I Spy

I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year since I did a post about a piece of advertising that irritates me!  Surely for someone as easily irritated as me, this should be ripe blog fodder and yet I haven’t touched that poisonous fruit in some time.  Wondering how that could be, I’ve come to the conclusion that a) my resistance to live television viewing is strong and b) like most folk in this day and age, I’m so generally bombarded by it as to become largely inured.  I don’t read magazines anymore, so most of my exposure comes from online ads (which barely register, with the exception of the ubiquitous ModCloth ads – cute dresses!) and product placement in films/shows (again, unless someone blatantly pops open and takes an Adam’s-apple-bobbing gulp of Pepsi or ostentatiously places their Apple Mac in the smack-dab center of the screen, I don’t so much notice).

The one place I do notice it is on the street.  Billboards on buses and cabs, posters on buildings, and above all else, the massive adverts along the walls of the tube.  The latter is the only situation in which I am forced to stare at an ad for a prolonged period of time, contemplate it, internalize it.  Nothing subliminal about staring at a Hennessy ad for two minutes while you wait for the train and avoid eye contact with your fellow commuters.  So while I’ve been waiting for the tube every morning for the last week and a half, I am annoyed afresh by this relentlessly stupid Google Chrome ad that’s directly in front of my preferred Stand for the Train Space (halfway down the platform to the right of the entrance, approximately six cars from the back – it’s an art form): (more…)

Note: Not my eye

Note: Not my eye

In early August, I went to my third Scottish wedding (and I am now an expert, thanks in no small part to the wonderful advice offered from our friends before my first official British wedding earlier this year).  Yes, it was an entirely be-kilted affair and, yes, it was sexy.  So very, very sexy.

The Boy Person was actually the best man for this one, and besides my own friends and colleagues, his parents and a ton of his mates were there, so it was uber-important that I look smashing.  Alluring, but not slutty; festive, but respectful; insanely beautiful, but fun and approachable!  What to do?  Well, I had my hair cut and colored, or course, and I bought a new dress (on which the zipper broke, because I am sort of a walking natural disaster).  But I wanted to do something more, not least because I had a really shitty month and I felt I deserved some special pampering. 

Manicures, pedicures, facials, and massages are all once-a-year treats for me now, so I considered those options.  But one day, walking by a beauty salon near my flat, I was struck by inspiration (and the convincing before/after photos on display):  I needed, nay deserved, eyelash extensions!  All the stars have them!  They are amazing!  They last four to six weeks (actually only semi-true)!  So I walked in and booked my appointment for one week before the wedding.  Here is my eyelash extension experience. (more…)

Last month I did what was supposed to be an introductory post to a store I pass with some regularity here in London, and my utter befuddlement at the tackiness of the garments displayed in the window.   My fascination with this shopfront stems largely from its proximity to world-renowned designers within a ridiculously ritzy sector of the city; if this same store were located in hectic, outrageous Camden, say, or far East London, it wouldn’t even catch my eye.

Reactions to the post were mixed; some folks were right with me in awe of the selected accessories and the shop’s rigorous commitment to theme (it was turquoise that week), and others thought I was needlessly harsh.  I get the second reaction, really.  The sequined number I photographed does look kind of Vegas-fab in the picture, and perhaps I failed to highlight how especially low-rent it appeared in person.  It is my intention, with the pictures below, to drive home my original point, but of course feel free to disagree!

The other critique I got was from a concerned reader who worried that publishing my mockery of the store on the internet could lead to unpleasant consequences if the store owners ever caught wind of it.  I gave it some thought and decided that a) I won’t be using the name of the store, although I suppose one could locate it if one was in the area and so inclined to traipse about in search of it (but really…  why?), so it won’t pop up on an unassuming Google search and b) I love this store. (more…)

the-9th-annual-masturbate-a-thon-nsfw.3342935.36Last Saturday in the city by the bay where all the fun shit happens, the 9th Annual Masturbate-A-Thon was held.  I totally did not get my invite in the mail, AHEM.  Anywhooha, the event was held at the Center for Sex & Culture and was won by Masanobu Sato of Japan.  And what kind of wanking does it take to win such an award you ask?  Why, it takes NINE HOURS of gherkin jerkin’ to cum in first place!  Nine hours and 58 minutes, to be exact.  Sato beats his previous winning time of nine hours and 33 minutes, so we know someone has been practicing.  According to his interviews, the Champ prepared for his beat feat thusly:


My abundant imagination was a key to my triumph firstly. Secondly, I trained a lot in Japan from the time I won the 1st prize last year. I swam twice a week, and gained about 5 kgs in muscle.That helped me a lot, too in terms of stamina. Thirdly, the variety of sensations each TENGA gave me was ideal for long masturbation. Without those variety sensations, my dick would feel the same sensation for a long time, which would paralyze my dick in the end. I use as many as 10 different TENGAs so that my dick avoids being paralyzed.

The TENGA he refers to is some Japanese jack off gadget he used to sustain his record setting erection, but he also apparently works for the company so I call shenanigans.  He totally cheated!  He’s had that thing configured for his optimal pleasure!  Let’s see him go 10 hours with some spit and stolen Skinamax and then I’ll be impressed.  Better yet, let’s give him one semi working tool and a boatload of far off fantasies and then he’ll know how I feel.  Moving on!* (more…)


Thanks to the always ingenious Best Week Ever for pointing us towards this wholly internet-worthy blog, Awkward Boners.  Probably because I don’t have a teenage son whose dignity I am concerned for, this has brought me a dickload of joy today.  Oh, Unwanted Boners.  Thank you for putting men on occasional, equally embarrasing and objectivized footing.  We ladyfolk feel this disconcertingly scrutinized nearly every day!