Suck My BIC

I was recently made aware of a product called "BIC for Her," which is essentially a pack of thinner ballpoint pens in girly colors that are inexplicably marketed to those of us with ovaries. I would normally attempt to say something funny about this, but it's already been done for me ... many times over. Here are some of my favorite sarcastic reviews from the Amazon website:

FROM THE WOMEN

Finally! For years I've had to rely on pencils, or at worst, a twig and some drops of my feminine blood to write down recipes (the only thing a lady should be writing ever). I had despaired of ever being able to write down said recipes in a permanent manner, though my men-folk assured me that I "shouldn't worry yer pretty little head". But, AT LAST! Bic, the great liberator, has released a womanly pen that my gentle baby hands can use without fear of unlady-like callouses and bruises. Thank you, Bic!

I don't know why they didn't put a clearer warning on the label, they really should have because if you are a boy and use this pen you put yourself at great risk. My little brother turned into a unicorn after I lent him one, and my friend told me that a boy in her class grew fairy wings in the middle of a test.

You can imagine my joy when I found this pen, made specifically to suit the charming physical frailty and diminished mental capacity that are the hallmarks of my sex. However, the packaging is quite unclear and I can't figure out how this pen should be used. Can I grasp it in my dainty fingers, or do I actually have to hold it in my vagina?

I cain't hardly believe you'd sell this product. It ain't proper! It's a abomination! Wimmen ain't supposed to write. (My husband done wrote this fer me.)

The ink in my new Bic Lady-Pen is made of sugar and spice and everything nice, and somehow when I write, my 'i's are automatically dotted with little hearts. FINALLY a pen that gets me!!!

I was elated to find this product, but I think it should cost 24% less than Bic for Men to adjust to my delicate feminine salary. 

I will say I was a little disappointed the first time I used one. They are just a little bit...smaller than I was expecting? Not that the size of the pen matters. Seriously. BIC shouldn't feel bad.

If I can't be trusted with my own uterus, how on earth can I be trusted with a glittery pen?

If I could count that high, I'd give this product SIX stars.

These pens are the biggest unicorn assault on unicorn feminism ever!!! I accidentally came across some of these unicorn pens at a friend's place and tried to write the next section of my feminist manifesto. I realized these unicorn pens unicorn censored each time I tried to write a swear word and replaced it with 'unicorn'. Unicorn this!!!! This is the biggest unicorn assault on women ever! Unicorn unicorn unicorn!

Some days my creative juices flow heavier than others. You should therefor consider `light, medium` and 'heavy' ink flow options.

A recent study showed women using the Bic for Her pens were actually faking their writing 80% of the time. 

AND NOW, THE MEN WEIGH IN 

This make me mad How come you not make pen, too, for me, me man, me? Me man! MAN! No pen, no man pen for man! Ugh! Me can make, work pen, pen work make letter TOO. Not lady alone! You make inaccessible, neutered pen, for eunuchs and androids, and lady pen, make lady-parts pen for princess, princess, but you, why you, no make pen for UGHH YOU NO MAKE MAN PEN! MAKE ME MAD INSTEAD! WHEN DAWN OF MAN TO COME!!!

I bought these pens for my wife. I assumed they would be safe for her since they are specifically for ladies but she used these for no more than two days before she sprained her uterus.

As a guy I like this pen for 28 letters, but then it puts in a period and I can't touch it for a week.

I am so amazed that BIC is making this. The last thing we need are women writers. Pens were made for men. Hell, we're the ones with a PENis. If a woman has something to say, tell a man, if its important enough to remember, we will write it down for you. That's the way its always been, and that's the way it should stay.

I purchased a set of Bic LadyPens for one of my wives (the one who knows how to write), using my own funds. (This should not come as a surprise, as women should not be allowed to come into contact with currency; their menstrual cycles will curse it and make it lose value.) However, I found that, when given these pens, she began writing more frequently and more fervently. Soon, she was corresponding with other women (via the Postal Service, which, unbeknownst to me, now also accepts pieces of mail from women). Gradually, more and more radical ideas entered her mind. Sure, it started with her asking for simple things like a mortar and pestle (until now, my wives had ground spices with their knuckles), but before I knew it she was demanding to be shod! I blame the pens - clearly they were the catalyst for her awakening! I am currently away on business (I will be delivering an address to a large convention in Tampa this week), and I am honestly quite vexed about the state of my homestead upon returning!

HULK NEED PEN WRITE NOTE. HULK ONLY FIND BIC FOR HER. HULK SMASH PEN! HULK SAD. HULK DEMAND BIC FOR HIM.

Call Me Miss Muffet

An excerpt from a horrifying story online today:

A studio apartment is typically suited for one occupant. But Dylan Baumann has been forced to coexist with about 40 lodgers in his small living space in Omaha, Nebraska. Even worse, the new tenants are potentially deadly recluse spiders.Still, even with the near-constant threat of venomous spider bites, Baumann has decided to stay in his apartment until his lease is up in September.

"It's mainly just learning to cope with them," he said. "Pushing your bed away from the wall, pulling out your bed skirt, making sure nothing is touching the walls, shaking off your clothes before you put them on, after you get out of the shower, shake out your towel, knock out your shoes at night. It's just kind of learning to not get bit."


The two absolute best comments left by readers:

1) here's what you do. take shoe in hand, squash spider. repeat 39 times.

2) Does anyone else find it odd that so many recluse spiders live together?

Henri's Ennui

Like most people (and some cats), I needlessly over-dramatize trivial things in my life. On that note, I share with you the following video. Enjoy.

Arguing with Asterisks

I recently read an article online about the number one thing that men should never say to women during an argument. The answer came as no surprise: "Calm down." I can think of few things more infuriating in an already tense situation. So that's not the interesting part.

When I scrolled down to read the comments on the article (manifested as ranting in varying degrees of coherence as always), I saw numerous other suggestions for taboo phrases. And then I came across this comment: "Don't ever tell a man he has a tiny ***er. That can stay with them for the rest of their nature lives."

What caught my eye wasn't the typo in the second sentence, though I enjoyed it. The interesting part was the number of asterisks in the self-censored word.

Because I spend my days paying attention to details like these, I was soon stymied. It couldn't be wiener or pecker. Too many letters. Maybe it wasn't dirty after all. Hmmm. What do men have that they don't want in a small size? Diner? Anger? Nope. Too abstract. Buyer? Biker? No, size wouldn't matter. Boxer? Maybe, if it's referring to underwear.

And then it hit me. I had been overlooking one of the most out-of-date, hilarious examples of sexual innuendo (and in one case the oddly acceptable name of a teenaged boy's best friend on an 80s sitcom). Boner. Of course!

Now I can ***ep tonight.

Not Sponge-worthy

I just read the following one-star review for a memory foam bath pillow on Amazon.com. I officially love this reviewer:

Want to know what the secret to the "memory foam" this project boasts? Some of the "wicking" technology so prevalent in sports gear, perhaps? Or the stuff that makes the liquid disappear in diapers? Or the magic of those special "wings" in maxipads, for crap sake? Nope. It's a big ole sponge. It's a big ole sponge in a terry cloth cover. Terry cloth - which is commonly understood to be the sponge of the fabric world - wrapped around a big ole sponge. This thing soaks up about 5 pounds of bath water immediately and then drags those two desperate little suction cups that were supposed to hold it perched in place down to their watery grave. The poor little suckers didn't have a chance. And even if one of them does manage to hang on, the big ole sponge-wrapped-in-pseudosponge just slips off of it like a family-sized loaf of so much wet bread.

That was Sunday. Now it's Tuesday night and the loaf of bread slumped in my empty bathtub is just as wet, but really, really cold. Cold and wet and slumpy in the bottom of the tub. A real "Calgon, take me away" kind of allure... Want to know the secret to the "dry" in the "Microdry" this project boasts? Yeah. Me, too. 

A Passage from India

A few years ago, my friend Linnea traveled in India and treated us all to a hilarious blog. What follows is one of her posts that I specifically saved for future enjoyment. And now, because she is brilliant and because I think this account deserves the widest audience possible, I pass it along to you.

I went to a movie in McLoud Ganj Friday night. I saw the DaVinci Code. Perhaps you are imagining your own experience at your local cinema? Perhaps you also saw the DaVinci Code? Though we may have seen the same movie, it is unlikely that there are any additional similarities in our experience. First, the theater had the look and feel of the inside of a bus - most likely because the theater’s seats came from a bus. I believe there were still seat belts attached to some. There were only about 30 seats in the theater and no screen. The movie was shown on a large television. Barb – not exaggerating – it was half the size of yours. If you could haul that thing to India, you could set up shop. It might not be the most lucrative endeavor however as I only paid 30 rupees for my ticket (less than a dollar). You may be shocked to learn that the version of the film I saw was a bootleg – it was grainy, a bit off center and the opening credits were in Russian. Though the film is in English it was shown with English subtitles displayed. It was clear that the subtitles were written by someone for whom English was a second or possibly fifth language. I don’t think a single line of dialog was correctly represented in the subtitles. When Tom Hanks exclaims “it can’t be, a fleur de lis” the subtitles read, “it can’t be, flute is bleeding!” I found myself wishing I couldn’t hear the dialog because it would have been fascinating trying to decode the plot from the subtitles. Knowing the magical “holding grill” people kept talking about was actually the holy grail would have been key. At least, perhaps sensing its importance, they actually attempted to translate that. Unusual words and those with more than two syllables were frequently spelled “….”

I have heard the movie is not good. I can’t really say whether it was good or bad but I can say the version I saw was the funniest movie I have seen in a while.

Saturday evening ended with an encounter with the largest spider I have ever seen. The spider was perched on Sherry’s ceiling. The spider had fangs. The spider had biceps. The spider was flashing gang signs and waving a stick at us. We had encountered the spider earlier that morning and had attempted to capture it but, when poked with a broom, it spewed a bunch of tiny spiders and ran for cover. Oh, the humanity.

There was a fair amount of high pitched squealing and some scurrying in and out of the room (people scurrying, not the spider – the spider was frozen in place on the ceiling) as we discussed a plan to rid our flat of the menace. A vote was taken as to whether this would be a catch and release operation or if the solution to our spider problem would be final. It’s a do-gooder lot, the volunteers, and we’re surrounded by Buddhists monks everywhere we go. Given this it was surprising how narrow the victory was for catch and release. The plan involved a bucket, Elliot, a fellow flatmate, on a chair with aforementioned bucket pressed against the ceiling over the spider and me sliding the cardboard from a board game along the ceiling. Thankfully the plan worked. The spider plopped into the bucket and was rushed outside. It was deposited a safe distance from the house and order was restored.

Crack-Up Crackup

I recently stumbled across this recording again and remembered how hard it makes me laugh.

Gotta love voicemail. Enjoy!

OMG, Where was the Second Needle?!?!

The last sentence is really the kicker.

April 14 (AP) A woman in Pittsburgh who said she'd been stabbed with a knitting needle is in critical condition following emergency surgery. Police spokeswoman Diane Richard says the 27-year-old woman walked into UPMC Presbyterian hospital about 9:35 p.m. Wednesday and told security guards she had been stabbed before she collapsed. Richard says doctors treated the woman for a knitting needle lodged in her abdomen and later found another knitting needle inside her body, though police aren't releasing details about the second needle.

I Got the DTs in my 2Ts

One of the greatest news stories ever. From April 11th.

(Reuters) On Friday, Taylor Dill-Reese went to an Applebee's in Madison Heights, Michigan, where -- among other things -- she ordered her 15-month-old son Dominick an apple juice. What the little boy apparently got instead was a margarita.

Why doesn't this kind of stuff ever happen to adults? How super duper would it be to say, "I'll have a Coke," and then, when you take your first drink . . . surprise, there's rum in there!

His mom told WDIV-TV that she only realized something was wrong when Dominick "kind of laid his head on the table and dozed off a little bit and woke up and got real happy."

OK, first, the kid drank it without complaint. Which was smart, if you think about it, because it seems like he enjoyed it. I certainly wouldn't grimace at my free rum and Coke, immediately call over a waiter, and demand plain ol' soda.

Second, the kid napped and rallied, which I love. But not as much as this:

The little boy reportedly began hailing strangers, too.

Ah, a lovable, gregarious drunk in diapers. The best kind. Entertaining and no messy cleanup. I can only imagine what the baby-slur translated as:

"Hey! You! . . Yeah, you! Commeer! Yer not gonna believe this. This joooose . . . apple . . . I always get apple, and it tastes like apple, ya know? But this . . . this shit is CRAZY, man! Am I right? Shhhhhhhhhh! What I gotta do to get a refill? Recognize myself in a mirror? Done! That's me, there I am, and I'm lovin' this sippy cup today, man! LOVIN' it!"

The company said it would change the way it serves juice to youngsters to eliminate the chance of any mixups that could result in any more toddlers receiving mixed drinks.

Oh, but then how would we get news bulletins like this in the future? Don't rain on my parade, Applebee's. Keep up the good work.

He's Just Not My Typo

And now it's time to play one of my favorite games of all time . . . type the beginning of a question into a web browser and see what's tippity-top on the minds of people searching for answers.

Today's initial phrase: Why can't I have

The first result: Why can't I have an organism

This was followed by a link with the title "Why can't some women have an organism? And what is the cause?"

Ah, yes, the elusive organism. Never around when you need one. Unless, of course, you're blessed with multiple organisms, in which case you may need to get a bigger apartment.

I was going to respond to this astute query on Yahoo Answers, but I was laughing too hard.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: spelling matters. Sometimes it matters BIG. Sometimes it's the difference between a moment of exquisite pleasure and mitochondria. I'm just sayin'.