A Little Rum in Your Eggnog

Merry Christmas deadbeats!

It's that time of the year again, the mall-dreading, boozey-egg nog-drinking, family-fighting joyous season that brings us all together.



Is it just me or does all the shopping and alcohol consumption make this vacation fucking exhausting. I mean, don't get me wrong. I dig having some time off. Especially after the disaster that is late November and early December, my skin actually began to revolt against all the stress. My brain was like "fuck you for making me work so damn hard, I'm going to shut down AND dry your skin out until you have the wrinkles of a 35 year old single mother! HA!".

Long story short I need a break. However, since I discovered that they put booze in eggnog, it's been kinda hard to go easy on this ol' bod. So here's the big question compadres, why is it so fucking hard to get a break at Christmas?



I know I'm not alone here bitches, you dread the Christmas shopping an family gatherings as much as I do. Yes we all love our family, but that doesn't change the fact that somebody's going to get in a fight over turkey, or that kooky relative you have is going to get to drunk and embarrassing, or cousin timmy is going to go into anaphylactic shock after Aunt Shirley forgot to mention that there was peanuts in the snicker-doodles and the whole family (along with fifteen other families of total strangers) are going to spend Christmas eve in the emergency room.

and don't even get me started into the chance of running into the spirits of fuckbuddies past. "OH HEY so-in-so, let's proceed to have awkward conversation about how we're doing when we both know we weren't very good at talking to each other in the first place and try not to drool when the image of each other naked inevitably pops into our brains". Now this shit probably won't happen, that is unless you find yourself dashing from your house to the gas station on the corner to buy copious amounts of chocolate while wearing sweat pants and so many layers you look reminiscent of a four year old self drowning in one of those full-body snow suits.



Like I was saying people, CHRISTMAS = STRESS.

Delicious ginger-bready stress. I mean who's idea was it anyways to put food-filled Christmas less then a week away from New Years in which you're supposed to look smokin' in that uncomfortable and overpriced outfit you bought months ago that ends up smelling like vomit the next day and you never want to look at again.

But we'll leave the disappointment that is New Years to another day.



So here's my advice for surviving the holiday season:

1) Avoid hangovers. Yes, I know it's Christmas but double fist with water if you want to avoid looking like the disappointment you are in front of your relatives.
2) Avoid punching and/or tearing a new one out of your relatives, no matter how good it might feel. You see them less then twice a year now, put on that fake smile of yours when they mention how much you've grown.
3) Don't tell people you don't really care about from high school that "we should hang out", you will end up regretting it. Only see the people who put in enough effort to see you, cause time is potential ounces of well being lost bitches.
4) Avoid pining for the days of living in your own house where people didn't tell you what to eat and when to brush your teeth and remember that you didn't have to pay for any of the food in the fridge.
5) Don't leave the house unless you look awesome. Exiting your abode in stain-covered clothing is like asking fate to bitch-slap you, and man will she comply.

and last but not least, lie your fucking face of. You are doing awesome, life is awesome and man you get laid all the time. Like twenty-four seven. You are clearly the coolest mother fucker who ever lived and are way more rad then you were in high school.

'DILF' of the Week

Yeah it's that black guy from Criminal Minds. He might be a little too pretty (I like my men with unmanicured eye brows, what can I say) but I watch the show enough I figured I should give somebody tribute. Upon google image searching his name, Shemar Moore, he also appears to be every woman's wet dream from the 90s, and who doesn't love the 90s.

Being Awesome: A Guide

So, the other day a friend asked me for advice.

Now, you can probably guess that she wasn't asking me about my fiscal opinions. When people want advice from me, it's usually in some way relating to coitus.

Basically, if I had a batman symbol, it would be a crudely drawn vagina.



Now, I like being the go-to-gal on genital issues. I'm not saying I know all, I am still a youngin' after all, but I know how to phrase things. Things like answers to questions like "I really like this guy and I'd like to go on a date with him but he hasn't asked me, what do I do?"

To which i respond "holy fuck woman, this is the 21st century, grow a pair of hairy cahones and ask him out. Shit only happens if you make it happen" or something of the like. The point I'm trying to make here is I give real advice. I'm not going to say "be patient" or "a positive world view breeds positive living" or mumble something about 'The Secret' or any of that yuppy healthy living positive thinking bullshit. I will tell you straight up that a fuck buddy is nothing more then a fuckbuddy, you can not have 'just' casual sex with your exes and the reason he's not calling you is because you gave it away too early.



That lack of honesty, my friends, is what's wrong with the self-help industry. I'm all for working through your issues with positive reinforcement, but what half the people who read those paper bound bullshit volumes need is a good kick in the ass.

If you're unhappy because you're overweight and fear that the way you look is getting in the way of finding love, go to the gym. Yes, I am sure that you are beautiful on the inside, but if you've identified the problem, fix it.I'm not saying solving your problems, hell even I'm not perfect. But I make my issues work for me. Or, ignore them.

Slow down judgy mcjudgerson, at least it's better then whining.

Frankly, what the world needs is me to write a self-help novel. It'll be called "Shit Only Happens if You Make it Happen" and on the back cover there'll be a picture of me on a chaise lounge wearing a tweed jacket and smoking a pipe.



It'll be to the self-help genre what Catcher in the Rye was to Literature. People will scorn it, fear it, curse me out on Oprah until one day some four cat owning writer from The New Yorker will be like "Man, she's totally right. If I sexify myself up and go for it rather then waiting to be hit on I can get laid."

and then POW there'll be unabashed sexuality everywhere. Chicks will be throwing out rampant pick up lines, dudes will feel a little violated but find they like it and DILFs will be mobbed at the playground. It'll be like the Sexy Apocalypse, and no one will ever be the same.

You can thank me later.

'DILF' of the Week

Liev Schreiber is no Wolverine, but he was a pretty wicked Sabertooth. So, in honor of those sideburns, here's to him as our DILF of the week.

I Have a Degree in Sex-Education

Lately, I've been thinking.



I have no fucking idea what I want to do with my life.

Yes, I realize I'm barely twenty, and have my future ahead of me. But do I really?

No. I do not. I have no fucking future. A future connotes knowing what you want to do with your life. I am an English major. You know what that spells people - Starbucks, and last time i applied there they wouldn't hire me.



The good news is, we're all doomed. Even the one's with engineering degrees. Yeah, I'm talking to you you nerdy bastards. You may have a job waiting for you right out of high school, but will that get you laid!?

Ok, maybe it will. But the point I'm trying to make here is:

Bachelor's degrees do not buy happiness.



In fact, they cost a lot, rarely get you all the education you need, and the only thing they give you is a false sense of security. I want experience people, not a sheet of paper that describes how I've spent four years of my life sitting on my ass, banging my head against my laptop screen and wishing I was somewhere far away.

and I mean far. No snow far, white sand beaches far, so far that a Canadian accent can get you laid. Hell, so far that being white can get you laid. So far that my grammatical errors in essay writing are eclipsed by the fact that I don't speak the local language.

I want to go so far away that when I come back I feel like I'm from a foreign country. I want to have so many travel stories that people call me pretentious at parties but secretly wish they had my life. I want to live without technology for an extended period of time and then brag about on facebook. I want to be "that guy".



But alas, here we are, sitting on our asses about to bang our heads against our laptop screens. We will get that education, we may never get laid for being white and we might end up feeling like the future we're in is no future at all. But hell, at least we've got sex.

and if you don't - holy fuck you deadbeat, move to Japan - I hear that there, being white can get you laid.

'DILF' of the Week

All hail The Dude for his deadbeat wisdom, his wicked beard, and his fashionable bathrobe stylings. The man's an icon people, the symbol of everything sacred about my lifestyle. He is the master of mid-day drinking, a conseuir of sweat pants, and a adept judge of the capabilities of ferrets.

Yeah, i know, you're all thinking "not everybody has a thing for old dudes lacking job security Ella", and I understand that not everybody gets the same urge to lick the remnant's of that white russian off El Duderino's mustache when ever he takes a sip. But take a look at http://www.premiere.com/List/The-100-Sexiest-Movie-Stars-of-All-Time/91.-Jeff-Bridges and tell me the man isn't DILF material.

Jingle Balls, Jingle Balls

Is it just me, or have holidays just become another excuse to try and shove your tongue down somebody’s throat?

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not one to get sentimental about certain days of the year. They happen, I get a day off (hopefully) and participate if I feel like it. But when the hell did they all become hollowed out sexified versions of themselves? Making holidays sexy are the equivilant of turning sex into porn. It’s not what it once was, it’s an emotionless busty copy that when freeze framed looks like nothing but bad decisions and soulless eyes.



I’m all for shit being sexy but this is just out of control. To clear up the difference I suggest we start to distinguish which part of the holidays we’re indulging in (the original or the slutty version) by labeling each by name.

Original/Slutty version

• Halloween/Pay too much money for very little clothing only to puke on it later-ween
• Christmas/Even Santa Claus has a penis-mas
• New Years/ I’m not desperate, it’s New Years.
• Valentine’s Day/ Valentine’s Day
• Easter/ What about Jesus? I was just planning on saying crude things from behind this bunny mask-ter

Why don’t we just be honest with ourselves people. You don’t need a day for the excuse to slut it up. Embrace your need to dress like a tramp or drape phalluses on your person. Be proud of your need to get stupid inebriated in order to approach someone of the opposite sex. Don’t be ashamed about how much money you spent, thats the only way to obtain happiness.



Man up you bitches, stop turning holidays into your coked out porn stars and slut around on non-holidays like us normal folk who don’t need a sexy nurses outfit to advertise our daddy issues.


Coming this December! — Watch in awe as Ella expresses her rage for rampant consumerism by swearing in front of children!

DILF of the Week

Jonathan Cake was in a couple episodes of Chuck, the new horrible show I'm addicted to. He's buff, looks good bloody and has a British accent. All together now ladies and gay boys — "I'd tap that!"

Big Sea, Wrong Fish

At the beginning of September I had been hopeful. A fantastic summer had ended - one full of money making, cider drinking and unattached relationship having (I take it back, a successful summer romance can happen, if you replace 'romance' with 'extended sexcapade'). I had lived three months like a jungle cat wearing a suit, pacing back and forth in my cubicle from 9 to 5 and then jumping on any piece of meat I saw fit, before enjoying sleeps that lacked stressful dreams transporting me back to jr high.



I had been hopeful. I'm not an optimist. I should've known that upon my return to university life come September I would not be greeted by a sea of opportunities, self enrichment and ample young bucks as far as the eye could see. You know what I was greeted by?

A sea of vag.



Seriously. Chicks everywhere. They do not lie in those statistics people, the average woman is way more interested in becoming learned then the average man.

Even worse then that, I had forgotten that I attend the University of Victoria. Three to one female to male ratio and I swear to god two out of three of those women are totally bangable. I would even go as far to say 2.5 are bangable.

So here I found myself, optimism dwindling, surrounded by legions of every kind of vagina holder you can find. Tall ones, short ones, skinny ones, curvy ones, blonde ones, brunette ones, deadlocked ones, pants that aren't really pants but rather tights wearing ones. You want 'em, Uvic gots 'em. Might as well be a brothel were the only currency is charm.



From what I hear from my fellow students, most universities are like this. Naturally a place full of young people will be full of young women who maintain themselves well enough to get laid on a bimonthly basis.

Now, don't get me wrong here people. I ain't afraid of a little competition. Even if we exclude my physical appearance (if you could ignore something this smokin', that is) I've still got a one up on the average dong-chaser plainly because I go after the things I want. I will repeat it again: shit only happens if you make it happen, and young bitches just can't seem to get that through their head. The real problem here ladies and gentlemen is an ample lack of pickins.

I cleverly forgot that I very rarely find "ample young bucks" attractive. We all know I like 'em thirty, over educated and under employed. Not early twenties, 5 year plans and 11 yr old pubes for chest hair.

I'm living in a trashy lesbians paradise, hoards of experimental beautiful girls and a serious lack of male competition. But alas, as much sense as it would make, I am not a rug-muncher. I'm just a straight girl with more balls then your average dick.



So what do you do when your stuck in institution that provides you with more work then it does tail?

Harvest your resources. That acquaintance you never hooked up with because of another romance? Harvest it. That ex who you broke up only because you were leaving for the summer? Harvest it. That exchange student in your sociology class with little to no vocabulary but a lot of assets ifyouknowwhatimean. Moissonnez-le. Stick to what you know people, it's a big scary world out there and you need to hit something other then the books.

'DILF' of the Week

So aside from the obvious good qualities (tall, handsome, is in a vampire show that usually doesn't suck) Alexander Skarsgård who plays Eric Northman in HBO's True Blood is a raging DILF because he is essentially the male version of me. We're both super Aryan and we're both totally bangable, 'nuff said.

At First Sight

Alright smut-lovers, I'm going to do it. I'm going to ask the big question. That one that's been naggin at you since the first time you watched Cinderella.



Can there be love at first sight?

Bet you already know what I'm gonna say. I'd lose my membership to the jaded bitches of North America in an instant if I didn't. NO, THERE IS NO LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT (go cry it out now you sentimental rainbow lovers).

At least, not for most of us. Now before you start rallying the soldiers of storybook love I'll set the record straight. Most people will never experience love at first sight because love, is in fact, something that grows. Hell, you can have lust at first sight, I get it all the time. You can even have "man, I'd really like to make that person a delicious sandwich and maybe even do their laundry for them eventually" at first sight but that all encompassing lust/sandwhich making/laundry doing/shaving each others hairy hard to reach places and generally not even understanding why you like them so much feeling can't just happen. You don't know how much you adore that mole on their left buttock until you actually see them naked, pickin' up what I'm puttin' down kiddies?



I may be a jaded dream crusher but I'm also realistic, and realistically there is less chance that you will instantly confusingly adore someone then the there is of you confusingly adoring them three months down the road, or even a week, who knows how long these fucking things take.

I'm not ruling out that it can happen, but chances are it can only happen to people that are so desperately searching that if a vase had the right functioning genitals and the ability to compliment they'd probably love it instantly too. People who question ideals are smarter, deal with it.



So go back to your everyday life and try to fall in love like normal people, through the drudgery that is systematic courtship. That or say fuck the whole thing and focus on that much funner, much more intriguing lust at first sight. Cause, hell, we better take advantage of these bodies of ours while they still function without medication.

'DILF of the Week'

Ralph Fiennes. Dude's a babe, even as a Nazi and even as Voldermort. My nightmares have never been so hot. Also he's usually in pretty good films, so I might actually try to have a conversation with him after all the sweaty love making.

One Helluva Bruise

So, here's a question for you:

Can we be ruined?



Can we come upon something or someone that is so mind-fucking fantastic that anything/one after is just an utter disappointment?

I'm inclined to say probably. But maybe it's not so much these fan-freaking-tastic people or things that ruin us, maybe, like most things, it's our own fucking fault. After all, nobody builds expectations but us. Nobody gives us hopes and dreams, goals and aspirations. You can't blame you're daddy issues or you're Oedipus complex for that personal menagerie of self delusion, created only by that small, teary eyed kid inside all of us. That whinny, self indulged lack of contentment that festers and screams until finally we get the idea to shoot for the stars, reach for the moon and usually end up descending back to earth in a crumbled paper doll mess with increased bitterness stamped hard on your soul like an plagerism on your permanent record.



and if we do succeeded, which brings us back to the original point, we eventually find that success is fleeting and live the rest of our lives out like a dried fruit; all the juices sucked out of us.

We ruin ourselves by looking for things like the perfect job, a meaningful education and a talent or passion we can be proud of - not to mention the constant search for THE BIG O.

and there's the question as to how we can be ruined. Physically, obviously - Which often inspires the most horrendous attempts to gain what one once had (see: vaginal rejuvenation surgery). Then there's those pesky emotions, which are as easily ripped to shreds as a pro-life pamphlet. I don't even want to begin to think about the numerous ways one can ruin their personality (don't all shitty things contribute to this?).

What they neglect to tell you, is that when you do get a hold of this things with ruining potential, it is very unlikely you will manage to keep that hold (or worse, want to), and even less likely that you will find them again. Even worse then that is the fact that there is no whole package: trust me kiddies, you can have great sex with no emotional fulfillment and vice versa. It's a cruel, cruel world.



So we're left, victim to that grade school obsession with gold star achievement, to wander incessantly and try to eventually be happy with what we have. Now, don't get me wrong, what we have is pretty fucking good. After all this is North America, land of tax free savings and accessible marijuana. But who's ever really happy with what they've got.

So get to it champs, chase those falling stars and then decide whether or not you want to try and seek contentment in what you've got. That, or stick your head in an oven.

'DILF' of the Week

Thomas Jane, from HBO's 'Hung'. Dude makes a semi-butt chin look good and he's a major player in the hairy chest revolution. Plus, he apparently played The Punisher in that adaptation that no one saw, bad ass, and my personal favorite, he's supposed to play Cal MacDonald from Criminal Macabre in the film adaptation.Good shit, check it out.

A Lesson in Awesome

Fun Fact: Tattoos make you look cool.



Just like smoking, but less likely to kill you, this long-time sailor tradition gives a seemingly everyday joe a hint of James Dean-esque cool. Like being able to wear sunglasses at night and not look lame, or sit in dimly lit bar rooms and seem to belong.

I realize that tattoos aren't exactly a rarity anymore, once again a long-standing taboo has become something that pop stars seem odd without. But nevertheless, tattoos are still bad ass.

Why you ask? Well, aside from (hopefully) looking cool, usually there's an interesting story behind them. I've taken the liberty of dividing the large group of individuals who have used their body as a canvas into three easily distinguishable groups.



Group 1: The Literal Bad Asses

These people are cooler then you because they keep tattooing to it's roots. Easily recognized by large sleeve pieces, dedicated rockabilly fashions, ownership of motorcycles, seafaring capabilities and being a tattoo artist or having dated one. Most of us have absolutely no hope of ever being this cool, we're just not dedicated or interesting enough.

Group 2: The Mainstreamers

The largest group, made up of everybody that has a tattoo or two that they like but don't elevate it to a near way of life. The types and quality of tattoos range from glorious pin-ups to adored tweety birds, but whatever it is most people had a good enough reason to get it. Generally these people are more excited when they get naked and have a story to tell, but if this was the 50s none of them would have any tattoos at all.

Group 3: The Drunken Mistake Makers

Everybody knows one, that guy with a Canadian flag on his shoulder or that chick with a flower hovering over her ass crack. These people are my favorite because their stories are hilarious. Why wouldn't you want to hear about a permanent mistake someone made for less then great reasons. Examples of such reasons include: "It seemed like a good idea at the time", "I thought it would get me laid" and "I was a stupid 18 year old".

Trust me people, one of the best things in the entire world is discovering some hideous ink blot on that naked person in front of you. It's like being thirteen again and reading your first trashy, bad synonym ridden romance novel. Pure gold.



As for the age old reminder, "think of what it'll look like when you're sixty" - I can only hope it eventually looks like a contorted birth mark that upon stretching has the capability of scaring the shit out of all the neighbourhood children. I will have fun with my body now, and I will have fun with my body later: tattoos give me the chance to do both these things.

'DILF of the Week'

I honor of todays topic, I give you: Ami James, the "boss" of that shop on Miami Ink. So he's bald, muscular, covered in tattoos and orignally from Israel - I'd tap that.

Fairytale People

In the midst of my chaotic unpacking I came across a note my dear friend had written me circa jr high days when note writing was still a big thing.

The note was a literary definition for the word “Manicorn”

“Manicorn”: (noun) is defined as “A mythical male creature who is successful (read: pursuing his own passion and can pay his own bills), funny, chivalrous, masculine (read: not chauvinistic) adventurous, artistic (read: not suicidal).”



My good friend then followed the definition by drawing a delightful little picture of a faceless man with a unicorn horn for a penis.

Needless to say the Manicorn does not exist; neither I nor any of my friends has ever come upon any horn-penises or a romance novel worthy dude who is not also a gigantic pot of douchery. Just as unicorns do not exist (deal with it you fruity optimists) and just as fairytales do not happen to everyday people. The reason for this is: fairytales are simple. They follow a standard plot diagram; there is a rise, peak and fall. The story ends at the happiest moment and the reader does not see into the next fifty years of the main characters, no body (but the villains) are old, unattractive or have intentions that aren’t morally sound. Shit’s simple, there’s no questions of job security or income taxes and worrying about the next time you’ll get laid or have your period.

No eight year old wants to read a story about Mr. Brown and his constant worries as to whether he’ll have enough money in his RRSP by the time he’s sixty.

That being said, there are fairy tale people.

Don’t get excited, I’m not turning into an optimist, I haven’t come upon a sudden life changing realization of hope – keep those tiny rainbows in your pants people. Fairy tale people are just like you, but better.



I’ve got a friend who looks like Snow White, sings like Sleeping Beauty and smiles like Rapunzel. She is the Disney princess incarnate. She’s beautiful and talented AND friendly as all hell (to a scary point, I feel the need to turn into a Harley riding, beard growing, scary woman of questionable sexuality when I’m out with her in public to fight off all the creeps).

But she has her problems like everybody else, she thinks stupid people are stupid, finds annoying people annoying and doesn’t give that pretty smile of hers to those who don’t deserve it (for the most part). She also ain’t a virgin, and kudos to her for that. Disney princesses were always surrounded by men, and my god why shouldn’t they want a little sugar. (Albeit she ain’t exactly dwindling her bed post either, but that’s beside the point).



I’ve never met anyone quite like her, which reinforces the fact that fairytale people are about as rare as fuckin’ unicorns – and if you can find one, I’ll bet you five skinny oiled bitches that they ain’t even the slightest bit single.

Fairytale people are shiny beacons of the human race and upon coming face to face with one you’ll with often be plagued by symptoms of self-reflection, arousal, and a general sense to question whether or not you should have another drink – for fear that this glittery image may just be a figment of your imagination.

If you come upon one of these people do your best to try to seduce them! Chances are it will not work, but you’ll probably learn something and have a couple of exc ellent erotic dreams in the near future.

So, maybe the Manicorn does exist, but sure as hell not in my world – A gal’s gotta stick to her people mine being of course frequently unemployed, hairy, of questionable moral judgement and a wee too bit fond of the drink. At least I know where I’m at, ammirite?

'DILF of the Week'

At the request of my dear friend Hannah, who consequently may also herein be referred to as "the wife" since my life is so cute and sad right now, I give you Donald Draper played by that guy who plays Donald Draper. Not much needs to be said, he makes cigarettes look cool.

Sensual Seduction

Let's talk music people.

Everybody loves music, you don't have to be a pop culture expert to have a favorite band or even an unhealthy obsession with some greasy pedo-bearded front man. There's something for everybody and it all comes down to what gets you groovin'.

So naturally some time ago people began to correlate music with sex. I'm not talking calling mick jagger a 'sex symbol' here people (although that's part of it). I'm talking about the nitty gritty, the orchestra in the box spring -

I'm talkin' about music to bang to.



The soundtrack of love making ladies and gentlemen. Like in every other situation, it's pretty "each to his own" when it comes to what tunes to bump 'n grind to. Some people like easy listening, some people like heavy metal and some people like the soft sounds of nothing but their own moans. The point is, it's a big, opinionated world out there.

Personally, I have not picked a particular artist, track or album that I always go to when thing start to get heated. I've got it on to Motown, classic rock, the phantom of the opera soundtrack and very nearly to the sweet sounds of Nina Simone singing about black slavery (which, needles to say ended up ruining the mood). I personally do not care what is playing in the background (excluding musicals, that shit's just weird) but for some people the right tunes are essential to setting the mood.

Case in fictional point, no movie can have a truly hilarious sex scene without Marvin Gaye's classic ballad "Let's Get it On" playing in the background.

Music, like setting, scenery and who you're with are all part of putting together the ultimate fantasy. The toe-curling, silk sheet gripping, fabulous after sex hair perfect romp that we all longed for in the midst of clumsy teenage masturbation's.

Like I've said before, that shit ain't gonna happen and everybodies probably going to be left disappointed.

Hey, you may not be able to control what you look like post-coital but you damn sure can bone to the tempo of Rammstien or Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer, your choice.

You can bang to any tune you want - even the kind of music that you wanted to loose you're virginity to (Van Halen anyone?).

So whether it's to The Black Keys or the Bee Gees, may you all bone without skippin' a beat.

'DILF of the Week'

Jeff Goldblum, the man who started my love for men who may or may not be Jewish but sure as hell look it. While others were screaming at the gigantic mechainical dinosaurs in Jurassic Park, I was nursing a fem boner. Good times.

Fairytales and Porn

So the other day this picture inspired me to wonder

Have we been ruined by idealism?

In a world full of unreachable ivory towers and Jessica Rabbits have we as a culture lost all sense of possibility.

The short answer to that I think, is yes. Most definitely. Because little girls were raised on fairy tales and pre-teen boys quickly discovered porn people are left feeling unhappy with what they have because of unrealistic expectations.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying we should all just settle. Dare to dream you wide eyed love bandits. But who can recognize the great shit laying in front of them when they're constantly being bombarded by images of beautiful people playing beautiful fictional roles (see: those in ideal situations).

That's the thing people, ideals are fiction. They were not created by example, they were created by people who felt like dreaming up something better then what they had.

This brings me back to the virginity thing. I've met throngs of young women (and a few young men) who envision (or in the more depressing cases, envisioned) first time sex to be a king sized bed lined with unstained red silk sheets in which two individuals twisted together in a smooth dance and were left with smiles on their faces and flattering after sex hair.

Only to discover that the mattress was creaky, elbows are pointy and that the experience, overall, didn't last that long.



Thus a band of women (and some men) that were so emotionally scarred by their first time that sex becomes a unfortunate, and often dreaded, part of life.

I don't know about you guys, but it sounds like a nightmare to me.

and then you have those people that are ok with sex, but hold it in very high esteem.

Those, "sex is for when you love each other" folk.

and good for you if you can hold yourself to that standard. But what about the rest of us that find the whole "love" thing difficult. We can't have sex!? Life is hard enough! Maybe all we can hope for is to like a person enough that being bathed in their sweat becomes an ok thing.

I mean, wouldn't we all have a lot more fun if we tried to focus on things we like about the people around us, instead of constantly searching for the "whole package"?

Call me a lover of man kind, but the fastest way for everybody to be happy is to let some shit go.

That being said, this section is reserved for dudes with flattering body hair only.

'DILF of the Week'

Speaking of flattering body hair, have you seen this guy? It should be against the law for someone to be so fucking attractive. Joe Manganiello, the new werewolf (yeah go ahead and judge, it's like porn with a plot and a high budget) on true blood should be arrested, and I'm just the creep for the job.

Femme Fatale

I have this problem.

This lady problem.




And by that, I mean I have a problem with ladies.

No surprise that I was always one of those youngin's who flocked around with the opposite gender despite social conventions. As a child I liked to play with lego, fire makeshift guns at my friends and clothesline kids that were chasing after me. You could say I was a tomboy (despite the whole ballet thing).

That's because without knowing it I realized at a very young age that men are easy. They're easy to get into the sack, sure, but eight year old Ella was more focused on the fact that men (boys) are easy to get along with. Punch them if they punch you and learn some swear words and dirty jokes and you're in. Secure your position by treasuring a nerdy pastime and you've got some buddies for life.



Getting acquainted with women, however, is a lot like solving a Rubik's cube with a zombie munching on your left arm. Yeah, yeah, I know. You're getting ready to tell me the same thing my limited number of girlfriends tell every time I ask them why women are such bitches: "well, you're kind of intimidating Ella". You have a point there, couple my patent bitch glare with all these good looks I got going on and most ladies take one look at me and think 'trouble'. She's tall, blonde, and confident. She's going to steal my (future) husband. I must destroy her with the purest form of passive aggression known to man - Alienation.

Thus assuming I can not penetrate brick wall judgements by de-establishing my self as a threat (and possibly, heterosexual?) I am forced to make conversation with the only person willing to chat with me in the room, who happens to be (surprise surprise) a dude.

and thus the vicious cycle continues.

I mean seriously ladies, why can't we all just get along. Don't get me wrong, I have been known to turn into a rabid she-wolf when an attractive woman is sighted around my territory, but I'm going to take the road less traveled and criticize myself along with everybody else. What happened to the sisterhood ladies? I thought all that bra-burning was for a reason. Let's stop hating each other and not be the reason for a giant step backwards in the feminist movement.

(For any of you that haven't seen 'Bitch Slap', go watch it now. Words cannot describe the hilarious damnation that is this movie.)

Let's take a cue from the hairier sex and beat the shit out of each other till we're satisfied, and then make up over a something only recently dead. I'm up for a couple'a bruises if it means avoiding getting looked at like you just kicked a puppy in front of PETA.

'DILF of the Week'

The Ultimate in DILF material, and my perfect man. Mike Rowe, the host of Discovery's 'Dirty Jobs'. Sure, he's charming and handsome, but what makes him so great? Well, ladies and gentleman.

He knows how to get dirty.

and he fixes things. Call me Barbara-Anne and this the 1950s but I like a man who is good with his hands (and has trouble talking about his feelings).

Mike Rowe is the last of his kind, a man's man who's taken a step past average and proudly shown old-fashioned masculinity to the world, while managing to be nonchalant and never once telling a woman to make him a sandwich.

and seriously, check out his chest hair. Might as well be the Mona Lisa to me baby.

And now for a cold shower.