It’s Saturday and this is Undercover L bringing you 5 things you must know before continuing your life. If you don’t read this, you can be expected to be shunned by everyone, including your moustached Aunt Eugene. Besides, these nuggets of wisdom will blow the socks off of everyone at your Christmas party, and let’s be honest: who doesn’t want to blow socks off? No one, that’s who.
(Drinking Game Alert!! Whenever you read the word ‘vagina’ – or any of its derivatives [i.e. vag, vaggy, vajayjay, R. Kelly, etc.]—you need to take a shot. Get out the bottle because I can almost guarantee that we will need it.)
1) Warm and Cozy, but Kind of Gross
It’s time to talk about women’s lib. (Don’t worry, guys, I am not a feminist. Wait a minute, maybe you should worry…)
Women have bodies that are capable of amazing things. We have fun bags that produce milk (I am wondering, as I write this, if I jumped on the trampoline while lactating if I would make butter in my jugs). We can create human life in our bodies (men just need to give a little input… just a very tiny, itsy-bitsy little input). We can multitask. We are amazing.
But none of us is as amazing as the woman who uses her vagina to knit. Yes, you read that right. Uses. Her. Vagina. To. Knit.
But wait a minute. It isn’t what you think. Her vagina can’t cast on. Her vagina can’t cast off. Her vagina can’t knit. Her vagina can’t purl. Her vagina has no opposable thumbs.
Okay, let’s just cut to the chase. Her vagina is a holding cell for her wool. She stuffs her fuff with wool every 28 days and lets it… um… sit. Then she finds the end and knits. I guess that means she doesn’t have to carry around a knitting bag, but I wonder what she does with the needles when she isn’t knitting. Also, what happens when it falls in the toilet?
“Her period?” you ask.
Yep, she uses the wool even then. Apparently it adds “variety” to the coloring.
I am not rushing to her Etsy site to buy a scarf. Not a beanie. Not leg warmers. I don’t want her vaggy mittens. She says that she does it so people don’t feel so yucky about vaginas because now they can associate it with something warm and fuzzy (scarves).
But let’s be honest. Vaginas are all good on their own. I like my vagina. I had no problem with it before this came out in the news. Now I feel weird about my vagina and about knitting… and scarves. I will no longer wear scarves I receive as a gift, lest the giver somehow got a hold this woman’s Kool-Aid and I wind up the unlucky sap who is wearing around the giver’s recycled tampon.
Lady, you just set the vagina back decades, if not centuries. You’ve set back knitting. You’ve set back women. And believe you me, this is not jealousy speaking.
Yeah, I call bullshit as well. If this woman can knit with her vag, then I can cook with mine. Once upon a time there was a cucumber…
(If you are brave– braver than even me– you can watch the video here. I imagine this is intensely NSFW.)
2) Let’s Play a Game
Question, hot shot: What do you get when you put 90’s-washed-up-hit-pop-sensation R. Kelly together with present-day-train-wreck-tattooed-grafitti-artist-heart’throb’ Justin Bieber?
My Answer: Fed up! (Didn’t R. Kelly get gunned down sometime around the time that Tupac and Notorious BIG did? Wasn’t he there? Can’t we just pretend he was so that we can go on living peaceful lives? Oh yeah, he didn’t die. He went to jail for being a pederast. Right? Didn’t he?)
Real Answer: A song.
Let’s elaborate: There is a song out. It is called “PYD.” (No, not “FYC” and not “PYT”—bonus points if you can tell me what those terms mean) I will tell you what it means later, but let’s play a game. It is called:
What could PYD mean?
It takes place in the form of a poll, so go ahead and put in your best guess. You can choose from my theories, or you can input your own. (If you want credit, don’t forget to signify that it was your brilliance.)
That was fun. Let’s uncover what PYD really means…
Oh, you already know, do you? Then I feel bad for you because you are a Pathetic Young Derelict. (See what I did there?)
Put. You. Down.
I, for one, will say if you mean like a sick dog, please do. Put me down. If I ever hear this over the airwaves, I will probably force myself to listen to country music for the rest of my life. Put a lot of things down: Put down the headphones. Put down the career. Put R. Kelly down, because apparently that hadn’t been done yet. Unhand the lady bits of all the young females in the world (I am looking at you R. Kelly). Put it all down and back slowly away. Keep going. Farther, farther….
And You Say You Hate Your Name
People fall in love. They get married. What is it that they say? Oh yes… love is blind. Well, apparently love can’t read either. If it could read, then perhaps these people would have chosen different spouses, or at least made a mutual and mature decision to have their names legally changed. After all, why would you want to have names like these?
*Mr. and Mrs. Traylor-Hooker
*Mr. and Mrs. Wang-Holder (almost worth a drink)
*Mr. and Mrs. Beaver-Wetter (yep, drink… twice because this has to be the best worst name ever)
*Mr. and Mrs. Busch-Rash (drink again)
*Mr. and Mrs. Kuntz-Dick (and again)
There are so many more. Go ahead and check out the link here.
Another Invention We Can’t Live Without, I Guess
Does anyone (in their right mind) doubt that life is short? Well, it usually is for people who are funny, or charismatic, or good, or handsome/beautiful, or rich (especially those you can stand to inherit hefty sums from), or famous.
(Brief aside: Does anyone every really lament the death of a curmudgeon? When bad people die, does anyone say “that’s a shame, they had so much promise”? Do cranky, nasty, manipulative people really die, or do they just get crankier, nastier, and more manipulative? I think that those people have a ‘get out of death free’ card, which is why I am one of those people. No one will lament my death; they will just sit and wait… and wait and wait and wait…)
Back to what I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself.
Upon losing his wonderfully non-curmudgeonly and, therefore, sorely missed grandfather, inventor and proponent of weird things, Fredrik Colting invented a watch that counts down the days, hours, minutes, and seconds to the exact second that the wearer buys the farm. (Exact is a relative term in this case, and is meant the same as ‘approximate’ or ‘near’ or ‘estimate’ or ‘shot in the dark.’)
So how does it work? Kind of like life insurance. You put in your age, your weight, your medical history, your sexual preference, your favorite dessert, whether you smoke or drink, and how often you exercise. Of course, just like applying for life insurance or a new job, you lie, lie, lie. This may skew results, but probably not by much. This sophisticated data combines with a bunch of bullshit and gives you an ‘exact’ time.
Once you are done crying and writing your own eulogy, it’s time to do what this watch is really supposed to inspire you to do: Live your life to the fullest. Yada, yada, yada.
I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about how fun it would be to screw with someone who had this stupid device. Here are some things I would do with this:
*Preprogram it for someone before giving it as a gift.
*Find out their information and change it overnight (Bam! That fight just cost you 7 years, buddy. Who won this time?)
*Give it to people with a card congratulating them.
*Talk people into doing stupidly dangerous things because they are immortal until June 15, 2043 at 11:54:29 AM.
*Get myself out of traffic tickets by telling cops I am dying and here’s my proof….
*Smash one and send it to people I hate as a threat. (Time’s up, bitch.)
What would YOU do with your Death Watch?
To Close Out This Week’s Session of 5 Things
I am going to leave the wrap up to our favorite, filthy-mouthed British chef. Gordon Ramsey’s mouth just got a bit dirtier. The drinking game is still in effect, so pour again. You’ll need it.
Have a freaking fabulous weekend and if you’re celebrating Christmas: Merry Christmas. If you’re not, Merry Weekend and Week-Ahead!