It’s not a coincidence at all that Levitra’s logo is a bunch of vaginas, right?
I see what you did there.
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An Essay On Why I Like the Aliens, by Jessica
Yesterday I watched all four Alien movies in a row. I’d seen only bits and pieces of the first one previously. My reviews:
Alien: Good but boring, in the same way Night of the Living Dead is good but boring. Obviously the “best” of the four, though perhaps not the most enjoyable. The only one that seems to be true horror as opposed to horror/sci-fi or just sci-fi. Plus, Jonesy!
Aliens: I can see why people think this is the best in the series, though they’re wrong. Mostly because of the little kid. Ugh, little kids.
Alien 3: I liked how they got rid of the kid quickly and unceremoniously. Nobody needed her. I liked Ripley’s haircut the best in this one. The ending was decent. It wasn’t as bad as Ian said it would be.
Alien: Resurection: The worst in the series, and all Joss Whedon’s fault. Way, way too sci-fi-y (That stupid cube-of-whiskey trick? Dumb dumb dumb dumb stupid.). And the making the basketball shot was stupid, and the look on Cher’s dad’s face when he pulls out a piece of his own brain (ugh – cross-eyed? I bet that was written into the script, even: “Pulls out piece of brain, looks at it cross-eyed, wah-wah music plays.”) And Ripley doing that whole “actress playing an animal” thing where she goes big-eyed and slowly tilts her head to one side, as though trying to understand this “humanity” you speak of? Boring. And blah blah everybody’s searching for their humanity, wah. Though – the alien searching for its humanity, too was the only saving grace in the movie. The newborn, period, was the only saving grace. Those eyes! Goddammit that thing broke my fucking heart! Seriously, the newborn saved the hell out of this movie. A great death scene for him, too. I kind of like to imagine though that he didn’t die and he went back to earth with Ripley and the series turned into a funny sitcom where Ripley had to teach it not to eat people and stuff and they lived together in an apartment in LA and had misadventures together. In one episode, they take a yoga class! Hijinks!
Overall:
- Ripley only aged about 20 years in about 250. That’s pretty good.
- Ripley likes to walk around in her underpants. That’s okay. We all like it.
- Weak pretty things to be saved, successively: Jonesy, Newt, giant mutant rapist prisoners I guess, Winnona Ryder.
- Incidentally, who do you think adopted Jones? I don’t think Ripley had an awful lot of friends back there on that mining base or whatever. She probably just set him up with a whole lot of extra bowlsful of food and 200 years later, they discovered him when they were trying to re-sell her apartment or whatever.
- Ripley doing that prisoner suddenly was stoooooopid. It felt like they were just finally trying to shoe-horn in a sex scene. They weren’t content to just have a badass female hero who didn’t wear high heels or have pretty hair or do boys – they had to remind us, “she’s still pretty! boys like her! it’s okay!” (Ripley doing the alien was acceptable.)
- Halfway through the second one I thought I had discovered a very deep and interesting theme about strong female warriors and mothers and queens. Ian informed me that everyone already knew this.
- Ian says that the real overarching theme of these movies is the pitiful failure of navigation systems in the future. Every damn movie begins with her having crashed or gone off course or something.
- Alien incest! Ripley’s alien child is also her alien grandchild! I guess that’s…scandalous?
- Omg speaking of: alien vagina.
- O hai look it’s the cast of Firefly.
- The best part of the series was constantly pointing out things that happen in the future. “In the future, cats are named ‘Jones.’” “In the future, you travel in your underpants.” “In the future, business cards are clear.” “In the future of the future, aliens get eyeballs.”
I forgot to post this a couple weeks ago! I had a very exciting visit to the gynecologist! My cooter is doing great, thanks, and I created the following lovely record of my visit, while I was waiting for an hour and a half (while the person in the next room sobbed loudly – it was awful). Ian says he can’t read my handwriting in this sketch book so maybe I will translate or maybe you should become better readers, huh?
So first I got to wait a half hour in the waiting room. There was a TV there tuned to “the OB/GYN Network.” What, you don’t get the OB/GYN Network?? Ask your local cable provider today!
There were ads all over the waiting room (and also, later, all over the exam room, too) for Botox and Restalyne and spider-vein removal and stuff. I do not support that.
Ugh.
Other reasons the women with the oddly misshapen muzzles in this pamphlet give: “To loose these wrinkles…and my inhibitions!” (she sez as she is riding an electric bull, because that is reasonable) and “To look good…even in fluorescent lighting!” (which is probably my least favorite of all, and I don’t know why).
“I risked my life to have a second baby because I’m a fucking idiot” was an actual story on the OB/GYN Network about a lady who, like, quit chemo to have a baby after her first baby gave her cancer or something, and then she probably died twice, I don’t know, I didn’t watch it.
Anyway, after a while I got to move to the other little room, where I waited clothed for another twenty minutes or so, while I heard my doctor softly speaking to the person next door who was sobbing hysterically.
More plastic surgery posters inside the little room, but I don’t know what exactly they were for. This is, I swear, an accurate depiction of one of them:
Staring at the wall, slowly going mad from the wait:
And then they take away all of my clothes!! So for a long time I sit still, thinking that this must be over soon. But instead I wait for another 45 minutes. I study the disgusting colorful hairless plasticy anatomical charts closely. Why are they there? Hopefully the doctors do not need them, and presumably the patients do not want them. And yet there that headless, limbless torso lies, spreading her legs for me, showing me her blank little anus.
I somehow neglected to get a photo of this poster, so I was looking for a copy of a similar one online and I found HORRIBLE THINGS instead. Dear lord, please whatever you do, take my advice and do not google image search for anatomical vaginas!* Lest you find this:
THEY KEEP IT IN A BOX.
Also, Wordpress doesn’t think that “vaginas” is a word. Wordpress also apparently doesn’t think that “Wordpress” is a word. Anyway. Where was I? Oh right. The doctor has left me to rot and wander naked through a room filled with small sharp brushes that are about to go into my nether places:
That’s lube and a science kit. That’s not right.
I feel confident in bragging about the fact that I did not have any “vesticules” that needed to be “unroofed,” but maybe the left side of this spine-curling sign may have applied? I’m not entirely sure what an “ectocervix” is, but all I could do was stare at those two pokey kitchen-ass-looking implements and imagine which one was the “spatula” and which one was the “device” and what would happen if one of them accidentally got “over-rotated.”
*Aw, who the hell am I kidding? I’m going to show you all those pictures, anyway.
Which is scarier? Disembodied Head Pelvis Monster?
Or the skeleton version thereof?
Or WHATEVER THE FUCKING HELL THIS ABOMINATION UNTO THE LORD IS???
Moral of the story: Boys should have to get anti-baby pills, too. It sucks.
I meant to post about this ages ago, but it took me a while, as I was busy gathering the evidence for my suit.
Check out #3 on this AV Club Blog post. Then compare it to the last photo in my own post from a while back!
Ian wasn’t convinced for a while, but I am absolutely positive: that is my picture. I have absolutely zero doubt in my mind. Which doesn’t actually mean that the avclub reads me, I know: in fact, I’m pretty sure I found the search that they performed that led them to the picture. But I’m pretty sure that this makes me kind of famous, still. I’m going to have to start charging people to read my blog now. Sorry, guys. $14 per entry, $16 for food blogs. Half off if I mention my cooter.
“Hm. Another Jessica v. Cosmo?”
“The last one wasn’t really all that funny.”
And it begins with an installment of Ian Smells! (WARNING: All of tonight’s Ian Smells are brought to you by an Ian who is so drunk he can barely stand.)
“J’adore” by Dior.
Ian: “J’adore?”
Jessica: “Dior.”
Ian, witheringly: “I know. Hey, that’s Charlize Theron! She wants to show me her boobies!”
Ian: “Mnsr. Dior: J’adore that there is a rotting pear in your sandal, but s’il vous plait, do not boil it down and rub it all over Charlize Theron’s tits in an attempt to pass it off as an eau de toilette. Ew. I need a toilet.”
Here’s a bit of a recurring theme that I’ve found in this month’s Cosmo: men are sensitive creatures. Compliment them constantly on the most stereotypically masculine things about them, even if those compliments are false. For instance: “In some cities, the median income of women in their 20s is higher than men’s in the same age range. If you’re one of those kick-ass chicks, make your guy feel worthy in other ways. Says Dan Neuharth, PhD, “Play up such things as how safe he makes you feel.”
Well! I do indeed make more money than Ian does, so I presented him with that compliment. “Ian,” says I, “I love how safe you make me feel.” Ian was not impressed. Frankly, Ian was confused. What sorts of compliments would he have preferred, I asked him? He came up with these, which you ladies out there are free to try on your own “guy”:
“Your balls are huge.”
“Your herculean cock has a timeless charm.”
“I’ll pay the light bill – you just come on my face.”
I thought of a few, too!
“Your tiny little empty wallet is so cute!”
“Do you want me to buy you an ice cream?”
“God, can’t you do anything??”
“I’m fucking your brother.”
Another theme I’ve picked up on: Cosmo is a bit behind the times, at least meme-wise. “On Grey’s Anatomy in 2006, Dr. Bailey told George “Stop looking at my vajayjay!” while giving birth. Since then, the term has been repeated everywhere from Oprah to 30 Rock. We asked readers if vajayjay should become the new slang word for vagina. Forty percent are all for it.” Well, first of all, “vajayjay” didn’t start with Grey’s Anatomy. Eve Ensler mentions it in the Vagina Monologues, and Paul Barman uses the word in MTV Get Off the Air Part 2. So there’s that. But also? Sorry, ladies, it was declared “over” like two months ago. (Incidentally, there is also a mistake in THAT article, too. Jezebel claims that “cooter” is rightfully Tina Fey’s. Look, I’m all for the expansion of the use of “cooter,” but please. It’s mine. Step off, TF.)
Ian Smells again already! “Believe” by Britney Spears.
“Hey, that’s CGI! Why no smell?”
Overreacting? “My boss, Deirdre, treated everyone at the company like crap. I was so frustrated that I hatched a plan to get her to stop being such a bitch.” So, you know, they specified her name, which specified her gender, then called her a “bitch.” Am I wrong to think that’s sort of on purpose? Would they have gone to such lengths for “Harvey” the “bastard?” (Incidentally, this was written by a 19 year-old boy who got her fired.) (Well, if any of these are even vaguely true, which I don’t believe that any of them they are. But still.)
More on Cosmo being just a tidge behind the times: “Off-color humor never gets old for guys. That’s why he’ll be logging major page views at HomestarRunner.com. the site is packed with a bunch of cartoons – think Family Guy-style – providing the perfect escape from a politically correct world.”
Another “men are vulnerable little bunnies that need constant stroking” tip: In an article titled “His Secret Dating Insecurities” there is this: “It’s a strange thing, but all guys harbor a desire to be humorous. So when he cracks a joke or makes a comical observation, make it clear that you got it (and enjoyed it). Saying ‘That’s hilarious!’ should do it.” Other ideas Ian and I have come up with:
“Your presence brings levity to the dullest of days.”
“Your riotous tomfoolery causes my vagina to gush forth the lubricants of love.”
“That observation sure was comical!”
“Your balls are huge.”
Ian Smells!! “With Love…” by Hilary Duff.
“Are you my third grade teacher? Where am I? Is this the Maltese Falcon?” (Editor’s note: I’m not sure whether this was an actual review here, or just his drunken reaction to my thrusting a magazine into his face as he was playing Half-Life 2.)
Ian Smells! “My Insolence” by Guerlain
“The girl in your high school that you hated: it smells like her feet smell in your filthiest “raped by a gang of Guatamalan twelve year olds addicted to model airplane glue” hate-fantasies. In other words, it smells like what the janitor uses to cover up the shit smell of the communal couch at your grandma’s nursing home.”
Jesus Christ! These are getting terrifying! No more Ian Smells!
Every issue, Cosmo features a list of new sex positions, or sex tricks, or something like that. It’s always this amazing mix of the freakishly impossible and the jaw-dropingly obvious. Like, tip #1 is hanging upside down from the ceiling while midgets massage your jaw muscles so that you can fit the entire lower half of his body in your mouth at once, and tip #2 is to moan, so that he thinks you’re enjoying yourself. Anyway, this issue’s tip #4 is that whipped cream thing. Like, the thing you see on tv, but it’s a joke? But…in Cosmo, it’s not a joke. “Ask your guy to lie back comfortably on the bed, then take a can of whipped cream and spray him from his navel to his upper thighs (you may want to lay a towel underneath him first).” HOT! And every one of these tips ends with some “emotional” pro for the ladies! “Every time he looks down and sees what you’re doing, he’ll remember that they’re the same sexy fishnets that covered your legs just a few minutes ago.” and “Also, sharing a kiss when he’s so aroused creates a sense of intimacy.” A sense of intimacy! While fucking! Fascinating! Thanks, Cosmo!
Blegh – see, this right here is basically Cosmo in a nutshell. First there’s the general and all-pervasive layer of “I hate that this exists but I can’t quite blame it on anything specific.”
And then, a second later, you get the, “Oh, right – that’s why.”
Hehe…Cosmo has a really short article on Jeanna Giese, the only person who has ever survived rabies without receiving the rabies vaccine. This was also an article in Scientific American recently. (God, that must happen all the time!) SciAm focused mostly on here treatment and cure, the progress of the disease, etc. Cosmo focuses mostly on whether she still likes animals.
Cosmo headline: “My Boyfriend Died!!!!” (Exclamation marks mine.) This article is illustrated with two photos: one of her smiling gigantically with the dead boyfriend, one of her smiling gigantically with the new, still-living, boyfriend. So phew!!!, right, ladies?
“Fast Fact”: “Laughter stimulates euphoria circuits in the brain and signals to others that you’re friendly. When something funny happens while you’re in public, let a chuckle rip.” Srsly? Srsly, Cosmo readers? You don’t know that already? You need Cosmo to tell you that, when something funny happens, you should laugh? That’s a thing? That happened? Okay. Okay.
“The Secret to Being a Confident Chick: LINGERIE. Donatella Arpaia believes in following your heart. She was an attorney but decided to ditch the corporate world. Now she owns multiple restaurants and has her own line of specialty foods. Here’s how she keeps it together: ‘Dressing for success isn’t limited to outerwear! I give myself a boost of confidence by wearing beautiful lingerie underneath.’” ERG! That’s the storyline you chose to go with, there? Attorney becomes restaurant owner, starts line of specialty foods, and you’re going to go ahead and write that paragraph about her bra? Arg arg arg arg arg.
Cosmo Health Watch! Where we tell you your tits are wrong, for…I don’t know, some reason, and that some kind of thing we recommended heartily on page 134 is carcinogenic, and that buttered popcorn causes popcorn lung. Which, you know, isn’t untrue if you’re that one single person in the entire history of popcorn who has ever contracted popcorn lung, ever. According to Cosmo: “Inhaling the buttery smell exposes you to a chemical that can lead to the aforementioned popcorn lung, which makes exhaling difficult, says Cecile Rose, MD, a pulmonary specialist at Denver’s National Jewish Medical and Research Center. Prevent it by: Eating the kind that doesn’t contain butter flavor or never inhaling the odor directly.” (Incidentally: I assume that poor Ms Rose is just FUCKING PISSED about this. Like, all of her colleagues are making righteous fun of her right now.) Ech…look, it’s 4:35 am. Literally. I’ve been drinking vodka with strawberry-orange-banana juice all night. I’m sleepy. I’m just not going to go into the hows and whys of this paragraph’s craziness, if you don’t already know. Go google-news it, or something. I’ll be over here. Napping.
I guess this doesn’t count as liveblogging today, since it’s something that happened before I left for Paris but forgot to post at the time. Boo. Anyway, your Intermittent Dose of Things My Yoga Instructor Said Today will be unfortunately interrupted by about a month and a half of laziness/business/excuses. In its stead I bring you this replacement:
Things My Cooter Waxer Said Today:
“Oh, my!”
“How long as it been since last time??? …No, it has been longer, I think.”
“The longer you wait, the more it hurts. This will hurt.”
“Why did you wait so long?” [I sheepishly informed her that my boyfriend had been out of town.] “You don’t want to keep CLEAN?”
“Okay, this will be the most painful part.”
“Well, wait, this will hurt, too.”
“Here, hold this.” ["This" referred to a part of my own body.]
[While threading my upper lip:] “Which one hurts more?” [I give my answer – it was the threading, incidentally, though I don't imagine it mattered.] “HAHAHAHAHAHA! Yessssss!“
Things my yoga instructor said tonight:
“Breathe into the right side of your neck and the left side of your body.”
“Engage your trunk.”
“Engage your root.”
“Sacrum.”
“There’s a part of every person that eats the fruit, and there’s a part that watches the…person that…eats the…fruit.”
Things she meant:
“I have little to no understanding of basic human biology.”
“Suck in that beer gut, fatties!”
“Suck in that cooter, slut!”
“Hey, look, I just made up another nonsense word, like I did before with ’sternum.’”
“Oh, man, I’m so high right now.”
Okay! Here’s a poll! Vote now, you democrat, you!
So I was talking about how it’s weird that monkeys have babies so easily, like, hanging out on branches the mom just sort of pops one out with a single hand, and she’s done with it, whereas humans have a really hard time with it, and the babies and the mothers die all the time, and stuff like that. It doesn’t make any sense evolutionarily for such a big portion of your species to not get born. So then Ian was all like, “Yeah, but that’s cause humans have big-ass heads.” And then I was like, “Well, okay, but why don’t humans evolve bigger cooters, then?”
Now. Here’s the poll. Which answer was funnier:
Ian: “God’s a dude.”
Jessica, gesturing in the general direction of her own: “The real question is, why doesn’t anyone ELSE evolve a bigger cooter?”
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