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Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

24 October 2013

Livin' Large in Big Girl Panties





Dear Bitches Who Wear Thongs And Claim They Are Soooo Comfortable,


You lie. 

You wear them because men think they are sexy. 

Do you know whyyyy men think they are sexy?

Because they don't have to wear them.  They make thongs for men... oh yes, they do.  Yet how many men do you actually see sporting a whale tail? 

None, that's how many.

Except possibly European men.  But they don't count, because they also wear Speedos.  And like woman with way too much body hair.  And kiss each other.  (Not that there's anything wrong with that.  I'm just explaining why they wear thongs.)

You say it's purely practical because you don't want panty lines?

I call bullshit.  You can buy panties that cover your entire ass and do not leave panty lines.  I know this because I have some.  And nothing is up my ass and flossing my crack when I wear them.

Plus if you don't want anyone to know you are wearing panties, why do you feel the  need to hike the waist band of your thong up over the top of your britches to announce to the world that you are wearing one?  Do you do that with your period panties?  (Period panties:  The giant white cotton pair you wear when Aunt Flo arrives and you are too bloated and crampy to wedge anything up your ass.)  When's the last time you wandered around the mall with your white cotton panties billowing out over the waist band of your low rise jeans?  Are you all, "Yeah I'm wearing big white panties and a maxi pad!  I'm sexy and I know it!"

Let's get real here.  (Yes, I am briefly channeling Dr. Phil.  Deal with it.)

Women wear butt floss for men. 

They need to knock it off. 



Here's the truth:

Thongs are uncomfortable.  And they're impractical.  And if God forbid you get a hemorrhoid?  They are lethal. 

They can kill you.

Oh, don't get me wrong... I like pretty panties as much as the next girl.  But after spending a few years constantly feeling like I had something crawling up my ass, I found pretty panties that didn't saw me in half.  (Oh, they're out there.  Trust me on this.) 

I moved on to boy shorts, which are cute, comfy, and don't leave a panty line. 

And let's face it, only one person other than myself is ever going to see them, and considering the state of most of HIS underwear, I could wear a plastic grocery bag with legs cut out and the straps pulled up over my shoulders and still come out ahead in that contest. 

It's time for comfort, ladies.  Comfort and JOY.  (Also?  I'm 50 and let's face it, NO one wants to see my ass cheeks dissected down the middle.  NO ONE.  Especially not me.  Imagine THAT looking back at you when you're trying on clothes in a triple mirrored dressing room at Kohl's.  You're casually bending over, sliding your foot into a pair of pants that probably won't fit and suddenly, THERE'S YOUR ASS.  BOTH OF THEM.  TIMES THREE.  COMPLETE WITH DIMPLES, CELLULITE, AND THE SCAR YOU GOT WHEN YOU ACCIDENTALLY SAT ON A STEAK KNIFE.  It's terrifying and tragic.)







See?

Here's some harsh and ugly truth for you, and I'm only telling you this for your own good.


This is not what you look like:








THIS is what you look like:






Odds are that from behind you look like your ass is eating your underwear. 

Not all of you... Of course there are a few of you who have gloriously perfect bums without a blemish or a wrinkle who can rock a thong like no one's bizness.  And I hate you.  No really, I do.  You can just kiss my dimpled, wrinkled, cellulite riddled ass and move on down the road. 

(I'm reaching that ugly age where youth and beauty just piss me right the hell off.)



Okay, I have a confession to make:

This rant really has nothing to do with underwear.  It all actually started when I was staring into the sink with last night's dirty dishes and trying to work up the motivation to deal with them.

I hate dirty dishes in the sink.

But even more?

I hate touching dirty dishes.  It's like, other people's food.

This may surprise you, but I'm actually kind of a priss.  Shocking, right?  Especially considering my morbid love of anything and everything to do with murder, mayhem, serial killers, and the occasional romp through a photo gallery featuring Victorian death photos.  But those things are not icky. 

"Icky" is food left on dirty dinner plates.  Or touching raw meat (shudder).  Or something slimy that your foot touches in the water that literally propels you screaming and splashing towards the surface and causes spontaneous levitation.  (I'm pretty sure that Jesus's walk on water had more to do with something gross bumping into his sandaled foot than an actual miracle.  He was just saving face in front of the Disciples.  He was all, "Dudes, seriously... I totally levitated.  I screamed and splashed because I was filled with the love of the Holy Spirit.  I swear.")

*waiting for lightning bolt*

*long pause*


Whew.

So yeah.  I was staring at the dirty dishes and mentally preparing myself to turn on the water and start rinsing and in my head I thought, "Just put on your Big Girl Panties, Danielle... you can do this."

One thing led to another and I started thinking about thongs and women who swear they wear nothing else and how comfortable they are and then I got annoyed. 

Stupid bitches make me tired.


Love,

Dani