Folks, the Secret works. I’ve been writing about sex toys on this thing for the past month or so and now they’re showing up at my doorstep. Seriously, I’m getting sent like, boxes of sex toys. Every day is like Christmas morning for my vagina.

 I’ve gotten glow in the dark dildos, which I guess are for like Star Wars nerds or something? I mean, what is the point of a dildo glowing in the dark? A glow in the dark vagina could have some use, but if you can’t find something is that’s in your own hand, you’ve got bigger problems.

I’m trying not to write about all this stuff because I feel like this blog is starting to be exclusively about vaginas. I mean, I have a mother. But, I got one today that I feel the need to write about because it made me realize that I have no idea how my vagina actually works. In fact, I don’t even know who my vagina is anymore.

I was sent a sex toy from a brand called JimmyJane. Jimmyjane is a very upscale, cool sex toy brand. Most sex shop websites are trashy with bad web design and cheesy models who look like they’ve spent a hundred years on the surface of the sun. This site is just very clean and refreshing. I don’t have to stress about some whore in clear heels and I don’t have to play wack a mole with pop up ads.

They have lots of toys. One is called the “iconic rabbit” which is absolutely terrifying. This is for people who like vibrators, but also happen to be batshit insane.

That movie Watership Down pretty much ruined rabbits for me. Creepy old dudes dressing up as the Easter bunny at the mall next to Claire’s Accessories didn’t really help either.

Most vibrators are really ugly. I mean, penises aren’t particularly charming, so it makes sense that vibrators aren’t, but I really draw the lines at those gross fake veins. I don’t think anyone has ever been using a vibrator and thought “man this would feel so much better if it had more plastic creepy veins.” 

I was sent the Form 2. On the box it says the vibrator is “phthalate-free,” which makes me very happy. If I can’t pronounce it, I don’t want it in my cooter. Same reason I won’t sleep with guys named Juan. Most vibrators are made out of things chock full of chemicals and carcinogens. I mean, vibrators are probably better for me than the average real penis I’d encounter in Los Angeles, but still not particularly awesome for the ladyparts. I’m fine with getting cancer from cell phones but from dildos? That’s just embarrassing.

The box also says “bath safe.” God I love warnings. Warnings always give me good ideas. Vibrators in the bath! Why haven’t I ever thought of that?! Use it and clean it at the same time! I. Love. Multi-tasking.

So I opened the box and man is this thing precious. It’s a jaunty little thing. Frankly, it’s downright adorable. It looks like a chubby cartoon crab claw. And it’s PINK. I mean, cute as a fucking button. So cute, in fact, that I’m charging it on my desk. (I have class.)

I like it because it’s not trying to be a penis. The problem with this little tike, however, is I have no idea how to use it. I like to think of myself as somewhat of an expert on all things vag, but I seriously have no clue where to even start with this. Butt hole? 

But folks, we’re good. Because I am not a quitter. I was not raised to give up. I’m gonna figure this out. If you don’t hear from me for a while it’s because I either figured it out and it’s awesome or because I have carpel tunnel syndrome. Or have something stuck in my butt hole. 

It’s been brought to my attention that I’m not as suave as I had thought. I make no bones about my Spanx habit, but this is pretty embarrassing. 

I have a very complicated relationship with spandex. The first thing that usually comes to mind when I think of spandex is biking shorts, which makes me think of spinning, which I can’t do because the bike seat hurts my vagina. I don’t know if everyone else knows about some sort of tucking tactic or something, but my vagina just can’t really handle a germ infested hard bike seat gnawing at it for an hour. Also, spinning sucks.

Now, pretty much my biggest priority in life is dressing comfortably. I literally have a cornucopia of sweatpants, pajama and pants sweat shorts. I even have a colorful array of linen drawstring pants only to be rivaled by Javier Bardem’s wardrobe in Vicky Christina Barcelona. I like wearing very casual clothes because 1) I’m very passive aggressive 2) the more casually you’re dressed, the less likely someone is going to talk to you or make eye contact 3) my vagina is a brat. It requires a tremendous amount of space to be happy. 

 Now, I used to be very stressed out by leggings. For a couple reasons. First of all, I don’t like clothes to be named after body parts. I don’t like turtlenecks for the same reason. Well, I also don’t like turtlenecks because they make you look like a child molester, but you get it.

 I also was fighting leggings because I don’t like trends. My dad was never around as a kid and anything that comes and goes really triggers some deep abandonment issues. One time almost had a nervous breakdown when I went to the Estee Lauder counter and they had discontinued my lipstick. I mean, they were doing me a favor because it was a terrible dark brown color I was wearing in the mid 90’s when I was angry and wanted to be Wynona Ryder and thought the only person who understood me was Tori Amos. But that’s not the point. It was an emotional crutch. I need shit to be consistent. When you don’t have a good childhood, you get emotionally attached to material things. Sweatpants won’t come and go because there will always be fat, lazy people. Leggings however…I don’t know. Lohan is in jail, so legging visibility has already diminished considerably. I can’t go getting all attached to leggings if I can’t be wearing them in a year. I’m not emotionally stable enough for that.

 Also, trends are usually shitty. They’re always so embarrassing. Remember tiny backpacks? I mean, humiliating. Even though Asian teenagers can’t seem to let go of it, it was a complete disaster. If you needed something from your tiny backpack? Forget it. Every time you needed a quarter you had to swivel like an owl with tourette’s. And Hyper-color t-shirts is probably why everyone’s getting cancer and skorts are single handedly responsible for my low self-esteem.

But I couldn’t get leggings off my mind. I remember one day thinking “the only thing more comfortable than sweat pants and pajamas would be leggings!” but then I tried a bunch on, and you might as well put your labia in a noose.  Most leggings are terrible. They are too high-waisted so the spandex starts violently cave diving into your uterus. As you know by now, I spend a tremendous amount of time and energy protecting my and caring for my vagina. I laser it, I spend a lot of money on underwear that doesn’t get in a cage match with it, and I keep guys who have hang nails out of it. So, it would be out of character for me to smush it with violent spandex, as can be seen below. 

So I took a hiatus from the leggings idea and discovered those hideous baggy pants where the crotch comes down to your knee that I had seen on Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean and Mary Kate Olsen. Bought em. Love em. The problem is every time I wear them people really worry about my mental health. People mistook my obsession with comfort for insanity.

 In a fit of madness and boredom, I recently give leggings another try. In an odd twist of fate (fate being Mastin Kipp of @TheDailyLove fame), I discovered a brand of leggings called LNA. I panicked at first because the brand seems very hip. The girls who founded the line are super hot and have that awesome beachy wavy hair and can pull off a lot of necklaces. Even though I was intimidated, I got some black leggings with zippers down the leg and fucking went for it. Oh my God you guys. Birds sang. Angels wept. Not a yeast infection in sight. They’re amazing.

After much speculation and thought, I figured out why these particular brand of leggings are so great. They’re low waisted. The lower the waist, the less they tug on the ole ladyparts. I’m not kidding when I say zero camel toe. Not even a camel toenail. Unlike most leggings, these don’t fuck with your ability to reproduce. And they’re soft…oh so soft. Wearing them is like a blowjob for your legs. 

They make basically every kind of legging you could ever think of. One of them even has tiny pockets small enough to fit some prescription drugs. These are solving my problems on so many levels. And they make great long t-shirts too that I’m going to hoard on a pretty disturbing level.

So, these pants are pretty much my new uniform. Paired of course with my lesbian sneaks. 

lnaclothing.com

I am a very jumpy person. Here is me getting spooked part three. I think the most embarrassing part is that I was talking about Lindsay Lohan as I was coming out of the bathroom. Lindsay is a pretty major part of my pee routine. 

I love tattoos. Obsessed. I’d get one if I wasn’t so terrified of commitment. I also happen to be very vain. I don’t want to get a tattoo of big tiger or something then in thirty years it looking like my varicose veins exploded. Maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe it would just look like a very lethargic tiger. Either way, it’s not going to be a cute situation. I have a feeling that in thirty years I’m gonna be on the god damn prowl so I can’t fuck around with the goods. I’m also pretty scared of the pain of getting a tattoo. I just got laser on my whole body and it kills. Lasering your pubes literally causes them to smoke because the laser burns the hair follicle off. Your vagina is literally on fire. I’m sure the Bible isn’t too happy about me repurposing their whole burning bush idea with my cooch, but the then again I’m pretty sure I can’t get in a fight with a book. Not sure what the fuck I’m talking about, but a lot of things are holding me back from getting a tattoo.

I’m obsessed, so I have this tattoo porn thing. I go to tattoo websites and look at tattoos I want and often come across stupid ones. This one stuck out at me. And not because it’s a unicorn having either doggy style or anal sex with a dolphin. It’s more that the sex doesn’t seem consensual. I mean, dolphin is definitely trying to wriggle it’s way out of that scenario. That dolphin has fear in his eyes.

This tattoo has to be a mistake. I mean no guy hates getting laid so much that he would get a tattoo of a dolphin getting raped on his arm. That’s just a first class ticket to celibacy. Even I draw the line at this. So if it is a mistake, I’m thinking the idea was to have the unicorn having sex with the dolphin’s blow hole? The problem with that is there’s a huge fin on a dolphins’ backs that the tattoo isn’t accounting for…I mean, that’s probably why dolphins evolved to have that sharp fin on their back in the first place: so pink asshole horses would stop trying to put their dick in it. I don’t know, but this is sloppy.

I mean, do unicorns just try to stick their dicks into any hole they can find? Even if it means going to Sea World? In this case, unicorns have a lot more in common with men then I thought.

I’m just trying to figure out what the this tattooed idiot was requesting. How did he explain it? If he straight up wanted “a dolphin and a unicorn having sex,” the dolphin would be the other way around, right, and not desperately trying to escape. If he asked for a “unicorn having sex with a dolphin’s blow hole,” the unicorn would be much higher up because the blow hole is on top of their head. So, he must have asked for, like, “a unicorn dry humping a dolphin and squishing it’s fin….oh! and can you throw a rainbow in the background to make sure girls never talk to me again and that I’m completely unemployable?”

When you have a tattoo, you shouldn’t have to do any explaining unless it’s something personal. I’m a big fan of cryptic personal tattoos that nobody understands. But if you take popular, celebrated animals we all know and love and do some crazy perverted shit with them, you need to make sure we’re all on board or that it’s at least biologically feasible. You can’t just defile the two most sacred animals and have them all up in each others holes.

Reed Alexander! 

The Comedy Central Roast of David Hasselhoff is coming up. It airs August 15th. On the show will be such dazzling stars as Hulk Hogan, George Hamilton, Pam Anderson, and Jerry Springer. I’ve started writing jokes for it, so I’ve got Hepatitis on the brain. I was prompted to go back and see what the hell I did last year and I thought I’d share it with you. My reactions upon seeing the video were as follows:

1) why the fuck did I do my hair like Al Sharpton?

2) wow, it is a miracle the NAACP didn’t burn down my house

3) I hope I don’t accidentally match my dress to the backdrop again this year

4) I am an asshole

Very few things get me excited. I actually can’t think of many things aside from Reed Alexander, frozen yogurt, and people who have a dot net but take themselves really seriously. But baby wipes. Ooh. Me finding a new brand of baby wipes makes me feel like what most girls must feel like when they get engaged: relieved, secure, validated, safe, loved. I use baby wipes like four times a day. And not just on my butt hole, either. Although that part of me is clean as a whistle. Bad analogy. Whistles probably have some weird old creepy coach’s mouth germs on them. I’ve never had a coach’s mouth on my butt. Anyway, try not to get too aroused, but I constantly wipe my hands, face, armpits, feet. If there’s a crevice, it’s baby wiped. I spend a tremendous amount of my life on planes and in comedy clubs which is pretty much the equivalent of blowing Tommy Lee twice a day. These wipes don’t have any chemicals in them or any cancerous bullshit which is good since I’m already working on destroying myself with my cell phone, Los Angeles air, and residual stress from my childhood. 

I take wipes very seriously. The problem with most baby wipes and cleansing pads are either their packaging or price. I loved Arcona pads but they’re like 30 bucks and the packaging is hard to travel with and it always ends up swamping up my purse. Sweet Spot is a good brand and I like their moxie. I like how blatant they are about being straight up vagina cleaning pads, but they can be hard to find. These are by a brand called MD Moms. I don’t know if they intended their product to be on my labia, but that’s not really my problem. Love em.

See? I don’t only complain about things! I like things! I’m telling you, Reed Alexander will brighten up your life. 

Rest easy, folks. I’m not as outraged as usual. Today I discovered Reed Alexander. Google him as soon as you finish reading this post about asses. Let me start by saying that I’m thrilled that the new female anatomy fetish is asses. Times were tough when it was boobs. I could hardly make ends meet. I mean, I was paying for my own meals. The future looked bleak. Now that it’s asses, I have a chance. As soon as I learn to talk less, I’m gonna be crushing it out on the dating scene. So, know that this next bunch of paragraphs of trashing idiots and their ass contraptions is coming from a place of gratitude. 

I don’t even know how I came across this thing. I don’t know how I come across any of the stuff on this site, which makes me realize that I think I have short term memory loss, because I swear I don’t just sit around all day and Google “products that were too dumb even for Skymall.” 

This thing is called the Classic Booty Pop Panty. I am not making that up. I know, the word pop is awfully close to the word poop. I don’t know if the Booty Pop is Ebonix or what the fuck they’re thinking, but it’s unconscionable. The title of the product somehow managed to out-insane the actual product. 

This is a pair of underwear that lifts your butt up or be firmer or something like that. Perhaps it makes it “pop?” I can’t tell from this androgynous tush in the photo what they’re trying to accomplish. I know the phenomenon of trying to change the shape of your ass with underwear started like 4 years ago, but the fact that it stuck and has all these low rent spin offs is what I’m interested in. Like the Snuggie didn’t interest me. The Slanket, however, rivets me. Not only do you have to duplicate a product, but you have to think of a similar enough sounding name that tricks people, but not so much that it gets you sued. Thinking of a stupid idea that gets popular can actually be pretty smart, but copying a stupid idea that’s already popular and trying to pretend like you came up with it is as insane as it gets. 

Here’s my issue with this underwear.  I’m totally behind (sorry, sometimes the best choice of word just happens to be a pun) the idea of contorting your body to make you appear more desirable or feel better about yourself. But this has no foresight. Even if you do reel in a man with these goofy panties, everything is great as long as he never sees you naked or touches your butt. That might be somewhat of an obstacle for a relationship. I mean, how long can you keep this lie going? It’s like me with bras. I don’t fuck with padded push up bras. I keep the bar low from the beginning, so when a guy sees me naked he’s not like “uh, I signed up for Sporty Spice and you’re giving me Adrien Brody.” I don’t need that look of utter confusion and disappointment. I had enough of that at the Louisville Improv. 

Worse, these are pointless because guys just don’t give a shit. A guy isn’t going to be disinterested in you because your ass looks like a normal ass. No guy was ever like “oh, look, her ass is exactly where it should be…she can’t defy gravity…her ass isn’t oddly creeping over her vertebrae…never mind, I guess I’m going home alone tonight.” Women need to realize that guys don’t care about our ass being jammed into tight shit. If anything, this is a hindrance to the vagina i.e. the enemy. Guys want as little chotchkies as possible between their penis and your vagina. 

So, this product isn’t for men. It’s yet another product to help us try and match some ephemeral ideal of beauty. To be clear, I appreciate the current curvy ideal. Its a fuck of a lot better than the anorexic near death thinness situation that’s been going on since the 90’s. But still, I have some qualms with the way we’re going about this bigger tush thing. How about instead of wearing granny panties with shoulder pads in them, we just, I don’t know? Eat? 

Now lets get to the trashing of the marketing of this product, because this is really where my issue lies. The Classic Booty Pop Panty?  I’m already buying a spandex product that indicates I have low self-esteem and body image issues. I’m in a state of distress. Why are you going to make it so that on my credit card statement I have to see the words “Booty Pop?” Is a box going to come to my door that says “Booty Pop,” so all my neighbors can know how much I hate myself? If I’m going to show them how little dignity I have I’d like to do it my own way, like with a premature facelift or overdose or something glamourous like that. 

So, this thing is called the “classic” booty pop? I don’t have much to say on this, except that “classic” implies class, and this is a product that spends most of it’s time near someone’s asshole. 

And the colors it comes in are “black licorice” and “caramel nude.” Pick a lane, guys. Don’t be a redundant asshole. Caramel is always a nude color and usually when you think of licorice you think black. I mean, nobody’s buying red push up ass boy shorts.  Don’t pull this weird double description madness . I already have some darkness going down in my life if I’m at your site buying a product that’s going to cut off the circulation to my vagina. I don’t need you to patronize me. They’re black and beige. There’s no need to get sugary treats involved. 

This is like when people name their kids “Lalyssa” or “Keyleigh” or some dumbness that sounds like something normal but it’s really not and you spend ten minutes hearing “no, it’s like Me-lissa but with an L!” That’s not charming. It’s annoying. If you want friends, just go with Melissa. 

Then the site says “go from Ho-Hum to Wow in a “Pop!” Why are you putting quotes around something that nobody said? You can’t quote yourself or imply that “pop” is a term other people use. Nobody’s running around saying things are happening in a “pop,” so don’t pretend your idiotic made up corny nouns are something other people came up with. We have no part in this. Don’t suck me into your baby boomer lingo. 

Last thing. If you read the blurb, there’s a special offer.  It says if you buy one pair you get a second pair free and you “just  pay the S&H.” I’m sorry. This is YOUR website for the business YOU started. You don’t have time to write out “shipping and handling?” It’s three words. You too busy going out and putting quotes around things nobody says? 

Why do I get the feeling I’m over thinking this?  

P.S. Reed Alexander. 

One of my favorite things to do is to type in the beginning of a question on Google and see what the most popular derivatives of that question are. If you’ve seen me live recently you’ve seen me yell about this: 

The most popularly Googled question about midgets is if they have night vision. Read that sentence again. Now, I can’t be trusted to rant about this because I’ll never stop, so I’m going to try to be as succinct as possible here: I think there should be some sort of program that tracks this question to the person who asked its’ computer then automatically makes it so they can’t vote. Then, some sort of fleet of doctors is notified and they go to the person’s house and gives them whatever surgery they need so they can’t procreate. 

Today the question I went with on Google was “Am I…” to see what the most commonly asked “am I” questions are. Here are the results. 

I think what we can all take away from this is that  we’re all relying a little too much on Google. We’re forgetting about common sense. I’m afraid we’re going to evolve into a society who can’t figure anything out on their own without Google, to the point where we can’t even figure out what the Google website is because we need to Google it first. 

Regarding “am I pregnant.” Ladies, if you’re Googling this, get off your computer and into a free clinic. Trust me, every second counts. 

And the “am I pregnant calculator?” There’s a pregnancy calculator? I’m all jacked up with hormones and uncertainty and now I have to do math? If you’re trying to figure out if you’re pregnant with algebra, here’s your equation, girls: sperm plus egg plus Baileys equals pregnant. There’s no numbers involved. I mean, if you need a calculator to figure out if you’re pregnant, you’re pregnant.

And “am I fat?” This is an easy one. You don’t need to Google this. Look down. 

This is getting embarrassing.