Wanna know what's stuck in my craw lately? Sure you do.

I was reading Cosmo at the gym the other night (shuddap) and noticed a headline that said something like "Decipher Discharge Down There. Magazines do that a lot - refer to my vadge as "down there". What, are we in middle school? Can't we think of a better euphemism than that? I mean, sure it's zingier sounding than "Decipher Discharge from Your Vagina" but still. Don't get me wrong, I'm not opposed to a little discretion. Just ask my friend Ashley who has a co-worker she refers to as The Vagina Monologue for her annoying habit of updating anyone and everyone on the up-to-the-minute status of her area. Damn, nobody needs that.

However, the cutesy names have gotten out of hand. Take for example this product. Nooooo! I don't need intimate grooming products and I'm absolutely certain I do not possess a "sweet spot". I love that they're pushing these products as the perfect gift - can you IMAGINE? What do you say when someone give you a basket of vadge creams and lotions? What the fuck happened to soap and water? The whole world has gone crazy and is trying to market the crazy like it's something good.

Some other unrelated garbage.

The other night I got up from the couch to make a dash to the bathroom and I caught the coffee table with my foot and went flying. At the exact point I hit the floor, I spooked a cat who scrambled off the desk sending a shower of keys and sunglasses over me and I also managed to knock over a huge glass of water, which splooshed behind me in a wave. For a split second it felt like the whole room exploded and then I lay there on the floor holding my bruised knee and laughing uncontrollably. Kenny was all "Damn, baby. What'd you do?"

It felt just like that Dali photo:

Last week was a sad week and I'm not going into detail because it's not my story to tell. The week progressed from sad to downright odd. Weird things kept happening, including me spotting a panhandler I went to high school with. She had a sign showing pictures of her kids and the sign said "Kids are with Grandma". How does this happen? I mean, I know how it happens, but it was just so depressing. I remember her from school, though we weren't friends. She was a strange girl that didn't much talk to anyone and was hygiene-challenged. Apparently she wasn't brought up very well which makes me worry about how her children are doing.

On Friday Kate and I went to Busch Gardens, courtesy of my workplace who gives all the employees a half-day off and free tickets. It was free entertainment, so we went. It was hot. Like, Africa hot. I should also say that Busch Gardens is not the place to go if you have germ issues. Amusement parks are just a hotbed of nasty and you have two choices - thrice hourly full-body rubdowns with antibacterial gel or just give in to it. We did the latter because who has time for the former? The first thing we did was go on a water ride to cool down and, aside from the questionable bacteria level of the water we got splashed with, our seats in the fake Pompeian boat had been previously filled by enormous hairy sweaty guys. Yay.

I'm here to tell you, fanny packs are still very much en vogue at Busch Gardens, as are the most incredibly inappropriate attire you can imagine. My personal favorite was a guy who had baby-bangs and was wearing an entire sports themed polyester outfit that consisted of a blue poly shirt, white poly pants and matching blue and white sneakers. I don't remember the team he was representing but really, who cares. I'll remind you all, it was 98 degrees out. He looked insanely bad and you know, you JUST KNOW he'd been saving that outfit for the perfect occasion. On his arm was the requisite scrawny girl wearing a tube top, mini skirt, and way too much makeup. Her mom? Hanging out with them and also wearing too much makeup and a tube top. It was fantastic.

That's really All I've got for now. I'll try to do better next time. Y'all even still reading this? I don't blame you.

7 chatty monkeys