PAY IT FORWARD: Boobs of the Round Table
Oh, Internet. It’s been a while since we’ve paid a bitch forward up in here, so I humbly offer up a double-header of classic sexist forward bullshit for your enjoyment. This week’s installment covers a broad range of topics: boobs, religion, and classic literary archetypes.
Ah, archetypes. One of those terms that takes me straight back to high school English class, where we read piles of classic literature, yet the only parts I seem to remember are things like Jake Barnes getting his junk blown up in the war. Such are the dangers of teaching classics to teenagers, I suppose.
Let’s start off with a painfully lame forward about bras (yes, BRAS) submitted to me courtesy of lovely reader Kathryn, who swears that her forward-happy friends are usually perfectly intelligent and reasonable people, but lo, I’m afraid no one will be picking up what you’re putting down, Kathryn, after we all partake of this asstastic mess:
Subject: Fw: WHAT RELIGION IS YOUR BRA]
Ah, poor little orphaned Oliver Twist end bracket! No one to claim you, no one to buy your matches, no one to begin the words-not-attributable-to-the-quoted-author that you so valiantly try to end on your own.
Oh, ladies, I can’t TELL you how many times I’ve sent my husband to Macy’s to BUY A FUCKING BRA FOR ME. I mean, right?
HA HA, stupid unobservant man! Just like a man! Oh, men! With their unobservant ways! Mars! Venus! Asking for directions!
Also, it seems we’ve switched verb tenses a few times now – KEEP UP, PEOPLE.
A sea of bras? Aw, I love it when the forward tries to write.
Wait – who’s talking? The man? The saleslady? Oliver Twist bracket? Anyone?
Ugh. Brace yourself.
Srsly, it’s bad.
I am doing this right now:
Oh, but it’s not over!
You might as well go ahead and cringe in advance.
Well, that certainly narrows things down.
But at least it’s over now.
So, obviously, some Rodney Fucking Dangerfield read this email and just HAD to add his own lame-ass two cents, EVEN THOUGH — last time I checked — “German” was not a religion.
I don’t know, Internet. This entire forward is making me feel really gross about even HAVING boobs. Let’s move on, shall we?
This next delight comes to us courtesy of Marcy:
Subject: FW: Arthur and the Witch
This is already the worst story I’ve ever read.
Oh, come on. Mel “Sugar Tits” Gibson already tackled this question, and — if memory of my 20-odd partial-viewings of that film on TBS serves — the answer has something to do with Helen Hunt.
DO NOT WANT, ACKSHULLY.
So, even the princess — a woman — could not tell him what women want? Well, that makes sense.
Exorbitant prices? Why do I suddenly feel like we’re in a Mattress Discounters commercial?
And also, wasn’t he, like, in love with some prostitute or something?
And don’t even get me STARTED about the witch. ZING!
Sounds like someone was trying to get a little sword in the stone, if you know what I mean.
Oh. Well, that’s kind of nice, I guess?
Really? It was wonderful? I’m having a hard time picturing Lancelot and this hideously deformed witch happily sharing a plate of chicken marsala and a slow dance to “Always & Forever.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, why is this story still happening?
And Lancelot was all, “I’m kind of into dudes, so unless you can rustle up a penis, I don’t really give a shit.”
YES YES FUCKING OKAY, just get on with the fucking story.
(Also: “wondrous intimate moments?” Gross.)
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