As it’s New Year’s Day, I was going to write a profound piece about my highlights of 2013 and grand plans for the upcoming year. Luckily for all, I instead stumbled (metaphorically) across this sick poster and felt compelled to write about it instead. I saw it while driving down South Lamar and rushed home to tell Erik who had apparently already seen it but decided not to tell me in the foolish hope that he could avoid one of my rants.
Flaps is one of those nauseating cringe-worthy words, that goes along with panties, moist and cuddle (never again to be seen in sentence together). My bras do not have flaps. They may at some point soon have a sophisticated built-in system of pulleys but are definitely currently and happily flapless.
And yes, for those of you getting your flaps in a wad, I do get the whole mother’s milk bank thing, well probably not whole milk because half (and half) of those babies are probably lactose intolerant. But whose idea was this campaign? Did you not do a bit of consumer testing on the flaps thing? Did no-one mention meat flaps? I don’t like to go there (not for my tastes) but you have to consider the anatomically confusing consequences of your advertising. Don’t make it so complicated. I came up with Got Milky Flaps? in just a few minutes and its miles better. Or do away with the flaps altogether. Got Spare Milk? Got Leaky Boobs? I am an advertising genius.
I am also quite puerile but if you’re posting your signs on South Lamar then you’re going to reach people like me and then alienate them for wearing the wrong kind of bra. I’m not even entirely sure how those kinds of bras work. I thought it was a peep-hole kind of deal with a little tarpaulin waterproof cover over it but seems to be the whole cup that sort of unclips and folds down. Surely a peep-hole would be much better as it only exposes the crucial area while also maintaining some semblance of stripper-ish sexiness for partner’s benefit. Plus it introduces the baby much earlier to the crucial game of peekaboo. I am a marriage saver and creator of child prodigies.
The whole thing just feels a bit elitist to the flapless among us. And it raises too many questions that I really don’t want to know the answer to. I already get queasy if a friend even mentions ‘pumping’ and hard as I try I just can’t get the image of the cowshed at milking time out of my mind. Which leads me to wonder if donating milk is like donating sperm. Do you have to do it there? Do they give you a copy of Mommy and Me magazine to help you along? Or can you take it along in a milk jug and drop it off? What if yours is the wrong kind of milk. Mine would almost certainly be, given that my British blood isn’t even good enough to save a life here. Thanks Mothers Milk Bank for making me feel even more like a failure. Jerks.
Feeling more than a little insecure, I’m almost home when I see that coming soon to one of the ridiculous number of new apartment/retail buildings springing up along S Lamar is this.
Just when I was hoping the Brazilian problem had disappeared, or rather grown back in to a full and bushy look, this place opens up. Pretty Kitty, yup, I get it. I may have been fooled by Pussy Galore when I watched James Bond as a child, but I definitely get it now.
Are we/you still into all this pubic topiary business? I will admit to never having the waxing thing done. It’s not even the pain that scares me, it’s the post-muff removal when you’re expected to examine the stylist’s handiwork. I fear that it’s like when you order a bottle of wine in a restaurant and the waiter brings it and shows you the label. You look at it, not knowing what the fuck you’re supposed to be doing, and just nod and say yes, very nice or some such bollocks. Surely the same when you’re handed a mirror to check out your de-thatched snatch. What do you say as you examine your own pubes? ‘Oh I like how you’ve neatened the edges. Could you do anything about my meaty flaps?’.
When I was about 12 and going to the yob-filled school in my village, a vile individual called Sean Scutts would regularly yell out in class ‘close your legs love, I don’t like your hairstyle’. At the time, my fanny probably had more style than the hair on my head but I do remember wondering what other hairstyle you could possibly have. I wouldn’t recommend googling it. Most disturbing to me is the Bermuda Triangle. The triangle part I get, but who wants to be hearing Barry Manilow every time your pants come down.
The Pretty Kitty doesn’t appear to be open yet, but I’m already irritated at the name and the fact that driving down South Lamar is going to cause me so much anguish over the next few months. Why not go bold, open up a Bushy Pussy salon, but with a big X through the Bushy. Though that might make it seem like they carve letters into your muff and maybe intricate tribal designs.
Vajazzling is so 2013.