This Week In Bullshit, Awkward Sex Edition

This week was rife with sex-specific bullshit. I KNOW! We’re as excited as you are.

First up, naming innuendo issues: Former senator Rick Santorum is in a froth about his image problem and thinks Google should solve it. Remember when Dan Savage held the contest to define Santorum? I do, and I thought at the time that there was no way such an extended and jarringly gross definition would stick. So to speak. All these years later, every time I hear Santorum I wonder why NPR is talking about the frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex before I remember that Santorum is the name of a politician, too. Which I guess is why Dan Savage is living awesome, changing lives, and flummoxing Colbert while I’m on my sofa eating mini Twixes and writing about a hopeless presidential candidate’s issue of synonymity with the frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex. You just don’t get to ask Google to solve that problem, though, or whine about the company’s wholly appropriate “no can do” and call it political bias. My name has “cum” in it. I understand being unhappy with Google results. Although—JESUS: frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex? I’d really feel for poor Santorum if I didn’t think his rotten ideas had done way more harm to many than Savage has done to one man’s pride and presidential campaign. As it is, I’m happy to forever link Santorum with the frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex.

Ben & Jerry’s got One Million Moms worked into a lather with its Schweddy Balls ice cream. “The vulgar new flavor has turned something as innocent as ice cream into something repulsive,” say the Moms. “Innocent as ice cream”? They aren’t using it right. I’d like to thank the Moms, though, because testicle perspiration isn’t something I’d ever given thought to, and my Google search proved illuminating. (Dingo Dust!) Also because I didn’t know I could get a vibrating shower sponge online from Rite Aid. Now I can quit borrowing Maggie Gyllenhaal’s.

We learned this week that Kendra Wilkinson does it on a jet ski, a hockey mom does it with her teenaged son’s teammates, an Iowa man is going to prison for having done it with a cat, and deep-sea squid are mostly lonely and can’t see who they’re doing it with, anyway, so they do it without discretion. (That last article marks my introduction to the term traumatic insemination, BTW. The imprisoned Iowa cat-fucker might be getting his own introduction right about now.)

Finally, an apology to the men of Central Indiana. Had I recognized that I was responsible for your thoughts and actions and that those thoughts were so insatiably, irrepressibly lust-filled, I wouldn’t have worn all those sleeveless shirts this summer. Rest assured I’ve been doing some shopping. With my dad, like the good preacher recommends.

Dear lord. When the preacher gets all whispery? It’s hard not to throw my panties. He should stop filling my mind with dirty, dirty sinful thoughts. Speaking of which: Did you ever hear that This American Life episode about testosterone? A female-to-male transsexual tells how surprised he was when he started taking testosterone. Whereas before when he (she at the time, but I’m going with he for the sake of simplicity) saw a girl he thought was attractive, he’d think of ways to start a conversation with her. But after testosterone, seeing a pretty woman launched a rush of pornographic images through his head. I have to admit that I don’t know what that’s like. Intense though it may be, you’re a failure as a human being if you pawn your own responsibility for your actions off on me and my deep v-neck. To claim otherwise is bullshit, no matter whose name you invoke.

Here’s to a sexy weekend, friends. Take it all off.