An ode to Clairol #110

I recieved a rather impertinent question the other day.  Fortunately it was from a good friend, who is absolutely entitled to a bit of impertinence!  He wanted to know if I was a redhead by birth or by design.

Now, any woman could take one glance at the ever-changing hues on my head and not have to ask such a silly question.  It's acutally funny to learn that men might be naive enough to even wonder.

While I am now the same age as the lovely actresses who shill hair color in television ads, dye is not exactly a new development in my life.  I've been coloring my hair for the sheer joy of it since I was about 24.  Younger than that if you count a few ill-fated experiments with henna, lemon juice, or that wicked concoction from the 80's known as "Sun In."

I've been coloring so long that I'm only vaguely acquainted with my natural shade.  If I had to hazzard a guess, I'd say it is the sort of soft, mouse brown that is pretty ubiquitous in my part of the Midwest.  I'm certain that any flattering, youthful highlights have long since fled, and I know that a handful of grays are now sprinkled through my crown.  There's absolutely nothing wrong with mouse brown tinged with silver. 

So why bother with coloring?  

Personally, it's just that brown has never suited my vanity all that well.  I can't pull off a sultry brunette with my fair skin and blue eyes.  I don't particularly desire to be blonde.  (And anyway, the required maintenance would suck the fun right out of that hue.)  My dad and my maternal uncles all have gorgeous red hair, and so my inherited coloring is well-suited to a shade that most women would wince at.  (And yes, I can also wear chartreuse.  Another big wince-inducer.)

But mostly, I'm just attracted to the idea of having red hair, and all the associations that go with it.  I have a pathological need to stand out in a crowd.  I've always enjoyed cultivating a certain affect of wildness, although my friends know I have more in common with a bookworm than an adventuress.  I identify with brash, bawdy ladies like Lucille Ball, Carol Burnett.  If your restaurant table doesn't have the loudest, most uncouth laughter in the room, then I'm probably not sitting at it. 

Did you know Margaret Sanger was a redhead?  So was Napoleon Bonaparte.  And Vincent Van Gogh, James Joyce, and Mark Twain (before he had his iconic white mane).  If you're creative, attention-seeking, and sort of domineering, red might just be the color for you.


I look forward to reading corresponding essays on why brunette is better, along with one or two defensive rants from blondes.

People of Walmart

The ultimate pick-me-up when you're having a less than perfectly groomed day?  People of Walmart.  Really helps put your frizzy hair/sweatpants/rough cuticles into perspective.

I didn't know you could bring your cat into the store.

Have mercy NBC

Please NBC, I beg you to be more selective in your camera angles. I’ve been watching the bobsledding events and while most of the competitors do justice to the skintight cat suits that they are required to wear, there are several who do not. Think paunchy former linebackers stuffed into formfitting uniforms. Exactly.

All I ask is that you film these athletes with the same care given to Big Ten linemen – always from a distance and no stomach shots. Don’t get me wrong, the fact that these guys can compete at such high levels without having perfect physiques certainly makes me feel better about my body. I just ask that until a Spanx version of the bobsledding uniform comes out that NBC spare the rest of us all the gory details.

How to pill a cat

The other day I went to the vet’s office to pick up my disgruntled cat and, in addition to the little darling, I was also provided with a small container of pills. Unfortunately, they weren’t for me. I wasn’t quite sure how exactly to get the cat to take the pills and so the earnest vet tech suggested that I try and hide the pills in mushy food, otherwise I would have to pill the cat.

I wasn’t terribly excited about pilling the cat so I decided to try and hide the teeny tiny pills in some soft cat food. You may wonder how many times you can hide pills in mushy cat food before the cat figures it out. Twice, exactly.

This left me no choice but to attempt cat pilling. The method outlined in the vet office consisted of standing behind the cat, using one hand to open her mouth and the other to throw the pill as far to the back of her throat as possible. Like I said, it wasn’t my first choice.

What the vet tech failed to mention is that if you don’t get the pill in far enough, the cat will spit it out. Repeatedly. All the while the cat is producing a sound somewhere between a growl and demonic chanting. Fortunately, if you repeat this process enough times, the cat will eventually give up and swallow the pill. Fortunately no cats, or people, were injured during this project. I can only hope that none of you have to attempt this.

One businessman gets it right

Guest post-er Buzz here. Not much snark in this one, but just had to share a really cool story.

In this era of corporate bad-guys, it's pretty nice to hear about one businessman who is doing the right, logical, ethical thing.

http://cosmos.bcst.yahoo.com/up/player/popup/?cl=18227127

Why hasn't this dawned on more of corporate America?

Perhaps this only works for Bob because he runs a good company with transparent books? It would make sense that if you have a company with questionable accounting practices you would have a hard time giving it to the employees. I mean, who would want a gift like that?

"Here you go, good luck with the P&L (suckers)".

So, kudos to Bob's Red Mill. I liked your products before, but now you have a customer for life.

Report from the high seas

[Thought I would share this very entertaining email from my dad, who is "enjoying" a South American cruise.]

The cruise has been quite an experience so far. We spent a day in Montevideo, Uruguay and then headed south along the Atlantic towards the Falkland Islands which was supposed to take two days. At the dress up dinner after the first day, we were enjoying our meal when the ship took a sudden lurch, sending glasses and plates and silverware shuffling all over the table. I was heroic in that I kept two glasses of water, mine and the lady next to me, from tipping. The Captain came onto the PA system and I never heard a room of a hundred people or more get so quiet so quickly. He announced that there was no problem but that we had hit a quite tall wave. Unfortunately, he indicated that it was very rough seas ahead and that we could expect some more.


Shortly, thereafter, in our beds, the ordeal began. The lurching, yawing, rolling, increased and it was evident that there were quite heavy swells. This was the beginning. We then endured the night with very little sleep because the ship would rise 40 or more feet into the air on a swell and reach the top while 40 to 50 mile per hour winds pushed directly on our bow, momentarily keeping the huge ship of thousands of tons up while blowing away the viscious connection between it and the sea. The result, seconds later, was that the ship would fall the 40 feet, plus another 40 into the trough, maybe a half inch behind the water itself. At the bottom the bow would plunge hard into the water and the slap would emit a sound like someone had hit both sides of the ship with a sledge hammer. While this was happening, Cathy and I, in our bed, felt as though we had been body slammed and at the very moment of the slam would come the pound. There would be another pound milliseconds later at the first harmonic of the distance from the top to the bottom of the ship. Very unnerving. We had a good chance to study this effect over the next 38 hours while being body slammed from between 10,000 and 15,000 times.

Simultaneously, every interfacing surface in the cabin that could articulate, did articulate, giving out a grinding sound like a rope being stretched to its limits and about to part. That sound, like a ¨kkkk, kkkk, kkkk,,,,,kkkk¨ would coincide with an increasing pressure on your head and neck as it was mashed deeper and deeper into the mattress.

It was inevitable that we started vomiting, and before long we had matching wastebaskets on either side of the bed. Cathy discovered seasick pills by calling on the phone for assistance, and they were delivered. They were supposed to be taken with food, I was very glad to hear. I ate a saltine cracker, chewed a pill, and immediately retched it up. A half hour later, when I had regained my composure, I nibbled an infinitisimal edge of cracker, then a slight bit of a pill and after an hour, I had kept half a cracker and a whole pill down. It did help. I now had all of the foregoing effects going on, but they were disconnected, especially from my stomach. 39 hours had passed since I had had a single drop of liquid or a single crumb of food. We were notified that we were going to be 4 hours late going into Port Stanley and that we were in the worst sea conditions of the last two years. We couldn´t put tenders ashore, but were going to pull into the outer harbor so that a guest could be medivacced off. For a while I thought they were talking about me, but it turned out to be a woman who they put in a lifeboat, lowered over the side and into a pilot boat and took away to a hospital. We, in turn, went on with our voyage of discovery of the depths of human suffering.

When we finally got to the bottom of South America and turned east, we got some relief and by Cape Horn, the seas were quite calm. We found out that we had swells of over 50 feet and headwinds of 46 knots. I could not help but think, why didn´t we bring the kids, this is so much fun.

Special thanks to roving correspondent, John, for this update that no doubt makes all of us grateful that the past few days were nowhere near as exciting here on land.

Dubious beauty product features

I bought some bubble bath yesterday, and I noticed that on the bottle it boasts “New Softer Foam!” This made me wonder. Did this bubble bath used to feature hard and flinty foam? Was it more of a sand storm than a bubble bath? What exactly does it mean that the foam is softer? Did people complain of the abrasive nature of this foam? Do I really want or need softer foam?

These thoughts led to me thoughts of other cosmetics. Did you know that Maybelline has mascara with a vibrating brush? If I am going to purchase a personal item that vibrates, it won’t be mascara. How does vibration improve my mascara application? I would think that this would hinder rather than help the situation. What if my hand slips while applying the vibrating mascara? Could this cause unforeseen damage to my eye? Is the vibrating mascara battery powered?

How competitive the world of bath products and cosmetics must be for companies to produce such desperate “improvements” to their products.

If the foam isn’t really any softer, I wonder if they will refund my four bucks.

By our very hands-on investigative reporter, Mary.

Et tu, Cupid?

Here, dear reader, is why I hate Valentine's Day. 

It is a totally commercialized holiday, fraught with expectation that has nothing to do with our actual desires.  (Or everything to do with them, but all rolled into one artificial day.)

It's a stupid insult to single folk everywhere who are somehow made to feel inadequate even though everyone pretty much universally dislikes the holiday, except restaurateurs, who can charge a ridiculous price for a mediocre bottle of champagne and a fixe menu. 

But it is certainly most insulting to otherwise happily married folk who would like to think that they are far beyond all petty show of romance, but who nonetheless find it stings incredibly to come up totally empty-handed on this most crass of days.

Aye. There's the rub.

Years ago I graciously let my husband off the hook for every holiday-related duty with the exception of the following three responsibilities: a card on my birthday, a card on my anniversary and a card on Valentine's Day.

Saying goodbye to gifts was not difficult.  Money is tight, and Valentine's Day is superficial.  I always hated the "office competition," where bouquet after overpriced bouquet of generic roses is delivered, each one providing a sort of stamp of approval for the recipient and leaving those with empty desks squirming.  (Only I didn't squirm.  I was fine opting out.) 

But - - and let this be a lesson to women everywhere - - where has this lowering of expectation gotten me?  Well, for the past several years, it has resulted in a need for constant reminders that such-and-such a date is approaching, and that a card is expected.  (Wow.  Romantic, huh?) 

And this year, despite (annoying) reminders earlier in the week, it netted me zip. 

We were quite busy this week and weekend, to be sure.  But I ask you: If he can manage 300-odd sales employees, create breathtaking excel spreadsheets, and handle his big boy calendar chock full of business travel... why can't he manage this one small thing? 

I can hear him grousing: "Why does it matter so much anyway?  It's a stupid card, and a stupid day." 

Why does it matter to me?  He's a great dad.  He's very loving, in the squeeze-my-rump-while-I'm-doing-the-dishes sort of way.  He sometimes takes out the garbage without being told.  He works hard and helps support us all.  He even volunteers the occassional ice cream run when I'm having a craving. 

That's a lovely list of attributes, and they add up to a guy I'm very grateful for.  But the sad truth is that there's nothing romantic in my life, unless you count those damn Sookie Stackhouse novels.  And I don't see a sexy, thousand-year-old vampire tapping on my window anytime soon.

And while I know my husband loves me a lot, he definitely doesn't say it enough, and not nearly in a flowery enough way.  So it seems crazy to me that, efficient fellow that he generally is, he doesn't take advantage of the fact that Hallmark has basically done all the hard stuff for him.  All he has to do is shell out the four bucks and read enough of the card to make sure it's not tastelessly humorous.

You know how guys feel about constantly being the only one to initiate sex?  That's how I feel about romance.  (You'd think he would see the obvious connection between those two things, but trust me, he doesn't.)  I hate that I've been reduced to the kind of romantic peer pressure that only a national holiday can inflict. 

And even that doesn't seem to be working.

Opening ceremonies: Nice job, hey?

Despite a little erectile dysfunction at the very end, I found the opening ceremonies at the Vancouver Winter Olympics lived up to the "pageantry" one expects of these things.  And it cost kajillions less than Beijing spent, too.  Count on Canadians to be tasteful and restrained during an economic downturn.

Only, even the "restrained" budget still ran into the billions.  For a couple hours of strangely fascinating entertainment to be sure.  But still, it strikes me that the Olympic opening ceremonies could be considered a roaming economic stimulous package geared toward the creative/mentally-unbalanced.  In what other situation do you get to say the following:

"Ummm, I know the Virtual Floor costs more than all the facilities we built to house the sporting events.  But we need those spouting whales and splintering icebergs, damnit!"

[At open casting]: "NO!  I want authentically crazy fiddlers and grundge tapdancers.  We need to round up some actual street people, spend four years intensively training them in the performing arts, and then hope they don't bring heroin into the arena."

[After viewing early run through]: "It's CRAP!" [tears at hair dramatically] "The Native Peoples just aren't bringin' it.  They're enthusiastic, but it's all just a bunch of drum banging.  It's clearly lacking in power and emotion.  Get me Bryan Adams."

Best winter olympic events ever

And so, tonight begins the Winter Olympics. Good luck pulling it all off Canada, I'm rooting for you.

But aside from giving props to my friends from the north, I think the absolute best event ever in the Winter, or any Olympics really is sledding.

Yes, I'm talking the luge and bobsledding - the best Olympic events ever.

I mean, how totally cool is it that you take something as bizarre as sledding--think about it, you take a hunk of wood, wax the bottom of it, sit on top of it and fling yourself down a hill--and manage to get six, SIX, Olympic events out of it.

Keep your peepers on:

• Bobsleigh - Two man, Four man, Women's.
• Luge - Men's Singles, Women's Singles, and, um, yeah...Doubles.

On second thought...

Political poster boy for smut or sign of the times?

Doesn’t anyone else find it disturbing that the man who replaced Senator Ted Kennedy, the last remaining legacy of Camelot, is a man who posed for a cheesy centerfold in the 1980s? The Kennedy’s, for all their moral failings, would never have posed for such a cheesy picture (seriously it looks as though he has lady parts) much less allowed themselves to be exploited in this manner. Isn’t the Republican Party supposed to show us the way to good moral values and clean living? Is this a sign that they are throwing in the towel in the face of all the recent sex scandals plaguing politicians?


Or maybe this can only mean great strides forward for anyone who may have made some questionable decisions in their twenties. Maybe someday Ron Jeremy will be elected to the House of Representatives. After all, we have now broken the seal, so to speak.

It will start off slow. First Cosmo Boy in the Senate, then the Playmate of the Year becomes the Governor of California. Soon our School Boards will be filled with former strippers and a porn star will be Mayor of New York City.

So c’mon people, post those scandalous pictures on your Facebook wall and let your Freak Flag Fly!

If there is one thing that Sen. Brown teaches us, it is that there are no consequences for behaving badly. Now try telling your fifteen year-old that sending naked pictures to their boyfriend/girlfriend is a bad idea that could negatively impact their future. “How could you do something so stupid – are you trying to end up as a Senator!?”

Back in the day, scandalous pictures showed, at the very least, poor judgment. Leaving photographic evidence of one’s indiscretions was not only stupid but would limit, if not ruin, your career. So maybe this is a step forward? Suddenly the fact that someone in public office happens to be gay seems unimportant.

Thanks to new our newest contributor Mary for this scathing evaluation of men who take their clothes off for fun and fame.

A very special Duggar coming out story

As you may have seen on television, the Duggars are a very conservative family who believe that people should have as many kids as God will give them. Thanks to the good Lord, and the rhythm method, they now have 19.

My question is what happens when one of them comes out of the closet?

Let’s face it: At 10% percent that’s a couple of gay kids.  Or, rounding down, one solidly gay child and one who decides to explore alternative lifestyles in college.

So what happens when one of the boys asks for a bedazzler for Christmas?  Or when one of the girls trades in long skirts for flannel and sturdy boots? Will Jim Bob lead the family in a prayer circle? How will the introduction of fabulousness impact the other children?

Stay tuned America!

Special thanks to our newest contributor, Julie, for voicing this critical question.

Men who are actually sexier when they open their mouths and begin to speak

Denis Leary

Fiery and funny, this is the man who made bitter and angry very, very attractive.  In trademark black, preferably leather, Leary exudes confidence.  And when he launches into a string of incendiary humor, we feel all fluttery on the inside. 

Because bad boys can be articulate too, we hereby nominate the brilliant and dangerous Denis Leary as a "Man Who is Actually Sexier Once He Opens His Mouth and Begins to Speak."

Thanks Melina!

Old people are smothering the world

Rep. Murtha

U.S. Representative John Murtha passed away today.  Of course the primary reaction to this news was sadness and sympathy for his family.  My secondary reaction, however, was a bit less charitable.

Murtha was 77 years old.  And still serving in Congress.  In a seat he has held since 1974 (the year after I, dear readers, was BORN).  Are those big wooden chairs in the House of Representatives that comfy?  I mean, last time I checked this was a democracy... not the friggin' House of Peers.

Murtha's antiquity made me curious, so I did a little research.  (OK, totally superficial research... I clicked on a handful of websites and then grew bored with the idea of scientific accuracy.)  Turns out, a whole lot of the people in Congress are old.  And I mean really, really OLD.

And it's not just the public sector either.  Check out the CEO's of prominent corporations.  For that matter, check out the middle managers and even half of the peons that you, dear reader, work with today.  Baby boomers are the plaque that is clogging the arteries of progress in this country.

Last time I checked, Social Security kicked in around 67.  (65 if you were born before 1960, as the majority of our Congressmen were.)  So, let me ask as nicely as I can:

Will. You. People. Please. RETIRE?!?

I know the stock market keeps messing with your savings, but unless you're prepared to work another 20 years (please, God, no); you might as well cut your losses and enjoy your remaining decade of full mobility.

Listen, I have great respect for my elders.  I hope to be a vibrant, wise, active old lady one day.  But in the meantime I have a career that's in neutral, a family to support on a mid-level salary that I'm quickly out-growing, and a retirement of my own to plan for. 

We Gen Xers have gotten sort of a bad rap from the beginning.  But if you really want to see a bunch of unmotivated, beligerent slackers, just park your asses smack dab in the middle of our future for another decade.

The (sexy) perks of fatherhood

Seeing Drew Brees share a moment with his adorable son after winning the Superbowl made me briefly ponder a new category of award for this blog: "Men Who Are Actually Sexier Once They Become Parents."  But then it struck me that I had stumbled onto a universal truth: ALL men are sexier once they become fathers. 

(There are actually a handful of exceptions to this truth.  Levi Johnston is an outstanding example.  While he is young and handsome, he strikes me as an uncommitted, fairly irresponsible father.  So his appeal is actually decreased by offspring.)

This should be very reassuring for men like my husband, who regularly bemoans the terrible toll his two offspring have taken on his youthful good looks. 

Yes, my beloved now has a generous sprinkling of white in his formerly all-black hair.  (There is also a notable decline in quantity of said hair.  But I would never dwell on that.)  His laugh lines have indeed deepened.  His middle has broadened somewhat.  And sometimes, after spending an entire weekend day entertaining the kids, he looks a tad haggard.

But he's also undeniably more attractive than he was before I married him and partook of his genetic material.  And not just to me, I firmly believe.  I catch more women than ever doing a double-take.  And when he is out with the kids, it's almost as if female bystanders cannot help themselves!  They strike up conversation on the flimsiest pretext; offer unsolicited help with my children; even brazenly flirt.

And I find myself having the same inexplicable reaction to other men with their kids, too.  There is something so achingly sweet, so powerfully engaging, about a man in the role of father. 

As gratifying as it is to have garnered my own special porn designation ("Milf." If you don't know what it means, ask any 14 year old boy.) ... it does strike me that the appeal of women is not universally enhanced by motherhood. 

Another biologically-driven double standard. 

Men demonstrate their virility and wham-o: We find them even more attractive.  Women bear a child and mwah-mwah: Overnight we enter the un-sexiest club in the world.

Apocalypse preparedness training: Lesson #2

Re-populating Planet Earth is not for lightweights. 

Women, it is utterly essential that we go into the post-apocalyptic period with clear priorities and firm resolve.  Unless we want surviving generations to be useless (albeit attractive) morons incapable of creating a new world order, we need to adhere to the following foolproof guidelines for selecting reproductive partners.

Brad Pitt = NO.

1. Movie stars

I'm truly sorry ladies, but if all he has to offer are charm, good looks and dubious acting ability, he is off limits.  George Clooney may possibly just barely be acceptable, assuming his quick wit (indicative of a desirable level of intelligence) exists in real life and not only in scripted situations.

The following males will be designated undesirable: Brad Pitt, Jude Law and Leonardo Dicaprio.  Keanu Reeves is to be shunned by all remaining humanity.

2. Tradesmen

If he can hammer, weld, calibrate, engineer or even just plain dig... jump him.  Rebuilding society will take considerable brawn and practical know-how.  The good news?  Those of us who can cook and garden should, according to my highly-scientific calculations, be the future equivalent of bombshells.  Even sewing will be hot.

Not bad, Senator.  But the answer is NO.

3. Politicians

I'm just taking a stab in the dark here, but who exactly do you think got us into this apocalyptic mess in the first place?  I'm pretty sure we should keep politicians off the breeding list.

4. Nerds

If a given nerd manages to survive the chaos of the immediate aftermath, it is safe to say that his stock is sturdy enough to merit mating.  Intelligence is highly desirable, but only if the body carrying it does not constitute a liability to the rest of the survivors. 

5. Musicians

(See Movie stars, above.) 

Notable exception: Keith Richards.  We're pretty sure he's some sort of incredibly durable alien, and bringing some of his genetic traits into our race could produce a perpetually ravaged superhuman, with a notable immunity to the effects of sex and drugs.

We've yet to catalog the complete range of males, so please feel free to share your thoughts on professional athletes, sensitive ponytail types, and men who sport tiny, tight swimwear.

Google proves articulate men don’t exist

While searching for images to use at work (I needed pictures of business men, articulate, professional, etc. – that kind of image) I happen to do a Google search for “articulate men”. This is what came up in the results:

First off, let’s just address the obvious – Nike must be either totally oblivious or complete geniuses. In marketing we call this ‘knowing your audience’. It’s not until you get to the second line that there is any mention of footwear. Being from the Midwest, we have a very limited amount of time when one actually wears Thongs as footwear – so Thongs mean something totally different to me; and many others I’m sure.

So to see the very first result in Google come up as the Articulate Mens Thong was quite a treat let me tell you. Like there needs to be special thongs for wordy fellows as opposed to the thongs for your average grunting joe? Love it! I hope men of a certain diction enjoy “sliding into something a little more comfortable” each and every day.

Now, on to the fact that the second highest ranking belongs to BlogHer. My inner feminist is relishing in this one. Search for an articulate man and get a website run by women. And not just a site run by women, but the article cited is BY a woman. Thank you Bianca.

So, all of this leads me to believe that Google has just proved the existence of articulate men is--nada. Again, back to my original search; I was expecting to see links to actual men, pictures of them, their posts or sites or media. We all know that Google runs the planet, so if it doesn’t show up here I’m certain it (they) won’t show up anywhere.

Of course I’m sure this post will get flack from all the men out there that would categorize themselves as articulate. I know dears, I’m sure you’re very well spoken given the added confidence gained from the thong. But you have to admit this one is funny.

Supermodel airbrushes labor and delivery

It's one thing to airbrush your photographs, Giselle, but please do us all a favor and refrain from airbrushing childbirth. I can't imagine anyone actually believes this crock!

From babycenter.com: Opening up about her bathtub birth, supermodel mom Gisele Bundchen says that her drug-free labor and delivery “didn’t hurt in the slightest.”

“I wanted to be very aware and present during the birth… I didn’t want to be drugged up,” she says of her son Benjamin’s birth in December. “So I did a lot of preparation, I did yoga and meditation, so I managed to have a very tranquil birth at home. It didn’t hurt in the slightest. The whole time my mind was focused in each contraction on the thought ‘my baby is closer to coming out.”

I like to imagine the real scenario included a lot of profanity, spitting and pummeling (at least until the ultra-exclusive-Supermodel-only-epidural kicked in)... as this lithe creature attempted to pass the equivalent of a football from her uterus into the world.  Oh, and Tom Brady?  Hiding in the bathroom.

My slutty pony

So one of my daughter's little ponies was staring at me this morning.  Or rather, I suppose, I was staring at it.  (Her?) 

Suddenly it struck me: The glossy, made-up eyes... the hint of lip shimmer... the ridiculously long extensions, tossed flirtatiously off to one side... the cheesy tattoo... and yes, the arched back, pushing the perfect little rump a bit higher into the air. 

The pony is definitely a slut.  Want proof? 

I am certain that there must be some anti-marketing-to-children people out there who are totally up in arms about the sexualization of our toddlers and their toys.  I guess as long as my kid is oblivious, I find it funny more than anything.  Ponies, I will not be tossing you into the garbage and burning your DVDs.  I find your come-hither withers amusing, not offensive.  Megan Fox, I'm a bit more concerned about.