Oh Etsy, You’re So Sexy

ATTENTION: Standard disclaimer blah blah NSFW blah blah don’t click the links in the presence of children blah blah MAY CONTAIN COCK. Or, at least, cock surrogates. And ponies.

Galleons, Etsy is… well, Etsy is really a mixed bag. There are some truly interesting, unique little shops present on the site, and I’ve found a handful of great items (including my favorite, ever-present-’round-my-neck locket) on their site. But for every one thing I find that I’d like to own, I find 127 other items that range in quality from utter crap to abso-fucking-lutely ridiculous. And occasionally horrifying.

But I think that’s part of what keeps driving me back into the arms of Etsy (along with many of the shady back-alley areas of the web)- morbid curiosity. And it was during one of those random Etsy wanderings that I had an idea.

Etsy is wonderful. And fucking horrible. And everything is on it. So, I knew, I just KNEW, there would be sex toys. Oh yes, my galleons. It’s a sex toy post. I have plumbed the depths of Etsy for you, dear galleons, to find the best (worst) the site has to offer in this arena.

And boy, did Etsy not disappoint.

Carved Bangsticks

Far and away the most popular option in, uh, unique labial lovin’ is the oh-so-finely handcrafted dildo. And not just any ol’ dildo. No, these are special. Sculptures in silicone.

AND YOU HAVE SO MANY CHOICES!

Aliens (both of the traditional and chestbursting varieties), gargoyles, pussy cats, the rotting phalanges (the phrasing of which is reminiscent of this) of zombies, snakes, gnomes… even our old friend, the squildo!

Now, those are all fairly standard sculpted-to-please fare. Hell, we’ve featured similar in some of our sex toy posts in the past. But it just wouldn’t be Etsy if things didn’t get… stranger.

First up, for the geek crowd (what up, my peeps… goddammit Sam, phrasing), the Dark Invader dildo, which is obviously not infringing upon any copyrighted material because the name is totally different:

“Ohhhh, your helmet is SO big!”

While looking more like Rick Moranis’ Dark Helmet than the infamous Darth Vader, this little guy is obviously for the sci fi fans.

But hey, I’m just saying that it bears a passing resemblance to the famous Star Wars character. I mean, he’s not called Darth Vader. The creator isn’t calling him Darth Vader. And any parts of the description that sound like movies quotes? That’s a coincidence. Don’t jump to any conclusions, Etsy staff.

In the same vein, Batz here is obviously not a Batman ripoff. Obviously.

Our next Super Awesome Etsy Find is the Island Explorer:

Butt (hah, COMEDY) this little guy isn’t going to be exploring islands so much as… caverns. Crafted to look like a Polynesian moai, and while I don’t see the appeal of shoving a replica of my (or someone else’s) ancestors in any hole on my body, I guess that’s someone’s idea of a good time. And if so, hey, Etsy’s there for you.

Because Etsy cares about your bum’s ancestor fetish.

And finally, my favorite (and by my favorite I mean the one most like to ruin sex for me for the rest of my life), Tricky Willy:

Tricky Willy might seem innocuous enough, but he disturbs the shit out of me. Perhaps because I imagine the creator of this toy once had a major acid trip that was supposed to end in a blowjob and instead ended in him having a prolonged chat with the cock gnome bouncing in front of his face. Which was probably a hilarious scene, but I worry that, after seeing Tricky Willy, I will never be able to look at a dick again without imagining a unique little face under the corona.

Your Run-of-the-Mill Fuckwands

We may have discussed the dildos carved to look like… well, a variety of strange creatures, but there are plenty of more normal cooch pleasers available on Etsy.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t make fun of them. After all, I’ve got mad mockery skillz, yo.

First, we have the hand crafted wooden models. Smooth, nicely curved, and bearing more than a passing resemblance to a table leg:

Listen galleons, I understand that people get rather creative in the use of common household items as pleasure devices. I do. We’ve all been there. But I can honestly say that I haven’t been sitting around one day, so horny my labia feel like they are ready to Hulk-out of my panties and attack the nearest cock, and thought to myself, “Hey, I could turn all my frustration and Hulk-tendencies onto that there table leg and give myself some sweet, sweet relief from my crotchal woes.” Destroying furniture to get off?

…Okay, well, to be fair, I have done that, but it was accidental. And I got a black eye from it. And… MOVING ON.

Actually, most of the Etsy dildo selection is of the glass variety. I’m never going to be able to overcome my pretty glass objects = pipes mindset, so I always think of smoking pot when I see glass dildos. And then I get the munchies. So it goes.

But this one doesn’t make me think of pot:

THIS one makes me think of sex. Particularly, of sperm. Of procreation. Of “oh sweet jaysus, why is there a giant red sperm in that butt plug?!” It’s like minotaur sperm. Or Satan’s sperm. And it’s called the Wandering Red Shroom. Where the fuck is it wandering, Etsy? I’ve seen this goddamn horror film. Some naïve young girl gets this at a curiosity shop run by some mysterious dark haired woman, and the girl uses it, and suddenly her name is Rosemary and she’s pregnant and, PLOT TWIST, it’s Satan’s. Not me. No thank you, Etsy. That girl always ends up horribly dead or insane/brainwashed to love her little Antichrist.

Fuck that shit.

So, let’s move over to the far less terrifying silicone beasties, shall we? Oh, wait, no. Things are still terrifying over here. Because we have stuff like this little pink number:

Which might look innocuous enough by your standards, but to me, it looks like a goddamn hand plane from a woodshop:

And I’m just not that into putting woodworking tools near my intimate bits, thank you very much. Also off-putting about this product? It comes with this weird user’s diagram, which looks more at home in a textbook than in the bedroom.

I am also a fan of this particular piece, simply for its name. Two times a lady? Yeah, that puppy’s real ladylike.

And if neither of these tickle your fancy, how about you design your own? Oh yeah, don’t be put off by the fact that they kind of look like those water tube toys. It’s part of their, ah, charm.

Paddles and Crops and Whips… OH MY!

Now, when I say Etsy has ‘any paddle or crop you could possibly want’, I don’t mean ‘a wide variety of paddles and crops’, I mean ‘ANY PADDLE OR CROP YOU COULD POSSIBLY WANT’. And if you can’t find exactly what you need, I’ll bet all you’d have to do is contact one of the kindly shop owners and they’d make one to your exact specifications.

Don’t believe me? Then prepare yourselves for a parade of paddles, a cavalcade of crops, a festival of flails, a… oh, you get the idea.

There is a wide array of punishment tools on Etsy, made of anything from yarn to feathers to aluminum to boot soles. From the simple to the ornate, the silly to the elegant. And for all tastes, from the leather lovers to the steampunk crowd to the… well, to the folks looking for something a little more unique.

There are hand painted paddles for all fandoms. Hello Kitty (which makes way too many appearances in the sex toy market, let’s be fair). Portal. The Discworld series. Transformers. Mass Effect. Internet cat memes. Final Fantasy. Legos. A Nightmare on Elm Street. Pacman (those holes… god damn, that’s gotta sting). Super Mario Bros. Nightmare Before Christmas. Weird, swaddled bears. Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Game of Thrones. Invader Zim.

And some fandoms are very popular, drawing in multiple shops and a variety of products. For example, the Doctor Who fans. They have TARDIS everything. TARDIS paddle. TARDIS flogger. TARDIS crop. Hell, there’s even a sonic screwdriver crop. But my absolute favorite bit of Doctor Who sex gear is this Dalek paddle:

YOU WILL SUBMIT TO DALEK RULE. WE ARE SUPERIOR. YOU WILL BEND OVER AND SUBMIT. YOU WILL OBEY OR YOU WILL BE EXTERMINATED.

But Doctor Who sex toys? Eh, they’re really not so weird. My Little Pony, on the other hand? What the fuck, people?

Yes, there is a complete line of MLP paddles by an Etsy shop. Each lovingly crafted to look like one of the mane (MOAR COMEDY) characters on the beloved children’s show. Because bronies are fucked up.

BUT WAIT. Apparently, there are a lot of people who are fans of both Doctor Who and MLP. There is this whole fandom for Doctor Whooves, some kind of pony version of the good Doctor. I don’t… I can’t… WHAT THE FUCK?!

And so, for those Doctor Whooves fans, here’s your very own paddle of the pony Doctor’s flank. You’re welcome.

Comic book fans have a lot of options (probably thanks to all the comic films hitting theaters over the last ten years), including (but not limited to) Iron Man, Storm, Mystique, Rogue, Harley, and Superman.

For you Star Wars fans, how about a little Imperial justice? And for the rare double dom relationship, a set of floggers that allow you to battle for galactic (and bedroom) dominance every night. You’re a Sith, they’re a Jedi. WHO WILL WIN?

And Trekkies, Etsy didn’t forget about you. Don’t you want this sexy Borg-inspired number? Resistance is futile, baby.

Potter fans, you can reenact all your Snape and Hermione spank fantasies with these gems. The Hogwarts crest paddle. Or, if you’re feeling wicked, a Death Eater paddle. Or how about a crop modeled after Narcissa Malfoy’s wand?

Or you can have a real console war: Sega vs Nintendo. FIGHT!

This is listed as a ‘beautiful aluminum paddle’:

But I’ve seen it before. That is an exact replica of a Dead Island machete:

I don’t really think Dead Island is a sexy-type game, but I guess it does involve a lot of bodily fluids and half-naked people running around on a tropical island, so eh. Go for it, you crazy kids.

And here’s a whole subset of sex tools for people with no sex life: THE WOW NERDS! Pick your side and get a paddle! And because we all know the Horde is the best (for the Horde, motherfuckers), some additional Horde goodness. And finally, a little Dalaran-inspired flogging action. Oh yeah.

Then there’s this, for when you’re feeling like a modern Prometheus.

And this, for when you really need to teach someone a lesson.

And finally, for those who like their sex served up with a side of fear:

…Listen, anyone who’s read Stephen King’s It has a very real, very healthy, very logical fear/aversion to clowns. Don’t judge me.

Wearable Goodness

The sexy section of Etsy is so much more than just sex toys, galleons. It’s got sexy apparel, too! Oh yeah.

Sexy underwear with a pocket to hold the cash after the gentleman pays you? Etsy’s got you covered.

Crocheted strap-on harnesses? Etsy’s got you covered.

Fancy steampunk bondage cuffs? Etsy’s got you covered.

Rainbow dick pendants, to show your love of queers and cocks? Etsy’s got you covered.

And how about shoes with dildo heels for the foot fetishists out there? Etsy’s got you covered here, too- a whole shop of dilettos!

Furniture for Fuckin’

When outfitting a sex dungeon, it’s important to find only the best pieces. You have to look everywhere. Comb the net, search the best shops… and sometimes, go to Etsy.

That’s right. Etsy’s home to your sex dungeon needs. They should really advertise that better.

I mean, look at this fine piece of dungeon furniture, the bondage horse. Ebony stained birch, burgundy faux leather padding, heavy duty hardware, and it folds right up, so you can tuck it out of sight when the in-laws come over.

And how about a sex machine for that sexy lair you’re crafting? A dark walnut stain, 19 inch bar. “Adjustable speeds from slow to OMG!” How can you resist?

But this next piece has to be my favorite. At first glance, it’s your average St. Andrew’s Cross. But this bad boy is a motherfucking transformer!

Sexy dungeon furniture by night, totally vanilla plant pedestal by day. That is some quality sex gear, there- functional and fucktional.

Dirty Decor

It’s not just about sexy furniture, though. Everyone knows that it’s the little touches that really make a house a home. Or a house a sex pad.

Touches like a lovingly embroidered rabbit vibe sampler. Just like grandma used to make.

And what about these artful magnets? Cover your fridge in the genitalia of a young British girl, because even vaginas are classy if they have a British accent.

For the kids’ room, what about these colorful dinosaur wall pieces? What? Even the king of the lizards gets lonely sometimes.

This majestic sculpture shows off your love of both cocks and the black power movement. Or fisting. Black power or fisting.

And for a touch of undersea whimsy (guess I wasn’t the only one who made the connection), this happy little mirror.

But I think my favorite thing is this sculpture, Silver Seduction:

Like a 3D representation of the finest in bathroom stall graffiti, this piece will really bring a ‘filthy truck stop restroom’ vibe to your love shack.

Various and Sundry Other Goodies

In my Etsy wanderings, I came across many things that are, well, sex toys in the very real sense of the word. And so, I’m giving them their own category in this list, because I think some of them are hilarious and I can’t not share them.

You’re welcome.

First up, we have a game called Spin the Wank:

Spin the Wank is a variation on Spin the Bottle, only instead of spinning some bit of glassware, you twirl a little ceramic cock. How fantastic! You can only imagine how the rules of the game change when you switch out bottle for dick. Let’s just say, that’s going to be one hell of a party…

And here’s a little sperm plushie. That is, apparently, signed by the creator? Like, the creator of sperm? I really want this to just have GOD scrawled across the back.

…Yes, I read the description. I know it’s signed by that Bethann woman. My version was better.

What about this 1967 sexometer? I enjoy the fact that ‘sex starved’ is both a sexiness rating AND rates above ‘heavenly’. Sense, this product makes it.

Here’s a Christmas ornament/key chain sculpted to look like a blow up doll. I don’t have a snarky comment for this, I just think it’s funny.

For the well dickerated bathroom, how about some Mr. Penis soap? Though if you’re calling him Mr. Penis, you could at least give the guy a top hat. I mean, honestly.

Now see, these guys know how to make a cock look classy. Those are some sharp dressed dongs right there.

This is probably the best toy on the whole site, both for sheer WTF factor and for the horror factor:

As I’m sure you’ve guessed, this little guy shags his lady when wound up. Deliciously crass. But then you see their faces:

HOLY SHIT. What is… what the… *whimper*

The horror.

Moving on… to decorate your notebooks, love letters, sex toy box, etc., why not get a set of dildo stickers? Add a little naughtiness to everything.

And for when you try a position you really should have stretched before and end up a little sore the next day, here’s a lovely little hot/cold pack to ease the pain. Also, it smells like lavender, like a good cock should.

And finally, we have the prick cushion. And while I could try to come up with something clever to say about it, I think its description is just too good to attempt to top:

This Prick Cushion is one Hot Pink Rod. He rides like a roller coaster, purrs like a kitten and moves like a hot knife slicing through butter.

For scorned lovers, and women with penis envy, a present for a secret spinster sister, the perfect bachelorette gift for the crafty girl who has everything or the pin cushion you will never lose (but hide from your mother-in-law).

Need I say more?

***

I hope you’ve had fun on our tour of Etsy’s sexier side, my galleons. I really do. Because now that we’ve had fun, I’m going to scare the shit out of you by taking you to the darkest area of Etsy.

Welcome to hell, galleons:

WHAT THE FUCK?! What is this shit? Who would put this near their genitals? This is the stuff of nightmares. I will sleep poorly for weeks after seeing this. And you want people to fuck these monstrosities? WHAT?!?!?!

…

…

…

And that’s Etsy for you, galleons.

On Cyborgs, Singularities, and the 2045 Initiative

Oh, you vodka-soaked Russian bastards, what madness are you cooking up this time?

Dmitry Itskov, a mad Russian billionaire, has decided its high time humans cast off their mortal shells in favor of a sleeker, digital form. He believes its time we push our technology to the limits to create a method of immortality for the personality, a freeing of consciousness from the fleshy sac it’s currently attached to.

Itskov’s baby is the 2045 Initiative, a grand plan to create machines complex enough to house a human personality, paving the way for the technological singularity (rise of superintelligence through technology).

It’s like he’s never read his O.C. Bible. “Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind.” That ringing any bells, buddy?

The 2045 Initiative is comprised of four phases (avatars):

Avatar A (2020)

Using a brain-machine interface, a human will control a robotic human replica. While it’s not as impressive as killing someone with your brain, I suppose it’s something.

Avatar B (2025)

Okay, here’s where things start to get freaky. The second phase of Itskov’s plan involves planting a human mind into a machine at the end of his/her life, effectively granting him/her immortality. But this immortality will come at a terrible price- at this stage, emotions and personality will be lost in the transfer.

I’ve seen this before. Now, where was it…

OH YEAH. They’ve already done this shit on Doctor Who:

You will be upgraded.

A recurring baddie on the long-running British show are the Cybermen, machines who take humans and “upgrade” them by making them into emotionless robotic beings.

And Itskov wants to start them up here on Earth? WAY TO GO… wait, if it means a certain blue police box is going to appear on a street somewhere, I say fucking go for it. Robotize the masses, Itskov. I’d love to meet The Doctor.

Avatar C (2035)

At this point, Itskov figures we’ll have successfully created a computer model of human consciousness, so we’ll now be able to move a human personality (emotions, memories, and all) into a machine.

Oh yeah, that’s never ended badly:

Oh… it’s you.

Avatar D (2045)

The final stage of Itskov’s master plan is to free humanity completely from physical forms. Humans will be digital creatures, living online in a kind of hive mind, with individual personalities surfacing as holographic avatars to interact with the physical world.

…

…

Why?

I guess that’s my main question here. While I (like many people) have always been fascinated by the idea of downloading a human personality into a machine (along with the ethical quandaries surrounding such a notion), this final stage just seems ridiculous to me. Something you read about in a good (or utterly awful) sci-fi novel, ponder for a bit, then promptly dismiss.

Then again, if all this goes down, I could be a digital Kerrigan. And all you bitches can be my zerglings. Mwa ha ha.

…Mine is an evil laugh.

To be completely honest, I guess the final stage of the 2045 Initiative is so repulsive to me because it seems utterly impossible to create an internet-based “hive mind” scenario that still maintains the individuality of the personalities within it. There’s a reason every goddamn swarm/hive mind of sci-fi is comprised of unemotional, non-individualistic creatures- group/hive consciousnesses are essentially one consciousness. There can be no real individuality because every unit within the hive is just a piece of the same whole, a cog in the same machine. Personalities get in the way of this kind of collective consciousness, impeding the group (by daring to dissent or have new ideas) and never achieving the snap decisions and power of many individuals acting as one singular unit.

There is a power in collective consciousness, but it’s a power that comes at the cost of individuality. We see this scenario play out time and time again in the sci-fi world. Halo’s flood, Starcraft’s Zerg, Star Trek’s Borg, Doctor Who’s Ood… The list goes on.

Now, in fiction, we see a handful of these group conscious that allow for the retention of some individuality. But could such a thing occur in a digital world? When we are all electric signals, bytes of memory, moving around the globe through the same channels, exchanging information and interacting at unbelievable speeds… would there be any real way to preserve individual consciousnesses? Or would we all eventually merge into one collective, global consciousness, humanity becoming one massive superintelligence?

Of course, Itskov faces a great many obstacles on this path. Technology is currently not progressing at the rate he would like, and it’s going to take more than just his billions to fund this venture. Personally, I don’t think he’ll ever raise the necessary monies to push this plan along according to his timeline. But if the money is found and that major hurdle is no longer standing in his way…

I ask you, galleons, to think about this idea. What kind of man would even put forth such an idea? This man would:

Look at him, galleons. I’m pretty sure this guy’s a goddamn robot already. He’s a Cyberman in disguise, trying to make us all a crazy, digital consciousness to suit his alien creators. Look at those dead, soulless eyes.

DON’T LET HIM GET YOUR DELICIOUS HUMAN MEATS, WORLD.

Week of the Triffids

Galleons, the deserts of Arizona are a treacherous place. And not just because of the oppressive heat and lack of water. No. There is a far greater danger to humanity hiding down here.

The motherfucking triffid.

Triffids, for those of you not in The Know are weird plants from the sci fi classic The Day of the Triffids by John Wyndham. I say classic because it’s often touted as such, but I don’t know anyone else who has read it, so how classic can it be, huh? HUH?

Anyway, in the story, a strange species of plant called a triffid has begun sprouting all over the world. These plants may or may not have been engineered by the goddamn Ruskies, but the narrator is pretty sure they aren’t aliens (despite the fact that they totally sound like aliens). Triffids are described as having a straight stem protruding upward from a woody bole (shaggy with rootlet hairs). The bole has three large projections from the lower part, like roots (these do, in fact, function as roots when the plant is stationary, but can be used to “walk” when the plant feels like picking up and being a super creepy Ent). At the top of the stem is a kind of funnel, from which protrudes a long, slender whip-like appendage with a sting at the end (which can, oh yeah, kill a man). Like this:

So, the triffids kind of take over after this crazy meteor shower blinds almost everyone and life is shit for the handful of folks who can still see and are trying to get by in this post-apocalyptic land.

On the whole, a solid sci fi book.

Anyway, as we were traveling the greater Arizona region this week, I looked outside and saw this:

MOTHERFUCKING DESERT TRIFFIDS ALL UP IN THIS BITCH.

Granted, upon closer inspection, they aren’t quite the same. But that was my first thought as I stared out over the land. And triffids would have to adapt to differing climates as they spread over the world. Who can say these aren’t a desert version of a triffid?

I’m just saying, the fucking apocalypse is upon us and it’s starting here. In Arizona. You can bet your ass I’ll be keeping my eye on these goddamn triffids.

You hear me, triffids? YOU WILL NOT GET ME.

…As an aside, galleons, I wouldn’t watch any meteor showers in the near future. Just in case.

The Muddy Misadventures of the Caliche Kid

Galleons, for those of you who don’t know, I’ve spent the last few days on the road, traveling from Michigan to Arizona in my giant van without a name (since it wasn’t my vehicle, it never got a real name, though I will admit to a pang of sadness as I returned it today- we bonded during our journey). The first day was long and uneventful, but the second day… oh, the second day.

The second day of travel found me getting tolled up the ass as I zipped across Oklahoma. And while I was excited to get out of that wallet rending suckfest, I was less excited about where the road was taking me next.

Texas.

I have never been to Texas, and it’s one of the few states I can honestly say I have no desire to visit. And yet, I had to drive through the panhandle on this trip of mine. Ugh.

And not only was I going to have to spend a few hours trucking (or vanning, in my case) through fucking Texas, I was going to have to stop for gas once. To reiterate: Ugh.

So that’s how I found myself pulling into a gas station in Conway, Texas in the early afternoon. There were a few absurdly long lines of cars at about three pumps. A rotund gas station attendant strode over, and as I rolled my window down, he began explaining to me about their pump issues in a thick Texas accent. I’m forcing a smile and nodding politely, already feeling insanely impatient and thinking I should just get back out on the road and stop at the next gas station along the interstate instead. But by then, another car was up on my bumper, so I couldn’t maneuver giant van out of the line.

Looks like I was waiting.

Ten minutes later, I finally pull the van up to the pump, select the only working option, and start fueling up. During this time, gas station attendant has wandered back over to me (lucky me) and starts asking me where I’m from and where I’m going and yadda yadda bullshit fucking smalltalk. I try to be civil but short with him to deter him from further conversation, but it does not phase his laid-back Texas self. Oh no. He just keeps fucking talking. When the tank finally fills, I almost do a fucking hoppy dance of joy as I jump in the van and pull away from Chatty McGee.

Parking the van away from the pumps, I head inside for a soda (and bathroom stop). Everyone working there is disgustingly friendly and so Texan it was painful. I happily exit the convenience store and get back in the van, ready to get the hell out of this state.

Unfortunately, the ramp back onto I-40 was closed, so I decided to head on down the road until Gary (my little Garmin) gave me directions that would lead back to the interstate. Sure enough, he had me immediately turning onto this little county road, which was going to link right up with an I-40 access road. Huzzah.

And so, me and the van start along this county road. While tiny and kind of shitty, it’s paved and not too terribly long. I can see where it will hit the access road in about a mile.

But what you can’t tell from the start of that little road is that it stops being paved about halfway along. At that point, it goes from shitty paved road to shitty dirt road. And I was honestly not paying a hell of a lot of attention to the goddamn road surface as I went along, so I was on the dirt portion before I realized it.

I fucking hate dirt roads, galleons. They are just dirty, uneven, awful things that I avoid whenever possible. And if I had known this county road was going to become a dirt road, I never would have taken it. However, I’m halfway down the road and while it’s now dirt and shit, the end is in sight, I might as well just continue on.

What I failed to take into account was the winter storm that had just passed through the area, probably because there was no goddamn snow on the ground. I just didn’t put it all together until, as I’m going down this road, I suddenly start to slow down. Slower. And slower. And then I am stopped, though my foot’s on the gas, and it dawns on me.

This dirt road is now a goddamn mud pit.

And I am stuck in it.

The shit-scared panic of being stuck in the middle of this county road is Assfucknowhere, Texas isn’t the first thing that hits me. The first thing I think of is actually a scene from My Cousin Vinny when Joe Pesci gets his car stuck in the Alabama mud. And really, if you had been raised in the same household as me, where that particular film is watched at least twice a year, it’s probably the first thing you would have thought as well.

Regardless, I try to shimmy the car back out of the mud and onto the ostensibly drier portions of road we’d previously been traveling on. I can only manage to move the van back and forth two or three feet, and I start to worry I’m just digging it in deeper by doing so, so I stop. I throw the emergency flashers on, then get out of the car and start the muddy, squelchy trek the 3/4 mile back to the gas station.

Upon reaching the gas station, I speak with the attendant from earlier. He seems incredulous that I managed to get stuck in the mud (it was the first of many, many times I heard one of the locals ask “Why on earth were you driving on that dirt road?”) and about as useful as an asshole on one’s elbow. So, I haul my muddy self inside. The folks behind the counter freeze at the sight of me. I calmly ask if they have a phone book or the number of a local towing company to help me extricate my vehicle from the muddy hell it was currently residing in. One of the ladies finally stops staring long enough to give me the number of a towing company.

Upon calling the towing company, I discover that they lack a 4-wheel drive vehicle that could get me out of my sticky predicament. Really? A towing company in a rural area without a 4-wheel drive vehicle? The guy on the other end tells me my best bet is to find a local farmer with a tractor to haul me out, then hangs up on me.

So much for that famous Texas hospitality.

I squish back over to the counter and ask for the number to the local sheriff’s office. The same lady frowns (because it is apparently greatly putting her out to write down two fucking phone numbers for me), then gets me the digits. I call the sheriff’s office, tell them my woes, and am told someone will head by when available.

And so… time to wait, I guess. I buy a new soda (having left my other one in the van) and proceed to sit and stare morosely out the window at my van, which is visible in the distance. A man sits down at the table next to me and starts asking about my situation, having overheard my phone conversation. I tell him what’s going on, then he offers to try to help me out after he finishes his sandwich. He has a 4-wheel drive Jeep with a winch on it, so he thinks he can drag me out. I shoot a skeptical look at his little Jeep, thinking about the heavy ass van sitting in the mud ahead, but figure anything is worth a shot.

By the time we got near the van, his Jeep started losing traction (which my van never did, which I still find really odd). He slipped and skidded around, and I had about 20 heart attacks as he slid behind, around, in front, and back around my van, nearly hitting it SO MANY TIMES. After thoroughly coating both my van and his Jeep in mud, he determines he can’t do anything and we drive back to the gas station.

And now I’m waiting again. I speak with my father, then call the sheriff’s office again, where I’m told a deputy will be there when they become available but that the dispatcher can’t make them get to me any faster and would I please stop calling. So, I sit back at my table and do the forlorn staring bit again.

A sheriff’s car drives by, going the opposite direction from the van. I bitterly watch it go, thinking it’s going to go the wrong fucking way (despite me repeatedly telling dispatch to have them come to the gas station and get me so I can direct them to the van) and leave me up shit’s creek here. But then the car turns around and comes back. I practically leap from my seat and fly out the door, but the car’s gone past. As I run toward it, I watch it pull down that county road.

Well, at least I knew this sheriff’s car was here to deal with my issue. Finally.

As I hurried toward it, the car went down the road, stopped partway, then started backing all the way back down the road. At the end, the deputy finally saw me.

“Well, little lady,” he said, “you appear to be stuck in the mud.”

NO SHIT.

But instead of being the impatient, asshole city dweller that I am at heart, I turned on my limited charm and played up the “damsel in distress” angle, which works way too well on folks in rural towns because they are all insanely sexist and really do think women are weak and rather useless. Particularly with cars.

The deputy has me get in his car and he drives me a few miles down to Panhandle, the little town he’s actually from. Along the way, he tells me about the dirt in the area, which is actually a clay-like substance called caliche, and about how often vehicles end up stuck in the mud after a bout of precipitation.

Him: “Well, down here, we don’t really have regular mud, you see. We have caliche, and when it gets wet…”

Me: “It turns into horrid, squelchy, car sucking death muck?”

Him: *laughter* “That’s ’bout accurate, missy.”

He gets a call over the radio and proceeds to start joking into it, saying how he’d picked some girl up who was being mouthy and how he’d smacked her around to show her who’s boss.

Lovely.

We eventually pull right into a towing company’s parking… area (can’t call it a lot, more like a dirt patch), and the deputy starts explaining to the stereotypical hick working there the situation and how it should be possible to pull me out from the front, right onto the access road I was trying so hard to get to. The towing guy says he’ll give it a go and tells me to go wait in his Suburban.

After fifteen fucking minutes of the good ol’ boys shooting the shit, the towing guy and his crony get into the Suburban and we head back to the van. During this trip, I am repeatedly asked why I was in the mud in the first place, and it really took everything in my not to make a smartass remark in response. I mean, what the hell, do these fuckers think I was doing this on purpose?

“Why van, doesn’t this seem like a lovely day for a caliche cruise? Let us frolic about in this mud patch until we are both mired in the muck, yes? Righto.”

We arrive at the van and the towing guys hook my van to their Suburban, and we slowly drag its heavy ass out of the goopy mess it had been hanging out in. And there was much rejoicing.

Anyway, this entire fucking adventure lasted less than three hours, but was full of enough stress (that I really didn’t need, after the previous week’s stress) to last three months. I spent a lot of that time walking around in the cold and wind, fretting and fussing as everything I fucking own hung out in a patch of sticky muck.

But the whole time this was happening, the part of my brain that finds amusement in the weirdest fucking things was just having a goddamn LOLfest. Every single goddamn Texan I interacted with was a fucking Texas stereotype. They were exactly how Hollywood portrays them. Exactly. It was fucking hilarious. If I’d been given one wish during the whole escapade, that part of my brain wouldn’t have wished for the van to be out of the mud. Oh no. It would have wished for a camera to have filmed the entire ordeal, just so I could show everybody later and everybody else could see how fucking absurd everything was.

Anyway, that concludes the tale of the Caliche Kid (as I have styled myself). I hope you found some amusement in it. Because now that it’s all over, I think it was a fucking riot.

And also, I am a goddamn moron.

Arizona

Galleons, living in Arizona is going to be difficult for me… because every single time I hear the word ‘Arizona’, this pops into my head:

 

200-Year-Old Cosmo Predecessor Going Up For Auction

Around 1680, a publication titled Aristotle’s Compleat Master-Piece began to pop up wherever pamphlets/books were being sold in ye olde Londontown. A racy little piece, it was a reference guide for young married couples getting their freak on for the first time.

And, you know, trying to make some babies… or whatever.

But the little book was considered too risqué for the delicate constitutions of the day, and it ended up banned in the mid-18th century (only in the UK- you could still snag a copy elsewhere).

So, what makes the little books so very naughty?

…Not much, actually. To our eyes (our filthy, degenerate, immoral eyes), the little book doesn’t contain anything all that dirty. One of the book specialists at the auctioneers, Cathy Marsden, called it, “funny more than anything.”

The little book contains warning about what could happen if *le gasp* you conceived a baby out of wedlock. Apparently, your baby could be born all hairy or be Siamese twins.

O, THE PERILS OF YOUR HIDEOUS SIN SEXING!

Actually, most experts believe it is the images in the little book that led to its ban (a ban that lasted until the 1960s, when morality imploded):

Because it is a fact that all women have creepy alien flora in their bellies.

The images aren’t so much graphic as strange- children with mouths for navels, ladies blossoming open to reveal babies, and men with extra limbs dancing around.

The book is interesting for a few reasons. First, it showcases the 17th century notion that women are supposed to enjoy sex as much as men (say it isn’t so!), because they believed a woman’s pleasure directly tied into the ease with which she conceived. This is an idea that gets squashed in the Victorian era after it’s learned women can conceive without orgasming, making female enjoyment of sex not only less important, but generally looked down upon (those wanton hussies).

But the little book is also interesting because, despite being attributed to Aristotle, none of his work appears in the text. Nothing is known about its actual author. Marsden speculates it was attributed to Aristotle because they were “trying to make it sound better or more worthy than it might have been.”

Regardless, the little book was very popular, even after the ban. It thrived on the black market and could easily be obtained under the counter all over the UK.

An amusing example of this is a newspaper clipping from the 1930s. An author of an advice column was asked where a copy of the book could be obtained, to which the author replied, ”You may not buy a copy of Aristotle’s Complete Masterpiece. You may expect to pay three-and-sixpence.”

The edition going up for auction in a few weeks at Lyon and Turnbull, an Edinburgh auction house, is from the 1760s. They expect to fetch up to £400 for it.

Not too shabby for faux-Aristotle’s not-terribly-naughty guide to making love at a woman.

“Skyrim is a Little Bit Racist”

So, I may have decided it would be fun to rewrite the lyrics to Avenue Q’s “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist” to suit Skyrim. Enjoy, my galleons:

Dragonborn:
Say, Paarthurnax, can I ask you a question?

Paarthurnax:
Tinvaak.

Dragonborn:
Well, you know Odahviing, right?

Paarthurnax:
Geh. Yes.

Dragonborn:
Well, he’s a dragon, and you’re a dragon.

Paarthurnax:
Vahzah.

Dragonborn:
You’re both dragons.

Paarthurnax:
Yes.

Dragonborn:
Are you two related? Fron?

Paarthurnax:
Mey! You surprise me, Dovahkiin. To one of the Dov, that is racist.

Dragonborn:
Oh, I’m sorry! Er, krosis! I was just asking!

Paarthurnax:
It is a bitter- ahzid- subject.
No, not all Dovah are related.
What are you trying say?
Do all Dovah look the same to you?
Hmm?

Dragonborn:
No, no, no, not at all. I’m sorry,
I guess that was a little racist.

Paarthurnax:
I should say so. You should be more
careful when you’re talking about
such a sensitive subject, Dovahkiin.

Dragonborn:
Well, look who’s talking!

Paarthurnax:
Krosis. What do you mean?

Dragonborn:
What about that special Dovah greeting you taught me?

Paarthurnax:
What about it?

Dragonborn:
Could someone like Arngeir use it?

Paarthurnax:
Niid, we Dovah do not greet Joorre as-

Dragonborn:
You see?!
You’re a little bit racist.

Paarthurnax:
Geh. And you are a mal, too.

Dragonborn:
I guess we’re both a little bit racist.

Paarthurnax:
Admitting it is not an easy thing to do.

Dragonborn:
But I guess it’s true.
Between me and you,
I think

Both:
Skyrim is a little bit racist
Sometimes.
Doesn’t mean we go
Around committing hate crimes (well…).
Look around and you will find
No one’s really color blind.
Maybe it’s a fact
We all should face-
Everyone makes judgments
Based on race.

Dragonborn:
Now not big judgments, like what mercenary to hire
or who to buy a sweet roll from-

Paarthurnax:
Niid!

Dragonborn:
No, just little judgments like thinking that Argonian
dockworkers should stop skimming off the top of every shipment!

Paarthurnax:
Err, yes.

Both:
Skyrim is a little bit racist
Today.
So, Skyrim is a little bit racist
Okay!
Thalmor jokes might be uncouth,
But you laugh because
They’re based on truth.
Don’t take them as
Personal attacks.
Everyone enjoys them-
So relax!

Dragonborn:
All right, stop me if you’ve heard this one:
There’s a ship sinking and there’s only
one lifeboat. And there’s a Breton, a priest of Arkay…
And a Redguard!

Nazir:
What are you saying, Dragonborn?

Paarthurnax:
Uh…

Nazir:
You were telling a Redguard joke!

Dragonborn:
Well, sure, Nazir, but lots of people tell Redguard jokes.

Nazir:
I don’t.

Dragonborn:
Well, of course you don’t- you’re from Hammerfell!
But I bet you tell Bosmer jokes, right?

Nazir:
Well, sure I do. Those stupid wood elves!

Dragonborn:
Now, don’t you think that’s a little racist?

Nazir:
By Satakal, I guess you’re right.

Dragonborn:
You’re a little bit racist.

Nazir:
Well, you’re a little bit too.

Dragonborn:
We’re all a little bit racist.

Nazir:
I think that I would
Have to agree with you.

Dragonborn/Paarthurnax:
We’re glad you do.

Nazir:
It’s sad but true!
Skyrim is a little bit racist
Oh, yes!

Paarthurnax:
Oh, yes!

Dragonborn:
Oh, yes!

Nazir:
Oh, yes!
Bigotry has never been
Exclusively Nordic.

All:
If we all could just admit
That we are racist a little bit,
Even though we all know
That it’s wrong,
Maybe it would help us
Get along.

Dragonborn:
Oh, Talos, do I feel good.

Nazir:
Now there was a fine upstanding Redguard!

Dragonborn:
Who?

Nazir:
Talos.

Paarthurnax:
Pardon, Nazir, but Talos was a Nord.

Nazir:
No, Talos was a Redguard.

Paarthurnax:
Niid, Talos was a Nord.

Nazir:
No, I’m pretty sure that Talos was a Redguard-

Dragonborn:
Guys, guys… Talos was never a god, remember?

All:
*laughter*

Ulfric Stormcloak:
Hey guys, what are you laughing about?

Nazir:
Racism!

Ulfric Stormcloak:
Cool.
Stormblade, what is that Redguard doing here?
I did not expect a true daughter of Skyrim to consort
With the likes of them.

Dragonborn:
What’s that mean?

Ulfric Stormcloak:
He’s not a Nord.
Don’t look at me like that!
How many Redguards fight for Skyrim?

Dragonborn:
Oh, come off it, Ulfric!
We KNOW you’re a little bit racist.

Ulfric Stormcloak:
I’m not!

Dragonborn:
Oh no?

Ulfric Stormcloak:
Nope!
How many Windhelm citizens
Are grey-skins?

Karliah:
What? Ulfric!

Dragonborn:
Ulfric, buddy, where you been?
The term is Dunmer, not grey-skin!

Karliah:
I know you are too
Dumb to realize,
But calling me a grey-skin
Is a slight in my eyes!

Ulfric Stormcloak:
Uh, sorry, lady.

Karliah:
It’s okay.

Ulfric Stormcloak:
But I bet you’re racist, too.

Karliah:
Yes, I know.
The Imperials have all
The money,
And the Nords have all
The power,
And I’m always in a wagon
With Khajiit who don’t shower!

Dragonborn:
Me too!

Ulfric Stormcloak:
Me too!

Nazir:
I can’t even get a wagon ride!

All:
Skyrim is a little bit racist
It’s true.
Where everyone is probably
More racist than you!
If we all could just admit
That we are racist, a little bit,
And everyone stopped being
So (N)PC
Maybe we could live in
Harmony!

M’aiq the Liar:
M’aiq is a little bit racist!

Triple Special Awesome Zombie Holiday Time Attack!

And now, dear galleons, because it is Halloween (and I’m a lazy fucker and don’t want to write a real post), here are my three favorite songs about those perennial favorites: ZOMBIES.

Number Three: “Who Do You Voodoo Bitch?” Sam B

Number Two: “Re: Your Brains” Jonathan Coulton

Now in French!

Number One: “Zombie Apocalypse Blues” Peter Chiykowski

The Faygo Imbroglio or Why I’m Not Very Good at Being a Michigander

“Why the hell do you people drink something that looks like Easter egg dye and tastes like you dropped a cough drop sucker into a bottle of battery acid?” I wheezed as I-

Actually, before I tell you that story, I have to tell you this one. Chronology, background, context, all that jazz. You know how it goes, galleons.

When I first entered MSU, I had these moments where I felt like I was adrift in a strange land. 1000 miles away from where I grew up, I suddenly found myself trying to learn the rules of Euchre (which I did learn, but it doesn’t really matter, seeing as I find the game incredibly stupid and never play it), shopping at Meijer and Kroger for the first time, trying to get someone to explain to me what the everloving fuck “Sweetest Day” was (why yes, Virginia, there is a holiday even dumber than Valentine’s Day). But it was the Redpop that really threw me.

There is no Faygo out west. We had Shasta (turns out, they are both owned by the same company… and are both equally shitty discount soda). I’m fairly certain Shasta has some sort of strawberry soda, but I don’t know if I had it as a kid (and if I did, it was apparently underwhelming). I can tell you that there is no real fuss made over any disturbingly red carbonated beverages where I grew up. But those first few months at MSU, I kept hearing people extolling the virtues of this fucking Redpop.

I had no goddamn idea what they were talking about.

It wasn’t until a little student function that I learned the answer. Refreshments included a wide array of Faygo flavors, and as my roommate poured herself a cup of something that looked like a video game health potion, I poked hesitantly at the bottle and asked about it. The ladies around me starting exclaiming, filling a red plastic cup with the potentially radioactive substance and shoving it into my hand before I could utter a word.

Apparently, I just “had to try this stuff.” So I did.

It was caustic and too sweet, and I nearly spat the stuff all over the tittering females. Needless to say, I was unimpressed with the godly Redpop. My still full cup managed to find its way unceremoniously into the trash, and I remained that weird outsider from across the Mississippi.

But now I was an outsider with knowledge. Knowledge that Redpop is fucking disgusting.

Which brings us to today, when my coworker bought a bottle of that same sickly strawberry soda for lunch. I wrinkled my nose at it as he set it on the table, causing him to turn to me in question. When told I find Redpop abhorrent, he (and the others at the table) proceeded to wail and complain. How on earth could someone not love this ambrosia, this nectar of the cheap soda gods?

Tired of listening to this (because it was really getting in the way of me reading my book), I said I was willing to give it another shot. With an eagerness I’ve only seen on the faces of extremely stupid puppies, he pushed the bottle across the table to me.

I sat there for a moment, staring at the bottle. It was just as unnaturally red as I remembered, a start contrast against the white table. There it sat. Redpop. My great foe.

Mustering my courage (and steeling my stomach), I unscrewed the cap. Immediately, I could smell the saccharine-yet-vaguely-acidic stench that I remembered from my first experience with the stuff all those years ago. I glanced balefully up at my coworkers once, then took a swig.

“Why the hell do you people drink something that looks like Easter egg dye and tastes like you dropped a cough drop sucker into a bottle of battery acid?” I wheezed as I sputtered and choked down the hellish liquid. Everyone at the table laughed as I made faces and grabbed my own drink, trying to wash the taste of mania and regret from my mouth. The taunting went on for a while, but the aftertaste of that burning death drink lingered far longer than their laughter.

Also, I actually cared about the Redpop flavor. Because it was all up in my mouth, causing me grief, being awful and all. There even came a point when all I could wish for was a quick death of all my taste buds- anything to get that foul taste out of my mouth.

Anyway, the moral of the story is that Redpop is fucking disgusting, and I don’t know how anybody drinks it.

A Further Excerpt From “The Lover’s Dictionary”

x, n.

Doesn’t it strike you as strange that we have a letter in the alphabet that nobody uses? It represents one-twenty-sixth of the possibility of our language, and we let it languish. If you and I really, truly wanted to change the world, we’d invent more words that started with x.