Happy (belated) Thanksgiving, y’all. Normally, this holiday is a gluttonous orgy of excess, where we hit the gravy bong and chug obscene amounts of food directly into our greasy talkholes. It’s also a time to give thanks for not having to awkwardly hang out with extended family for the rest of the year. Keep reading »
A certain woman in my life wants to know what guys are thinking when a breakup goes down. So here it goes. We think about beer. And drinking it. And how drinking said beer will help us get lucky with the la-a-dies. The ladies with the righteous hoots.
Alright, fine. That was a sweeping gender generalization. A crude, cheap oversimplification of the masculine condition… But that doesn’t stop it from being true. Keep reading »
We here at The Frisky live for celeb gossip, chocolate, and your comments. What can we say, you bitches crack us up! So in honor of you, our smart, sexy, and incisive readers, who aren’t afraid to talk smack on the Internet, here are our five favorite comments from last week…
Most Surprising Kindred Spirit
Astrosexologist Kiki T from “Is Cindy McCain Cheating On Her Maverick?”
We Frisky gals love trampy pill poppers, but sometimes we’re even surprised by who can inspire us:
“Wow, that Cindy is wild. Between her pill popping and now an affair with an ’80s washed up rock star, I’m beginning to like her!”
Yeah, Cindy McCain probably masturbates to hair metal ballads too! Can’t you just hear John asking her to turn the volume on that rock ‘n’ roll racket down? Keep reading »
Hi, I’m single. Like, what’s up with that? Word. Can I buy you a vodka tonic, super fox?
Okay – let me interrupt for a second, and preempt our regularly scheduled programming to get some things off my hairy, muscular, barrel chest. I’m guessing you heard that the guy with the lizard neck lost the presidential election to the guy with the lady fingers, right? So…
I normally make a conscious choice to reject the idea of identity politics, which is to say, to gravitate towards politicians who are just like me, either ideologically, or, on a more base level, culturally. I am instantly distrustful of politicians who tell me they drink beer just like me, or listen to the music I listen to, or who suggest that I vote for them because their biological fortunes confer an expertise others cannot possibly claim. These notions are nothing more than cheap, aspirational lies. Keep reading »
In a recent Sunday edition of a Gotham City newspaper, The Frisky’s very own Vixen of Verbiage, Simcha Whitehill, wrote about a new scientific study that suggests three cups of coffee a day can cause a woman’s breasts to shrink. Bravely, Simcha refused to give up her morning cup of liquid caffeine, even if it meant her rack might decrease in size from voluptuous to less voluptuous.
The study struck a nerve with women, who are as obsessed with their breasts as men are. And women are equally obsessed with the perceived male obsession over breasts. And we are obsessed. All men love boobs; we can’t help it. Before seemingly sensitive and enlightened male readers lambaste me for my sweeping gender generalizations, let me just say: Shut up, dudes. You love boobs, too. Even those of you who signed up for, and thoughtfully participated in, Women’s Studies classes in college … You just did it to pick up hot, feminist nerd girls. Keep reading »
Here are some of the things I learned from watching the second season finale of AMC’s Emmy Award winning show “Mad Men”:
In the psudeo-historical world of “Mad Men”, work days start at 10 in the morning, because professionals needed the extra time to style their perfect hair.
Men who sleep around are studs and women who sleep around are sluts.
Also: men are big babies with trembling eyes, and women have icicles for spines.
But the most important thing I learned from the last episode of “Mad Men” is that Don Draper, the chain-smoking, hard-drinking, skirt-chasing lead character, is a kind of pop Rorschach test for modern day cats and dames. Both men and women see something different in Don, played with chilled beefiness by Jon Hamm, and what we see is proof that there is still a primal disconnect between what women want in a man and what men want to be. Keep reading »
Recently, I rambled about The Big Switcheroo – men and women adopting each other’s worst gender behaviors. The diatribe was equal parts self-indulgence and genuine confusion. Are men really becoming needy, emotional leeches and women emotionally void predators? I suppose no one said the collective lurch towards equality was going to be pretty. And I’d like to add that it seems no one is really having any fun. It’s never fun being someone who you’re not.
But enough Danny Downer. Keep reading »
Women are emotionally-vacant pigs and men are emotionally-unstable psychos.
Wait. That’s not right.
But it is in so many ways. Welcome to the new millennium, boys and girls, where gender equality means “let’s adopt the worst of each other’s stereotypes.” It’s a madcap race to the bottom rung of the sexual identity ladder. Wheee! Keep reading »
You’ve heard about the mood swings, cravings, mania, and general awfulness your wife will be “blessed” with throughout her nine-month journey to motherhood. Here are five things your parent-friends will never tell you about pregnancy, probably because they’d just assume forget about them altogether:
Miscarriage. It seems to be almost inevitable. We’re not sure of the statistics, but an unscientific survey we did of three friends showed that every woman in the world will have at least one miscarriage. As a guy, you’d think that your rub-some-dirt-on-it-and-get-back-in-the-game attitude that you learned from your high school football coach (who was banging one of your classmates by the way) would be helpful. It’s not. Let her sister/mom/friends console her because you suck at it. Meanwhile, you’ll have some extra time to create a new, winning game plan. Keep reading »
We love sex. You love sex. Well, that’s out of the way.
Seeing as we’re both in agreement over the importance of sex, the excitement of sex, the giggle-inducing, gasp-inspiring, slow-motion tsunami of gooseflesh-triggering awesomeness of sex, we can move on to why it is we can’t really talk about S-E-X.
Women think men are mysterious when it comes to knocking boots, or worse, single-minded and simplistic. We’re not. You’re mysterious, and that’s not playground rhetoric. The difference between what we want and what you want, our needs and yours, is the difference between banal home theater instruction manuals and more exotic hieroglyphics.
Keep reading »