Facebook Faux Pas Part Deux

About a year ago, I posted Facebook Faux Pas regarding the types of people who use Facebook. This time around, I want to investigate the recent trend of TMGDI, also known as Too Much God Damn Information.

It seems as though 90% of the Facebook population is currently afflicted with this condition and someone needs to come up with a cure!  Now, I am a very open, outspoken person, but even I have limits as to what I want my Facebook "friends" to know about me. I will admit that sometimes I complain about things and vent frustrations but I also know how to deal with these things in real life and know that nothing will ever change if I just dump it on Facebook, like most people who suffer from TMGDI.

If you are one of those afflicted by "TMGDI", here are some topics you should probably avoid...yes, you all know who you are.

1. PERIODS: Women, this is for you. As a woman, I can understand and relate to your monthly mayhem, but not everyone needs to hear about it. Next time you want to complain about your rusty beaver, call your mother or your sister. Do NOT broadcast it on Facebook. Please refrain from writing things like "Cramps and Netflix"; "In dire need of a Super Plus Tampon"; or "I am so cranky because I am bleeding heavily from my period". Please use discretion. If you know you will be tempted to discuss your period on FB, just don't log in for the day. If you're that cranky from your period or laid up in bed with cramps, the last thing on your mind should be Facebook.

2. IBS:  Oh yes, irritable bowel syndrome. Who doesn't want to hear about that? Yes, I recently put up a post about Pee & Poo; however, it was a joke and it was really about a company in Sweden who manufactures Pee & Poo educational toys. There is quite a difference. I do not need to know how badly your bowels are cramping or that you're constipated or anything of the sort.  If you need to complain about your IBS, I suggest you see your doctor immediately.  Again, if you're suffering from IBS, you probably shouldn't even log into FB. You should probably be sitting on the toilet or in a doctor's office. If you simply cannot refrain yourself, at least avoid status updates such as "My asshole is bleeding"; "I haven't shit for days!"; or "My IBS is flaring up again". Seriously, no one cares but you and your doctor, and your MD might not even care that much.

3. RELATIONSHIP/FAMILY/LIFE PROBLEMS: Facebook is not intended to be a reliable substitute for a therapist or even a close friend.  It's one thing to complain about your partner jokingly or allude to a frustration, but it's another to be a constant complainer and post something multiple times a day about how shitty your life is, what an asshole your baby daddy/spouse/wife is, and to actually expect and look forward to your Facebook "friends" to show sympathy and conduct a therapy session online.  If you don't like the weather, move. If you don't like your partner, dump him/her and move on. If you don't like your job, quit. The time you spend on Facebook complaining about this shit, the problem could have been solved if you would try and solve it in real life and not on Facebook.  But, if you are one of those people who really needs to complain about everything on FB, at least try to avoid the following status updates: "Why can't you be loving and caring instead of acting like you hate me?"; "Why am I never good enough?"; "My job/life/wife/husband/baby daddy/house/car sucks". Instead of taking time to write these asinine status updates, maybe you should Google "Marriage Counselor", "Life Coach" or "Match.com" instead of dumping all your drama on the Facebook population.

4. GAMES THAT END IN "VILLE": I have to admit this one doesn't really "fit" with the rest of the topics, but I feel it is necessary to throw it in here anyway.  PLEASE stop sending me shit for games that end in "VILLE". I do NOT play these games, nor will I start. Every time someone comes up with a new 'Ville game, I end up blocking it. I understand the games require you to post stuff so people can help you out with your farm animals, cities, and Oregon Trail frontier shit, but c'mon! Facebook is about connecting with people and staying in touch with people, not about sending me cows, buildings, and horses. I'm not judging those of you who play these games; I'm just asking you to refrain from sending me stuff for these games on a daily basis! If I wanted to milk cows, I'd move back to WI. If I wanted to go to a trading post, I'd hit up the Seminole Indian Reservation.  If I wanted to build a city, I'd go screw Donald Trump and convince him to marry me so we could build a city on Rock 'N Roll. But none of that is going to happen because I simply don't care about any of it!

5. SPORTS UPDATES: It's totally acceptable to be a sports fan; hell, I even enjoy a football game or two.  But, if we wanted to watch the game, we would. Since we are on Facebook, that probably means we could care less about the game. STOP with the constant sports updates. I'm glad you're a fan, but that doesn't mean we need to know who scored what touchdown, goal, or run! If we wanted to know, I guess we'd tune into the same game, wouldn't we? If you're not an ESPN sportscaster, refrain from typing things like "That was a bullshit call!"; "It's your only job to catch the damn ball!"; or "If my team doesn't win, I'm going to kill myself or somebody else". If you're so into the game, why are you on FB in the first place? You should either be at the game, or watching the game in some shit hole bar or on your couch!

For those of you afflicted with TMGDI, I really hope you take my advice to heart. If not, TMGDI might ruin your life.

Pee & Poo

Pee and Poo...two of my favorite topics EVER. It's no secret that I never pass up a chance to talk about pee and poo. Yes, I am rapidly approaching 30, but you'd never know it once I open my mouth.  I can be mature, but most times I constantly say dumb shit and am always trying to be funny (which I'm pretty good at).  I'm never afraid to announce when I have to pee or poop and on some occasions, I also talk about my bodily functions. Not everyone likes it, but hey, I can't please everyone. And I know deep down, they wish they could be as open as I am.

I find it interesting when my pee is blaze orange when I haven't had enough water and am always surprised when my poo is black after drinking Pepto, even though I know it all makes sense. I always wonder why I shiver when I have to pee (although I recently learned the reason for it from a dear friend) and wonder why I always pee when I poop? What's the correlation here?

You might be grimacing right now, but what's the big deal? It's natural! I'm a human; therefore, I have bodily functions. It's nothing to be ashamed of and it is something to discuss!

So, imagine my excitement when I came across the company Pee & Poo.  According to the website, the Pee&Poo brand was established in Stockholm, Sweden, in 2004. Yep. Same country that came up with IKEA, which is also pure genius.

A woman named Emma Megitt founded the company, and the products are used for educational purposes for parents and children.  Besides education, Pee & Poo also serve as cuddly companions for the little ones. These are also great alternatives to children playing with their real pee and poo, which is quite messy and stinky (although this might give kids a mixed message and might confuse parents when their kids say "Mommy! I want to play with my Pee & Poo!" We can only hope the kids are talking about the furry stuffed kind, not the messy stinky kind).

I personally couldn't be happier about this! The website has stuffed pee and poo animals, onesies, undies, keychains, socks, and my personal favorite--temporary tattoos! Imagine the possibilities!

I also discovered a cute little video of Pee & Poo. Watch at your own risk. You might fall in love with these little chunks like I did.

I'm just glad I'm not the only person who is entertained by Pee & Poo. To think how many children and parents around the world are also amused by these little guys. I can't wait to have children so I can have the excuse to order EVERY item in the shop! Wait, F that! I don't need kids to order Pee & Poo! I'm not ashamed that I would spend $32 on these cuddly toilet buddies!

I have made it my personal mission to find and purchase at least something with Pee & Poo on it (I know; I could make something for free at home, but as I stated above, that is messy and stinky and I'm not a toddler...or am I?)

If you're as excited about this as I am (and are damn near peeing and pooing your britches like I am), click here for the link to the Pee & Poo shop and get out your wallets! I know I am!

In the meantime, I'm just going to play a little Pee & Poo memory game!

The Ring

Tuesday night was a night that changed our lives forever!  Most of you all know that I recently gave Emily an engagement ring, but most of you don't know the story. So here it is.

For several months now, I've been planning on giving Emily a ring.  After much research and consulting with close friends and family, I found the ring I wanted to give her.  Words cannot express my gratitude to my father for giving me his mother's engagement ring to give to Emily.  I never met my grandmother (she died before I was born), but I was lucky to enjoy 17 years with my Grandpa.  And just knowing he gave his wife that ring makes it that much more special.  I will be forever grateful to Dad for giving us this ring.  It has changed everything. So thank you Dad Kelly. I love you so much!

After my parents planned to give me the ring, I decided it would be respectful to contact Emily's parents and tell them my plans.  I spoke with her mom and told her I was giving Emily a ring, told her what it was for, and where it was coming from. After that conversation, I felt confident in my decision to give Emily this ring.   We had the love and support from our friends and family and it was time for me to show her my commitment. 

We recently went home to WI and while we were in Rhinelander, Dad had taken the ring to get appraised at a jeweler. We picked it up and I've had it with me ever since.  Once we got back to FL, I really couldn't wait much longer to give the ring to Emily.  It was burning a hole in my pocket and I had to give it to her.

I decided Tuesday 6 July was the day.  It was a random, spontaneous day and she wouldn't have suspected anything.  I had been thinking for months about what I wanted to do, how I wanted to do it, and what I wanted to say.  So I chose something that wasn't too out of character for me.  Something simple and sweet.

I had written Emily a letter a while ago with what I wanted to say, so I took Tuesday afternoon to perfect it.  I then sent Emily a text message saying: "Your mission if you choose to accept it: Dinner with me tonight on Hollywood Beach".  Immediately she responds: "Are you paying?" I had to laugh. She would ask that! She assumed we'd be going out to eat when all along I was planning a beach picnic.

Then I called the flower shop down the road and asked if they had sunflowers in stock (in Southern FL, they sell out immediately) and as luck would have it, they had some left! They are Em's favorite flower so I got a small bouquet and brought it home.  I whipped up some raw veggie and cheese kabobs along with some sliced strawberries, wine, and beer and packed a cooler and waited impatiently for her to get home!  When I saw her getting out of her car, my heart was pounding in my chest and I was extremely nervous (which if any of you really know me, I don't get nervous about much).

When Emily got home, I told her I had a surprise for her.  She was surprised with the flowers (which she loved) and I told her we'd be going to the beach for a picnic.  When she asked why (which I knew she would), I told her we were having a picnic since we didn't get to celebrate the 4th of July since we were in airports and on planes all day.  And of course she believed it.

The weather at the beach could not have been more perfect.  It was a beautiful evening despite being hazy and overcast, but at least the hot sun wasn't beating down on us.  The water was calm, the breeze was cool and there weren't many people at the beach.  So we ate the kabobs and strawberries and drank our alcohol, just relaxing at the beach.  We were talking about what we did at work that day and then I said "You know what else I did at work today? I wrote you a letter." She proceeded to call me a dork but read it anyway.

The letter basically said how I believe every decision I've ever made has led me to her.  That I love her and will always support and encourage her.  How she has made me be a better person and how grateful I am that she's in my life.  How she is the best part of me.  And to top it off, I wrote "In the words of Kelly Clarkson: My Life Would Suck Without You".  Emily loved the letter and appreciated it but at the same time, she still had no idea what this hooplah was all about.

I then told her I had something else for her.  She grinned and was in disbelief that I had one more thing to give her.  I pulled the ring box out of my pocket and gave it to her.  She said "What is it?" I told her to open it (which she had a hard time figuring out the antique ring box) but when she got it open, she took out the ring and asked again "what is it?"

I then explained to her that it was my grandmother's engagement ring and I was giving it to her as a sign of my commitment.  She stared in awe at it and partial disbelief so I said "before you say anything, I just want you to know I have spoken with both our parents and I would not have given you this ring if I didn't feel confident that we had their support".  I told her about the conversations I had with my family, her family, and our friends and she burst into tears.

My heart sank.  She was crying and I thought I had ruined everything! I knelt on the sand by her and hugged her, asking her if the tears were good or bad tears.  Turns out, they were happy tears.  She looked at the ring again and I told her I loved her and asked her if she'd marry me someday, somewhere, somehow.  She laughed through her tears and said yes! 

It was a long few months planning and researching, but it paid off in the end.  The evening was awesome and she said she couldn't have asked for anything more.  Emily thought it was perfect and she is absolutely in love with the ring (except it doesn't fit! Kelly women have small hands!)


So that's the story! We sincerely apologize that we didn't/couldn't call everyone to tell them the same exact story. We basically only had time to talk to immediate family and after we put it on FB, the phone calls started pouring in!  It has been overwhelming and we've been busy the past few days! Using the Internet is truly the best way to spread news fast!

For those of you who have asked or are wondering, no, we do not have any current "wedding" plans for numerous reasons.
1. We cannot legally get married in our state, or approximately 44 other states for that matter.
2. We do not have the savings/money for any ceremony just yet.
3. We are fine with having a long "engagement" and whenever we do decide to start making plans, we will let everyone know.  It would be more of a commitment ceremony than anything.

Thank you for all your kind words and congrats for us! Your unconditional love and support means the world to us and we definitely could not have made it through the past 4 years without certain amazing people (you know who you are) pushing us and encouraging us to stay strong and never give up.  We have faced adversity and negativity but we refuse to stop trying! Our relationship has been the easy part; the outside factors have been the difficult part to face and deal with, but it is all worth it. Being with Emily is fun, exciting, and it just comes naturally.  We have a great, strong, and loving relationship and the love and support we've gotten and the things we've faced and accomplished over the past years have only made us better people. I can't imagine my life without Emily and I am forever thankful she has changed my life for the better in so many ways. We honestly couldn't be happier and couldn't ask for more!

Emily, your "yes" has made me the happiest woman in the world. I will love you forever.

Dick-For-A-Day

Here is another SAMPLE chapter from my collection of humor essays.
**This is a rough draft and subject to change**


Dick-For-A-Day

There have been many times in my life I was convinced I was a boy trapped in a girl’s body. I’m physically female but my personality and behavior resembles that of a teenage boy. 

Growing up, I preferred sports over dolls, t-shirts over dresses, and sitting spread eagle in a chair instead of crossing my legs like a woman with any dignity would.  Beer will always be better than wine; chicken wings will always taste better than a chicken Caesar salad.  Truth is, being ladylike is not one of my strong suits.

I would never go as far as Chastity Bono who got a sex change and legally changed her name because she felt so trapped in her own body. I think I can speak for everyone when I say I honestly thought she was a man before she announced to the world that she is now, physically and legally a man.  Clearly, her sex change didn't change that much.

I would also never go to an insane extreme like that woman who became a man, a “pregnant man” no less, and was featured on TLC, having babies because his wife couldn’t.  Listen pal, you’re not fooling anyone.  You may look and sound like a man, but you still have a baby maker behind that vagina of yours.  You’re not a medical miracle; you’re a mangina.

In fact, I love being a woman.  I love everything about it. But I also take pride in my frat boy-like attitude hidden underneath my female exterior.  Women are beautiful creatures (I am obviously exempt from this) and I would never trade my body for a man’s body.

The only exception to this is if a magic genie appeared and offered to exchange my vagina and give me a dick-for-a-day and granted me three wishes to accompany the exchange.  That I would certainly accept. 

If I had a penis for a whole day, there is so much I would do with it!  It would be hard parting with my muffin, but some things need to be sacrificed when a magic genie appears outside of the movie Aladdin.

My first request—no balls.  Balls are gross.  Just the twig; not the berries. If I can still come without testicles, why would I need them?  Having balls is like hanging things from my rearview mirror; it doesn't serve a purpose and are just decorative.

The first thing on my agenda would be naming my penis.  Every dick needs a name, and no I would not name it Dick.  How cliché.  I would name it Fitzgerald (Fitz for short; he would be a cool, yet classy penis), introduce myself with a firm, yet welcoming handshake and let him hang loose, commando style in my pants.  There’s no way I would constrict Fitzgerald with underwear.  He deserves wide-open spaces where he could stretch out without being constricted.

Next I would measure Fitz.  With a yard stick; not a ruler.  My second request—I would have to be hung, similar to a Johnsonville summer sausage log. No cocktail wiener for me.  Both Fitz and I deserve better than that.

After I am satisfied with the length and girth, I would masturbate for hours on end.  My third and final request—unlimited orgasms.  If Fitz and I were going to be pals for the same length of time it takes the Earth to make a full rotation, (or approximately the same time amount of time Britney Spears was married to that Jason guy), we were going to party like it was Y2K all over again.  Except without the panic of people waiting for the world to end.

The point of masturbating for hours on end is to get accustomed to Fitz and figure out what we both enjoy.  I know how it feels to rub my bean and pleasure myself as a woman, but I would have to teach Fitz tricks, shortcuts, and critical technique before I could take him out and introduce him to people.

After Fitz and I participate in a penile crash course, we would be ready to tackle the world and finally introduce him to a woman besides myself.  Since I already sleep with a woman, I would have no problem sleeping with as many women as I possibly could.

Sleeping with a woman is something everyone should experience, male or female.  With Fitz attached to my body, I would have to disguise myself as a man so straight girls would take me seriously (I would consider sleeping with a lesbian, but being one myself, I have discovered most gay women prefer the papaya over the banana at this particular time in their lives.  I once enjoyed a bunch of bananas but now, I’m strictly a papaya gal).

In order to share Fitz with as many women as possible, I would have to find a place where a gaggle of women would be centrally located.  Where would I look first?

The obvious option would be a bar. It might be a good place to start lady hunting, although I would only have a one in five chance that a woman would actually sleep with me within minutes of meeting me.  Even at a college bar.  I only had twenty-four hours; I couldn’t take the chance of being rejected.  Fitz was eager for a beaver.

What about a sorority house?  From my experience with sorority girls, they liked to play fast and loose and weren't afraid to spread their school spirit (legs).  But they were also unpredictable and cesspools for STD’s.  I wasn’t ready for Fitz to be afflicted with a disease besides sex addiction.

A Curves gym? It was possible, although I wouldn’t enjoy fucking a post-aerobic sweaty mess, and I’m pretty sure Fitz would not appreciate being forced down that slippery slope. 

A Bed, Bath, & Beyond store? It seemed like a logical place.  The store offers several different beds, college aged clerks and candles for mood lighting, but it was still a bad idea.  A soaps, suds, & sheets store is not the place to experiment different body contortions and sexual positions with the customers and employees.

Where could I find women who would sleep with me willingly, as many times as I wanted? 

The answer was in front of me this whole time—literally because as I write this, I’m watching the E! True Hollywood Story about Heidi Fleiss.  I would have to visit a brothel.  It seems like a perfect plan.  I would have to find a moderately priced whorehouse, where the girls were easy, the prices were reasonable, and I wouldn’t get arrested.  If I only had Fitz for one day, I wasn’t willing to get arrested and spend time in jail, although I’m sure I could find someone who would love to meet Fitz in jail.

Since I don’t live in Nevada, I would just have to risk being caught with Fitz in a prostitute’s mouth.  If politicians could get away with it, surely I could as well.  It was a small price to pay to share my dick-for-a-day with as many women as I could. 

I would then drive to an ATM and empty my savings account, which wouldn’t amount to much (I’m a writer for Fitz’s sake).  It wouldn’t matter; I was willing to spend the new bed or the down payment on a house to share my penis with hookers. 

Fitz wouldn’t need the women to be beautiful either.  Sure it’d be like finding money in a pair of jeans you haven’t worn in months, or scoring an extra soda from the vending machine when you only paid for one, but it wasn’t a necessity.  Just an added bonus.  A papaya was a papaya no matter how you cut it.  The only thing he required was an audience with willing (and legal) participants.

After surrendering my life’s savings, I would then pick the woman with whom I would share Fitz with for the first time.  She would have to be compliant with the missionary position.  If I’m test driving Fitz for the first time, I want to make sure he performs correctly in the parking lot before I take him to the race track.

Of course Fitz would pass the test; he was attached to my body and as an amazing lover myself, Fitz wouldn’t let us down.

After I had my first woman, I would be ready for anything.  Threesomes. Blow jobs. Anal (with women and/or men. Don’t judge me). Hand jobs (although I would prefer to skip that since I could do it myself).  Sex toys.  Role playing.  S&M bondage. Foursomes.  Group orgy. I would even consider shooting a porno flick with Fitz as the star.  I would do it all.

Of course I wouldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t take a break from sex; I only had one day.  My goal was to drop the big “O” at least 100 times in the span of a day (and yes, that includes self-love).  I wouldn’t give up until I met my goal.  If Lance Armstrong can win the Tour de France 400 times with only one testicle while wearing a LiveStrong bracelet, surely I could come at least 100 times with just a penis and perhaps a cock ring.

When my twenty-four hours were up, I would be a changed woman.  No longer would I wonder what it would be like to have a penis.  I would know what it was like to pee while standing up (and not have it running down my leg).  It would give new meaning to the phrase “blowing my load”.  I would finally know how a hot dog felt in a bun; how a pig felt in a blanket.  How a chocolate covered banana felt in a banana split.  I would understand why a nut-cup was important to male athletes and fully grasp the concept of pitching a tent (something I struggle with when I go camping).

After returning my dick-for-a-day to the genie, he would return my papaya and I would greet her with two fingers, or even give her a vibrating toy as a welcome home present.  I would appreciate the beauty of having a vagina and treasure her for the rest of my life.

Friends would ask “how does it feel hanging from your body?” And I would reply “similar to the set of twins hanging from your chest”.

“What does it feel like to get a blow job?”  To that I would reply “Licking  is always better than sucking”.  Women have more erectile tissue than men; therefore, blow jobs don’t even compare to what women experience during oral sex.

“What does it feel like to be inside a woman?”  That one was easy.  “Ever been on a water slide?” I would respond.

“Don’t you want to have a penis for more than a day?”  No brainer.  I would say, “How much time can you realistically spend with your boyfriend/husband before you reach your boiling point?”  They would look at me as if they had just had an epiphany.  Yea, that’s what I thought.

Having a penis for a day would be phenomenal and it would answer many questions.  The only reason I would ever want a penis for a day is strictly for sex, nothing else.  But once it was gone, I would remember how proud I was of my muffin.  I would realize the lawn isn’t always mowed on the other side, so why leave the yard at all?

Of course men and women experience different things with the gear they’re equipped with, but the feeling is basically the same.  An orgasm is an orgasm.  Sure, some are better than others (some are out of this world), but it doesn’t matter if you have a banana or a papaya.  It doesn’t matter if you’re the branch or the stump; we’re all connected to the same tree.

I cherish the woman’s body I was born with.  I’m glad I’m a woman.  I am comfortable being a tomboy—drinking beer, wearing t-shirts, and playing video games—and anyone who doesn’t like it can meet Greta, my angry beaver, and take it up with her.  I’ll even let you take her home for the day.

Sex MISeducation

            Bearded clam. Papaya. Muffin. Cooter. Beaver. Punani. Pork sword. Schlong. Weiner. One-eyed Monster. Bologna Pony.

            Don't deny it; you just laughed. Out loud. Don't worry--these slang terms make me giggle too.  You may have even blushed a little bit. I know I did.

            But I can almost guarantee with as much accuracy as a pregnancy test that you did not bust out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter like I did in sex education in grade school. Or like I just did while writing these slang terms.

            When I first found out we would be having sex education in fifth grade, my first thought was, aren't we too young? And then I looked around the classroom and I saw a couple boys grabbing themselves and a few female classmates of mine had already sprouted decent sized tits.

            Then I looked down at my own chest and realized it was still as flat as my back and to make matters worse, I had no hair "down there". Everyone else was starting to go through puberty and I was in last place. Apparently I was too young for sex ed, but several of my classmates were not. I'm twenty-nine years old now and I don't even think I've made it all the way through puberty yet. I'm about 75% of the way there...still waiting on the tatas to stop training already and grow!

            After the afternoon recess one day, we were herded like baby calves downstairs to the gym where we sat cross-legged on the gym floor, waiting for our teacher to teach us about puberty and intercourse, two of my all-time favorite topics.

            The girls were put on one side of the gym while the boys were put on the other. Apparently they did this so the boys and girls could learn about themselves separately and then they would join the two sexes to incorporate what we've all learned.

            Before the class even started, I was stifling my laughter. I couldn't help it! There were visual aids—posters of male and female anatomy, plus for us young lasses, boxes of pads and tampons on a table.  There was even a bowl of water on the table, most likely to be used to demonstrate how pads and tampons absorb just like the commercials, except this water wasn't blue.

            I was clearly not mature enough to handle sex ed at the age of nine, but I was going to give it a whirl anyway. If I was going to sprout pubes and grow tits overnight, I at least wanted to be prepared.

            "This might make some of you uncomfortable at first, but I would appreciate it if you would all listen and wait until after I'm done to ask questions or make comments," the teacher instructed us. As if I could adhere to these rules! I was already armed at least thirty jokes that involved penises and vaginas that I was ready to fire away to my friends sitting nearby.

            "I will tolerate no jokes or laughing. I expect all of you to take this seriously. No teasing your classmates either," the teacher added. Man, I thought to myself, this bitch was really ruining my fun for the day.  The teacher discussed how our bodies would change in the next coming years—but all I heard was "menstruation, boobs, tampons". It was difficult for me to listen because it was like learning a foreign language. I hadn't experienced any of these things like some of the other girls did.

            When it was finally time to merge the boys and girls together after our segregation in the gym, I was already starting to sweat and I'm pretty sure the dorkiest kid in class had a huge boner as the teacher started using the visual aids of a woman's anatomy.  Somehow I managed to keep my cool as she continuously used the words "penis" and "vagina". Even as an adult, these words still make me laugh so looking back, I was impressed I had made it more than five minutes into the lecture.

            That all changed when the topic shifted from puberty to intercourse and she was explaining sex—or for a child like me, I interpreted intercourse as "boy meets girl. Boy gets boner. Girl laughs at boy for getting boner"—at least that's what I would do. But really all I heard the teacher say was the word "erection", and as part of my selective listening disorder (that I still have by the way) I chose to hear the word "boner" instead. I swear Helen Keller was better at listening than I have ever been.

            Boner, I whispered quietly. Once the word was past my lips, I lost it. I completely missed the teacher's explanation about erections because my childlike cackling cut through the air like a knife. My face turned bright red and try as I might, I couldn't hold it in. I knew I looked like a complete idiot, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

            My shoulders were bouncing up and down and my abs were starting to ache. I was laughing so hard I was starting to grow a 6-pack.  The teacher warned me that if I couldn't stop laughing, I would have to wait out in the hall until I could stop laughing.

            Since I didn't want to be the idiot who got kicked out of sex ed, I thought of things that were not funny. Poor kids in Africa with flies on their faces. Soap operas. Homelessness. My brother.

            It worked. I managed to calm down and my face was restored from a deep crimson to its original color. I looked around the room and saw a couple boys snickering every time the teacher said the word "erection" or "intercourse", so I knew I wasn't alone.

            Then came question and answer time. The teacher asked all of us if we had any questions. At first, everyone was as silent and still as if we were in a Catholic church, but one boy finally raised his hand.

            "What is an erec...um, an erection?" the boy asked, obviously confused. He must have been listening as much as I was. Oddly enough, he was the same kid who I suspected had a boner when the teacher was showing us the parts of a vagina. So here he is with an erection without knowing he had one? What...a loser.

            Turns out he wasn't the loser; I was, and I made sure everyone knew how much of an ass I really was. As soon as he asked the question, I could feel the slow and steady rise of hysterics boiling inside me, ready to explode and I held my mouth as closed as I could before I lost it. This time, my laughter was really uncontrollable. I put both my hands across my mouth, hoping I could push it back in but the laughter escaped out the sides.  I even laughed so hard I heard a fart squeak out, which only made me guffaw louder.

            To an onlooker, it looked as if I was choking while having a grand mal seizure on the floor of the gymnasium. My body was writhing across the floor like a boa constrictor and my laughter wasn't even audible anymore. My mouth was just wide open and my entire body was gyrating from guffawing.  The only sound that could be heard coming from my throat was a series of clicking noises that sounded eerily similar to the mating calls of dolphins.

            I was immediately kicked out. I had been warned once, but I wouldn't be warned twice. I was finally sent out to the hallway where I had to sit for the remainder of the class.

            I was the only person who got kicked out of sex education in the fifth grade in my school. After school, some of my friends were envious of me not having to sit through an uncomfortable lecture about puberty and sex in front of their peers.

            But I was pissed. Not at myself for not being able to control my laughter, but at my teacher for not letting me have another chance. And the fact that I would now be misinformed if I suddenly sprouted boobs and pubes and got a visit from the rusty beaver overnight! I wanted to learn what everyone else was in case I became a woman the very next day! I would be so unprepared.

            The only thing I could do was to go home and ask my mother for the information, but then that meant I would have to tell her I got kicked out of sex ed, and I wasn't ready for that.

            I had no choice but to rely on my friends for information. As it turns out, my friends were complete morons, but I didn't know it at the time. I believed everything they told me; why wouldn't I? I couldn't disprove them since I wasn't in the class, so I took them seriously.

            According to my friends, this is what I missed:

            1. The wiener goes in a girl's pee hole (she didn't know the difference             between the urethra and the vaginal opening)

            2. When a boy gets a boner, he puts it in the vagina (pee hole according to             her) and pees inside her and then she gets pregnant

            3. Pads are diapers (I have to admit; this one is basically true)

            4. Tampons will make you lose your virginity

            5. Every 28 days, women PMS (when I asked them to elaborate on what             the acronym meant, they stared blankly at me)

            6. The bumps on my nipples are Braille for "Lick Me"

            7. Every woman has an Aunt Flo (how could I not know her?)

            Imagine my surprise the first time I got my period. Or the first time I had sex.

            Joking. I'm not that retarded. Luckily for me, I learned everything I needed to know in junior high...both inside and outside of the health education classroom. I just hope my idiotic friends eventually caught on and realized how wrong they actually were, otherwise they were all wearing diapers, getting peed on, and having blind people molest their nipples.

            Needless to say, I never got kicked out of another class in my entire educational history. I, in fact, found out I do not have an Aunt Flo, after hours of yelling at my parents for keeping a family member from me.  My nipples are not like elevator button pads; they do not have Braille written on them.  This girl never wears diapers, only 'pons and oddly enough, I never get PMS.  To this day, I find the word "wiener" to be one of the top 5 funniest words...EVER.  The other words are queef, toot, butthole, and poop.

Sh*t I Don't Get Vol. 3

Wearing Socks with Sandals: When the weather gets warm or when people go on vacation, one of the first things they get excited about is wearing sandals. Gone are the constricting socks and the shoes that make feet feel claustrophobic.  I love sandals. I hate wearing shoes and even more than I hate wearing shoes is wearing socks.

Sandals are the closest thing a person can get to being barefoot.  But when some douchebag decides wearing socks with sandals is a good idea, I really don't get it. What is the purpose of wearing sandals if you're just going to put on socks before hand? Hello! Sandals are for us barefoot folk, not you socked folk!

While I understand there are some reasons people want to wear socks with sandals, I tell those people "Wear Shoes". There is no reason to EVER wear socks with sandals.  If your feet are covered in corns and callouses, it's best to keep the shoes on.  If you're embarrassed about your piglet feet, keep your shoes on.  If you think your feet might get cold or sweat, wear shoes. The whole purpose of wearing sandals is to let your feet rock the outside air, not to keep them constricted.

The worst offenders are the ones who wear socks with thong sandals. Wearing socks with sandals makes no logical sense whatsoever, but what's even more puzzling is wearing socks with thong sandals.   It's like wearing a super tight skirt and trying to walk.  You are spreading apart your toes but are limited by the sock. WTF! How is that even comfortable?! It's not; it's idiotic.


No one will ever convince me there is ever a reason to wear socks with sandals. There is no logical explanation. If you must wear socks, then you must wear shoes. Don't embarrass yourself by wearing socks with sandals. It's completely unacceptable.


People Who Don't Read:  I absolutely love to read.  I always have. As a 5th grader, I had a reading level of a high school senior.  I always chose reading over watching TV.  I excelled at reading, writing, and grammar during my entire education. Although I'm an avid reader, I understand other people aren't.  And that's ok. As long as you read once in a while and keep your mind engaged, I don't have an issue with it.

But what I really don't get is people who don't read...at all! It is frightening the amount of people who only read what is absolutely necessary--street signs, food labels, and a TV guide--how can you survive without reading?

For me, reading is escaping reality.  My life isn't horrible; don't get me wrong. But sometimes I like to live someone else's life for a while.  When I open a book, I'm immediately taken to another world, another life, and I get to experience something I never will unless I read that particular book.  Stories have been around since the beginning of time, but people have gotten lazy.  Reading keeps brains active, motivated, and engaged.

I want to strangle those parents who don't read to their children, or even encourage reading. Reading is one of the most important parts of childhood development. It's not just the simple process of reading a book, it's learning different words, sounds, concepts, and generally using your imagination.

Make time every day to read. There are so many good stories and amazing authors out there and it's a shame not everyone takes the time to honor the ageless process of story telling.


Man Boobs (aka Moobs): In civilized society, any female with breasts is expected to wear a bra to keep their tits in check.  I'm sure there are other reasons why women should wear bras, but let's focus on one point at a time.  If your boobs are large enough to bounce up and down, it's time for a bra. 

But why is it not the same for men? Men with boobs should have to wear a bra, just like any female.  If it's not acceptable for me to go to the grocery store with my boobs sagging (which they don't; they're quite perky actually) and my nipples poking towards the cashier, then men should not be allowed to either.  If I can't walk around the community pool with my tits flopping about, then neither should that fat guy with the DD cup!  Tits are tits no matter whose body they're on!

Moobs are not only creepy, but they're just nasty.  Men should not have boobs. Men have nipples, but should not have tits. They serve no function. They're not even pleasant to look at. But, some men do have tits and I think this is a huge problem.

Men get moobs from being overweight, thyroid problems, an increase in estrogen, and/or a decrease in testosterone; women get boobs from simply being women. Yet the same rule about bras should apply.  That's my point. There are only certain situations where I actually show my tits to other people (and yes, sometimes I do it in public, but mostly in private situations), but it's not generally accepted in our society.  So, next time a man with moobs decides to hit the beach and let his DDs hang, he should wear a tankini top...just like I have to.

Honky Tonk Not So Honky Anymore

Country music has its roots planted in deep conservatism.  Country music has many different genres, including honky tonk, rockabilly, outlaw country, pop country, country rock, and many more.

But country and its sub-genres have something in common.  Basically every single country artist is white and straight. That's how it always has been. Until now.

With the recent success of black country artist Darius Rucker and Chely Wright "coming out", we know have black and gay people entering the country music world.  FINALLY! Who decided this genre should be so uptight? I'm pretty sure there was also a Cowboy Troy somewhere in the mix, but I think we've all forgotten about him.

Whether or not they'll be welcomed by all who listen to country music, especially the bible-beating folk in the South, I say it's about damn time someone breaks through the stereotypical barrier of country music.  These two artists have certainly opened the doors to make being different okay in a tight knit, conservative music genre known as country.


Now we can look forward to hearing songs about how a woman's wife beats on her, steals her Kia and foodstamps from their crackhouse in the ghetto, and heads for California to find a hot lesbian actress to live happily ever after with.

Joking. I'm a fan of country music, and I'm an even bigger fan of people breaking down barriers that other people before them have been afraid to break through.
Hootie: 1.
Single White Female: 1.
Country Music World: 0.

Sh*t I Don't Get Vol. 2

Smart Cars: This is a perfect car for a virgin. Anyone who drives one of these cars has pretty much guaranteed themselves no chance of sex whatsoever.  This is also a perfect car for a nugget. These cars remind me of a toddler shoe, but with wheels.  Anyone else see the resemblance? I understand these cars are probably relatively eco-friendly and are not gas guzzlers. They are an economic solution to fuel efficiency and pollution, but so is a bicycle.  Because these could be considered "green" cars, I have a small iota of respect for the idea behind them. But when I see people driving them, I want to punch them in the mouth and kick their tin can toddler shoe over.  There are other hybrid, eco-friendly cars you can buy. Even electric cars, although some Smart cars are electric. But a toddler shoe with wheels? What's next, a refrigerator box with wheels? (Wait...see Nissan Cube). I hate Smart cars almost as much as I hate PT Cruisers and Mini Coopers.


Vests:   Obviously, the inventor of the vest either ran out of fabric for a whole shirt, or couldn't make up their mind regarding short sleeves or long sleeves...so why sew on sleeves at all?  Vests as part of a daily outfit should be banned.  The only acceptable vests belong in law enforcement, sports, for formal wear under a suit, or as a life vest. Period.  If it's cold outside, don't put on a sweatshirt and then a vest. It doesn't make sense.  If you're afraid of being too warm but want to be warm enough, put on layers.  Put on a long sleeved shirt under that sweatshirt and if you get warm, you can always take off the sweatshirt or long sleeved shirt.  A vest is just bulky and completely pointless. It's not that hard to decide between short sleeved and long sleeved.  If you're really torn, go long sleeved because you can always roll up your sleeves. Or just wear both.  But put the vest away unless you need to wear one to save your life. People who drive Smart cars probably wear vests too...and you know what I say about people who drive Smart cars...same thing applies to people who wear vests.

Littering: The act of throwing trash on the ground makes me sick.  We all know better. It's not natural for garbage to be piled up on the curb or around a stop sign.  Littering=ignorance/selfishness. People who drive and throw trash out the window should just keep it in their car until they're near a garbage can.  Keep a plastic bag in the car and when it's full, dispose of it appropriately.  There's no reason for people who wait at bus stops to throw their trash on the ground, especially when there is a garbage can nearby. It's completely ridiculous. Littering destroys the beautiful scenery, it can be a breeding ground for disease-carrying insects and rodents, and can harm our water sources.  It's not that difficult to throw garbage in the proper receptacle.  I'm one of those people who will pick up trash if I see it near me, and I don't hesitate to tell people to pick up their trash if I catch them carelessly littering.  It takes an extremely long time before litter disappears. Below is a list of how long certain things take to disintegrate or disappear:

• Paper and paperboard: 6 months
• Used Cigarettes: 2–5 years
• Plastic (PET) Soda Bottles: 5–10 years
• Plastic shopping bags: 10–30 years
• Gum: 20–25 years
• Tin Can: 80–100 years
• Polystyrene Chip Wrapping: 90 years
• Aluminum Can: 200–400 years
• 6-pack Bottle Wrapping: 450 years
• Golf Ball: 100–1000 years

Most of these items will never disintegrate in our lifetime.  Think about that the next time you decide to toss a Coke bottle or a piece of gum on the ground.  That will be there for years, and it is your fault.  Your family and your future children will suffer the consequences of your laziness.  We are all responsible for keeping this earth clean, and although it may not seem like a big deal that there's a soda can on the ground, over time, the effect of that is detrimental to the environment.  Every time you litter, you are destroying the planet. I don't know about you but I certainly don't want that burden.

White Trash Family

This past Saturday night, Emily and I had gone to a graduation party and out for drinks before we stopped at IHOP on our way home.  When we got there, the place wasn't that busy, but there was only one cook and two waitresses on duty.  One waitress was a heavier woman with not a full set of teeth; and the other was an elderly woman who walked with a crooked stance.  Obviously, they are not working third shift for fun.  They need the money.

Upon first glance, there were only a few tables occupied. As we waited to be seated, some white trash woman wearing a tank top (no bra) and sweatpants walked past me and exited the restaurant and said "You'll wait 30 minutes for a pop" in a deep man voice, similar to Kathleen Turner's voice.  I was puzzled, but ignored it. I hate it when strangers talk to me for no reason, and this bitch was certainly no exception.

When we walked around the corner to the dining area, we noticed a very large (both in size and quantity of people) family occupying the entire back half of the restaurant.  A booth lined the entire back wall and instead of occupying one or two tables, this family scattered themselves everywhere.

Our waitress came to take our order and as soon as she brought our beverages, the complaining started.  According to one of the daughters (aged 20-something), they had been there for 30 minutes and had no food and they waited forever for their pop. Who the fuck says pop anyway? It's soda you dumb bitch.

The party in the back was full of white trash. Not trash you put in the dumpster, although I would have loved to throw them away like garbage...I'm talking the trashiest white trash people that have possibly ever crossed my path. Pretty sure most of the women looked like the women in this picture.

There were a few couples and a few children (all adult age). A good mix of mother/father and uncle/aunt combo.  The woman who sounded like Kathleen Turner came back inside from a smoke break and was served her food.  While she and her husband ate, the rest of the family complained about how they hoped they enjoyed the food because everyone else had to wait.

The elderly waitress was waiting on them and explained that they had to send two staff home and so there was only one cook and they were doing the best they could.  Any compassionate human being would have stopped complaining after that and just sucked it up.  Our snaggle-tooth waitress came over and explained the same thing and I smiled at her and said "it's okay. shit happens" and she was grateful for our patience.

We were there about an hour. Within that hour, all I heard was this family talking shit about both waitresses, hassling the cook, and taking at least 37 smoke breaks.  There was even a point in time when at least 5 police cars sped by with lights flashing and sirens blaring and it didn't take long for most of the family members to run outside to be nosy.

There was one lady in particular, a real gem, who was the worst. She was real disgusting like-nasty teeth, horrible outfit, and a haircut that even the 80's would have rejected.  She complained the entire time about not getting enough pop, her food being late, and when her sirloin tips were delivered, she complained that there were onions in them.  The waitress offered to bring it back and she refused because she didn't want to wait any longer. She even referred to our waitress as "tubby wubby"; meanwhile, she's packing DD tits, a few spare tires around her torso, and a very large FUPA to boot.  Tubby wubby? That's you lady. Look in the mirror as you spill sirloin tips and mashed potatoes on your clearly unwashed tank top and in your greasy, frizzy hair that's resting in your pile of gravy.

The elderly waitress was really patient with the white trash family.  Instead of getting upset while they complained about the cook, and threatened to get the other waitress fired because she forgot their "pop", she asked them questions about where they're from and why they're here.  The couple who got their food first drove down from Michigan and the other ones flew here. Guess why?

They're all going on a cruise! Holy shit do I EVER feel bad for anyone on that cruise who is so unlucky to encounter this family. When the waitress asked if they like Florida, the sirloin tip bitch says "Eh. I prefer Michigan". You know what tubby wubby, you would say that! All you need to say is yes, because that's clearly why you're here. If you preferred Michigan, please, by all means, go the fuck back! We already have a 87.9% ignorance rate in this damn state so we don't need you here. I just hope none of these white trash women don't decide to dress like this women while on the cruise.  Although I'm sure they will. I even mentioned to Emily that these women are the type of women who honestly think they look phenomenal in a biking.

While the sirloin tip bitch was stuffing her face, a woman I believed to be her daughter would not shut her damn mouth.  "This is bullshit. I've been here for a fucking hour and a half. I ordered pancakes. How long does it take to get pancakes?" Meantime, I whispered to Emily that I really hoped our food came out before theirs did.  And guess what. It did. And as soon as it did, it was literally a redneck verbal explosion in the back of the restaurant.

To make matters worse, there was an Indian guy attempting to enjoy a cup of coffee while he attempted to look up my skirt. I was sitting in the booth, wearing a skirt but my legs were crossed, and I knew the most this perv could see was my knees, but that didn't stop him from peering over his creepy Coke bottle glasses to get a good look at my goodies. I told him he wasn't gonna get a free show, but I don't think he heard me because he kept peering over the top of his glasses while tilting his head down. Creeper.

While Emily and I were eating, a couple next to us were damn near falling asleep because there food still hadn't arrived.  The Indian guy asked us how long we had been waiting and Emily replied we hadn't been waiting that long.  Then at least two fat white trash bitches pipe up from the back of the restaurant and say "We've been waiting two fucking hours!" (keep in mind their idea of time was moving way faster than the actual clock. They said they got there at quarter to midnight and when we left, it had only been an hour and fifteen minutes that they had been there).  Then Emily says "he wasn't asking you. he was asking us" and they just glared at her.

After we had completed our mediocre meal (while enduring an hour of constant bitching and whining from the back and the sides of the restaurant) our waitress brought our bill.  I was really concerned for the elderly waitress that these fuck sticks would stiff her on the tip.  They kept saying "oh, it's not your fault. it's still fucking bullshit, but no, it's not your fault". Clearly, they're basically saying they didn't care whose fault it was.  They even went so far as to say "can we get some free pop for having to wait for so long?" Can you imagine if they have to wait in line during their cruise? They're gonna be those people and complain and try to get free shit they don't deserve.

The bill was only $18.95.  I paid with my debit card but asked my waitress for two ten dollar bills in exchange for my $20 bill.  We traded and then I explained to her I wanted her to keep $10 and give the other $10 to the other waitress.  She looked shocked, but I told her I had a bad feeling neither of them were going to be tipped well all night.  Usually, I wouldn't fork over a $10 tip at IHOP on a barely $20 bill, but I felt someone had to.  These poor waitresses were not at fault for being short staffed in the kitchen.  Our waitress did as instructed and took the other $10 to the elderly waitress, who didn't hesitate to come over to our table. I explained to her that she was doing a good job and the $10 was because I knew she wouldn't get a good tip, if at all, from the classy family in the back.

They had also talked about having to leave together because they all came in the same van.  When Emily and I left for the night, we walked past said van.  Holy shit. How ridiculous! The van (keep in mind there were approximately 10 people in this white trash party) only had two seats. Two in the front.  The van appeared to have no seating in the back whatsoever. Not even sure it had windows on the sides, just on the back door and in the front.  It was like they were being herded like cattle into the back of the van, which is obviously fitting for them.

I learned a few lessons from this late night IHOP trip.
1. Never go to IHOP at night. Or ever.
2. Find it in your heart (and wallet) to over compensate on your bill when you know an elderly waitress is going to get stiffed.
3. Nasty fat white people with bad teeth, bad manners, and loud raspy voices are white trash. It's prejudiced but goddamnit, it's true.
4. These people absorbed the definition of white trash in their rolls of fat, bad manners, and horrific attitudes to the point someone needs to invent another word for white trash.

Can you imagine these fuckers waiting in line for a roller coaster? Not only would their bodies be sticky from sweat and spilled sugary pop 'tween their tits, but they would no doubt have extreme body odor coming from places on their bodies that shouldn't exist in the first place (see FUPA), but they would be obnoxious as all hell, completely ruining everyone else's good time.  They should be banned from cruises, Disney, restaurants, public, and basically life.

I hope someone gives you all a "pop" in the head so you all go overboard on your cruise and get lost at sea. You deserve it.  Oh, and sirloin tip bitch, you need to put this sign on your overly large back so we at least have warning that you're around.

Sh*t I Don't Get Vol. 1

I've decided to add a new series to my blog.  It's titled "Sh*t I Don't Get", which encompasses things I truly don't understand...not because I don't know the facts or that I'm illiterate or anything like that.  I'm not stupid; in fact, I'm a very smart gal. I'm not prejudiced or racist (well, everyone is to an extent, but as a general rule, I'm not). I have an open mind and broad horizons (and shoulders) but these are things that literally flabbergast me and I am left speechless, which doesn't happen very often.  I try to analyze them and make sense of this shit I don't get, but I just cannot wrap my mind around some things.  As my readers, please feel free to chime in with your opinions, knowledge, or back talk. Whatever you prefer.

Shit I Don't Get Vol. 1

Celestial Marriage: What the hell? Obviously, anything having to do with Mormons or the Church of Latter-Day Saints is beyond my comprehension.  I am convinced Mormons are aliens sent to Earth to destroy activities I take seriously--drinking, promiscuity, smoking, etc.  The idea that a man "needs" more than one wife for the celestial kingdom is not only obnoxious, but it's downright annoying.  That's not what it's about; it allows a man to have extra-marital affairs in a manner in which they are justified.  All I know is that I can't wait for these polygamist men to find out there is no such thing as a "celestial kingdom" and their marriage isn't "heavenly". I just wish I could be there to say "I told you so".

Why Black Guys Love Fat White Girls: I don't have a problem with interracial relationships or relationships that are out of the norm. I'm a lesbian for crying out loud...who am I to judge? But this has always confused me.  What is it about obese white women that black men are attracted to? Is it that they're good eaters, and there's always a guarantee of fried chicken at the dinner table? Or is it like catching a rare species? The black man snags the fat white chick (said in a National Geographic Host's voice).  Or is it the other way around? Do fat white women go for black men because they feel no white man could love them? I don't know. I literally cannot find an answer to this.  Maybe it's just a coincidence, but I doubt it. And why is it extremely rare to find both an attractive black man and an attractive white woman couple? That species is endangered as far as I'm concerned.

Speedos: Unless you're an athlete, more specifically, an Olympic swimmer, there's no need for any man to wear a Speedo**.  I'm not talking about the Speedo brand; I'm talking about a "Speedo"!  I live in Florida and when the Snow Birds (Canadians) are here for the winter, I see my fair share of pale white, hairy, fat men wearing Speedos.  They have no modesty. They let it all hang out.  I've seen some fruit baskets in my life, but nothing compares to these dandies.  These men come to the beach and bend over to put their towel down and share with me their family jewels.  Not some I want to see, but thanks for sharing.  Unless you're going to do a triathalon (the swimming part) in the Atlantic Ocean, there's no reason to wear a Speedo.  Even wearing one for sun tanning is unacceptable.  Wear beach shorts and when you want to tan, hike the shorts up your legs like normal guys do.  That way, we aren't forced to see the outline of your package. 

Recently, we were at Hollywood Beach and a man came with his daughter and when he got there, he put his stuff down right in front of us.  He then proceeded to strip down to nothing but a Speedo and a sweater (his chest hair).  We all noticed his Speedo was on inside out and apparently, he noticed as well.  Moments later, he went into the water, far enough out so he could take off his Speedo and turn it right side out.  Then he came back to shore and laid down right in front of us, showing us his not so private parts. 

Please, for the sake of humanity, either go to a nude beach and let it all hang out, or put on shorts with an appropriate length.  Your wife may not mind (although I'm sure she's so embarrassed she won't even be seen with you at the same beach) but the rest of us do.  Even Michael Phelps can barely pull of a Speedo.

**Unless you look like this guy in the yellow Speedo, Speedos should be illegal for you. And even then it's not that appealing...a hunk in a Speedo leaves nothing to the imagination. 

How To Agree With Someone Who Thinks Their Baby Is Cute When In Fact It Is Not: This is the worst position to be put in.  Your friend/family member just had a baby.  You're excited because you think all babies are cute...they're harmless innocent babies, how can they not be cute, right? F**king wrong my friend.  I have met many babies that I find downright fugly...it's not their fault. But I get tongue tied and I start to sweat when I encounter a fugly baby and have to pretend that it's the cutest thing since the Olsen Twins on Full House.  To Parents of Ugly Children: Although this is your child and you think the kid is the cutest thing on Earth, there has to be a small part of you that knows the child is NOT cute.  So, please don't put your friends and family members in a position to agree with you when you hem and haw over the alien looking baby. It makes us feel uncomfortable when you force us to lie.  Luckily, most ugly babies grow out of their fugliness.  For the ones who don't, sorry. Life isn't fair.