2003-10-11 @ 3:46 p.m.
|I looked back at my entry yesterday and the end of it made me look like Oprah or something....
Geeze, I wonder if Oprah even HAS anything to be angry about? Like, "Damn! They didn't transfer that $1.8 trillion into my checking account. Now, I'm going to bounce that check at Macy's."
I was just perusing Michael Moore's new book "Dude, Where's my Country?" and he thinks Oprah should run for President in 2004. She has a built in audience. She has the likeability quotient. She could broadcast weekly cheerleading sessions for the country from the Harpo Studios in Chicago. Why not?
I think most of our most famous comedians or observational humorists are just angry people who get paid to spout off. There's Dennis Miller. Bill Maher. Michael Moore. But I guess if they didn't have an opinion, we wouldn't listen, right? Wish someone would pay me to mouth off. I'd be rich!
But instead I go to garage sales on Saturday. I saw the most luscious black man today at one of these sales. And he saw me. He even looked at me. And I don't usually get looked at. And he was driving a black Lexus.
So why did that make me think of sex? Not sure really. But I have been having a really romantic weekend nevertheless...
What better person to have one with? I know what I like. I know when I'm in the mood. I know who to invite.
You do know what I mean...right?
I was having a conversation about that very subject with someone recently and I would personally like to thank the person who invented the Internet, since you made it possible to order a Vibrator online. Because having to go into a retail outlet, with a gum smacking clerk, dragging my new battery operated sexual device over a scanner and having $29.95 pop up on a screen and having to pay tax on something I'm going to be sticking up my vagina, would have just been too traumatic for me. So thanks!
Of course, what you see on your computer screen and what arrives in that plainly wrapped cardboard enclosure may be drastically different than you expect. Mine certain was. I was expecting Mickey Rooney and I got Arnold Schwarzenegger. Cripes. How many batteries does it take? Anytime there's a power outage, I just empty out my vibrator and I have enough batteries for flashlights all over the neighborhood. The damn thing is so big, I sometimes have to whack it on the nightstand just to get it started.
See, that's why I don't have a boyfriend. Imagine trying that with a real one.
So I was telling this person about my device and its size and he seemed a little concerned. It took a while to break it in. He explained that real ones aren't quite that big and hinted without actually saying, that I shouldn't expect or even want, anything quite that firm. Boy, if I bought that, I wouldn't be having such a great weekend.
But I guess that's why someone came up with the phrase "penis envy". You don't hear women discussing "vagina envy". And we do, after all, have "The Vagina Monologues". We don't envy or compare our stuff. We just write reverential plays about them.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty