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.
Wednesday, August 12th, 2009
Yeah, yeah, I get it. The weather hasn’t been perfect. It’s been unseasonable. There’s been some rain. But I’m from England. This is a pretty regular summer to me. So how about you just shut the fuck up, enjoy the sunny days when they happen and think of something new to complain about? I swear to God, every single person you encounter has something to say about the weather conditions, like they’re Al frikkin’ Roker all of a sudden (British people, he’s a weatherman, just so you know). ‘How are you today?’ ‘Well, I’d be good if it wasn’t for all this rain,’ SHUT UP!
Specifically fat older man public nudity. When the hell did this ever become acceptable? Soon as the sun comes out, men with the worst bodies ever get it in to their twisted little minds that they can just take their T Shirts off all willy nilly and walk around topless. Guess again, Tubby. Unless your upper body looks like this, kindly keep your shirt on. Actually, do us all a favour and put a few more layers on. No one wants to see your beer gut. And when you’re walking down the street, shirtless and your belly ripples with every stride you take, do not, under any circumstances, have the audacity to wink at any member of the female tribe, you prick.
Clear Bra Straps
I’m not sure what is so hard to understand about the concept of straps. If you are wearing a strapless dress, you need small boobs and a strapless bra. If you have giant jugs, straplessness is not your amigo. Deal with it. It’s bad if you attempt it with no bra (if your tits slap you in the face, you have no one to blame but yourself), but to wear a bra that has clear straps, with a strapless top, is even more insulting. Who do you think you’re fooling exactly? It’s summertime bitch. The sun reflects of those clear straps and we are all fully aware that you’ve got some major assistance holding up your fun bags. Clear straps were made to be worn with tank tops, though in my view we should all go back in time to when our mother’s were burning their bras and take those clear strapped pieces of crap out with a match.
Thursday, October 9th, 2008
The mind heals and then the body has a breakdown. Right now, I have two blocked nostrils, the sweats and some pain in my chest, but these fingers still work, so I shall bang out a post so help me God!
The other day, I was doing some behind the scenes admin on this here blog and thought I’d check out what Google searches bring people to my page. Some were strange, to say the least and some were just outright disturbing. Check them out below:
Squirrel Bun Hairstyles
Well, the squirrels in my area like to perform lewd acts in public places, but so far, they have not stolen my hairdo. We’ll have a real problem if that happens. I’ve been civil up to now, but I’m not scared to throw down with them.
Wanna Fuck Ann Curry
What did you think would come up when you googled that? She’s an attractive lady, that’s for sure. If only she’d get rid of those damn flip flops though.
How to sleep with Bangs
Lemme tell ya, it ain’t easy. I require multiple dinner dates, a criminal background check, a letter from your employer, medical records, psychological reports, a few pairs of shoes, and an in depth analysis of your CD collection. Then, maybe, just maybe, I’ll think about it.
Chav Japanese girl
The day the phenomenon of the Chav spreads to other countries, is the day I will weep for the world.
Joshua and Tanyalee
Oh you poor bastards. You Googled these names because you want to find a love like theirs. Sorry I killed the moment for you.
Bra Fitting for men
Umm, I have no words, except maybe, may I suggest surgery?
Should I get bangs overweight?
Honey, I am the ultimate ambassador for bangs, so my response will always be yes. But maybe send me a picture of yourself, just so I can be sure you’re making the right decision.
Don’t want a short man
Amen sister. A-to-the-men. It’s what I’ve been saying all along.
But hey, I don’t care what brings you here, as long as you get here, read, have a giggle and tell your friends to stop by (because I’m trying to get PAID!).
I welcome one and all. Keep coming, because Bangs and a Bun is just good for the soul.
Tuesday, September 9th, 2008
Thank God summer is over, because if I saw one more big breasted girl going braless, I would not be responsible for my actions. If you are bigger than a B cup, you can’t do it, plain and simple. Some C’s can get away with it, but if you’re bigger, you’ve gotta get you something to lift those puppies up and strap ‘em down. Nobody wants to see your saggy funbags flapping in the breeze. It can’t be comfortable to have them swinging around uncontrollably. And you obviously don’t realise it makes you look 10 pounds heavier than you actually are – why would you want that? I’m a small chested chick and I will live and die with padding and underwire. So you bigger girls should only set your funbags free in the privacy of your own home where they can’t hurt anyone, otherwise, when you’re running for the bus and get slapped in the face by your left tit, you have no one to blame but yourself.
The Whale Tail
Sometimes, a slight revealing of the knickers is unavoidable and accidental, shit happens. But if you’re wearing ultra low rise jeans and you sit down, you must be aware that the piece of dental floss you flung around your nether regions is peeking out the top of your True Religions and exposing half your ass cheeks. Ever heard of a boyshort? Or may I suggest a brazilian thong? But that tacky La Senza number, with the heart shaped rhine stones in the middle of your coccyx, well, it ain’t cute. And deliberately hiking up the sides of your G String so they hover well above the waistband of your jeans? Strippers do that – is that a breed you want to be associated with? But if you must insist on wearing a thong with a low rise pant, maybe just ensure that you don’t sit down or bend over. Ever.
I don’t care what kind of boxers you’ve got on, or how nice an ass you have fellas – pull your frikkin’ pants up. There are few looks more ridiculous than this. And when you choose to accessorize it with a Jesus piece and your pigeon chest, a la Lil Wayne, it has even less appeal. This entire look seems to be centred around the fact that you intend to spend 95% of your day pulling your pants up, just so they can sag back down to your mid-thigh five minutes later. You can’t win with this ensemble. Either you go for the looser boxer short and they mushroom over the top of your jeans, or you go for the boxer brief and your arse looks like two eggs in a hankerchief and you’re inviting a spanking. Hey, I have a crazy idea: hows about you just buy regular sized pants and a belt? Save yourself the constant pulling up of the pants and keep those plaid boxers, that came in a set of three (birthday gift from your mama, naturally) to yourself.
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.