All posts by Licketysplit

Underwear, it’s everywhere. But mostly underneath.

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unspeakable

UnderFest 2004 continues!

Some underwear facts, via Freshpair.com:

It would take nearly 7.5 trillion pairs of men’s large briefs to cover Texas. To put that in perspective, that’s enough underwear to wrap around the earth 179,115 times.

During the 1700s women and men wore chemises, which were elongated shirts with short sleeves. Underpants were not common, even among the upper classes. (See, Lambchop and I are of the highest class!)

Men spend about $3.4 billion annually on underwear; women spend about $8.6 billion.

I am crafting a line of Vomitola logo thongs, so you should save your pennies until the blessed day people stop bothering me long enough so that I might finish the design. Lindsay Lohan’s people are not calling me back about the co-branding idea. How strange.

Who wants to know?

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Everyone is a pervert. You should all stop using Google, although I am amazed at how many of these terms we legitimately discussed. If you can call discussion of gum jobs legitimate.

gumjobs, monkey horse, dance fever, jennifer anniston toes, horse love, russian go go bar new jersey, workhouse treadmill charleston (ed.- from our fitness for orphans series), envy kitty, snappy garage sale slogan.

discredited, swan love spoon, questionaire about snack, pictures of beverly d’angelo wearing panties, renting things for parties like moon bounces, lindsay lohan’s fingernails, find translation patch to english for pokemon fire red, hulk tylenol, kiss harz mallet, dance jazz thong tard, hamster exfoliate.

anal leakage hot peppers, calories in maker’s mark, vomitola.com, putains, paula abdul bulimia, plastic wrap asphyxiation, kitty dukakis furniture, getting rid of chipmunks in new hampshire, short stories swinging speedos, meredith baxter burney (sic) nude, word mail merge albatross, zookeeper ergonomics, cats love cilantro, slimming wedding poses, the meaning behind she’s a brick house.

pictures of lindsay lohan’s underpants (ed.- she does not have to be wearing them, apparently), tina louise without makeup, what happened to kitty winn, what would david bowie do, openly masturbating, thong underwear opinions, rent an elephant, cruising fens + boston, photos of lizzie mcguire hairstyles.

It takes a village

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By my estimate, I engage the services of a dentist, an orthodontist/cosmetic dentist, a doctor, a lady parts doctor, a hairstylist, a colorist, a lawyer, an accountant, a financial advisor, the occasional cleaning help, a tailor, a trainer, a mechanic, an insurance agent, and now a ghostwriter. How did this happen? I am an invalid, incapable of all but ordering plane tickets on line. And preparing recipes that do not require fine chopping.

The ghostwriter will be undertaking all of my personal correspondence, starting today. For a monthly retainer, she will be writing this journal, commenting on the journals of others, answering my emails, and generally insulating me from the public. I have ordered a rubber stamp of my signature. I feel like Kostabi!

If only I could have her go to the gym for me. And the bathroom. I’ll be in Phuket if anyone needs me.

Is she poor?

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As I was traipsing through the financial district the other day on my way to see my trusted financial advisor, I ran into a fan. No, no, not as shit runs into a fan. I am insulted you would even think that. An actual Vomitola aficionado. This fan recognized me, and then, as fans will often do, asked for an autograph before proceeding to tell me that lately this has been a forum for nothing but pictures of dogs and babies.

That’s true! Guilty as charged. Our public will not be satisfied until Lambchop manages to impregnate me atop a grand piano in the town square. Until such time as nature allows, I leave you with a filthy little story. It is a cautionary tale for any of you who are “pre rich.”

** As told by Mr. H **

So a buddy of mine in college was dating this new girl, and his friend Carl asked him how it was going. So J. says “It’s cool, we have fun. The only thing is she doesn’t have a good job, and her family can’t give her any money. So I pay for everything when we do stuff.”

And Carl says “So she’s poor, huh?

“Yeah, I guess, she’s kind of poor.”

Carl thinks for a minute. Then he says “You know what you should do?”

J asks “What?”

Carl says “You should fuck her in the ass.”

J. says “Because she’s poor?”

And Carl says “Yeah, man, hell yeah.”

So that’s what happens to poor chicks.

Fancy drinks and lucky toasts

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Everyone, please enjoy your holiday weekend. Do as Leah’s mom* suggests and wear pots on your head if you are in a shootin’ kind of neighborhood. No handling fireworks unless you are a carny, and stay away from all the ucky carbs in the potato salad. I always pick them out.

Earlier this morning I asked “Dear Ethicist: Should I put on pants? Also, is it wrong to eat a second microwave entree if the other one did not fill me up? It was only 230 calories.”

I am still waiting to hear back. Every second he dilly dallies is another that I stay like this. By that I mean taller and happier than you. And thinner, since I eschewed the second entree.

I’m in a punchy mood because Mr. H and I somehow went through a lucky tollbooth a few weeks ago, and things are going right, right, right. We should go back and find that grizzled hillbilly with the friendly eyes and buy him a corn dog. I imagine he took us into his good favor simply because we were the first people that day not to heat up the change with the cigarette lighter before handing it over. Don’t worry, hateraters, because I am sure all this rightness will be followed by a period of wrong, wrong, worst.

For instance, the T in my keyboard starting sticking shortly after receiving good news. When Wheel of Fortune gives you R-S-T-L-N-E, that’s pretty goddamn generous because there are a lot of Ts in words.

I leave you with this summation of everything in my heart:

*Get a blog!

-xxoo

Every day is like Sunday

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Well, at least according to the New York Times. For some reason, my Sunday paper does not arrive on Sundays. Instead it arrives on Monday, and then another copy will show on Tuesday. I have called several times, and the helpful customer service representative said “I will put a note on your account that it is important that you receive the Sunday paper on Sunday.” At this rate, I will be able to wallpaper the rumpus room with newspaper that I still haven’t had time to read. As a child I was fascinated with the olde tyme newspaper printed on the tables at Wendy’s, so I imagine this would hold similar appeal.

Now we have a glut: entirely too many anecdotes and not enough time to natter about everything. There’s the hair raising tale of our weekend in Maine, Mr. H’s trip to “Bangladore,” getting Hepatitis A, that fucking chipmunk who keeps eating my plants, including the cilantro that totally did it with the dill (Dilettantro), and minor league baseball from last week. Did you know the mascot for the Lowell Spinners is the Canaligator? Even Kitty Winn has a backlog, and these problems are real humdingers. I just can’t focus. I’m going a million miles a second here.

Also, why not contribute to John Kerry today? Midnight tonight is the deadline for the last FEC filing before the convention. I shoveled some more into the pile, but I confess I used my credit card because we are still poor. And that reminds me of another story about what happens to poor chicks, but Mr. H made me promise that he could guest blog that one. Soon, pretties.

-xxoo