Monday, May 23, 2011

Pinky rings

Are you in da mob? The universal sign of mafia d-bag, pinky rings are the older generation’s equivalent of Ed Hardy gear. Klassy with a K, which come to think of it, also stands for kielbasa. Have you gotten so bloated that you have to wear your wedding ring on that sausage that doubles as a pinky?

Grease that digit up with some olive oil and yank that ring off and put it where it belongs: on the finger of a small, malnourished child.


Sunday, May 15, 2011

Naked pregnancy portraits

You’re gorgeous and juicy, ladyfriend, but you’re not Demi Moore. I don’t want to see you naked when you’re not pregnant. I sure as shit don’t want to see you drop trou with a bun in the oven.

I don’t have a problem with you hiring Annie Leibovitz to capture this oh-so-important period in your life. Just don’t ask me to pore over the album, attend the portrait unveiling, or suffer your new two-for-one Facebook photo.

Treacly pregnancy photos bring navel gazing to a new level. Literally. In fact, your new outie is all you can see. Don't get me wrong: I can't wait to see the new addition to your family. In the meantime, just show me the sonogram.


Monday, May 9, 2011

Boob sweat

It’s hot. I can tell this by the thermometer and by the sweat pooling under my breasts. Guys have their equivalent of this, which a friend nicknamed “ball soup.” I’m pretty sure no one would voluntarily choose to order this unappetizing dish off the men-u.

Bras help lift the ta-tas away from skin-on-skin action but if it’s hot and humid, they tend to chafe and add their own sort of frilly hell to the problem. Maybe the thing to do is create a new take on the headband. A band of absorbent terrycloth or newfangled wicking fabric around the torso could mop up tit sweat and keep my melons from rubbing me the wrong way.