A few years ago, I attended the wrap-up party for a conference that Brad’s place of employment was hosting in our fair city (remember, SF Reader?). It was lots of fun: booze, cupcakes, music, booze, some dude who ended up with his tie wrapped around his head. As I am quite fond of laying my stank down on the dance floor, I sidled up to the DJ table at one point to request a song or two. Actually, let me rephrase that: I sidled up to the table of the HIGHLY TRAINED MUSICAL ART-EESTE (i.e., the 23-year-old grad student) who had so generously deigned to spend a few hours bathing us in the healing radiance of his funky freshness — not that any of us mere mortals could even begin to APPRECIATE said freshness — in exchange for our swooning adoration (and probably $45). Unbeknownst to me, one does not just REQUEST A SONG from such a god-amongst-men. He is not here to play “Strokin’,” HE IS HERE TO CREATE ART!
Anyway, DJ Jazzy Douche reacted to my request extremely rudely, and then proceeded to bitch about how he should not have to deal with REQUESTS, because OBVIOUSLY this was the western Pennsylvania conference reception equivalent to fucking Coachella, and he was, like, totally stressed out anyway because he had a group project due Monday in his Systems Management class and hadn’t even started working on it yet, GOD!
So, that’s my really convoluted way of telling you that I do take requests – ESPECIALLY requests to play Clarence Carter – and that today I’m going to write about two reader-suggested topics:
- Vagina bedazzling/”Vajazzling” (suggested by Cedar), and
- Ben Roethlisberger (suggested by fellow Pittsburgher Marcy)
Now, if you can find a blog post anywhere on the Internet that dares broach these two topics at once, I will…well, I was going to say I’d bedazzle my vagina, but my vagina is more of a conservative cardigan and pearls kind of lady, so I really can’t see that happening.
My vagina shops at Anne Taylor, is what I’m trying to say.
Soooo, the vagina bedazzling. Apparently, vaginas in the know really do refer to it as “vajazzling,” and there is a fancy website for it and everything. To save you the embarrassment of having to click that link, allow me to inform you (via my super-scientific and thoroughly embarrassed Googling) that the practice of vajazzling involves…shaving. And then the application of crystals. In a manner which I imagine would be very similar in purpose to those vibrant, chasing lights on airport runways.
PLEASE TO PARK YOUR JET HERE, MY GOOD SIR.
Vajazzling came to some attention when Jennifer Love Hewitt felt compelled to tell the media that she was all about decorating her Special Lady like a fucking Christmas tree — and really? I was not surprised. Because girlfriend will do just about anything for some media coverage, up to and including:
- Crying foul when people call her fat;
- Immediately losing weight after said fat-calling;
- Giving interviews about how she loves her new body, mere weeks after giving interviews about how she loved her old body;
- TELLING THE WORLD SHE LOVES STICKING DOO-DADS ON HER HOO-HA.
Then, it seems Kathy Griffin got a Pap smear and subsequent vajazzling on live TV (because WHY NOT), and…oh, Internet, this is all making me very tired. I am a person who prefers to sleep and shower in her earrings because otherwise I will not remember to wear any, so the vagina accessories? Not so much for a low-maintenance broad such as myself.
I have a confession to make.
Although I have thankfully outgrown most of my opinions, tastes, and regrettable phases from my early teen years (TAPESTRY VESTS, PERMS, ROBIN’S EGG BLUE ACID WASHED PURSES) (but srsly, that purse was kind of awesome), there is something I have not outgrown.
And no, I am not talking about being afraid to Touch It.
Internet, I LOVE CLAIRE’S.
You know – Claire’s.
Yes, Claire’s: where cheap jewelry, headbands, and trashy white satin prom gloves go to die. Was this place the Holy Grail for anyone else during adolescence? Remember their earring sales? Their mystery grab bags? Their amazing array of cheap flavored lip gloss (on a keychain!) that most certainly gave a bunch of lab rats a bunch of cancer?
This is a safe place. You can tell me you liked it. I bought earrings that looked like dice there. I won’t judge.
I haven’t been inside the cramped quarters of Claire’s for a few years, mostly because I’m too fucking embarrassed to be in there, but I’m tempted to go in every time I pass one. I think the last thing I actually purchased there was a little change purse (on which I was ALWAYS complimented, SO THERE), so it’s not like you’ll find hoards of High School Musical charm bracelets in my closets or anything, but MAN. Something about that place just draws me in.
And because I find myself so powerless in the face of Claire’s and its many-rhinestoned glory… I find myself hesitant to judge the vajazzling. I mean, it’s not for me, but if you really want to Hello Kitty the brewsterworks, well, GO TO TOWN.
I bet I know where you could find some AWESOME supplies.
(And they’re sensitive!)
Moving on to a decidedly less cute topic: Ben Roethlisberger, a.k.a. The Dude Who Owes Me A Lot Of Money For That Stupid Jersey I Bought And Now Don’t Want To Wear.
I realize that many of you don’t know (or care) about the whole Roethlisberger scandal, but it is BIG NEWS around here. See, last year he was accused of assaulting a woman. He’s still not entirely out of the woods on that one, but there was a lot of sketchiness surrounding the accusation, most of which made the accuser look like a revenge-seeking victim of a one night stand. Ben’s reputation was definitely stained by the accusation, but it didn’t ruin him by any means.
Fast forward to earlier this year, when he garners himself ANOTHER assault accusation. This one is worse. Much skeevier. Much more evidence to suggest that yes, our beloved quarterback is indeed a rapey douchebag. He was not charged, but he’s been suspended for six games, and there’s talk of a potential trade. And the rabid Steelers fan base is angry, my friends. We’ve had about enough of his dick-holery.
Of course, there’s a LOT of back-and-forth (mostly on Facebook, OMG I HATE FACEBOOK) about this, and it’s understandable. Ben wasn’t charged, but he fucked up. Does his punishment fit? Should it be more? Less? What about the other NFL players who have committed similar wrongdoings and were punished more/less harshly? What does that mean? There’s a lot of discussion about all of this — as there should be — and I don’t know how I feel about a lot of it except to say that some NFL players are the world’s best example of what happens when you give a jackass a ton of money and power and not a lot of boundaries.
OK, maybe second best example.
This makes me feel very conflicted about how much I like professional football, because one the one hand it’s hard to get excited about a sport that glorifies a bunch of wife-beating assholes, but on the other hand, there are a lot of fully admirable football players, and WOOO, FOOTBALL!
But getting back to the whole Roethlisberger thing, what bothers me most is the fact that some people choose to use this incident as an excuse to trot out the old, “Drunk whore sluts get what they deserve!” argument, which…no. I don’t care how drunk they were, I don’t care what kind of comments they were making or how tight their tops were or if they’d blown every guy in Georgia, if they were forced into anything, it was wrong, plain and simple. I admit I was (and still am) skeptical of Ben’s accuser last year, but this time around I get a very strong sense that there was a lot of coercion and crooked cops and slut-shamed girls behind the dropping of the charges.
And don’t even get me STARTED on that fucking hair.
(He has since shaved it, THANK GOD.)
In short: Ben, learn some fucking respect, common sense, and self control before I bedazzle your dick with a staple gun.