Thursday, October 16, 2008

News Story Of The Day: Boobs Getting Bigger In The UK

Time to plan that trip to the British Isles, boys. Thanks for the link, Amy.

Why the British woman's cleavage has gone from 34B to 36C in a decade

Whether concealed in lace or held firmly under wraps in no-nonsense Lycra, the fact that can no longer be hidden is that British breasts are getting bigger. In less than ten years the average bra size has grown from a 34B to 36C.

Marks & Spencer say a quarter of all its bras sold are a D cup or above, a figure which has doubled in three years. And, in response to customer demand, its range, which used to end with a G cup, now goes up to a J. Lingerie company Bravissimo has even introduced three different K cup bras.

It would be easy to blame this on an increase in cosmetic surgery; breast implants remain the most popular procedure and about 10,000 British women underwent the operation in 2007.

Yet, according to experts, from dieticians to gynecologists, the reasons why our breasts are getting bigger are complex, and range from obesity to hormones, and alcohol to environmental factors. And that in this instance size does matter because there is a direct connection with the health of our breasts and of our bodies as a whole.

(Click for the rest of the article - with photos!)

Classic 80s Vid Of The Day: Head Over Heels (Literal Version)

Another one, I assume, from the guys who did the literal version of "Take On Me." Thanks, Seth, for the link.

One of my favorite 80s songs, btw.


9 Commercial Mascots I Want To Pummel

Yes, pummel. I know, violence doesn't solve anything, but I'm not looking to solve anything. I just want to beat these characters senseless.


Does a bear shit in the woods? Yes. Do I need to see it? No. We all know what TP is for; I don't need to see people or animals heading to/talking about/sitting on the crapper or lovingly rubbing their faces with TP. But no, the good folks at Charmin think that defecating bears are cute. They even named all the bears and gave them bios on their web page. That's messed up, yo. If they never saw a real bear taking a dump, they might change their minds.


The connection was tenuous from the start: an insurance company's name being confused with a lizard. Now it's just annoying. Oh yes, please let me buy car insurance from a talking lizard with a bad Michael-Caine-in-
Alfie Cockney accent. Blimey, that's bleedin' yampy, guv'na!


We're told that Jared Fogle lost 250 lbs eating Subway sandwiches. Right -- Subway sandwiches AND an assload of exercise, which tends to help with weight loss. Oh, and they forget to mention how Jared got so fat in the first place: from -- ready for this? -- EATING AT SUBWAY! Yep. Whatever -- he has the charisma of a dirt clod and creeps me out with those beady eyes.


Dogs have their own coats, so I always found it odd that McGruff wears a trench coat. Yeah, I know, he's supposed to be a detective, but the dude wears a trench coat and hangs out at playgrounds. That doesn't say detective to me. That says flasher. That's right -- McGruff is a goddamn flasher. "Hey kids, who wants to see my penal code?"


If you don't live anywhere near a Six Flags theme park, you probably missed this dude. Lucky you. Meet "Mr. Six": a young, clearly athletic person dressed up as Uncle Junior from The Sopranos who likes to jump around and dance like somebody's great-grandpa who double-dosed his Haldol and Cialis. How exactly does a manic nonagenarian in a creepy mask and Swifty Lazar glasses sell tickets to amusement parks? He doesn't, and Six Flags has spent most of the decade in financial turmoil, closing some parks and selling off others.


Ya know, I've played in several bands with other aging men (hi, Spinderfella) and not once did we spontaneously break into song about erectile dysfunction or boner juice. WTF?! Guys don't sit around talking -- or singing -- about their peckers, unless it's a big circle-jerk or something. Come to think of it, that's exactly what this jam session is: a big circle-jerk with music.


Buddy, I don't care if you're giving me money or taking my money -- if I'm walking down the sidewalk and you put your hand in my pocket, I'm gonna beat. Your. Creepy. Ass. Motherfucker.


I prefer a syrup bottle that doesn't look like a person or talk (not to me, but I've seen her on TV). That way I don't feel like I'm removing the cap of her skull and pouring some Mrs. Butterworth mystery ooze all over my flapjacks. We've also never seen Mr. Butterworth, and that frightens me. I don't want to wake up in the night and find him standing over me with a machete because I sampled his wife's tasty nectar.


ENOUGH ALREADY! Your 15 minutes years are up. Be the fuck gone.

Craigslist Ad Of The Day: To The Guy Who Groped Me

I love it. Somehow she reminds me of Regan.

to the perv who groped me on my way home - w4m

Date: 2008-07-29, 12:04AM EDT

Me: Caucasian, white yoga capris and tan tank top
You: Latino, 5'8, in your twenties, sports jersey, short hair, mole on your face.

You might have been following me for a while, Mr. Perv, I don't know -- I was on the phone with my mother, venting about my roommate situation (we had to find a new one) and my job search (like, I need a job), when you snuck up behind me, and gently squeezed my ass. Not just the top of my ass, but kinda low, kinda close to my you-know-what, if you know what I mean.

You know, even my boyfriend needs permission to get that close, so having a perfect stranger attempt access so suddenly, so completely out of the blue, triggered my fight-or-flight response. And I *fight.*

Did it hurt when I grabbed your collar and punched you in the head? I'm a little worried that I didn't get enough momentum in my swing to make you feel it, seeing as I'm kinda short (5'2").

But you must have felt bad when you took off running and I chased you down so easily -- it's not that you're slow, dude, it's just that I run fast, as you might have suspected from the well-muscled form of my posterior, had you been viewing it with its athletic potential in mind.

It was all worth it when you realized you couldn't outrun me and so you stopped with your back to me in shame, and I kicked you in your hole.

You might not remember, but I said: "Are you sorry? Are you sorry? Say you're sorry!", and you did. That was great. Then I said: "Run on home, you asshole! Run home!" and you did that, too!

Ladies, these pervs are cowards who run in fear when confronted with any kind of resistance. They are weak and pathetic.

To the two guys who came out of their houses when they heard me yelling -- thank you for being so aware and willing to help out-especially -- Chris, was it? - who walked me home. It's great to know the people here care about the safety of others. Thanks so much.

My mom was really worried, because she heard me start swearing and then the phone went dead (I closed it so I could chase the motherf*cker down) and she thought I had been hit by a car. When I told her what happened, she told me not to be so agro, and pointed out that he could of had a knife or something. True. You're right, mom.

But you're unlucky if you're from this neighborhood, Mr. Perv. Cause I'm here ALL THE TIME (no job, remember?) and next time I'll MACE YOUR FACE.

Cutting-Room Floor Monologue Of The Day

An early draft of the screenplay for Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me (by Mike Myers and Michael McCullers) included a scene in which Dr. Evil appears on Jerry Springer and delivers a monologue reminiscent of the one from the family therapy scene in the first Austin Powers. The scene was cut in the final script.

Jerry Springer
: Don't you have any secrets?

Doctor Evil: Okay. I have a vestigial tail. It's more of a nub, really. The spine just goes on a little longer than it should. Also, I've dabbled. I mean, perform fellatio once and you're a poet, twice and you're a homosexual. I remember once I was being fisted by Sebastian Cabot -- but here's where the story gets interesting. He was lactose-intolerant. He could eat red meat all night long, but one sip of milk and it was gastric hell. And I remember we were caught in flagrante delicto by Henry Kissinger, and you can imagine my humiliation at having Hank hear me say, "Mr. French, no teeth." One of my greatest disappointments is that I never became a song and dance man. I could have been a quadruple threat, kind of like a despotic Ken Berry. Dancer, singer, actor, and I would possess nuclear weapons, the latter being the most threatening of the four. I once sat on a bus and tried to will myself a menstrual cycle. All I ended up with was a sense of failure and a mild neuralgia in my incisor teeth and perhaps a grudging respect for the weaker sex. I love toe cleavage. For the most part I distrust dogs. I slept in a horse once. It was quite roomy. On second thought, it was the Ritz. I named my left testicle 'piss' and my right testicle 'vinegar'. I wrote "It's Raining Men,"or so the Christmas babies told me. Oh yes, I also made a Marzipan voodoo effigy of The Fonz while I was in coma after smoking some Peruvian prayer hash, but who, at the end of the day, can honestly say they haven't done that?

4 Forgotten (?) 80s Music Videos Of The Day

Remember these? Four great songs.






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