One Man Band

After talking with my room-mates, I came to the shocking and sudden realization that something must be done.

Someone must stand up, against all opposition, with courage and valour.

Someone must shout verses off a silver tounge, and make the people listen.



Someone must talk about masturbation.

That's right kiddies, what catholic school taught you not to do. Jerkin' the chicken, coaxing the clam, preparing the sausage, seasoning the taco. That thing that everybody does and everybody still feels a little guilty about.

Yes we're all sexually liberated, but yet we all still feel a little bad when engaging in some private funtimes solamente.



So here I am, sitting with my two intelligent, beautiful roomates, listening to them tell me that they "just don't". "You're kidding.." I say "I mean, we all feel weird about it first. But soon enough you'll become best friends with that hand of yours". "No" they say, "it just doesn't 'do-it' for me."

LIES bitches. You're all fucking lying to yourself. The spaghetti monster gave a two hands people, one hand to surf for porno, press play on your smut remote, or turn the page of your erotic novela and the other to diddle yourself with. Letr's face facts her people, that shit is natural. Baby's do it IN THE WOMB, which means it was probably the first thing you ever did that consciously caused you pleasure.



Thats right bitches, not your first snack cup of chocolate pudding, not your first teddy bear - the first time you wanked.

Warms the heart don't it?

Aside from the fact that you should just do it because it feels good, another reason you weirdos should start touching yourselves is because how the hell do you expect other people to make you feel good if you can't even do it yourself?

How can he find your clitorus, if you don't even know where is.

How can you teach her to give you a handjob that doesn't hurt, if are too afraid to grab your own shaft.



Masturbation is also the cure to everything. Feeling stressed? Masturbate. Had a bad day? Masturbate. Feeling lonely? Masturbate. Nothing on TV? Masturbate.

So stop feeling guilty and start feeling awesome

'DILF' of the Week

Speaking of awesome, you all know NPH. I know all you fuckers love How I Met Your Mother just as much a I do and say Barney Stinson quotes all the time then giggle amongst yourselves like the bunch of losers you are. So here's to Neil Patrick Harris for inspiring us to do something so lame that it makes us feel cool.

A Knuckle-Sandwich for Mother Nature

Just a warning, the following rant will probably be more appealing to the ladies.

I was going to write a post about how much work university is making me do and how it leaves little time for sex and how shitty that is yadda yadda yadda when I realized:

I was suffering from the worst fucking case of pms I have ever had.



My head was throbbing, I was way too hot all the time - my body temperature was that of a fucking volcano, I was so fucking exhausted that I couldn't sleep and my emotional state was like that of a Venus fly trap (if you got to close I wanted to castrate you). Overall I was suffering from a weird mix of wanting someone to cuddle me and wanting to gouge people's eyes out.

The fact that one week every month I feel like this and am still expected to function in everyday society is fucking criminal. Women suffering from pms should be given the same privileges that any disabled person does. Someone should take concise notes for me in the lectures I miss because I'm involuntarily napping and I should have a seeing-eye dog with a sign saying "My master is suffering from Pre-menstrual symptoms, please don't get too close and keep idiotic musings to a minimum".



Women suffering from this extreme mood disorder should also be provided with male shaped androids that will dispense limitless compliments and affection as well as not get offended when they attempt to verbally (and maybe physically) tear it to shreds.

We should also be granted a week long get out of jail free card for any hurtful or relationship ruining things that may be said. Yes, I may sound irrational but all this word vomit makes perfect sense to me. You don't understand why I'm crying? Well neither do I!

The cherry on top of the pms ass cake was that the crazy jumble of idiotic hormones somehow caused my sex drive go down.

In short, I didn't want the one thing that pretty much always makes me happy. What kind of twisted karma-stab is that? Was I Hitler in another life?



The worst thing is I have no fucking advice for the rest of you pms sufferers other then try and avoid seeing people. Maybe we can all take a twist on the 'ol Amazon classic where we keep the tit and loose the ovaries.

'DILF' of the Week

I've recently gotten back into scrubs in order to better avoid the reading of literature written before the 16th century. John C McGinley, who plays Dr. Cox (I'd like to play doctor with his cox ifyouknowwhatimean), may have actually started my love of DILF's. That wonderful mix of anger, emotional issues and a general unwillingness to communicate really got my young motor revving. So here's to 'ol Johnny C, for making me the monster you all know and love today.

Home on the Range

During my recent two week stay in good old cow-town I came to realize an equally comforting and disturbing fact;

What ever happens in this world, there will always be rednecks in Alberta.



Be it the election of a gay prime minister or the arrival of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, those rednecks will be drinking pilsner on their multi-acre lands and driving their obnoxious rig trucks, just as they always have.

What ever happens in life, in Alberta, stereotypes live forever.

Nice, right? Being a born and raised Albertan, albeit not the type that one thinks of when hearing the phrase "born and raised Albertan", I find this sentiment oddly comforting. Setting the record straight here, I don't hate the gays, or the blacks, or the Asians, I don't own a truck, I don't own a tractor, I don't even own a pair of fucking cowboy boots.

But show me the Man with No Name and i'll get that old fuzzy feeling inside. Why you ask? What is it about non-communicative, hyper-masculine, shoot-first-ask-questions-later types that I love so much? Well kiddies, I'm gonna be straight up here. Gender roles are comforting.



Even the fucking Suzy homemaker image is comforting (in a longing way mostly, how I'd love to have been born a lesbian and get myself a little pin-up wifey with a passion for cupcakes and secret kinky bedroom desires).

I came to realize this is yet another temping adventure over the holiday break. Whilst manning the front desk at a small but decked-out energy services company (read: oil company. Oooo you made it sound all non environment-harming with the word 'energy'! I feel safe now!) I received a phone call. The man on the other end was courteous, friendly and ended the conversation with "thank you mam". He also possessed that non-accent accent that all prairie Albertans have and after hanging up I got the fuzzy feeling.



This man was most likely, as we call them in Alberta, a rig-pig. Rig-pigs aren't always ignorant assholes, but they probably drive à truck, probably find cowboy boots to be formal attire and probably have a few backwards ideas about feminists.

Nobody's perfect.

This phone call got me wondering how I, a young independent woman raised on the hardcore ideals of feminists before her, could feel comforted by a stereotype that portrays men and women as embodying traditional aspects of masculinity and femininity. What happened to that four-year old me that refused to wear dresses and despised the color pink? Had she lost her edginess along with her virginity?



Life crisis averted, I still hate pink and I still prefer pants. But I also can appreciate those old cowboys and housewives, who perhaps embody "simpler times" or times in which we just didn't have to analyze every aspect of our own identities to the point that 'identity' became a twisted and depressingly tangled introspective mess.

Red necks will always be around because they don't analyze their own stereotypical identities, they portray as is, they skim the surface. They think in socially backwards terms and that saves them from loosing any feeling of security in their own existences.

But hell, us intellectuals have kinkier sex. So you win some you lose some.

'DILF' of the Week

So Cee Lo Green's not exactly easy on the eyes but damn does his voice make you wanna move. The dudes sings like the most beautiful winged Aryan you could imagine and if you close your eyes he makes a pretty good soundtrack to the ridiculously choreographed personal musical number you've always dreamed of. I'm talking riding on a unicorn whilst making out with Johnny Depp here people. If the Almighty's got an orchestra, he's saving Cee Lo a spot at the front.