The Michael Douglas Effect

I was going to write a long rant the other day about the idiocy that is Michael Douglas's claim about the origins of his throat cancer being linked to cunnilingus. (Like dudes need ANOTHER excuse not to go downtown. Gah.) Anyways, I decided I didn't want to waste my energy, so I drew this instead . . .

Femstaches & Hot Asses

First off, today is my 35th birthday. 
I'm not going to ask you all for naughty photos because then they wouldn't classify as being "unsolicited" and I couldn't claim ignorance . . . but ya know, you do what you gotta do . . . mmmk? Ahem.

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I haven't done a Writer's Workshop for a long time, and I don't even know if this overly qualifies, but I saw that one of the topics was: Something that made you laugh this week — and I couldn't pass up the chance to share this piece of journalistic brilliance with everyone.

I was in the waiting room at my doctor's appointment, minding my own business and reading one of the manky, out-dated women's magazines from the pile. I usually choose the one that has a famous woman on the cover that I detest the least, which isn't always easy. After flipping through page after page of advertisements for all the ways I can make myself a better woman, I found an article with a huge Frida Kahlo self portrait.

Ooohhh, art. I can read about that.

And then I read that the article was essentially about women with mustaches. Whatever. Fine. I've already invested my attention and I likely wouldn't find anything better, so I read further down the page and found this . . .

I had to take a double take and then I back tracked some reading and took a third take before I burst into laughter. I think I jump-started an elderly man's heart that was sitting across from me. You're welcome, sir, by the way. Mona Lisa, Mariah Carey, Tina Fey . . . and JUSTIN BIEBER.

That is hysterical as hell.

Bravo to Elle Magazine Canada and Joana Lourenço for that hilarious dig on the popstar. Loved it!

And since I have a plethora of useless art knowledge stored in my brain, I feel compelled to also share with everyone the amusing tidbit that Duchamp's L.H.O.O.Q. is actually a French pun that when said out loud, the sound of it translates in English to say, "She has a hot ass."

You go, Mustache'y Mona . . . and Lady Bieber!

Have a fabulous weekend, everyone! I'll be off stuffing my face with pizza and ice cream cake.

Why I don't have a New Year's list

Happy New Year, everyone!!

So far, I've already learned something useless — and I thrive on useless information — which is that 2013 is the first year since 1987 in which all 4 digits are different. Huh.

I'll let you chew on that for a while . . .

OK. So, I haven't had much time to sit down and itemize all my deep and meaningful quandaries about life and love from the past year, but I have some perfectly valid reasons:

1. Hubs has been home for the duration of these holidays and he has this "thing" about me constantly being on technology (or making crafts, or anything that doesn't directly affect him in a positive way) whilst he's home. Seriously. We've got the next 50 years to get sick of each other, just let me play with my shit, mmmk? Ugh.

2. Holidays mean food. Food is distracting.

3. Holidays mean extended family. Extended family is annoying.

4. After nearly 2 months of the family being an astonishingly bright beacon of health, all hell broke loose. Sick children are fucking disgusting.

5. I've been going after jobs like a bull after a matador's ass. Customizing my awesomeness for each individual position is exhausting.

6. I painted THREE rooms in my house over the holidays. We moved into this entirely white house in December of 2010 and I'd been using the whole "but I'm working all the time" excuse not to paint. Well, I thought I'd call myself out on that bullshit. Since I'm not working, I finally wanted something DONE around the house. I'm most proud of this accent wall. I made these window edges my bitches, y'all!

7. And finally, I got a Wacom drawing tablet for Christmas. Soon, I hope to draw some more, well, productive drawings, but for right now, I've been busy testing out the easy subjects — getting a real feel for the hardware, ya know . . .

And I know you're all wondering with bated breath, so I'll just put it out there once and for all . . .
Yes, I do commissions.

Ahem.

1984, bitches!

My mother has finally decided it's time I get the rest of my crap from her basement, much to my husband's horror. On the plus side, I discovered my school treasures dating all the way back to kindergarten. My mom likes to blame all the hoarding on me, but there's no way I started keeping those things from way back then on my own - all neatly categorized in order by year. Ahem!

Anyway, I have been laughing my arse off at my seven year old self for the past two days, so I thought you might as well join in on the ridiculousness that is mini me.

Loving the fake tan and leg warmers, Cyndi!

I don't know about this one, but the accuracy is amazing.

This actually explains a lot . . .

I was scrap booking before scrap booking was cool!

Holy fuck, I really do love winning!

And it appears my artistic abilities peaked in 1984

because I'm pretty sure I still draw sunsets like this:

Magritte can stick this in his pipe and smoke it.

Breaking Amish: Illustrated

I've always had issues with the Amish and Mennonite ways of life, ever since I was a teenager and spent a week with a Mennonite family and I was all like, "Your shit is ridiculous!" They fascinate me in an infuriating way. Don't get me wrong, I have issues with pretty much all organized religion, mostly for all the same reasoning: hypocrisy. Anyway, since the first time I saw that there was going to be a show called Breaking Amish, I absolutely knew that I would have to watch every episode. With the controversy that it's mostly "staged" (aren't all "reality" shows staged?), I take it with a grain of salt, but there are some core conflicts about the Amish way of life that have been addressed -- ones that drive me to literally eat my hair (I do that when I'm stressed; I realize it's disgusting, let's move on, shall we?). I thought instead of streaming a list of complaints, I made some illustrations for your viewing pleasure . . .

And that's all I really have to say about that.

Shop Locket & Me

I've been so freaking excited this weekend after FINALLY getting around to trying Shop Locket after my "friend in a clay way" suggested it to me ages ago. Holy motherfucking hell. From the time I created an account to the time I saw my arts n' crafts being pimped on this site right here (look to your right) was no longer than 15 minutes. "OK, but you're a giant nerd," is what you might be thinking but I promise you, it was no harder to use than uploading images and comments to Facebook.

"But Lady E, what the fuck does it do?"

It helps you sell your shit. Plain and simple. Ohhh yes, so damn simple.

The reason why I think it's so amazing is because I know many of us create something every now and again. . . but then to sell it? Get exposure? Set up a storefront on Etsy just for one item? Seems illogical and extremely annoying, if you ask me. It doesn't even have to be something that you have "handmade" - it can be anything you want to sell, period.

Yes, it does have processing fees like Etsy, but they aren't up-front. Etsy makes MILLIONS of dollars from artists and crafters that very often don't even sell a single item. Etsy is like a beautiful but evil Siren that lures you in with her sexy, crafty wiles and then drowns you. . . but not before she takes your money. Shop Locket functions more on a "consignment based" business model, which works out just fine for me.

I know art is expensive and it is a slow sell (which is why I don't own an art gallery), but here's the thing – 48hrs ago, it was sitting in my office being seen by no one. Now? It's up for sale on this site and since Shop Locket tracks views, it's telling me I have had over 250 impressions this weekend. I don't know of many art galleries around here that could have done that for me anyway. It's pretty fucking fabulous!

Shop Locket integrates with your existing PayPal account, so if someone actually does eventually buy something off my site, it will go nice and smoothly. There are advanced settings for tax and shipping as well, if required. It's got what you need, baby!

I realize that, as bloggers, we write for the love of writing (hopefully) first and foremost, but let's get down to brass tacks here, people – making some money from our other talents anything short of street walkin' should be made easier, and I believe Shop Locket has done that, and then some.

"But Lady E, I don't even have a blog!"

It doesn't matter. It's true that I am quite smitten with the fact that I can embed my for sale items right into my website, but apart from PayPal, all you need is Twitter, Facebook or Pinterest (or all of them, if you so desire) and you can whore out your items through those social media platforms. No website required.

So, do you crochet the shit out of a scarf? Or perhaps cross-stitch lovely phrases?

Screen printed onto some boards you stole from a construction site?

Everyone that participated in Craft Whores will have something glorious to offer the world, I'm sure of it. 

WELL, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? 

PUT IT UP FOR SALE ON YOUR BLOG, LIKE, RIGHT NOW.

For realzies, though. Try it, you'll like it!

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This is not a sponsored post. Like I said on The Twitter, I pimp when things deserve to get pimped.

This is one of those times.

Craft Whores, Of Course

Here we go, people! It's time to link up your Craft Whore creations (from now until September 20th). Check out The Suniverse and The Bearded Iris for all the juicy details on the prizes and who are the highly esteemed judges. Well, they are definitely esteemed, still not 100% sure about the high part, but nevertheless, they agreed to do it.

One of the only best things about being an art teacher was having my own dark room and kiln. I was sad to say goodbye to all that free access and almost unlimited state-funded supplies when I left the teaching profession, but there you have it. Then, about 6 months ago, I made a new friend... I mean, an IN REAL LIFE friend, you guys! I know it's hard to believe but it totally happened. PLUS, she's a potter, with her own shop, studio, kiln -- the motherfucking works!

She's like a friend with benefits, 

but in a clay way, not in a gay way.*

Between my new found friendship with ceramic perks and this upcoming crafting challenge, I decided I'd through my hat back into the pottery game and make some vagina candle holders. Why candle holders, you ask? Because I remembered these wise words:

So, of course I'm going to make special vagina candle holders! It's one of my most favorite analogies, thus making my choice fairly easy, once I really thought about it.

Look! It's like she's glowing... 

Not surprisingly, they were quite enjoyable to make and pending that these beautiful little bitches survive the final glazing process, they will be all smooth and shiny! Since I hand sculpt them (and being true to life), no two will be exactly a like. Ahem.

I have offered one of these up for a prize in this fabulous contest. Plus, if you want to buy one completely apart from the contest, please leave a comment below or send me an email and I will make more and hook you up.

Remember, Christmas is coming, yo!

Nothing says that you care quite like a vagina candle holder.

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* Flight of the Concords joke. If you haven't seen this, please do - right here, now. GO!
OK, maybe leave a comment first, but then go.

The tale of Dr. Alle Gory

There once was a respected doctor in the little village that was nestled beautifully between an emerald green lake and a mountain range that resembled enormous chocolate chunks which had been gently sprinkled with icing sugar.

The village thrived as every citizen offered something unique to the town, and the doctor's job was to take care of everyone... until one day, a faceless and evil entity crept into the village. This villain whispered ideas into the villagers ears, telling them that they didn't need the good doctor anymore. There was this thing called "the internet" that could surely show them how to do everything that the doctor could do - and this way, they would be saving so much money and time, just by taking care of their maladies themselves.

What a catastrophically devious plan.

The faceless villain could be heard throughout the land as he joyfully chuckled with his deep and sinister voice. It sent chills down the doctor's spine and she cringed. The creature swiftly left the village and moved on to the next, as if he knew exactly what was about to occur.

Soon after, Dr. Gory's patient list became sparser and sparser as they dropped their appointments one-by-one, like a wilting daisy losing its petals. Around the same time, she noticed that some villagers started to look, well, off, for lack of a better word. They would limp a little, but then smile at the doctor, likely to create the illusion that everything was alright.

They became absolutely convinced they didn't need the doctor when convenient wysiwyg techniques were accessible to them. And yet more and more of the ill advised citizens began to look injured, or sick. Some looked like they had strange rashes and other ugly deformities on their bodies. One man even tried to remove a growth from his leg by himself! Dr. Gory ran over to this horrific sight and offered to help, but he winced and protested, "No, no, no. It's fine. I played around with the saaaaame tools that you have and for the most part, I think I've figured it out."

Alle stormed away, pulling at her hair and gnashing her teeth in frustration.

The citizens became sicker and more grotesque to the point where the disheartened doctor couldn't even look out her window without seeing carnage. A fatally false sense of "knowledge" had been given to these people with those seductive tools and things called "free apps" and "filters". And the saddest part was that they either didn't notice how awful they looked or they were just in severe denial and refused advice from the one and only person that was truly qualified to help them.

The doctor wept under her face mask as the village collapsed before her very eyes. There was nothing left of her once beautiful village. All that remained was an ugly ghost town filled with corpses and old flyers rustling in the wind like tumbleweed. As one flyer slapped against her ankle, she leaned over to pick it up. It read:

Seeing this horrific mockery of everything she had learned and worked towards for the past ten years must have been the breaking point for this poor, broken doctor. Alle slowly looked up to the sky and let one single tear drop escape her eye as she ripped up the flyer. She let it drop to the ground and with resolution in her mind and conviction in her steps, she got in her car and began to drive it full speed towards the calm lake. There was a great CUR-SPLASH as her vehicle pounded into the water. Giant air bubbles violently screamed to the surface as the car quickly sank to the bottom, along with the doctor inside...

But of course, I wouldn't have to worry about such nonsense because since I'm just a graphic designer and not a doctor, no one would ever bother to undermine my profession and think that they could do my job.

THAT WOULD JUST BE
UTTERLY. FUCKING. PREPOSTEROUS.

That Damned Cervixen

In conversations with mothers, both close friends and new acquaintances alike, I have used my favourite "tattoo vs motherhood" analogy in conversations many, many times, but it's occurred to me that I've never written it down. It goes a little something like this:

Motherhood is like getting a tattoo because while you're getting the tattoo, you're all like, "Jesus, fuck! This is a lot of pain. Who the hell said THIS would be a good idea? I wish they were here so I could punch them in the face right now!" Then, you look in the mirror after it's done and are so happy with the results that you've forgotten that last 3 hours of horrifically annoying pain. And that's only moments later! Give it a few years and the yearning comes back. When, oh when, can I get another tattoo? People with no tats would ask, "Doesn't it hurt?" Yes, but you have forgotten just how MUCH it hurts because you see your tattoos through rosy marijuana fogged glasses from those days when you were young, carefree and your skin was tight. Then the day comes when you yet again get to lie down on a table and receive another tattoo. Although excited, once that first needle breaks the surface of your skin, you are quickly reminded of the horror. But it's too late now - second one's on its way as you clench your teeth and curse the person that encouraged you to get this one. And the cycle continues...

There you have it.

And last week, my oldest friend (who's survived both grade school, high school AND living with me in Australia), had to be induced to get her little Number Two pushed outta her. Sorry, that sounds like having a big poop, but let's all be grown-ups here, shall we? Ahem.

She had an emergency C-section with her first 3 years ago and was worried she would have to have another one. I was on the fence with this concept since I've heard so many horror stories about dead vaginas and that although a C-section REALLY MOTHERFUCKING HURTS, it was only for about 2 weeks and at least my lady bits were still in tight working order not that anyone cared, but still. Since I had my two at the same time, I haven't really ever given it much thought until now, but I think I would prefer to re-fuck-up my stomach rather than ruin a second part of my body - especially one that I hold in such high esteem.

(Random side note: I wish I had never seen The Spa of Embarrassing Illnesses)

So, I would get texts every few hours about her pain-in-the-vagina cervix dilating too slow and that she was getting more and more Oxytocin pumped into her. All of this so that she can rip open a new hole, instead of re-open the old one she already has. I mean, in a perfect world, yes, yes... we'd all have easy natural child births where we would go take a squat in the backyard and after birthin' a baby, we'd stay out there to get some weeding done with the newborn effortlessly latching on to our teet.

And thus, it's not just the actual second (or third, or...) child that is like getting a tattoo, but it's the actual birth, or more specifically - even though I can make a fairly valid analogy with the first 3 years as well.

How's your cervix? 
Not cooperating. It's only at 4 cms.
Fucking cervix. She's a bitch... no, she's a vixen. A Cervixen, to be exact!
Stop, you'll make me poop.
You'll poop anyway - right on the table. Gross.
STOP IT.
You love me.

And that's how I came up with the name of my imaginary rock band - if I knew how to sing or play an instrument other than the rice filled Alpha-Getti can. Farrah, Jen, Amy, Rebecca and Jessie have also volunteered to join my imaginary reindeer games. We would be fucking awesome... in theory.

Will there be merchandising, you ask? You bet your sweet ass there is. 

Want one? Check out my Estrogoodies. OR you leave a comment because 

I'll be giving one away! ROCK ON!

Oh yeah, and my friend has a healthy baby boy. Blardy, blar, blar...

Another vagina bites the dust.

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({O})

The Vibrator Terminator

Alternative title: Patent Pending, Motherfuckers!

A few months back I was using my favorite little vibrating USB-charged "fairy" to top up my needs... as one often does... and everything was going as usual.

Buzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzz. Ohhh yes. Buzzzz zzzzzzzzz zzzzzzz.

And then, all of a sudden...

Buzzzzz kurmuhhhhhh ffffffggggggghhhh.

Dead from the neck down. Snapped right at the bendable hinge like Christopher Reeve off a horse.

Hubs is laying beside me (yeah, you heard me) and he perked up, "Whoa. That didn't sound good."

"No! It did not. QUICK! Please get me my back up vibrator in the bathroom." And that is how the first toy bit the big one. Then last week, I was using "the back up" and after it had done a satisfactory job, I was cleaning it when I noticed a tear in the bendable hinge on THIS one too. What the fuck?! All the wires were exposed. I can pretty much say that this one was now ready to be put to pasture.

I told hubs and he was all like, "You're a fiend. What the hell do you do to them?!"

Umm.. you're right there beside me watching television - you should know. But seriously - I don't "overly" use or abuse them; in all actuality, I would probably put my average at once a week. Some weeks are more, but then I may go 2-3 weeks without even thinking about it. (Must be when I'm ill or something, but it does happen.)

Problem is that I do really like the firmest pressure going under and up. I'm assuming that's why these hinged designs exist already, but the issue is that the hinge is extended so far that I guess it snaps. I realize that every lady is a little different, but for me? That right there is the spot for me.

Up and over-extended. Ooh yes, indeed.

So, my question is: Why aren't they just in that position to begin with? It would be extremely time efficient, not to mention ergonomically beneficial to my wrists and mild Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.

OK. So, it might look like a Lacrosse stick just humped a Smurf, but I'm hoping you get the idea. I just got a pen for my Android and it's still a learning curve as far as drawing on it goes. Whatever, I digress.

It would hook around and up against my Mini Venus Penis and not need to do any of that tedious bending and straining. Win! So, if you ever see one of these on the market from this day forth, you'll know where they stole the idea from. THIEVING FUCKERS! If it already exists, screw that - I'm claiming ignorance. Mine is definitely better.

On another note, 4 days after my second vibrator broke I was contacted by a sex toy company to review a product. Bring it on! Just waiting for the Canada Post to deliver it to me, hopefully without any limbs. 

And that's how the gods talk to me, I'm sure of it.

The PYT that would never be

During my fourth year of University, I had to do the unthinkable -- I had to go backtrack and do a first year course. And not just any first year course, it was Introduction to Art. Fuck me. I didn't take it even in my first year because I was too much of a cocky bitch to take it, and since it wasn't a prerequisite for anything, I skipped it. Then, the graduation forms come 'round and SURPRISE, as it turns out, I did need it.

(To my guidance counselor, I give a huge retrospective middle finger! )

Anyway, I had to go to this soul sucking class for an entire year (at the same time as completing my honors for fine art, so... yeah). On the first day, I walked in to the massive lecture hall and I quickly noticed a Pretty Young Thing that was sitting with some friends, but the seat to his left was vacant.

Jackpot!

My initial intuition was fairly good. He was charming, friendly, a natural smart ass, and had a wholesome, Victorian country town accent that worked like panty remover to me.

The only problem was that he was a little on the young side. OK, when I was 23 and he was 17 -- that is A LOT on the young side. I was just wrapping up my “crazy University years” while he was barely 48 hours into the beginning of his. Ugh. But once I decided I wanted that ass, I powered though it. I dedicated much time and effort pretending to be interested in his first year issues and how “fucking cool” it was being away from his parents for the first time. 

(Yeah, OK kiddo… just shut up and take off those pants.)

The worst was going out to celebrate his 18th birthday (the legal drinking age and a huge deal in Australia). Aside from him and myself, there was his twin brother (to whom he also shared a dorm room with) and a bunch of girls from his boarding house – most of which were under age. There were some girls that had JUST turned 17 and were giddy just by being at the bar and claiming to be tipsy from a pot of beer (1/2 pint), like I was living through the made-for-TV-movie nightmare of Hannah Montana coming of age -- without the cock cake.

All the while, I was imagining how much it would hurt if I stabbed my thigh with a fork… because it was THAT much fun listening to their conversations. Christ, I felt really fucking old, but apart from a couple brief lip-on-lip pecks, I hadn’t sealed the deal… so I endured. 

The next weekend was so fucking on – enough of this bullshit, it was time to bring in the closer. Just the two of us went out for some drinks, which was MUCH better. I didn’t notice quite an age/maturity difference when we were alone, since we did have a very similar sense of humor. The drunken kisses began late into the night and I thought, “Sweet fuck, here’s my chance!”, so I took charge and suggested we go to his dorm (my flat was a lot further away, but in hindsight probably would have been the smarter option). He agreed and off we went. Clothes were quickly removed and foreplay was underway when his brother walked in on us! 

I popped my head up from under the sheets, pleasantly sarcastic: “Hi Mark, bye Mark!” He did a bit of a flustered ‘oops shrug’ and off he went. As I turned back to Dave under the covers, one thing was painfully obvious… he was soft and had retreated so high up into his cave that only one of the fucking Seven Dwarfs could locate his cock at that point. 

Hi ho.

Hi ho. 

It’s off to work I go… 

And work I did for a short and awkward while, but he was done for the night. 

And so was I – for good. 

Fun sex shouldn’t have had to be THAT much effort… so we still sat together during that God forsaken class, but that was it. We never spoke about it again. I decided it would be much better if I pursued an older guy that wouldn’t take four months to decide whether or not he wanted to fuck me until I walked wrong.

And so I did.

Screws n' Farts n' Balls. Oh, my!

Whether it be through Twitter or just passing thoughts in my own warped brain, I finally put to (virtual) paper some slogans for some popular brands. Let's just say that if I was in charge, marketing would be A LOT more entertaining...

He says it in the latest commercial, but it doesn't quite make it to slogan status. Pity.

It would be the ONLY airline that I would fly. Ahem.

Whomever smelled it, dealt it. And whomever named a cell phone network WIND is a dumbass.

Well... duh.

Yes, please. Although I've found they are NEVER there when I need some assistance.

I'm sure it has some good qualities... right?

It's my kind of drink!

And just for good measure, I thought I'd throw in one that actually IS on a billboard in L.A., 

proving that there is someone out there in marketing with my sense of humor :)

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Also, a BIG congrats to last week's winners. 

Leigh Ann (Genie in a Blog) won the signed copy of Unmarketing. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!

And also to Brandon and Suniverse who tied for winning the Platypus contest. I based this win by the 2 people that were able to guess the (apparently) 2 most difficult characters - ZoolanderPus and PriscillaPus.

Brandon requested a MormonPus (I should've known ;) and Suniverse got her very own platypus portrait,

complete with a custom made David Beckham vibrator.

Got Brand?

UnMarketing

On Friday, I was off to see John Morgan and Scott Stratten speak about branding and marketing while whoring their books -- which was totally cool, because if John's book, Brand Against the Machine, is even half as good as Scott's UnMarketing, then they are worth all the whoring possible.

I will passively harass Scott over on The Twitter every now and then, so I was looking forward to meeting him in person. He was a lot more tattooed than I pictured... but then again, I was probably rounder, so it's all good.

I should also remind everyone that I have severe A.D.D. and I slept through most of University (Slide shows in the dark every morning for 3 hours? I mean, come on!), so I am happy to report that both speakers have a fantastic stage presence and their points were clear and concise. I openly admit that I also do not read a whole hell of a lot and I told Scott that his book was the first that I had read since Harry Potter - which is the truth. And now that I have John Morgan's book, it shall be next.

I'm not going to divulge into their messages and opinions on Farmville, Angry Birds, Pinterest or Happy Cracks (don't ask)... but I will say that if you are interested in marketing, social media and/or branding strategies, these guys know their shit and they share their experiences with humor and sincerity, and delivered their explanations and visuals without any douchebagery.  

And yes, Scott, you can testimonial the fuck outta that quote.

I will share three tidbits that I learned - and of course, as soon as I got home, I went to test two of them out. Although I do not do Pinterest WHATSOFUCKINGEVER, there's a little trick that you can do to see if anything from your own site has ever been pinned. If you type in the address http://pinterest.com/sources/*your-url-dot-com* you can learn this information, just like this...

YAY! 3 people loved me enough to pin me. Thank you, @Talk2Q, @VBinCatalunya and @JenAnnHall for pinning me! I feel honored AND slightly violated at the same time... but I like it.

I'm still not going to do Pinterest.

Secondly, I logged on to TweetStats.com and (after quite a waiting queue) I got some alarming stats about how much I am on The Twitter. Apparently, a whole fucking lot! I effortlessly tweet over FOUR HUNDRED TIMES A DAY - I honestly estimated in my head about 60-100 before I got the results. I was more shocked at this then when I was told my actual daily calorie intake.

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REVISION: Turns out, I should have read the fucking chart before I freaked out - this is a TOTAL, showing my trending days on when I tweet the most. THANK FUCK. I really couldn't figure out how I tweeted 400 in a day. In actuality, my average is 56 tweets per day/ 1075 per month. Yeah! I'm not a complete loser, just a dumb blonde. *cough*

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My ONLY consolation is that 73.83% of my tweets are replies - which, according to Scott - is a good thing because I'm being social, not a soap-boxing prick. Mmmm, okay. I guess I can live with that.

And finally, I learned one last notable thing that I will share with everyone...

John Morgan: Size Matters

Well... maybe not learned per se, but rather reiterated.

Ahem.

Great job, gentlemen, truly. I didn't even yawn once, for realzies.

I have a special copy of "THE REVISED VERSION" of UnMarketing for one of my lucky commenters. It's special because it has a very spectacular message signed in person by Scott, just for the lucky winner!

So. Fucking. Awesome.

And Scott! Next time, I'm thinking more like The Thirsty Penguin, mmmk? Cheers.

Don't Realize, Sanitize!

First off, I did a deep and meaningful post over at Sweaty Writes yesterday: Realizations are the worst! I bared a little bit of my soul and explained why I'm pretty much expecting for my hair to start falling out shortly. I still tried to drop in a light jab here and there, but it's what I'm going through right now -- all laid out on the table. Ugh, indeed.

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Now on to the fun shit that SOME people have been pestering me about. Geesh, I do have a full time job, ya know. I can't sit around all day and make jewellery and depraved hand sanitizer jokes. Oh, wait... never mind.

In all honesty, I could have done every submission with pleasure, but I don't have THAT much time. Here are the TOP FIVE that made me laugh out loud. And then I used my "extensive" skills to interpret them into hypothetical products... and I laughed some more. Thank you to everyone that submitted an idea! And a huge thank you to Foxy for being an honorary guest judge. Yay!

And the grand prize winner is...

Magicial Mystical Mimi

And yes, that is a drawing of a bunch of women in heels all with their panties around their ankles. 

Don't ask; just thank Google. 

Magicial Mystical Mimi, please email or DM me your addy so I can send you your mental health package. 

I truly hope you enjoy your chill pills. YAY!

Posthumous. Isn't that a dip?

Oh, Whitney, Whitney, Whitney.

I thought I was going to be able to hold my tongue and mourn in silent protest over the passing of my number one biggest role model from when I was a girl.

But the slander just keeps on rolling out. I really didn't want to see her coffin photo.
Or the crime scene photos either. But they are rammed down my throat at every turn. I couldn't even load my groceries on to the conveyor belt (with my children in tow) without seeing images of her sprawled out in the tub.

STOP THAT!

Why? Well, besides the fact that it's macabre and disturbing, it is completely fucking irrelevant.

It's the pettiness and judgmental douche bags that are making me ill. If she died quietly in her bed from a long battle with cancer, I'm sure we would be hearing an entirely different tune. It would be the Whitney Lament, not the Whitney Torment.

She's dead, mother fuckers. Let it go!

And it is nothing new. I'm not shocked in the slightest; I'm just annoyed.

I just wish people could focus on the amazing music that will live on as her legacy. That's how we remember her. It is how we SHOULD remember her. Everyone has their demons to bear, and whether it's because of their genius or because of their fame that magnifies it... it is tragic.

Michael Jackson.
Kurt Cobain.
Keith Haring.
Elvis.
Jimi Hendrix.
Karen Carpenter.
Oscar Wilde.

Imagine if Van Gogh cut his own ear off and sent it to a friend in today's "TMZ society"!
Or the fact that Gauguin likely gave a third of the native female adolescent population on Tahiti syphilis.
Or that Caravaggio was quite partial to young boys.

But time goes on. And when the paint is dry and the notes are written, that's all that is really important. All the extenuating circumstances surrounding how they lived and died are entirely inconsequential.

When they were alive, they created great art. Art that will live on long after they, and their children's children are gone.

So, to Whitney Houston, thank you for having lived, for having sung so beautifully, and for leaving us with your voice.
It was you that made me fall in love with music.

GUY: The Book.

This is a parody, y'all.

This is based on the book DOG, by Matthew Van Fleet.