Since the dawn of time, people have been having unprotected sex. Cavemen and cavewomen were steaming up caves all over the B.C. (Before-Condom) centuries. At some point, however, someone realized, once they had contracted the herp, or the syph or the baby, that it would be wise to strap it up.
Condom companies have tried all sorts of gimmicks to make safe-sex sexy. We all remember the “Trojan Man” from the commercials of the mid-to-late nineties. He was one cool mofo. Doc Morris Pharmacies, a German company, is using a different tactic to get consumers to practice “glove before love.” The company’s new condom ads include animation of sperm, crafted in the likeness of Osama Bin Laden, Adolph Hitler or Mao Zedong.
I’m a skoshe confused. Are these ads telling me to practice safe sex so that I am not implanted with the spawn of one of these three terrifying leaders? Or are they just telling me that sperm is as evil as Hitler? Either way, the message is strong: “package your meat.” It’s a matter of homeland security.
Whenever you feel you need some naughty prose in your life, just hit up the “Erotic Poems” section of Peculiar Poetry.com. You can use some of these poems to lure lovers to your boudoir. You know poets are HOT.
A person’s Erdős–Bacon number is the sum of one’s Erdős number—which measures the “collaborative distance” in authoring mathematical papers between that individual and Hungarian mathematician Paul Erdős—and one’s Bacon number—which represents the number of links, through roles in films, by which the individual is separated from American actor Kevin Bacon. The lower the number, the closer an individual is to Erdős and Bacon.
I was reminded of the “Erdős–Bacon number” recently when a friend who goes to school in NYC called me excited to report that she was fairly certain she could trace her gonorrhea back to a famous New York socialite/actress.
Another friend at Colgate was delighted to report that she’d recently bagged a man who was the ex-boyfriend of a “big name on campus” hottie. The guy’s (considerable) looks, brains and wit were irrelevant when compared to the fact that a mere two months ago he was in a relationship with one of the most popular/attractive/succesful women on campus. Read more…
Up until about 3 hours ago, I was fairly certain that the habit of nicknaming potential love interests, which I gleefully engage in with a few select friends was relatively anomalous—a blip of puerility on a campus dominated by proper noun maturity. Not so! After chatting with a male friend it seems that this practice is more widespread than I’d originally suspected. Apparently, there are women running around this campus who are, unbeknownst to them, best known to the brothers of one fraternity as “Tasty Panettone” and “Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.”
Where’s the appeal in slapping asinine labels on people who already have perfectly functional first names? I think the major/obvious benefit to actively practicing nicknamizationalism is that it lessens the need for discretion when talking about one’s personal affairs. While it’s entirely inappropriate to bound down Locust loudly discussing your desire to fellate John Doe, it’s only mildly unbecoming to chat away about how you’d love to do it like Adam and Eve in Book IX of Paradise Lost with “Procopious VF XVII.” Read more…
I’m always encouraged to read about academics with a public appreciation for sex, sexual healing, lewdness, nudeness or porn. It means there’s hope for my post-Quakers and Shakers career. One favorite is Tom Lehrer, a math professor (MIT, Wellesley, faculty at UC Santa Cruz)/songwriter. Wikipedia lists the following reviews of his music:
“Mr. Lehrer’s muse is not fettered by such inhibiting factors as taste.” — New York Times
These are a lot of the same criticisms I’ve heard about my humor. Not too surprisingly, as far as I’m concerned, Lehrer’s song on smut (though not unsubt-le) is a delight to listen to. Hear for yourself.
Today, Vermont, following the example of Massachusetts, Connecticut and Iowa, became the 4th State in the Union to legalize gay marriage. Although, yesterday, the state’s Republican Governor, Jim Douglas, vetoed a bill that would have made these marriages legal, Vermont’s Senate overrode this veto in a 23 to 5 vote and the House did the same with a vote of 100 to 49. Vermont is the first state to make a gay marriage legislation, rather than a court order.
After vetoing the bill that could have legalized gay marriage in the state, Governor Douglas said, “I made my decision some time ago, and at this point it’s a matter of crafting the message and sending it to the Legislature urging them to do what their consciences lead them to do.” Consciences, Douglas? What are you trying to say?! I despise ignorance, archaic notions and self-righteous politicians. I’m ECSTATIC that his (stupid) veto was overturned! Couples should get married on Governor Douglas’ doorstep, just to spite him! All couples deserve the opportunity to devote their lives to each other, and Vermont, in autumn, would make for an exquisite wedding location.
You’re boyfriend is picture of Penn perfection: Pre-Med, tutors 4th graders in West Philly, takes you on beautifully thoughtful dates all over Philadelphia, said “I love you” first and throws it down in the bedroom. For two years, you are “that perfect couple,” the Victoria and David Beckham of the University of Pennsylvania. You get to sit in silence as your girlfriends complain about their trifling/cheating/gay/non-existent boyfriends, knowing that yours is DA BOMB. Until….BAM! You walk into his room and he’s boning your sorority sister. And you thought he was the good guy.
This past semester, I have received many a tearful phone call from many a girlfriend, revealing the indiscretion that has ruined the “perfect” relationship with her “perfect” man. My friend, Claire, who goes to U. Arizona had been dating her “perfect” boyfriend, Benny, for a year and three months. On Valentine’s Day, after eating the delicious meal that Claire had prepared, Benny fell asleep on Claire’s couch as his iPhone lay on the table. Because it wouldn’t stop ringing, she went to switch it off, when a myriad of tawdry texts from “Koria”—pronounced “Korea.” Classy, right?—flashed on the screen. It was later revealed that Koria was indeed his mistress, a girl so trashy she should have been grinding the pole at that strip club under Chili’s. Read more…
Recently, a friend who’s had his life “changed and revolutionized” by The Game suggested I research the 1995 book The Rules. Written by Sherrie Schneider and (semi-recently divorced) Ellen Fein, The Rules is a depressing and perverse collection of weird advice and silly mantras aimed at helping women trick and manipulate a man into marriage by playing hard to get. Most of the criticism about the book seems to stem from the fact that it’s one, big, antifeminist manifesto.
Though I didn’t really read it all the way through—one can only spend so long flipping through stuff one has no intention of buying in Barnes and Noble—my biggest problem with the book’s philosophy is not that it’s inherently antifeminist, it’s that I think it’s full of good old-fashioned terrible advice. As far as I can see, The Rules would be more appropriately named How to be a Vapid and Emotionally Unavailable Bitch. Deliciously idiotic tidbits after the jump.
Amber’s (very drunk) new best friend: “I just don’t know what to do, he’s so sexy and I’ve told him I’m not the kind of girl who wants a relationship, that I’m only looking for casual sex, but I don’t know if he even wants to fuck me. But I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You can’t advise me; you don’t even know who I’m talking about.”
Amber’s (very drunk) new best friend stumbles into wall. Amber (maybe a tish intoxicated) and Amber’s (very drunk) new best friend hang out by the wall.
Amber (maybe a tish intoxicated): “Actually, I do know who you’re talking about. He’s got some nice facial hair, but…”
Amber’s (very drunk) new best friend: “Ohmygod I know! I want to pet it and rub my face against it!”
Amber (maybe a tish intoxicated): “Carpet burn? As for your other point, I’m a loudmouth and a sex/relationship blogger for the DP, so I practically have a PhD in dishing poorly substantiated advice about sex/love/dating. Be careful, I say unto thee! Almost every time I’ve tried to act ‘liberated’ and had a ‘no strings attached hookup’ with someone, it’s because I secretly want them to realize that I’m the lady they want to date. My friends try this a lot too. It never works, and it’s a bitch to deal with afterwards.”
Amber’s (very drunk) new best friend: “Yea, I guess you’re right, but I would make such a good girlfriend for him! Don’t you think we’d be the cutest?”
Amber (maybe a tish intoxicated) repeatedly bangs head against wall
Have you ever been at the used car lot, and thought “Dammit, I need to get a pap smear! Too bad this pre-owned car salesman doesn’t have a degree in gynecology. I could get my Ford Explorer and my pelvic exam all in one place!” If this thought has crossed your mind—you may need psychological help, but that’s neither here nor there— and you live in High Point, North Carolina, you are in luck. Read more…
Today, Vermont, following the example of Massachusetts, Connecticut and Iowa, became the 4th State in the Union to
You’re boyfriend is picture of Penn perfection: Pre-Med, tutors 4th graders in West Philly, takes you on beautifully thoughtful dates all over Philadelphia, said “I love you” first and throws it down in the bedroom. For two years, you are “that perfect couple,” the Victoria and David Beckham of the University of Pennsylvania. You get to sit in silence as your girlfriends complain about their trifling/cheating/gay/non-existent boyfriends, knowing that yours is DA BOMB. Until….BAM! You walk into his room and he’s boning your sorority sister. And you thought he was the good guy.
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