * *

Basking in the intellectual depth of the Tea Party

"When they were out in the Boston Harbor, they weren't arguing about who was gay or who was having an abortion," said Tea Party Patriots national leadership council member Ralph King.--from Politico

Enjoying affordable cocktail with Goat on Autumn's eve

A Budweiser-on-tap/utility grade bar opened up on the same site as this place, which they gutted and rebuilt. The Goat and your humble hostess had a drink there last night. 



Your humble hostess took the last available seat. The Goat stood.

* * *

Bartender: What can I getcha?

Your humble hostess: Canadian Club and soda.

Goat: Canadian Club and water.

Bartender: Short? (holds up glass for display) or tall?

Goat: Short.

Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" blares from unseen speakers as Bartender pours, then delivers drinks.

Bartender: That'll be $7.25.

* * *

The Goat and your humble hostess asked no questions, just blissfully enjoyed their respective three dollar and 62.5 cent cocktails.

* * *

Queen Erin

The Queen shall be referred to as "The Queen."

The Queen shall not be subjected to her subjects.

The Queen shall not have subjects.


The Queen shall have subjects.

The only subject the Queen shall have shall be Sexual Education.

The Queen's entire body shall be anointed with precious oils by the handmaiden's of the Queen, who shall then draw the excess oil from the skin of the Queen by slowly and gently passing a portion of whale bone over the landscape of the Queen's voluptuous corpus.

The Queen, having further considered the implications of the Queenly Oil Anointment Procedure (such as how to employ the excess oil), shall withdraw the previous decree and instead anoint herself with Suave Mango Mandarin body lotion.

The Queen Shall determine which words Shall And shall Not be Capitalized.

There shall be a monument erected in honor of the Breasts of the Queen.

Per the Queen, the word Breast shall only be capitalized when used In reference To the Queen.

The Queen shall be served massive bowls of Ruffles Reduced Fat potato chips and cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer by a shirtless David Muir.

The Queen shall consider the employ Of Bejeweled Marital Aids.

Using the word "Bejeweled" amuses the Queen.

The Queen shall take her chocolates on queen-like furniture such as expansive chaises upholstered with luxuriant tufts of purple velvet.

The chocolates of the Queen shall include (but not be limited to) fun-size Butterfinger Crisp.

The Queen shall be a fair and magnanimous ruler.

The Queen Is the Queen.

*  *  *

Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?

When you live in Cleveland, you feel a certain way about the Edmund Fitzgerald. I feel that way right now.

35 years. Rest in peace.

The six most unfortunate marital aids

1. Little Steel Tonight

For $2000, a person should expect something that a) has a better name and b) packs more punch than a 5" tube that's a mere 2/3" in diameter for chrissakes. Who cares if it's emblazoned with hand-written lyrics from Dave Stewart (of the Eurhythmics)?

You can buy a cucumber three times that size at the discount grocery for 79¢. So it doesn't vibrate. So what? Your "Little Steel Tonight" only packs a two-out-of-five on the intensity scale anyway. Strap your $7 Spinbrush to your cucumber if you want to get your buzz on. You're still way ahead of the money game and when you're done, you can make a salad*. Now that's green living.

*Wash cucumber thoroughly after personal use.

2. The Sqweel

At best, this is a mutant Hot Wheels wannabe. At worst, it's a slew of amputated tongues rotating around an unseen axis.

That said, I'm pretty sure that if you give that thing enough gas and set it on the ground, It'll either make it halfway to Nebraska or mysteriously transform into a bevy of mothers-in-law. Either way, my knees are crossed tight.

3. Mr. Right.

Go on and click that link to view the single most depressing object ever realized by humankind. That thing will never ever achieve erection. You want to destroy a woman's self-esteem? Give her a limp dildo. Broad'll take one look at that thing; think even my dildo can't get it up for me and well up with tears for the next three days.

Christ awmighty.

Yes, smartass, I realize that this is an ill begotten fashion accessory designed for a) someone of the feminine persuasion who wants to laugh in the face of penis envy, b) a gent who's own manhood is so negligible, he sports a visual prosthetic to inspire confidence, or c) other.

Yeah, yeah. Mr. Right is a hapless schmuck who will never find his groove, or Viagra Falls for that matter.

The glory he does enjoy--those delighted gasps courtesy of stolen glances as he struts through the club on a glittering Friday night--are born of deception and woefully short lived. Can you imagine what happens when the zipper is finally down and the jib is finally up? When the cards are on the table, this is no winning hand, just a full house of flaccid.

4. Velvet Jewel Vibe.

Per the sales literature: "If being used for insertion, please use with a condom."

You're kidding me, right?

5. Liquid Virgin

People, the active ingredient in "Liquid Virgin" is alum, the same stuff that gives pickles their pucker. Call me crazy, but applying a pickling agent to your zorch just sounds like a bad idea.

You want me to get my Vlasic on, baby? Get makin' with your Polish dill.

6. The Form 2

I admit it: the Form 2 is sort of cute with its two curiously vibrating fingertips. Only trouble is, they're attached to that bulb-like base just like the roots of that goddamn Tommy Tooth model in every dentist's office.

Although the Doc no longer takes Tommy apart for me in order to display the hidden workings of decay, the mere site of the tooth-like Form 2 catapults me back to the most nightmarish moments of my youth, spent squirming beneath a screaming drill in the dentist chair, beads of sweat popping from my forehead.

In this realm, the phrase "open real wide" is anything but sexy.

That said, how darling is this vid? I love the part where the Form 2 tooth gets a nice little bath!

* * *

From Russia with love

Everybody come together try to love one another right now

Beautiful agony - Watch more Funny Videos

All hail

There's no telling whether it was liberal or conservative gods meddling with my Blogger account, but it has been a' meddled. Therefore, this morning's post shall be short and to the point.

Congratulations to all of the 2010 election winners and condolences to the losers. May not one penny of my tax dollars go to the funding of John Boehner's perpetual tan.

Other than that, I shall proudly don egg on my face regarding the publication of one Conservative Eulogy for the Cleveland Scene on May 6, 2009 and offer this commentary to the Democratic Party:

You dumbasses.

On the upside, I look forward to Sarah Palin's venerable grizzly mama teeth sinking into the genital areas of Newt Gingrich, Tim Pawlenty, Mitt Romney and any other unfortunate rightie male who gets between her terrible incisors and the 2012 Republican presidential nomination.

Chew, Sarah, chew, chew, chew!

Thank you as always for your continued support and God Bless America.

Love, Erin

* * *

Puff off (resurrected)

Dear friends,

As you can see, the sons of bitches over at Proctor Gamble have pulled a fast one.

It's a bit difficult to see in today's graphic, but essentially we're looking at one hell of a lot more box here than tissue--about a one inch differential. So instead of the Puffs box being filled with Puffs, it's filled with 90 percent Puffs and ten percent deception.

And here I am, with no idea how long I've been pulling a Puff from a box and blowing into a goddamn postage stamp. Is it any wonder why I've been using two tissues every time I get a serious runner?

Talk about your embarrassment. I'm usually on top of this sort of thing. I see what the corporate bastards are doing. I'm onto the 59-ounce "half gallon" of orange juice. And yes, the O'Brien checks and makes sure that she's getting a full 12 ounces in her can of shitty beer. I bought a twelve pack of that nancy Stella Artois beer? I get it home? What do I see? Eleven POINT TWO ounces in the goddamn bottle!

Your Pabst boys wouldn't try to pull that off on a PBR drinker. Your PBR drinkers know which side of the bread is buttered, baby.

I am not the only one onto these shitbags. You are not going to believe this, but dig what "Monika, Puffs Team" told "NoticesDetails" on the Puffs consumer comment page:

We are often faced with difficult choices when our costs rise, we can change the package, product or price. I hope you understand and continue be Puffs loyal.

I think I'll go blow my nose in Monika's hair, the silly little broad.

(Who says some shit like "Puffs loyal?" And how irritating is that "K" in Monika? How much you want to bet when you meet that silly little broad and say, "Nice to finally meet you in person, Monika," that she gives you a tight-lipped smile and says, "Actually, it's pronounced Moe-KNEE-ka." Screw her.) 

DO NOT start talking about how the Puffs box has the tissue dimensions listed right where I can see them. This here is a small tissue in a big cardboard box that I cannot see through and I AM NOT going to take a goddamn ruler to the goddamn discount grocery store and start measuring kleenex boxes like some sort of half-ass consumer advocate. It's bullshit.

This is worse than the goddamn one-and-one-half-quart of ice cream that used to be a half gallon. At least that's honest. At least the box fits the product. And that "pound" of Eckrich smoked sausage announces its 12 ounces of sodium nitrate-infused goodness right on the label.

Maybe I'll get a hankie and carry it in my back pocket like a dude. Blow my nose in there and shove it back into my pants just like that.

Nah.

But to hell with those Proctor Gamble shitbags. You hear this Moe-KNEE-ka? The O'Brien isn't going to be one of your "Puffs loyal" blowers anymore.

Don't believe me? Just ask the mothers over at Colgate Palmolive.

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