You hear the roar of the wind, the squeals of the street signs, the flapping of banners, the swooshing of trees and sirens of ambulances and firetrucks, and you see the leaves — so many little leaves — swirling red and white in the lights of cars coming and going, and you remember — this. This is why you’re here. The sudden weight of life and death on every choice. You’re alive. Yes, the dream is paramount, but you, the human, you’re still here. Why have you spent the past year in a car?
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Maybe you have no balls and can’t really offer a statement less vague than “this isn’t working.” Maybe you have and she just refuses to honor the breakup. Whatever the case (and yes, we’re totally judging you, as failure to disengage is a far more heinous crime than failure to engage), it’s time to call on your super douchebag powers. ​We have just the weapon for the task.
Ali Carter in a whipped cream bikini in Varsity Blues. We can’t remember what the movie was about, but we will never forget the whipped cream bikini. It looks awkward now, laughable. We’ve graduated from cherry-nipples and a huge triangle-shaped covering down there. Lucky for us, whipped cream has graduated, too.
The internets run on bacon. This we know. What we also know is that the obsession has engendered a variety of products, from bacon-flavored lip balm to bacon-flavored vodka. In view of this and the apparent fascination with mixing food with sex, we weren’t surprised to encounter the following item: bacon-flavored lubricant.
What our nervous sideway glances and jeers say is simple: if you let on that you have sex, you’re a danger to our children, and possibly to society itself. Never mind if you’re a tax-paying, law-abiding, philanthropic citizen otherwise — the second it becomes known that you have sex or are interested in it, you’re immediately labeled unfit.
Whatever your views may be when it comes to flesh on social networks, you have to agree that a process that doesn’t notify users of actions being taken by a social network with regard to their content is one that breeds insecurity and doubt. How can we feel that Google+ is an extension of our homes when we can’t be sure that we’re allowed to voice our opinions? This situation is grave indeed.
The one-handed bra-unhooking move — it’s a classic. We’ll probably never admit it to a man’s face, but when he reaches back there and unclasps our bras like it’s no big thing, we immediately endow him with epic brownie points. As to the ones who try and fail… we’d never admit this to their faces, either, but that’s nearly grounds for dismissal. What to do if you haven’t mastered this move?
