Category Archives: Singles

duct tape, lingerie of the Great White North

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Maybe you have Victoria’s Secret stores where you live. Oh fine, gloat. They’re illegal here, or sumpin’, for lo, we have nothing so much as a dearth of Victoria’s Secret stores here in Canuckistan. What does this mean? It means that inhabitants of the Great White North, male and female, must make do with what they have and, in many cases it means that we must make do with such lingerie as is available from Lee Valley.

Victoria’s Secret supplies, in addition to reasonably-priced suiting lines and blog fodder, and as you may be aware, a diverse range of lingerie, including push up sports bras, strapless contraptions in sizes larger than you’d think prudent, and much more. And, frankly, however overpriced they may be, they all work.

But up here in Canuckistan, we are deprived. We can do the online thang. We can do the mailorder thang. But if we do not do the credit card thang we cannot do the Victoria’s Secret thang in any way, shape, or form.

Except…

Except in the most Canadian form of all. Let me tell you a twofer of tales that will tell you that, when it comes to continence or glamour, Canuckistan will take a back seat to no-one.

cut to Gilligan’s Theme music.

Once upon a time, like last night, mine hosts told a tale, a tale of a fateful shit. That started from their friends’ baby, and that was all of it. The baby knew the diaper was the way to own its’ parents, so nightly she’d divest herself of it’s malevolence. No way! No hope! The diaper shed, no matter what the ‘rents would do. Halfway through sleep they would awake and toss that fateful poo.

ENTER RED GREEN

So the baby took its diaper off for attention: solve the problem the Red Green way, by duct taping the diaper in place. Until baby can handle a switchblade, you’re good to go!

So ends Part the First.

Part the Second: I taped my tits for this?

Surely I can’t be the only woman who’s admired a photo of a fortysomething celeb whose boobs are still perky enough to put out an eye. The secret, as I learned from my in-the-know friend Sandy, is Duct Tape.

I am a fortysomething not-yet-celeb, and I have, as I may have mentioned, long since transcended human dignity. I was also a woman who had to attend an avante-garde art opening in a strapless bodysuit.

I used the duct tape.

Three days and six showers later I was unsticky. I think I have finally figured out the secret to Brandon Davis’ unique attraction: no matter how coated with adhesives you may be, you’ll slide right off his grease-streaming carcass.

Show me the luv, people: the Bloggie Awards: nominatez-moi!

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motivational video of the year: Impossible is the opposite of possible, by Michael Cera

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Stolen from Gawker. Sure, Aleksey Vayner‘s video was so over the top as to constitute unintentional self-parody, but I’m all for piling on when you smell blood, and Vayner‘s been hemoragging ever since Dealbreaker got ahold of the damn thing and broke it worldwide. Wonder what he’s doing now? I expect the phrase “Would you like that Venti-sized?” figures large in his workday.

In any case, here is Michael Cera, former Arrested Development star, kicking sand in the eyes of the hapless Uzbek. I’d like to take this opportunity to point out that I was the first person to question whether or not that was him in the skiing section, a point obviously not lost on Cera.

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weirdness roundup: also-rans

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weird al mona lisaHere’s a brief taste of weirdnesses I cruised or missed which didn’t make it into the ol’ raincoaster blog, for one reason or another. If it’s Santa-related or Squid-related, you can assume the reason it didn’t get into the blog has to do with the fact that I copied it to the hard drive at home before the cable went out and haven’t been back to get it. Otherwise, it’s the kinda thing where I looked at it and said Nah, we’ve had too many Darth Vader Sticks Up a Drive Through stories recently, and I just skipped it.

He-Man Sings Four Non-Blondes. The reason I didn’t post this is simply that I figured everyone on Earth had seen it, but I found out today that’s not true. So here it is. Break out the rainbow legwarmers and glow sticks and put on your dancin’ shoes!

An Aussie roundup of world-wide weirdness, all of which escaped the blog except the Brazillian who blowed himself up.

I’d a used this one if I’d seen it in time:

In Cologne, a plastic surgeon cheated out of payment by two women using fake names gave “wanted” pictures of their enlarged breasts to police.

I’ll BET they were wanted!

Rich people getting ripped off on luxury items. You see these from time to time and every time I think: This is news? This is justice, baby!

The best of Dear Prudence. I’ve read it. There IS no best. Dear Prudence, please shut the fuck up.

Predictions, particularly by people who were wrong in the past, and who start their prediction stories by listing instances of them screwing up last year. What hurts most when I read these is realizing he was paid just as much for “I was wrong when I said Britney and K-Fed would have a girl” as “And today the the weird eyeSudan was invaded by Ethiopia…”

Public opinion polls, particularly contradictory ones. If I wanted to know what the common people thought, I’d go to the bloody beer store and I’d ask them.

Praise be to Fark, which is a year-round source of insanity upon which I have come to rely. And some day I’ll even figure out how to register there. Maybe.

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sex lives of the Great Old Ones

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Saturday Night Undead!

Seriously, if this is how they choose to do it with one another, is it any wonder that gods generally prefer to do it to humans? At least they can’t fight back!

Forget Zeus and all that bestiality schtick, and never mind that eggnog is the ectoplasmic emanation that really got the Virgin Mary pregnant. This is what happens when they go at it one-on-one, hidden by the numinous dark in the depths of the sea. Cthulhu ain’t no Valentino, that’s for sure.

“The male giant squid has to use a puny 15-gram brain to coordinate 150 kilograms of weight, 10 metres of length and a 1.5-metre-long penis,” he says. “He physically plunges this penis into the female’s arms, which are rather unfortunately right next to her beak. Because he is coordinating so much with so little, I think occasionally bits get chewed off when they inadvertently get too close to the beak.”

Oh, but you know he likes it rough! Still, an excellent lesson in how NOT to ask for oral sex. Guys, are you taking notes? I really don’t want to have to go through this again. Which reminds me, what is Bill Clinton doing these days?

Oh! My virgin eye! (Psst, wanna t-shirt of this? Click on it!)

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a day late: hangover cures from the Royal Society of Chemistry

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absolut hangoverAnd man, you know those chemists know how to party! If anyone can save us from earth-shattering pain and life-altering free-floating self-loathing (as well as hyphen abuse!) it’s the Royal Society of Chemistry, by gum!

So let’s see what the Manchester Evening News has to say about it:

A breakfast of toast and honey is the ideal New Year’s Day hangover cure, according to the Royal Society of Chemistry.

Honey, or alternatively golden syrup, provides the body with the essential sodium, potassium and fructose it needs after a good night out, say experts.

Other tips from the chemists include drinking a glass of milk BEFORE hitting the pubs and bars, sticking to gin or vodka and tonic, pacing yourself with the occasional soft drink, and downing a pint of water before going to bed.

Aha! Now I have the ammunition I need to goad my hosts into a trip to the LCBO: gin is better for me than that rotgut they’ve got in their cupboard. I’m sick, I need to take care of my delicate health. But I think I’ll avoid the tonic: carbonation is very hard on the bod, you know.

“No water in my whisky, man. It hurts my throat.”
Janis Joplin