The Good, the Bad and the Vagina

Along with a strew of other baby books, my wife recently purchased and devoured the book Belly Laughs by Jenny McCarthy. It's all about the good, bad and ugly little details of her pregnancy with son Evan. One anecdote was found so utterly amusing by my wife that she had to indulge her penchant for toilet humor and share the story over dinner. In the book, Ms. McCarthy gives specific details about the changing consistency of her vaginal discharge since becoming pregnant. She describes the discharge as "thicker and slimier" and lovingly refers to the residue it left on her underwear as a "snail trail".

I'll give you a minute to digest that image. It's like staring into the sun, where the longer you think about it the more permanently burned into your retina it becomes. I even shared this story with a male friend of mine who reacted with horror. "Jenny McCarthy's centerfolds helped me enter manhood! Why would she say that?" Whatever mystery or magic McCarthy's vagina held over my friend is now gone forever. It is replaced by the knowledge that what lies behind that tuft of blond bush is not only for sex, but also for creating babies (and pee).

I suppose the glitter fades with every new experience, not just McCarthy's vagina. The best we can hope for is that some things in life actually live up to the hype- unlike Bruno, which totally blew (insert pun here). Or we can just realize that nothing is perfect and that the rainy days are just as beautiful as the sunny ones. Hell, even Humphrey Bogart shit his brains out on occasion. Does that make you like Casablanca any less?

"If You're Gonna Be Dumb" by Roger Alan Wade

Cousin of Johnny Knoxville, Wade has a unique style of country music where he basically says whatever the hell he wants. This is what John Prine would sound like if he lived in a trailer park. Enjoy:

Death of a Socialite

Casey Johnson, heiress to the Johnson and Johnson empire, has passed away at the age of 30. She has left behind her adopted daughter, a celebrity girlfriend and two pampered pooches who have, apparently, pissed alot of people off. Los Angeles police were called to the home of Johnson's fiance, reality tv star Tila Tequila, to settle a dispute with friends Bijou Philips and Nicky Hilton as they came to collect Johnson's two dogs on behalf of her family. Tequila claimed that the two wanted to put Johnson's elderly dog, Zoey, to sleep and bury it with her. Luckily, Johnson and Tequila had not yet wed. Under heiress custom, all legal property must be buried in the tomb with the deceased.

And celebrity gossip columnist Perez Hilton can bad mouth her all he wants, but my heart goes out to Miss Tequila who, sadly, has only a few hundred thousand Twitter followers to comfort her. Sure her completely random and emotionally charged Tweets are skeptical at best, but if he has never lost a friend who was also doubling as a pawn in a strange and strategic career move, then how can he possibly judge her? Perez, don't hate. It's not flattering.

And get ready, Perez, I've heard that these things happen in threes. First it was Brittany Murphy, then Casey Johnson, so what next? Tila's career? Soon to be ex-wife of South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford, Jenny Sanford? We all know how vengeful those politicians can be (California congressman Gary Condit, anyone? For the moment, though, Mrs. Sanford is not dead. She is, however, extremely pissed. Fortunately for her, and her publicist, she has bottled her rage in the form of a tell all memoir, Staying True. The memoir is being released in early February months before it's previously scheduled date. Mrs. Sanford, people don't read books anymore. If you really want someone to connect with your words of pain and betrayal, I suggest you channel them into a series of Tweets. Has the death of Casey Johnson taught you nothing?

Guy on a Red Couch

Yes, the couch is red and the guy is me. Enjoy:

"Born to Die" by Leftover Crack

From the boys of C-Squat located in Manhattan, NYC come a barrage of hardcore, ska and punk melodies to make your ears bleed. My darling wife turned me on to this band and, I must say, I'm in love. Enjoy:

I Wish I Were Gay

There are so many perks to being homosexual that I can't help but to think that life would be monumentally easier if I were gay. For instance, gays can't get married. Some would view this as a 'restriction on civil rights', but I like to look at it from Tiger Woods' perspective; if you never get married then you can never get divorced. The second you stick your penis in a dozen or so glory holes, she will take half of your money and your children and move back to Sweden where they live in Igloos and eat blood pudding. Seriously, they eat pudding made out of blood. They're like vampires that make really crappy furniture.

Also, guys don't spend hours applying face paint and body contraptions to make themselves look like they did in the fourth grade. A guy will wash his face and hair with the exact same bar of soap that he just washed his ass with. Grooming is a necessity, not a hobby. Guys do not spend excessive amounts of time on unimportant activities. Instead, we spend our entire Sundays watching football and talking about cars we'll never be able to afford.

Most importantly, guys don't turn down sex. A guy will not get all huffy and slap you for asking for road head. He will punch you in the stomach if you drink the last beer. That's understandable. But you will then respond in kind by punching him in the stomach. One of you will cave and drive to the store for more beer. The problem will then resolve itself as you both drink and laugh about the fight extensively. That sounds preferable to weeks of analyzing every bump and vocal tic used in said argument.

Being gay does have one drawback, though. It's slick, cylindrical and about 8 inches if you're lucky. Apparently, if you're gay you have to enjoy some degree of strange penis interaction. I say strange, because playing solitaire in the shower is probably more heterosexual than actually having intercourse with a woman. Cock fear aside, I'd still rather give Tiger the old tug and pull than babysit his vampire children. Vampires really freak me out.

Young Pussy and Old Vagina

With society placing more emphasis on youth, it's not surprising that the standard of beauty is somewhat less than mature. I remember fondly looking at my grandfathers old Playboy's and marveling at the lush and curly bushes. These girls weren't the 12 year olds I was too nervous to talk to, they were beautiful grown women with a dense underbrush. Now it's commonplace to shave your wiffer and throw some baby powder between your legs. Kinda reminds me of those 12 year old girls I was too nervous to talk to.

Former 12 year old and Disney star Miley Cyrus seems to be the unofficial spokeswomen for our Lolita-lust. Not only does she prance around in full makeup and short-shorts, she poses for Vanity Fair with no shirt on. More shocking was the photo from the same series with father Billy Ray Cyrus. In the photograph, Miley is apparently using her elbow to keep her father's ballsack warm.

Remember when all the comedians and late night talk show guys were blabbering on about the Olsen twins and the countdown until their eighteenth birthday? How long until we start counting down to the time where it's socially acceptable to start the aforementioned countdown? First we'll have to establish an age we find appropriate to start said countdown. This age, of course, will drastically reduce as time goes by. Let's start with 15. 15 will be the age where it's acceptable to think about having sex with a girl, but not to actually go through with it. That age is still set at 18, as outlined by your state law enforcement agency.

I think I'll start cruising the local nurseries. That way I'll have 15 years of anticipation and 3 years of sexually depraved fantasies before I can actually start pursuing her. Then, one lucky night I'll find myself removing her pink Care Bear panties only to find a woolly and unkempt bush staring back at me. Upon seeing this pubic hair, I will surely lose all interest. I think I might just skip all that and think about Anita Ekberg.