When we say the “best” boyfriends, we mean the worst, or in some cases, the most ridiculous. We’ve rounded up the best of our “Be My Boyfriend” series this year. Really, we’re not planning on dating these guys, but said in the most diplomatic way possible, we marvel at them. These guys exist…
This year did not disappoint when it came to sex headlines. In 2012, I learned a lot of new and important (I’m not sure if “important” is quite the right word, but I’m going with it) lessons. I’m still trying to make sense of it all, but let’s review what I’ve absorbed thus far. There was just so much…
We’ve had lots of boyfriends who we’ve had to remind to wash their hands before they put them anywhere near our vaginas. Don’t they know that dirty paws cause yeast and bacterial infections, or, on the off chance that he’s been chopping jalepenos, a fucking wildfire down there? These are the kinds of thing that people with penises don’t seem to understand. They think we’re molly coddling our coochies, being precious about our privates, but vadges really are temperamental.
Because of germs and jalepenos and general man hand dirtiness, we humbly request that the Invention Gods create a biometric hand sanitizer so boys could scan their hands and be germ/jalepeno/whatever-free within seconds. How much more fun would that make sex? A lot more, we think.
Click onward for some more sexventions that we think would revolutionize our sex lives.
Ho, ho, ho! Who would have thought that jolly ‘ol Saint Nick would inspire anything remotely sexual? Just a quick sleigh ride through the Urban Dictionary and we’ve discovered that Santa is sliding down chimneys and into bedrooms. This Christmas, you may want to stuff one of these in your partner’s stocking. Depending on how naughty or nice they’ve been…
We can always count on Barbara Walters to redneckognize greatness. On the short list of her”Most Fascinating People” of 2012 is 7-year-old Alana Thompson, better known as Honey Boo Boo. Walters called her reality show, “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo,” a loving story:
“The relationship between Alana and her mother — that’s the story, the two of them. It’s very touching … Honey Boo Boo is not an obnoxious little girl. She’s sweet and loving with her mother and loving with her sisters… And now Anna has a new baby, and the baby has [three] thumbs — but so what? It’ll make you smile.”
No mention of all the farting and burping, but we’re hoping Babs will get around to that during the sit-down interview, airing December 12 at 9:30 p.m. I suppose I should mention that other guest will include Hillary Clinton and Gabby Douglas.
It’s that time of year again. Time to reflect on the goings on of the last 12 months. And a lot of the strangest goings on were going on in the Sunshine State. Nobody’s quite figured out why yet, but Florida is the undisputed winner of WTF. Oh Florida, congrats! You are succeeding at something! Click through for a review of all the things Florida kicked ass at this year (not really).
Breakups always suck, no matter what, for both dumper and dumpee, or even if it’s mutual. But there are certain kinds of breakups that suck worse than others. That’s just true, the same way that certain ways of dying suck worse than others, in your sleep versus slowly and painfully of cancer. God, this is getting really macabre really fast. I’m sorry.
You can probably tell by my tone (and the fact that I’m listening to The Smiths) that I’ve just gone through a breakup. As some of you know, I was trying to be Switzerland, which worked for a while, and then I couldn’t remain neutral any longer. Our breakup was mutual and amicable and about as pleasant as something so unpleasant could be. I’m grateful for that. But still, BLERGH.
Here’s the thought I’m left with at the end of this relationship (to quote a Broadway song because I love Broadway musicals and I don’t care if that’s embarrassing): “It’s not where you start, it’s where you finish.” Keep reading »
I’ve been hitting yoga hard since I got back from Paris, trying rid my system of that stinky camembert, which is still probably having sex and making cheese babies in my digestive tract. And also, because I love yoga and I’ve been practicing on and off for the last 16 years. I basically need it to stay sane. I’ve noticed some changes since I started doing it years ago: all the new forms of yoga that have popped up, how it’s become so popular that they offer it at my gym, the fact that I’ve asked men I’m dating to attend a class with me and they’ve said yes. That never would have happened in 1997. Never! I mean, Lululemon didn’t even exist back then. I had to wear standard workout gear. Imagine that!
I’ll tell you what hasn’t changed about yoga in the last decade and a half: there’s always one annoying person in class who has the power to kill your buzz. For some reason, I feel like their mats always end up next to mine. WHY?
After the jump, I think I’ve identified all annoying types of yoga class goers. If you recognize yourself as one of these people, I’m sorry, but someone needed to tell you. Keep reading »
I haven’t publicly written about this yet, but … here goes. For quite a while there was a Poop Bandit plaguing the toilets at Frisky HQ. We share a bathroom with many other offices, so it was nearly impossible to identify the bandit without catching her in the act. We never found out who she was. She was stealth. Her Poop Banditry included dropping poopacalypses several times a day, rendering the toilet of her choosing inoperable and clogging up drains with the paper towels (NOT TOILET PAPER, BUT PAPER TOWELS) she used to wipe herself. She seems to have disappeared back from whence she came and the toilets have been fairly quiet, but we will not forget her and the poopstrosity she imposed upon all of us. Keep reading »
I arrived at the Paris airport, knowing only a handful of French words and phrases, holding a map of the city I picked up at the information desk, with the address of the place I was staying written on the first page of my otherwise blank journal. And … I had no cell phone to help me find my way.
I followed the signs with the little trains on them. Paid for my ticket with the Euros I had exchanged at the airport. Picked a Metro stop that appeared to be in the general vicinity of the apartment I was staying at and proceeded to lug my 50 pound suitcase up and down countless flights of stairs.
When I emerged from the Chatalet station with a kink in my neck and a numb right bicep, it was raining. I had no clue where I was. I was panic stricken. Keep reading »