A Quick One With Vaginas

Tuesday, March 8th, 2011 – craving a cold, icy beer

I don’t want you all thinking I’ve been debating ladies’ front bottoms all night or anything, because I haven’t, I much prefer thinking about men and their delightfulness, however, did you ever wonder how ladies, in the glamour days of old Hollywood, dealt with uh…how can I put this politely? Their AREAS? I mean, there’s a distinct possibility this hasn’t even crossed your mind, since not everyone is as inquisitive and badass-smart (!) and possibly deranged as I am, but I can’t see an old movie, where some beautiful, perfectly made-up starlet is relaxing by the pool in a swimsuit that looks like a romper suit, without thinking, “I wonder if that beguiling creature is smuggling a noonie like a sasquatch under that high waist swimsuit, ready to terrify Cary Grant later?” and then staring at it to see if I can catch a glimpse of any of it trying to escape.

So I have a few issues.

I mean we’re all used to modern times, where it’s just understood that a girl will do a little carpet taming in her private basement, if you get my drift. We all know that a little trimming or landscaping or shaving keeps things in check and guarantees we don’t scare any small animals, large men or passing postal workers, when wandering around the house in our birthday suits. And we’ve also seen photos of ladies in the terrifying seventies, when free love was all the range, complete with organic foodstuffs, smoking anything not nailed down, holding chickens and sporting a bush you could hide a family of illegal immigrants in.

But what about all those glamour girls of the thirties and forties and those prim, good girls-next-door from the fifties who spend their time making casseroles for neighbours and being very proper wives? I can’t really picture any of them perched in their boudoirs, one leg up on the bathtub, wielding a BIC disposable in one hand and a glass of gin in the other, while trying desperately not to nick off chunks of her business. I can’t imagine adorably perky Sandra Dee, trying to shave a love heart into her fleshy purse with a beard trimmer or Ingrid Bergman burning the hell out of her undercarriage with Nair, because she was too lazy to read the instructions.

It’s not that I’m consumed by these thoughts or anything, but I genuinely want to know. Were there secret, sadistic waxers already in business in the old days, ready to come to your house incognito, perhaps masquerading as the Avon Lady but armed and ready to rip the hair off your mary till it looks like Vin Diesel?

Those old time ladies were tough broads, you know!

California: You Can Check Out Any Time You Like, But You Can Never Leave

Wednesday, March 2nd, 2011 – yogurt, fruit, shin bruise, balls

I’m sitting here, with what feels like a really angry man with a fistful of hammers bouncing around inside my eyeball, wondering what I can teach you all about this week’s guest state – California. Because there’s so much to know about California it could take a month. Of course, I’m not about to tell you any of that text book stuff. Pffft!

However, did you know that 75% of all American runaways and vagrants, head for the warmth and prosperity of California? Okay, I totally made that up, but it sounds like it’s probably spot on so let’s go with it. After all California’s got it all going on. Medical marijuana, sunshine, beaches, desert, wine, serial killers, ocean, good looking people looking to be stars, palm trees, agriculture and it’s all governed by The Terminator. What’s not to like?

Except maybe the serial killers. And that one rapey looking truck driver with the ZZ Top beard, one time near Bakersfield, who looked me up and down at a rest stop and suggested I might like to get to know him biblically in the cab of his truck. Sure dude, you’re EXACTLY my type.

Now California is a beautiful state, we all know it. Whether you’re a fan of the beach, palm trees and surf, of sampling wines in Napa, or doing whatever the fuck people like to do in San Francisco when not touching each other’s bottoms on The Castro or floating around Haight Ashbury (yes it IS 1967!), you’ll find something to like about it.

 I’d like to state right here that one of the happiest moments of my life was driving across the Golden Gate Bridge in a convertible, which might sound sad to you, but to me it was awesome. Because San Francisco is the bees knees and I always wanted to see it, so it was exotic to my poor foreign self.

Plus they have really good chocolate there so you didn’t have to eat that Hershey shit. And yummy sour dough bread. And if anyone knows anything about me, I can be bought really easily with either of those two items. Plus to get there I had to drive up the Pacific Coast Highway through Big Sur and well…if you’ve ever done THAT you know how kick ass a ride that is. Less so if you drive off one of those cliffs though, I imagine.

Now California was once part of Mexico, directly to its south (the southern part of California [appropriately named Baja California] still IS Mexico) and Mexico is, possibly correctly, still a little miffed about this. All I know is, California’s relationship and proximity to Mexico means it’s a prime location to get a decent margarita and not one of those pussy TGIF theme-bar type drinks either. I’m talking full-on, knock you on your ass, tequila-filled margaritas – the type where you have a few innocent drinks one night in San Diego and wake up next morning in a basement in Calexico, with a migraine, a tattoo of a rooster on your arm, a canvas sack full of pesos from a bank in Mexicali, a guy who looks like Danny Trejo sprawled naked beside you and no idea what just happened.

Come on, you know what I’m talking about…

California’s had many unofficial ambassadors in its time, like the Beach Boys who brought vocal harmonies to new, undiscovered heights and made you dream of vintage cars and Sandra Dee and SoCal surfing even if you’d never left Cleveland in your life, or like the slightly less desirable Manson Family, who were horseshit crazy and possibly indulged in a few hallucinogenic substances in their time, which turned them into crazy psycho hippies, some of whom wound up butchering people in their homes and writing messages in blood and having substandard TV movies filmed about them for all eternity.

California also hosts at least part of my favourite place on Earth – Death Valley. I can’t think of any place I’ve been that I loved as much as DV. It’s just perfect. Here’s a photo I took there.

Either you think it’s beautiful or you don’t. I love sparse scenery that looks like some alien landscape and of course sand dunes, so I was in my element. Seriously, if you ever get a chance to go there, do it. Plus there’s something freaky about standing way below sea level in 120 degree heat, knowing you could die at any second by all your bodily fluids evaporating.

What else? Yes. California is the most heavily populated state of all 50 states. Probably due to all those vagrants moving there and the size of all those big, Hollywood egos. According to Wiki-God-of-truth, only 34 countries on Earth have larger populations than California. Whoa!

Also, Los Angeles alone has more people than 42 STATES in the U.S. Does that blow anyone else’s mind like it does mine? The state most likely to have crazy people in it, has more people than almost anywhere else.

Whatever California is, it has a part of my heart due to its liberalism, its scenery, its weather and well…the margarita thing again, obviously. It bears repeating.

Let’s talk religion though, as we always do at this point. How many heathens doth California boast? 21% of the population actually. Higher than most of the states we’ve talked about so far but not nearly as high as I was expecting, what with all that free love and serial killing that went on in the sixties, not to mention people who worship trees and like…lentils. Still, it’s a predominantly Catholic state, probably due to its Latin population, who somehow manage to combine Jesus and tequila and still function without the world ending or anything. Pay attention Utah!

That’s about it really. I thought I was pretty complimentary to old Cali. Usually I’m all up in the grill of everywhere but I guess its laid back California surf attitude rubbed off on me a little.
Sort of like that trucker in Bakersfield once tried to.

Next week, it WILL be Colorado, who was supposed to be before this one but I got all confused. Don’t pretend to be surprised.

Please Pay Attention to the Pre-Flight Safety Instructions

Tuesday, March 1st, 2011 – Meh

Holy pig balls, guys. I can only apologize for not bombarding your fine blogs with inane comments the past few days but I’ve had the most enormous, fuck-off sized eye headaches. This is due to a combination of my sinuses being hijacked by Osama Bin Laden (probably) and the fact I have light grey eyes which are about as light sensitive as a man with fourteen eyes who’s been released into the face of the Sun after ten years locked in a dark, rapey basement. Ouchy. I can barely stand to look at a computer screen for more than five minutes without swooning Vivian Leigh style and proclaiming, “BRIGHT LIGHT! BRIGHT LIGHT!” in the voice of one of the Gremlins.

Tomorrow, come back here for some California Dreaming.

I’m off now to bathe my eyes in something soothing.

New Jersey, Old Jokes

Friday, February 18th, 2011 – I have officially resigned my brain, no sleep, dull

What can I say about New Jersey that you don’t already know, or at least, think you know, i.e., that it’s a steaming hotbed of Bruce Springsteen, heavy industry, guidos, The Sopranos and big hair?

New Jersey is known as “the garden state”, a fact that’s puzzling to many since gardens aren’t really the first thing that spring to mind when you think of New Jersey. They might be the seventh. (The first six are Jon Bon Jovi.)

Talking of Bon Jovi, I was reading earlier that New Jersey has the densest population of any state in the United States. I thought that was kind of mean really. I mean they can’t ALL be moronic, tiny, gnome-like loudmouths with big hair who write bad song lyrics, right? Then I realized it actually meant that NJ is the most heavily populated state and well, didn’t I feel stupid! And more than a little surprised, since that had sounded entirely plausible to me.

Simmer down, I’m kidding, Jersey folks.

Anyway, industrial northern New Jersey is probably what most of us think of when we think of New Jersey, which we tend to do only when we’re forced to, usually because we have to get from New York to Philadelphia in a hurry and because New Jersey’s the only thing standing in the way. By the way, have you ever driven on the New Jersey Turnpike? It’s delightful. People driving like they’re on meth, at 90 mph and weaving all over the road? That’s where I learned my giant swear vocabulary you know – on the NJ turnpike. My only guess is they drive like that because they’re frantically doing their utmost to get out of Jersey and into Delaware or New York before it gets dark.

Wait, what was I saying about northern Jersey? Well there’s a lot of industry. End of story. It has Newark Airport, full of lots of indifferent TSA agents all vying to make your day of travel even more miserable. Oh and Elizabeth, NJ has some big docks. And more importantly, an Ikea.

One of the things NJ is famous for, other than John Travolta, Stephanie Plum and people called “Vinnie”, is the Jersey Devil – a hairy creature, descended from an old Jersey whore, and which is rumoured to be roaming the rural backwoods of Southern New Jersey. Various people have reported sightings of this fearsome beast over the decades, but I think there’s a severe possibility that it’s merely Snooki squeezed into a tiny dress several sizes too small and lost after a night out drinking tequila shots and being punched in the face by frat boys.

How about something you like about NJ, Veg, you don’t cry. Well, it’s funny you didn’t ask, because I like that it’s illegal to pump your own gas in Jersey. A dude still comes and does it for you like it’s 1955. His name’s probably Vernon or something. He has a wife named Vera, two kids (Skip and Judy) and drives a Buick with white wall tires.

What else? Oh yes, I believe there’s an ongoing skirmish between New Jersey and New York about who actually rightfully owns the Statue of Liberty. New Jersey claims it’s on their land (or water) and New York’s all, “Hey, fugeddaboudit that bitch is ours!” and people insult other people’s mamas and sulk in corners and yell insults in faux American-Italian accents. NJ gets the tiny, loud, orange goblin from “Cake Boss” to come in and throw a hissyfit. Insults are hurled. New York starts to cry. NJ then brings out the big guns by getting first son Danny De Vito involved. It’s ugly. (And he’s no oil painting either.) NY maintains principal ownership of the statue, although I believe technically it’s supposed to be shared. I would go look it up to be really accurate, but really, do you care? I don’t care. Fuck that.

Back to religion. So far NJ is a winner in one category – heathenism. Between 15 and 20% of people in NJ are not religious. Which really should endear it to me more than it does. And it’s actually a surprise because with all those Italian Guidos running around, you’d think they’d be a pretty Catholic state, no? Even though Guidos seem to break all the commandments and also a few that weren’t even invented.

I think that’s about it. I could go on, but I’ve already shortened this about three times and it’s not endearing me to the NJ populus much, so maybe it’s time to quit before someone tries to cut my throat. In the words of famous New Jerseyite, Gloria Gaynor, let me just give you a fist pump, New Jersey, and yell “I will survive!”

Next week come to California!

The State of The Nation – Massachusetts

Friday, February 11th, 2011 – I must have a Coke Or People Will Die, painting self-portrait, I’m a zombie

It’s that time again, people. It’s like knowing your taxes are due or your annual review is pending. Yep, it’s time to learn some more ominous stuff about the United States – fifty separate little countries bound by one great big law. Or something. This week is Massachusetts, due to popular demand by one person (Jess).

Not only can I spell Massachusetts without looking it up (seriously, go me!) but I still, even as a grown up lady, get a real kick out of calling it “Massive Two Tits”. Because I can.

Now what can I tell you?

Well one, Massachusetts is apparently a commonwealth. I don’t know if that’s supposed to make it more fancy than other states, but it doesn’t work. Because no matter how fancy you think you are, your capital is still Boston, home of beans, chowder, Ally McBeal, Mark Wahlberg and that accent.

Two: Massachusetts is shaped like a gun to scare off Yankees’ fans. It doesn’t work.

Three, some people unkindly call people from Massachusetts “Massholes” but I would never be so rude. Particularly because some of you have few teeth and fists like hams (allegedly) and might show up on my doorstep with a machete and malice in your eyes telling me you’re going to “paahk your cah” on my head.

Four, according to the gospel of all that is real, Wikipedia, Massachusetts is a hotbed of higher education, advanced technology, healthcare advances and financial services. Yeah, you just get all smug about your big brains, Massachusetts. Just remember this. You also produced eternal frat boy Dane Cook and Mr. James Spader, or as I like to call him, “Mr. Creepy Pedo Lips”.

…not to his face or anything, you understand.

Moving swiftly on, Boston, back in the day, was the scene of the infamous Boston Tea Party, mainly because where else would you have something called “The Boston Tea Party”? It was some protest against the British taxing tea or some such thing I was too lazy to learn about because it involved true things and OH MY GOD, BORING, but it was something to do with Bostonians pouring copious amounts of tea into Boston Harbour. I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a really shitty party to me. Particularly when there’s a dude called “Sam Adams” involved and we all know his beer is the tits. Maybe instead of dropping tea in the harbour they could’ve drunk some of that? Now THAT would be a party. Seriously, if someone asked me to their house for a party and proceeded to give me tea and said, “pour this down the toilet, it’ll be a blast!” I’d kick them in the nuts.

So how many friends of the Lord are there in Massachusetts, I hear you yell, because you just know I’m getting to it. Turns out 16% of people are dirty heathens like me, which I think you’ll agree is a big improvement on 6% from South Carolina last week. Wiki also claims 7% refused to answer which I’m pretty sure they did just to fuck with me. Or because they like Satan. So there’s your answer. At least 77% and as much as 84% of residents adore God, with the vast majority also approving Jesus.

To close, Massachusetts’ state insect is the ladybug (awww!) and its Gross State Product is Ben Affleck.
Don’t say I never teach you anything.

Balls

Thursday, February 10th, 2011 - Freeze-your-tits-off cold, barbecue chips, paint, whiny

This week’s been freezing cold, as I'm currently holed up in Canada unable to keep up with matters. You know that point in the month when you’re wearing your last clean pair of underwear because the mere idea of leaving a warm apartment and walking the fifty yards to the laundry room is just too much to bear because it would mean putting on pants not made of flannel and footwear (maybe) and a bra? Then you realize you are looking like you’ve just returned from being stranded on a desert island, complete with dirty face and feral yeti hair – picture the female equivalent of “The Dude” – and the fridge is starting to growl like an empty belly because you desperately need to drag your lazy ass to the supermarket? But it’s just so cold out and too much effort.

What’s the current temperature here in the cold assed Canadian ice fields, you ask? Somewhere around the temperature that cracks steel.

Talking of the supermarket (?) I made a small, impromptu visit last night, to get oatmeal and yogurt but instead got a touch sidetracked and ended up with a block of strong cheese, ginger ale and a giant wedge of chocolate that could take out a school bus if hurled correctly. This caused an excitement so great I totally forgot all about the oatmeal, which meant breakfast this morning consisted of a handful of Old Dutch potato chips and a glass of orange juice, a fact I’m not even apologetic about.

Plus when you stop and think about it, why should potato chips be any MORE unhealthy if you eat them for breakfast than any other time of day? They don’t magically turn into health food in your innards if you eat them with a sandwich for lunch, now, do they?

Although technically potatoes are vegetables, right? Aren’t we always being told to “eat more veggies?

Then I rest my case.

Also, if I can just suggest for a moment that whoever invented places like “Bulk Barn” need to be kicked in the netherlands. Any place that hypnotizes you with serene elevator music on its sound system then allows you to shovel giant trowels full of chocolate raspberry fondant balls (for example) into a bag until it overflows, is evil. Genius, but evil. Yet the other day, when I painted for about fourteen hours straight, those balls were appreciated because they gave me stamina and inspiration.

Inspiration to eat more balls, really.

Yes I did say that.

State facts are late this week, but what you are going to do, sue me? Suck on my chocolate raspberry balls and chill, people.

State’s Evidence: South Carolina

Tuesday, February 1st, 2011 – Late, thirsty, eye strain, itchy nipple

OK, my little dung bunnies, let’s get this state business out of the way nice and early in the week, so we can get on with less educational (!) and much more fun stuff. 

This week, as suggested by the lovely and charmingly accented Aly at Calling People Names, I will teach you all about the sheer awesomeness that makes up the heart of the Southern Eastern Seaboard - South Carolina.

Now I’m pretty willing to admit that I know fuck all about South Carolina apart from what I’ve seen of it while driving through it, en route to Florida, high on the fumes of sweet, sweet caffeine and muttered insanity.   This would consist mainly of the exceedingly classy and tasteful “South of the Border”, which oddly enough isn’t south of any immediate border except the one with North Carolina.  Oh the anticipation of miles and miles of exciting coming attraction signs that build to a crescendo just as you reach the Mecca of the South.  I think I even took a picture of that high class landmark of theirs.  Yep, here it is:

I have to admit, it wouldn’t be all that high on my list of shiny theme parks I’d like to visit.  It would, however, be high on my list of rickety, horrible theme parks where you could get some salmonella infused nachos and a confrontation with a rapey predator.  Sorry SOtB. 

The other thing I remember most clearly about South Carolina was the fact that the entire state seemed to be at war with itself.   The highway was stuffed full of billboards for either Jesus or strip clubs, sometimes both on the same board.   Fascinating stuff.   I really mean that.   Insane Jesus love and while you’re loving Jesus, please consider checking out some righteous titties.   Classy South Carolina, classy.    My suggestion is just to go right ahead and combine the fuck out of those things.  A nice big, white church where ladies dance in the nip round a big crucifix, while a crazed dude with an Elvis toupe, yells at parishioners in his shiny suit.

Anyway, what can I tell you about South Carolina that you might be able to impress people at dinner parties with?   Did you know that South Carolina was NOT, in fact, named after the nether regions of a hot chick called Carolina at all, but actually named after a dude named Charles?  King Charles I of England, as a matter of fact.  Why they didn’t just call it South Charles I have no idea.  Maybe old King Charlie liked wearing ladies’ panties?  I don’t know.  I’m guessing.  But I’m also guessing that my guesses are more interesting than the actual story.  So let’s just move on.

South Carolina is also the home of Myrtle Beach, which in turn, is the home of some of the most horrific large-people-in-small-swimwear sightings, seen on the entire east coast.  Honestly, trust me on this.  My retinae still sting and I break out in Gulf War Syndrome type rashes whenever I recall some of the hideous things I’ve seen there.

Interesting to note that South Carolina’s state dance is “THE SHAG”.  Hee.   Shag.  Who’s going to tell them that isn’t actually a DANCE?  And that Jesus most certainly wouldn’t approve?

Also interesting to note – SC’s colonial constitution was written by John Locke.

Really, who even knew it HAD a constitution? 

South Carolina was the first colony to declare independence from Great Britain, in 1776, despite the fact it drinks more tea than any other state.  This is a bit like being a heartless lover – take what you need then leave and never call.  During the Civil War, it also became the first state to secede from the union, in 1860, after being terrified that Abe Lincoln was about to become president and attempt to abolish slavery, leaving no one to bake a decent pie for the chill’un.   A pie drought in South Carolina was unthinkable.  It was a big old hot mess in those days really.  

As we’re keeping track of the religious traits of these states, I’m delighted to inform you that South Carolina has the lowest proportion of non-religious entities we’ve encountered so far – at 6%.  This means that 94% of South Carolinas would eat the entrails of Atheists at the drop of a hat.  Which is probably why I drove through it in a day or so.  Just to be safe.  I mean it was pretty and all, but I need my entrails.

…and burning crosses

Lastly, twice in South Carolina I encountered the following truck that disturbed me so much I had to take a photograph while driving.

Mozzarella Cheese, Food and PAPER PRODUCTS?  By “food” I have a sneaking suspicion they mean “Soylent Green”.   Plus the company’s called “CREMOSA”.  I don’t know about you but I don’t want to eat anything that comes from a company that sounds like it burns corpses while cooking pizza.  Interesting (to me only) fact – a few months later, when I’d all but forgotten about it, I came out of my apartment in Manhattan one morning and saw one of these trucks parked in front of the building.  I just about spattered a tan doughnut into my pants.  They’re following me.

Anyway, there’s your non educational, insulting portrait of South Carolina.   I do realize I didn’t teach you anything AT ALL except for my personal observations, but you know what?  Life’s disappointing, get used to it.

Next week it’s Massachusetts.