(The Inevitably Vagina-Related) Search Phrase Free Write!

I don't know who this is. It doesn't matter who this is. He is pretty cute, though.

People don’t get tired of searching the net for vagina stuff, and I have not yet gotten, nor anticipate getting, tired of writing about vagina stuff.  Today’s search phrase free write, courtesy of two aspiring ornithologists, is: “bird vagina”.

The closest I’ve come to seeing two birds having sex is the male pigeon’s courtship dance.  Beyond that, it’s easy to forget that birds are sexual.  It’s kind of like when you see your mom and dad flirting.  Or Santa and Mrs. Claus giving each other eskimo kisses.  “Oh yeah,” you think to yourself. “They have urges, sexual and otherwise, just like the rest of us. Weird.”

Hey, remember how last year my dad bought my mom Predator on DVD?  He accidentally did that again this year. 

Other noteworthy Christmas gifts: our cat (my dad) bought the entire family a copy of Terminator: Salvation.  My dad let me open it.  When he handed the present to me I asked him why the tag (To: Family, From: Critter) was taped onto the back of the gift instead of the front.  And my dad said, “It’s from the cat.  He’s stupid.” 

So, bird vagina.  One of my favorite things about home is that outside of our big kitchen window, right in front of the sink, my mom hangs a bird feeder and suet from the tree.  So it makes this perfect bird-watching spot!  In the comforts of the kitchen!  It’s really great.  Sometimes I can see their vaginas.

Some people are probably sexually attracted to birds.  I started to write more on this idea, but decided it wasn’t worthy of anyone’s time.  One of the sentences may have posited: “Women like a nice beak.”

Anyway.  I’m thankful for a lot this holiday season.  I’m pretty ecstatic about where I am, who I am, and the people who are surrounding me.  And I’m especially ecstatic about bird vagina.

Search Phrase Free Write

Two people used the search phrase “steak vagina” yesterday to find my page.  Those two people, or that one person who searched the same phrase twice, are/is to blame for what follows.

Steak is good when properly prepared.  I’m still deciding how I feel about A1 Steak Sauce.  I think I like it.  I like steak when there’s that bit of pinkness (not redness) right in the middle–I guess that qualifies as medium?  Medium well?  I used to always request my meat cooked medium well, but the meat usually comes back completely well.  Which is a bummer.

Advertisers love to use backyard barbecues as the setting of commercials in the summer.  Men manning grills.  And tongs.  And lighter fluid.  There’s something so American about it.  There’s this commercial Jim Gaffigan is in right now in which he makes some snarky comment about a grill being a thoughtful gift.  I bet he doesn’t actually want a grill for Christmas, though.

My supervisor just came around and told my coworker and me that we could eat the chicken in the fridge.  I don’t think it was prepared on a grill.

I like those steak chew toys that dogs sometimes have.  If I were a dog I would love one for Christmas.  It need not squeak though.

Some people don’t eat steak, but they eat vagina.  Some people don’t eat vagina, but they eat steak.  Some people eat neither steak nor vagina.  Some people aspire to eat vagina and see no correlation between that and eating steak.  Some people eat three times as much steak in a month as they eat vagina.  Some people are morally opposed to eating steak.  These are probably not the same people who are morally opposed to eating vagina.

“Steak vagina.”

Gosh, I hate it when she posts poems.

The First Thursday in September

I stop in Bryant Park and watch the men
playing ping pong at 10:30 at night on a Thursday.
They bring their own paddles and balls–
they’re serious.  Over where the grass usually is
other men are busy.  They set up a tent.
Maybe for Fashion Week.  I guess for Fashion Week.
I forget it’s Fall, unofficially, considering Labor Day.

I only stop in hopes one of the men will invite me to play,
but after I try and fail to catch a stray ball
that flies near my head and one of the men says, “Good try,”
(in a way that makes me think he found it endearing that
I’d even attempted as it was obviously futile considering
my vagina) I walk off.

In line for the public restroom the two women behind me
talk about a bartender–
“You should totally marry him.”  “Yeah,” the other one nods.
She describes the way he peers into her eyes over the bar
as she orders: “Intense.”  They nod.
“He’s dreamy.”  “Yes, dreamy. That’s
a good way to describe him.”

A door opens and a person emerges.
It’s my turn and I take a piss.

Pietro Bembo: Secure in both his masculinity and his spirituality?

I take pride in the strange search terms that are often used to find my blog.  I want to stencil them on a wall or stitch them into a throw pillow, and then use them as physical proof that I am, in fact, strange.  Maybe I don’t need to prove that.  It’s kind of a strange impulse to feel the need to prove one’s strangeness–in the same way that some people go to extreme lengths to prove their manhood by buying big fancy cars or shooting big fancy guns. 

Anyway, someone typed “how money is a red cardinal bird worth”, and ended up here.  First of all, I like the omission of the word “much”.  And I also like that someone is trying to sell a “red cardinal bird”–so specific!  Had they just said “cardinal”, then someone may have thought they were trying to sell the female variety which is more of a brownish color, OR someone may have thought they were thinking of auctioning off a senior ecclesiastical official in the Catholic Church.  Personally, I think birds are way more attuned to God than oh, say, Pietro Bembo over here.  And therefore, an all-around better investment. 

Cardinals aside, the only other noteworthy search terms of late have been “vagina” (still) and “Gary Busey”.  I guess I also take pride in being inane.

You know what pisses me off?

American Apparel. It’s bad enough that there is always a naked picture of a fifteen-year-old girl trying so, so hard to look sexy on the backs of The Village Voice and The Onion because of them. I don’t care if their schtick is making the clothes in Downtown LA.  Really.  I applaud their decision not to exploit overseas people to make the crappy clothes.  Still, that tidbit doesn’t excuse the fact that they exploit fawn-in-the-headlight girls to sell brightly colored bodysuits and micro-mesh minidresses.

Okay, okay. I’m kind of a fan of the male models on their website. I can stand for, and even pick up a few fashion tips from, effeminate men in tie dye:

But now this lawsuit with Woody Allen?  Why would they even put up a billboard featuring Woody Allen?  I think he’s right–their advertisements are sleazy, and if I were him I’d be angry enough to sue over being slathered above a boulevard with their name next to my face without my consent.  And regurgitating Woody’s scandal with Mia Farrow and Soon-Yi Previn?  Fuck you, American Apparel.  And an emphatic fuck you over this:

“It’s certainly relevant in assessing the value of an endorsement,” he (the company’s lawyer, Stuart Slotnick) said, noting that Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps lost endorsement power after a photograph surfaced of him using marijuana.

First of all, Mr. Slotnick, Woody didn’t want to give an endorsement. Secondly, that Michael Phelps thing happened last week.  Woody Allen’s scandal?  Before any of American Apparel’s models were breastfeeding. 

It’s kind of a mystery to me as to why I’m a fan of Woody Allen despite his…deeds.  I think the main reason is that he’s out of his mind.  He’s just bizarre.  And sometimes the only thing I’m in the mood for is a Woody Allen movie.  I can’t help it.  Most people think he could’ve helped falling in love with his adopted daughter, but who knows?  I don’t know, and I don’t feel like judging the man for it. I certainly don’t think all fathers should snap naked photos of their adopted daughter while they’re still living with her mother, but…you know. That kind of behavior is pretty much on par with what American Apparel does on a daily basis. Case in point:

Just what I need. A mauve cotton spandex jersey tank thong.

The recreational activities of female genitalia.

Oh. My. God. Something beautiful has happened. In the past few days, HUNDREDS more people than usual have viewed my blog.  And it’s all thanks to a little search term called…vagina.

Plain ol’ “vagina” is bringing in the most people, but runners up include “big vagina,” “dirty vagina,” “vagina is purple,” “piece of vagina” (ah!), “light up vagina” (OOH!), and “how to make a finger vagina.” That last one sounds like it came from a terribly confused soul who inquired about a noun when a verb was intended.

In case you only recall there ever being talk of Barbara Walters lap dances or Tom Brokaw sex dreams on this blog, click here to see a giant bicycle vagina. That also sounds like it was meant to be a verb (giant vagina bicycling), but it really is a noun. It’s a giant bicycle vagina. And it’s amazing.

Well.  I got completely distracted by vaginas in this post.  Here are some less interesting things I may have done had vaginas not stolen the show:

• Complained tirelessly about banks and their exorbitant overdraft charges.
• Cooked you a steak like Cher in Moonstruck.  (You’d have eaten it rare while wearing a wooden hand.)
• Wished you a Happy St. Patrick’s Day.
• Referred you to this Craiglist ad.
• Compared Kim Jong-Il to a summer’s day. 
• Presented a hypothetical question asking: “If you were a predator, would you be less likely to pursue as prey someone who walked down the sidewalk wielding a fork?”
• Reminisced about the Halloween I dressed up as a fork.
• Mentioned the fork that is literally in my road, in the tar of my road.
• Displayed an obvious affection for bullet points.
• Retracted Kim Jong-Il comparison.

Yay Vagina! Boo Certain Men in Uniform!

I don't know what the story is with this bicycle turned vagina, but it's clearly the best thing ever.

I went to see “The Vagina Monologues” at my alma mater tonight.  When we walked in, in order to be let through, we told the security guards we were going to see it, so naturally the word “vagina” was used. One of the security guards straight out giggled.  And another attempted a joke, saying, “Is that open to the public?”  It’s just like…really?  And if I say “boobies” are you going to piss your pants? 

Anyway.   They did a really great job with the monologues.  The proceeds of productions usually go to support woman’s anti-violence groups.  Groups that, unfortunately, still need the funding:

NYPD officer accused of raping East Village woman while drunk

A police officer is being investigated in the rape of an East Village woman he escorted home after being told she was too drunk to stand, law enforcement sources said.

The officer and his partner came to the woman after a cab driver called 911 on Dec. 7, telling cops she had vomited in his car and couldn’t find cab fare, the source said.

Law enforcement sources said they had surveillance video from the victim’s apartment building showing the two cops helping the drunken woman inside and returning to the building a second time more than a half hour later. The woman reported the rape to the Manhattan district attorney’s office, where officials are currently investigating the complaint, the source said.

Both cops, whose names were not released, were stripped of their guns and badges and placed on modified desk duty.

A lawyer for one of the officers, Stephen Worth, declined to comment.

NYPD Internal Affairs investigators searched both cops’ lockers and found one packet of heroin.

The officer accused of rape told colleagues he had forgotten to voucher the drugs after confiscating them in a separate case.

Both cops were given drug tests and passed.