Wednesday, October 3rd, 2012
It probably comes as no great surprise that I’m anti-Page 3. I’m a fan of boobs – my own, in particular, are pretty fantastic, but I do object rather heartily to chesticles being published in a national daily newspaper. There’s a time and a place for the funbags, is what I’m trying to say. As soon as I saw the ‘No More Page 3′ petition pop up a couple of weeks ago, I signed it instantly and since then, have become more and more incensed by those who oppose it. So engrained in our culture is the objectification of women, how dare we try to stop it!
Wednesday, May 19th, 2010
Tuesday, January 12th, 2010
Over the weekend I went to my local underwear shop to pick up some new lingerie, just in case any of these imaginary relationships I’m having with George Clooney, Elliot Stabler of Law and Order SVU or any Italian hot boy ever come to fruition. I was browsing around the shop, chatting with the owner when a man, wearing a long, tailored women’s coat came in.
Upon closer inspection, I saw he was wearing lipstick so figured he wasn’t in there buying his wife’s birthday present. Considering he was a cross dresser though, I was a little confused with the get up. Aside from a woman’s coat and some ladies flat knee high boots, everything else was all man. He even came complete with bald patch.
Let me stress, my issue here isn’t that he’s a cross dresser. Heck, I lived in a house with a transsexual circus performer and twenty Venezuelan gay boy refugees on a street lined with prostitutes in Toronto. And I myself am pretty much a gay man in a woman’s body. I don’t care about people’s life choices. My whole thing is, if you’re gonna do it, do it right.
While yes, the right underwear is the foundation of any good outfit, how about this guy just start his transformation with a wig and a shave? That would make the world of difference. A women’s coat teamed with a bald patch sends way too many confusing signals.
So while this guy slowly browsed the shop, checking out every bra, thong, corset and panty in sight, I just wanted to nestle him in my bosom, stroke his bald patch and tell him everything would be okay. I wanted to take him shoe shopping, buy him a good wig and get his eyebrows waxed. Let me work my magic Sir! I’m telling you, give me one day to make this guy over, he’ll be starring in the best drag show in town and getting finger snaps left, right and centre.
While I did feel bad for the guy, I also wanted to shop and he was kind of messing up my rhythm. Usually when I’m in there, the owner is helping me out, making sure the bras fit properly and such like, but I didn’t necessarily feel comfortable flaunting my funbags in front of this guy. Not because I thought he was a perv or anything – I just didn’t want him stealing my style choices. Sizes were limited enough in there as it was.
He eventually left with the skimpiest thongs you’ve ever seen. Good luck to you Bald Patch Man, good luck.
Monday, April 13th, 2009
This chick is a little slice of tacky heaven. I used to watch Dog The Bounty Hunter, until it came out that they’re all a bunch of racist, N-word-dropping douchnozzles. But I gotta admit, I revel in this woman’s obscenely tacky taste. It brings me unprecedented levels of joy.
This big-titted bad ass is the poster child for trailer park chic. And let’s talk about those breasticles for a moment, shall we? Jesus take the wheel! I need to know how she manages to get out of bed in the morning with those things. On the show, she actually apprehends criminals – she runs, people. Runs! I’m surprised that doesn’t trigger some kind of natural disaster. Homegirl likes to rock intense V-necks too. If anyone was looking for KFC’s secret recipe – I’d check her cleavage. In fact, check her cleavage for anything that’s been lost in the history of time. Who the hell knows what she’s got stashed down there. Those are some bona fide Arethas.
If you can manage to take your eyes off her chest for a moment, you notice other little gems, like her fake platinum blonde hair extensions, the way she matches her eye shadow with her outfits and how she always wears those press on nails. It’s like she’s playing dress up, except she’s an adult and she really shouldn’t be trying to fit into her 6 year old daughter’s tops.
But hey, not everyone can get it right all of the time and some people get it right none of the time – of which, Ms Big Titted Terrible Taste Hunter, is one. May she continue to wear mini skirts and open-toed mules while chasing criminals and have her giant chest slap her in the face with each stride she takes.
Wednesday, September 10th, 2008
The last time I was in an educational establishment, I was the teacher (yep, there’s a whole area of Tokyo speaking terrible English, thanks to me), but being a student again brings about mixed feelings. On the one hand, I’m glad I’m doing something to better myself and get me one step closer to the global domination that is, my ultimate goal. On the other hand, I’m studying something I’m not familiar with and there’s a very high possibility I will look like a complete dunce.
I centred my whole day around the fact that I was going to class that evening. I’d arranged to leave work early and I must have reminded my boss of this point at least four times. On my lunch break, I went shopping for school supplies, then I gave myself a slap when I realised we’d be doing everything on computers anyway, so I should stop being an utter loser.
I finally left work and biked down to the college. I got caught in a storm on the way. The rain was pelting me so hard I cursed like a sailor the whole way. I got there, locked up my bike, battled through the crowds to find which room I was in, only to find I was in a whole other building. I went back out into the rain, unlocked my bike and rode to the next location. With minutes to spare, I rushed into the classroom only to realise that the white top I was wearing was soaked through. I may as well have introduced myself ‘Hi, I’m Muireann. And these are my breasts.’ I took up residence in the back row to avoid any embarrassment.
Things in class moved quickly and I struggled to keep up. Yes, I am that annoying one who asks all the questions, but I paid my money like everyone else, so shuddupayaface!
Things went smoothly until the teacher decided to do a little roll call of names to see who was there. As we know, that never goes well for me. This guy butchered my name beyond belief. Usually I recognise it even among all the mispronunciation, but this one threw me for a loop, to the point where I figured I just wasn’t on the list at all. Once the error was realised, the predictable discussion about the lack of correlation between spelling and pronunciation took place. Ummm, can we just Photoshop random peoples heads on the wrong bodies please?
Anyway, lesson of the day: edumacation is good. Sitting through it with a straight face when you look like a contestant in a wet T Shirt competition, is even better.
Monday, February 18th, 2008
So there’s this website, myfreeimplants.com, where chestily-challenged women raise money for implants by getting sad bastards, excuse me, kind gentlemen, to donate to the cause in exchange for pics, videos and a bit of online chit chat.
The philanthropy of some men knows no bounds. ‘Should I donate to AIDS research? Katrina victims? A homeless shelter? Hell no, there’s a girl in Modesto, California in need of tits!’
So all this got me thinking. I don’t need any boobs, I’ve got some. Sure, they’re no Arethas, but they’ll do. Though, there are other areas of my life where I could use a little assistance. My rent payment, for example, is kind of a pain in the ass. As a result, my shoe fund takes a kicking each month and that just ain’t right.
Maybe I could find some sad bastards, excuse me, kind gentlemen, to donate to my ‘Roof Over Head, Heels Under Foot’ foundation?
There will be no nude pics, videos or online chit chats in exchange for this. You’ll just have that warm, fuzzy feeling of selfless giving; making someone’s life/shoe collection better. And isn’t that what giving’s all about?
I’ve seen plenty of ads on Craigslist by sugar daddies looking to unload a truck load of their wealth on some fine young filly. And I’ve seen young girls advertising for someone to pay their rent. Obviously, none of this is taking place without sex involved in the equation somewhere. Or is it?
Ahh, sometimes I really wish I had it in me to be a gold digger, but I just don’t. I’ve got these crazy things called ‘morals’ and they’re always getting in the way.
But on the off chance that there’s someone out there who appreciates the ideology of ‘Roof Over Head, Heels Under Foot’ and would like to participate, on the understanding that there will be no sexual favors, ever, under any circumstances, as long as you live, then…HOLLA!
Wednesday, February 13th, 2008
I’d like to discuss for a moment, if I may, boobs. Specifically, these ones:
Holy mother of God!
Now lets pretend I’m not talking about Aretha, because it’s almost blasphemy to do so, but this titty situation must be addressed.
Do you see how that spaghetti strap is holding on for dear life? It defies the laws of physics how something so small can hold something so big. Each one of those puppies must weigh at least 20 pounds. Aretha wants R.E.S.P.E.C.T. Shit, how can you not respect someone heaving around 40 pounds worth of chest every day?
Just as I use the term ‘Olsen’ as a unit of weight measurement (based on the assumption that one Olsen twin is equal to roughly 75 pounds), I hereby christen boobs of this magnitude ‘Arethas’.
It takes a real woman to look at her fun bags (when they’re bone fide ‘Arethas’) and say to herself ‘I’m gonna forego the bra today and rock a spaghetti strap.’
For this reason, and so many more, Aretha Franklin, I salute you.
Law & Order: VFU (Void Filling Unit)
Man, I love me some Law & Order: SVU.
I have a tendency to get obsessed with certain TV shows. I’ve been obsessed with The Wire since the first season and while waiting for the latest episodes to be uploaded online, my attention has shifted to Law & Order: SVU.
I’m a fan of all the Law & Orders really. I especially like the ‘dong dong’ bell thing that signifies a new scene. I like to imagine it in my own life. Me waking up, ‘dong dong’, cut to me walking to work, ‘dong dong’ cut to me furiously tapping away on my computer. Maybe at some point, Ice T could pop up and arrest me or something.
I was into Law & Order: Criminal Intent for a while, but the main guy in that gives me the night terrors.
There’s just something about SVU. The Christopher Meloni/Mariska Hargitay combo is a winner. I like how he gets up in peoples faces and shouts during the interrogations and her, well, I just like how her hair changes every season. Though in real life, if female cops were as ridiculously good looking as she is, crime would soar ‘cause every perp would want to be arrested by her. (Do you like how I used the word ‘perp’? Yeah, I know, I’m all over this lingo).
But one of the main reasons I like SVU is seeing how characters from some of my other favorite shows pop up on there.
Christopher Meloni was on Oz, a previous obsession of mine. The priest and the crazy Nazi dude from Oz have both been on SVU as psychotherapists.
The guy who plays the judge on The Wire has appeared on SVU a couple of times. Cedric Daniels of The Wire was a doctor on SVU and also played an undercover cop on Oz. Are you following?
Maybe it’s just all about Oz withdrawals. When on earth will there be another show with excessive male frontal nudity? It’s been far too long.
I think I’ve pretty much exhausted the SVU back catalogue at this point. Those new eps of The Wire can’t get on the net fast enough.
Friday, December 21st, 2007
The last time I had a bra fitting was at Marks and Spencer in England. A middle aged Irish woman had me doing some kind of military drill/bra gymnastics (“bend forward, stand up, pull the shoulder straps up and the back straps down…”). There were way too many instructions. The woman was rough, yanking straps and pulling me around with little regard for the fact that I was getting my tatas out in front of a complete stranger and may not be all the way comfortable with that.
While living in New York, I had piled on a few pounds as a result of my *ahem* enormously healthy diet. A good portion of that weight seemed to have settled in my chestular region, so I figured I should invest in some new boulder holders.
I took myself to Victoria’s Secret, fought through the crowds and picked out some styles I liked. Once in the fitting room, some 19 year old from the Bronx threw back the curtain and barges in with her tape measure. She threw the tape around my back. There was that awkward moment when your personal space is invaded, the tape is brought to the front and comes to rest in the centre of your bosom as the measurement is read.
She engaged in idle chit chat while I ‘uh huh’d my way through it, looking at the ceiling trying to pretend her face wasn’t two inches from my tits. Then she scurried off to get me the styles I liked in the correct size.
As I tried on the different bras, none of them seemed quite right. I couldn’t figure out if it was the sizing, the bad lighting or the tacky techno music blaring from the speakers that was throwing me off.
I stood there in my jeans and bra, hands on hips, head tilted to the side, trying to figure out whether or not I liked the undergarment, when the 19 year old Bronx assistant peeked around the curtain.
“How is it?” She asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said, contemplating.
Then, all of a sudden, she came up behind me, shoved her hands up my bra, engaged in full on cuppage of my fun bags and pushed them up and together. Before I had a chance to protest, her hands were out and she was looking at me in the mirror.
“See, much better,” she smiled as she flung the curtain back and jetted off again.
“Ummm” was all I managed to say as I stood there wondering what the hell had just happened.
I was more than a little thrown off by the fact that I’d just been molested by a 19 year old in a Victoria’s Secret fitting room. But once the smoked had cleared and I looked down at my girls, I realized that she was right – they did look pretty spectacular.