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Monthly Archives: April 2011

Easter Dildos. Jesus would be so proud.

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I would hope that anyone reading this knows that the day after a holiday is often much more important than the holiday itself. If you don’t, I’ll explain why: all the candy is half off. So Monday night, Mike and I made our trek to the grocery store to obtain some precious discounted Reeses eggs. After a lot of wandering, we finally found the “discounted Easter shit” table right by the entrance to the store (there are two entrances, dammit) and stocked up on Reeses eggs. It’s a good thing Mike wanted to look closer to make sure we weren’t missing any Cadbury Creme eggs, because if he hadn’t, I never would have seen these:

A kids toy. Right. *wink*

Easter dildos. Except they’re not supposed to be dildos at all and you’re all perverts for even thinking that. If you’re confused, look closer at the image in the upper corner. Here:

It claims to be a great gift idea. You know, for that friend who whines too much about not having a boyfriend.

See? Not a dildo at all. Just a toy that you squeeze and the top ejaculates er, flies across the room. And you want to be careful not to get it in anyone’s eye, because projectiles are dangerous.

And they had to go and name them “bunny rockets.” As if bunnies and rockets aren’t associated with sex toys enough as it is. In fact, you might want to check out this comparison:

They both look pretty happy to be sitting on top of that thing, don't they?

Don’t these look an awful lot like these?

Via goodvibes.com

They’re missing the nifty textured caps, though.

I searched goodvibes.com for “bunny,” “rabbit” and “rocket.” “Bunny” got me 11 results. “Rabbit” got 26, and only some of them were overlap. “Rocket” only got 8 and one of them was a bunny. Is this so deeply ingrained in our society that we can’t create a fucking Easter toy without making dildos? Apparently. Apparently it is impossible to combine “bunny” and “rocket” and NOT get a dildo.

So we have something that is clearly a sex toy. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s double-ended. One side has thick ribbing (for your pleasure, obviously) and the other side has fancy nubs and bumps that are probably guaranteed to hit all the right spots or something like that. The plastic on the ribbed end is pretty flimsy, though, so be careful when you use it. You could squeeze it too hard, and you don’t want the tip flying off and getting anyone in the eye.

Now I have to figure out what the hell to do with four Easter dildos. Maybe I need to have a blog giveaway.

(Edited to add: “Bunny Dildo” originally brought to my attention by my friend Siren, whose post about hers might be the only reason I noticed them in the first place. Then she wrote another one after I planned this one and dammit, I was not going to not post it, but here is her second one too. It seems like there is some natural human reaction to Easter dildos.)

You picked the worst day to visit.

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What college student doesn’t love prospective students? Seriously. They give us so many opportunities:

  • …I’m coming up blank here, guys.
Really, what prospective students do is give us a great opportunity to lie about how wonderful we think our school is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prospie walking around and asking people questions to hear: “I fucking hate this place. Seriously. Go somewhere else.” In fact, people praise their universities to such an extent that one piece of advice I got when looking at colleges was to ask the current students what the thing they disliked the most about their school was. And every single response ended in some sort of justification. “I wish we had a better gym, but they’re building a new one next year.” “The food sucks, but it’s cafeteria food and not bad compared to the food at my friend’s school.” “There’s a lot of homework so not much free time, but I’m really getting my money’s worth for my education.”
Rarely are we given the opportunity to show them what our school is really like.
On Wednesday, we had some prospective students visit two of my classes. One of these is a 9AM poetry writing class, which I’m taking because I’m a creative writing major and we need to take a certain number of writing classes to fulfill requirements. If I’m honest, I hate poetry. (To be clear, I don’t hate reading it. I love reading good poetry. But every night before I have a poem due, I realise oh shit I have a poem due and write something quickly just so I don’t have to worry about missing an assignment. I usually think they’re shit. So I don’t hate poetry in general; I just hate writing it. It’s not my thing.)
Every week in this class has a different theme. For Monday, we read a bunch of poems in that theme. For Wednesday, we write our own poem in that theme and spend the class workshopping it. Last week, Monday was a holiday and we had the day off, so the professor came up with something for us to do on Wednesday that didn’t require having discussed a theme on Monday: Erotic Poetry Exercise.
This involved reading a few poems about sex, none of which were particularly sexy, and then being sent off to compose a bawdy limerick. At our disposal was a sheet photocopied and handed out by the professor filled with sex personals and a 900 number at the top. AWESOME. (This week is actually Erotic Poetry Week; I figure the exercise was more to get us comfortable with the idea before we started really working on it.)
We get to work. “Work” involves reading sex personals and alternately laughing hysterically and being horrified at the idea of whatever the personal entails.
In the back, our two perspective students giggle as they work together on their own poem. I don’t remember what it was, but I remember they did that thing where the first letter of every line spells out a word, so when they shared, they blackboard had “PUSSY” written vertically in giant letters. Awesome. Then we start reading our work to share what we’ve done with our time:
Hello, my name is Daniella.
I’ve got a whole wall of flagella.
Oral’s always a plus,
and I don’t mind the pus,
as long as you’re a well-paying fella.
-By me & a classmate. Mostly me. Yeah.

This must the the administration’s worst nightmare: that, at ass o’clock in the morning, we immediately strip away the pretense that anyone in college, including the professors, has matured beyond the age of fifteen, and rub it in the fact of the students they hope to entice to their “prestigious institution.”
Welcome to college, girls. We didn’t lie to you. I hope you respect that. I also hope that, for the sake of your own well-being, you go to a different fucking school.

Blog Is Go.

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I spent at least half an hour trying to figure out what the fuck to call this thing. Now it looks like shit and I have 117 themes to choose from.

One of the themes involves a picture of a banana. It claims that the banana makes it personal. I don’t think I want this blog to be personal in any possible way that a banana would make it personal.

(Update: I found a theme that I like so it no longer looks like shit. Also, check out the disclaimer. It’ll be important at some point.)