What a Louse!

God hates sea monkeys. No, he does

A tragic tale of a true louse.

Or not, as you shall see.

I was tempted, almost to the point of madness, to steal Bug Girl’s title; let’s face it, when you’re looking for eye-catching, it’s hard to beat

Sea Monkeys in Your Pants!”

It really is.

How does this sad tale start? Where will it end? When do the Sea Monkeyscome in, and do they really look like those crowned, pink people in the cartoons?

It starts, as all great tales do, with a random email about pubic lice, and it ends…probably tragically, with Raid aerosols at dawn in the Quadrant. And they are supposed to come in the mail, but they don’t.

Unless…are you thinking what I’m thinking? Yes: MATANGO!

It starts with my friend Bug Girl, who is an entomologist, getting an email from a stranger asking about the latest fad: “Love Lice,” pubic lice you keep in your underwear as living love tokens and pets.

I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

My boyfriend is all excited about the love lice, pubic hair animal things and wants us to get them. I’m not sure this is such a good idea.

Speaking as an impartial and (possibly) somewhat callous bystander, I think it’s a SWELL idea. I think all exceptionally stupid people should send their money in to this website and purchase recreational blood-sucking vermin for their nether regions. If nothing else, it will mean that pointless marketing meetings will be shorter, as everyone there but me will have difficulty sitting still longer than five minutes. I am highly in favour of this. If the intellectually impaired refuse to remain in their designated containment sites (malls, character-based amusement parks, LiveJournal, and in front of the television) the very least they can do is visibly distinguish themselves from normal people by a scabbing rash and unrestrained genital scratching.

In a perfect manifestation of my thesis that everything has a fansite, there is (naturally) a site devoted to this peculiar aberration, Lovebugz.net, and surprise, surprise, it will, for a small price, make these crawling, blood-sucking escutcheons upon the family jewels available by mail order.

The dealio is special bred pubic crab louses from Japan (not the same as homeless people’s variety of lice exactly). First, they DON’T BITE, they just live off dead skin cells and such in your bush. Really, you’re cleaner with them there than without them.
Second, these babies are HUGE!!! Well, huge compared to regular lice. And they just live happily in your underwear.
It’s so COOL! They grow, and have families.
You can feel em living and crawling around. It’s like having personal Sea monkeys in your pants.

Except, not really. As Bug Girl points out, there are no pubic crab louses, Japanese or otherwise, that do not live off the blood of their hosts. It’s not like having Sea Monkeys in your pants; it’s like having tiny vampire bats.

o hai, there might be a market for this in Gothdom, come to think of it. A tweak here, a re-edit there, a new black background, a couple of Vampire Lestat quotes, some red serif text and HEY PRESTO! Instant millionaire-maker.

Except the Goths I know don’t wear any underpants. Would that be a problem?

Bug Girl has cleared up the misinformation on her blog, coincidentally giving my soon-to-launch VampireBugsInYourPants.com its first independent testimonial.

Given the infinite ability of humans to get off on just about anything, I’ll grant that someone could fetishize having pubic lice (Phthirus pubis for those who want the taxonomic details). And it does have it’s own fetish name: pthirophilia…

…the idea promoted on LoveBugz that you can “easily” get rid of crabs is not correct. Additionally, the LoveBugz site suggests using Kerosene, which is about the worst thing you can possibly do (especially if you have open sores from the bites!).

Again, I have to disagree. The idea that hundreds of fad-driven dopes are pouring volatile, corrosive liquids into their seething, vermin-infested gotchies and onto open wounds delights me no small amount. I may have to take five for a giggle break here, and don’t pretend you don’t need one as well.

But wait! There’s MORE! Much, much more…Click past the jump to read it, including scanning electron microscopy of zombie mushroom vampire lice!

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the slip: trent reznor puts out for his fans

sir prize buttsecks from NIN!

source

Trent Reznor knows what I like in a man, and he is ready and willing to give it to me: free stuff! Yes, the (apparently fearless) head of Nine Inch Nails has decided to stop pussyfooting around and put out for me; that is, to put out one whole album, free.

Like, “This ain’t no Radiohead sort of “free” either.” Free.

And he’s making it available for YOU YES YOU to download now. Okay, yeah, so maybe he spreads it around a little; he’s a rock god, what do you expect? Just remember to surf safe, boiz and grrrlz.

Download it now!

Go on, push his button. You know you want to.

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New Beijing Olympic Logo

Beijing Olympic Logo from Beau Bo D\'Or

At that point – I would have you see – the force to which one yielded mingles with one’s will; and no excuse can pardon their joint act.
Absolute will does not concur in wrong; but the contingent will, through fear that its resistance might bring greater harm, consents.

Dante, Paradisio IV 37


The Hand That Feeds: Nine Inch Nails

Alas, once again so much to say at one-thirty in the morning with two hours of work left before bedtime and Wordcamp in the morning. As with our recent post about Flora and the grey market in interracial babies, be aware that this train of thought is only temporarily sidelined. In the meantime, there is plenty to ponder here.

Proof the Recession is Real

Everyone is talking about this Recession, saying that all the numbers are in and it’s a sure thing. Yet, I see no breadlines, hear no word of Wall Street defenestrations (must! pray! harder!). But today proof has emerged that the dreaded Recession, with its associated Stagflation (which sounds like a half-boner at a Bachelor Party) and other related, undead terms rising from the grave of the Seventies, has returned to haunt us like the ghost of Sonny Bono.

What dismal form has this proof taken? Nothing less than a video showing that the noxious poison of the economic downturn has the very GODS in its gory paws.

Cthulhu layoffs.

White Slavery in the Twenty-First Century

If Eliza Armstrong were alive today, I know exactly what she’d be doing: running interference on her overlord’s stalker, fighting over table scraps, and contributing keyword-heavy posts on the state of the chimney sweeping industry to some faceless blog network for five bucks a post.

Oh, a blogger’s life is not all Champagne and Caviar, my friends. No, nor Skittles and Beer neither.

Alas, not even Smarties and Orange Crush, most days.

It all starts so innocently. You LiveJournal, perhaps, or you get a bit of a reputation as a Tumblr.

You see a blog job listed on MediaBistro. You think it’ll be fun. A laugh. Something you do in between vigorous rounds of Scrabulous and the performance of whatever lucrative, yet cushy, professional tasks the future holds in store for you. Someday.

As this video exposé from BarelyPolitical (via Valleywag) demonstrates, you could not be more wrong. Long hours in murky darkness, scant rations of Chex mix and RedBull ( or cheap knockoffs, if you work outside Silicon Valley), and a polyester duvet that you have to share with the owner’s poorly-housebroken bulldogs are the lot of a typical blogger.

And your overlords? Raising a toast to themselves at Balthazar.