Avoir les Anglaises

People really like to blame others for their problems. "You didn't tell me it was your birthday, so I couldn't remember to get you a gift" or "How was I supposed to know that when your hand was in the blender I wasn't supposed to turn it on." One of the best finger-pointing blame games to play is the old, who gave who the venereal disease game. Sure, this happens on a personal level. And really, at the couple level, who ever had the scabs first is the culprit. Plain and simple and itchy, if not downright burny.

Things get interesting when countries start blaming one another for syphilis and gonorrhea and crabs (dudes, the ocean takes the blame for that one). It's a big whiny whine fest about who to blame when you've been dipping that sugar stick into more than one Lik-m-aid flavor pack. You'd think people could pick a flavor and stick to it, BUT NO. You'd think wrong. Humans like fake cherry and purple and sour (the technical flavors of both Lik-m-aid and genitals) in equal abandon. Pick one? Hah. Why not dump them all in a bowl, add a little water and down the sucker? Wait, maybe that's an orgy...

So anyway, par example, the Europeans get to the New World and kill the shit out of the indigenous people with small pox, a very Continental malady. And then they go home and bitch that because of all their raping, their dicks itch and their anuses (the plural should really be anii) are weeping fluid. But the blame isn't reserved for those damn infidels in their loincloths and feather necklaces. Oh no.

Germans called venereal disease Spanish scabies. The Spanish called it French disease. The French called it Italian Malady. And we wonder why these countries beat the ever-loving shit out of one another for centuries. No one likes to be blamed for a weeping anus. Not even the Native Americans. It's just that they couldn't really protest when they were trying to not get slaughtered on a daily basis.

And the Brits. Oh, those Brits. They, of course, joined in behind the last dude in the French-hating congo line, describing losing one's nose due to syphilis as being hit over the snout with a French faggot-stick.

So the French retaliated. Actually, they probably retaliated by pissing in jugs of wine before exporting them to Britain, but it's my blog and I've determined that they likely got their revenge for such slander with coining their own term. Avoir les anglaises or "to have the Englishes/Brits"means to menstruate.

Now hold it. It's okay to blame your crabs and your deformed penises and your hairless balls on one another, but why the hell do we need to drag the beauty and majesty and natural event that is bleeding out your vagina into the war? Huh??

All healthy women have to menstruate, even if they keep their boxes to themselves and don't go sharing with the entire EU. How come women now need to contend with menstruating out British people thanks to the French? It sucks enough with the cramps and the irritability and now we have to deal with people coming out of our vaginas? Oh, wait, that's where people come from. Okay, but adult people? Each month?

I'm planting my own flag in the ground on this one. If I have to avoir les anglaises until I'm in my forties, I might as well bleed out some hot ones.
Always remember, your junk is your own responsibility. Treat it well, don't go to war over it and always keep in mind that venereal disease is transnational. It knows no borders. It knows no ethnicity. It just likes to make it burn when you go pee.

Fire In My Pants

I wear underwear. I know that doesn't make me special. I suppose it could make me special if you consider that there are millions of starving children in the world and frail, dehydrated adults that don't wear underwear and if they could just get that whole "not starving/dehydrating to death" thing under control they'd probably be pretty peeved that they have to wear pants and dresses without something cradling their junk. So I feel lucky that I have underwear to keep my bits warm and secure. I'm looking at the bright side of my life, motherfuckers.

So, even though I'm one of the lucky, oh, let's say fifty percent of the world that have undies (completely accurate stat), is it too much to ask that they don't be the death of me? Because I'm afraid my new, pink underwear are controlling at best and deadly at worst.

Now, don't get too worried yet. I haven't heard my panties plotting my demise. I mean, perhaps they are, but I'm not delusion enough to think that they can talk. Okay, I've actually entertained the idea that they can talk, but just in a frequency inaudible to human ears. They seem to be warning me of their dangerous nature, luring me in but repulsing me at the same time, sort of like a man sporting a popped collar.

My new pair of underwear, just like that dude, seem to be a bit douchey. Apparently both want to control what goes on in a lady's junk. Uh uh. Take a look:


I mean, I appreciate the suggestion: KEEP AWAY FROM FIRE. But I don't feel the friendly, "Hey, Erica, let's not flick matches at your crotch" advice is for me. No way. Either the underwear just want to save themselves, letting me know that tossing them on an antiquated radiator is a bad idea or they want to make sure they just don't burn up while on me, like, hey, don't be eating Bananas Foster in bed while wearing ME. These underwear are just looking out for numero uno. I'm numero dos, for sure. My underwear are intent on not going up in some conflagration and my vagina not catching on fire is just a passing concern, a happy cherry on top of things, so to speak.

So there go my plans for the evening to coat my foot-long, bright yellow dildo with Sterno and light it on fire before introducing it to my labia. Fuck. I never get to do anything fun anymore.

Maybe I should just cut off the tag and be happy I get underwear, no matter how disturbed they, or I, may be.