Monday, 7 July 2014

MAN UP TO THE DINOSAURS …


My father in law is a good sort: generous, good-humoured, sincere. But frankly, when it comes to women’s issues, he is all kinds of fucking dinosaur.

“Paternity leave! Bloody ridiculous!” he exclaimed the other day, while reading the paper.   

Now normally, for the sake of family cohesion, I let things like this go:

Father-in-law: Global warming is bloody rubbish!
Me: Sheesh! You’re sooo craze!!  But whatever … 
Father in law: Brawn is bloody delicious! Not like that foreign muck.
Me:  Mmm. It does sound tasty. (A terrine of meat jelly made of a pig’s head and pig’s tongue also known as head cheese … what’s NOT to like?)  

But the notion that paternity leave is bloody ridiculous got right on my mildreds. As far as yours truly is concerned, the new legislation on shared parental leave may well be the single most important piece of legislation in the struggle to achieve workplace equality in a decade, forcing employers who currently look upon women of childbearing age as liabilities to consider that men, too, may also require extended leave. Yes, the policy needs some serious tinkering  – more on this later - but the principle of extending paternity leave to allow fathers to share up to a year’s parental leave is a no-brainer. End of.

“So why is it bloody ridiculous?” I ask my father-in-law.
“Why should Jo Public pay for men to stay home for two weeks doing nothing?” he says.   
(Turns out my father in law isn’t objecting to shared parental leave. Just basic paternity leave. Bless his long spiny tail cotton socks.)  
“It’s not doing nothing!” I say. “It’s a job that NEEDS two people …”
“So how did people like my mother manage?” he says.
“Probably because they had five great-aunts, eleven aunts, grandmothers, five sisters, a mother, and assorted members of the extended family ALL living next door” I say, contemplating the horror of having your relatives around for 30 days, crinkling their noses at the whiff wafting from your vagina, and demanding tea.

I don’t mention the idea that just because something might be “manageable” doesn’t make it ok. People managed for years without entitlement to sick pay, holiday pay, a minimum wage, employment rights of any kind, or the vote, and even my father in law would agree that we don’t want to go back there.

“Besides, why would you deny men the chance to spend time with their babies?” I say, hopefully.  
“They see them in the nights and weekends. No need to bankrupt the bloody country over it", he says. 

I turn to my partner for support. Being a boy, I’m guessing he’s loads better than me at sums *sarcastic face*.  I’m hoping he might explain that paid paternity leave – even if it were extended to four weeks at full pay as recommended by the IPPR – would only cost the taxpayer in the region of £150 million. I say “only”, because compared with the £95 billion a year that rich corporations and individuals cost the state when they shun taxes or the £100 billion a year it costs the taxpayer to pay for insurance for the banks, this is a small price to pay for a more equal society.

“I think paternity leave is a good thing”, says my partner, but without the unbridled enthusiasm I was looking for. And with that he walks out of the room, presumably because he suspects that I am THIS close to talking about my vagina. 

This is NOT my father in law. 

As it turns out, my father in law is not alone in his aversion to even basic forms of paternity leave.  Research by the Institute of Leadership and Management (ILM) shows that a quarter of new fathers take NO paternity leave. According to the ILM, one issue behind the dismal take-up is the attitude of employers. “There remains a cultural expectation within organizations that women will be the ones taking extended periods away from the workplace”, says Charles Eleven, ILM Chief Executive.  His thoughts are echoed by Cityfathers, a support group for working fathers in the City, which found that a quarter of men feared it would be 'career death' to ask for time off to look after their children. To which the only reasonable response is MAN THE FUCK UP.  IT’S YOUR BABY TOO.

But attitudes aren’t the only issue. Paying men less than the minimum wage to stay at home (statutory maternity or paternity leave currently stands at a grim £138.18 per week) in a society where men earn an average of £5000 a year more than women, won’t work. Even in Sweden, famous for its enlightened attitudes, (where eight in ten fathers now take a third of the thirteen months of available leave), the gender pay gap meant that men didn’t take up their entitlement to shared parental UNTIL there were financial incentives to do so. And by financial incentives, I mean a quota of paid parental leave available ONLY to fathers.
In a stroke of genius, the Swedish government introduced exactly that, back in 1995. Dubbed ‘daddy leave”, it constituted a month of non-transferrable parental leave at close to full wages. No father was forced to stay home, but if he didn’t, the family lost one month of subsidies. The policy had an immediate impact. More than eight in ten men took the leave. The addition of a second non-transferrable daddy month in 2002 continued the trend. Soon it became the norm for dads to take off a month, two months, even longer, and the culture at work – and at home - began to shift. Not only did the pay gap between men and women start to close, but men got a taste of what it was like to be the primary parent, assuming responsibilities traditionally left to mothers. The divorce rate went down, at a time when it was rising elsewhere.

Meanwhile, I will never convince my father-in-law that a system of properly remunerated shared parental leave, including at least two months of paid daddy leave, is a force for good. Like columnist Liz Jones, who argues that extending paternity leave is a ghastly slippery slope towards men wearing fake mammary glands, my father in law’s worst fear is that shared parental leave could make men grow vaginas. Whilst there is no hard scientific evidence that this is likely to happen, (no, really, I looked everywhere, even in The Daily Mail), red-blooded men still unsure about whether or not to take up their fair share of parental leave should probably know this: most women love a man who can change nappies AND use the eco-settings on a washing machine. And when I say love, I mean lurrve. As in, want to fuck. So in a way, maybe it’s best if my father-in-law remains a dinosaur, because THAT would be awkward.

This is a slightly edited version of an article that appeared in the vagtastic Vagenda magazine. To read the full version, click here. 





Friday, 13 June 2014

IF YOUR CERVIX WERE AN ANIMAL, WHAT ANIMAL WOULD IT BE?


So, gals, here's the thing. 

A couple of weeks ago, I discovered that I suffer from a previously unknown condition called 'simia cervux' (to give it its official Latin name), meaning that my cervix is basically a monkey.

This shocking discovery was made during a routine smear test, when the practice nurse, having first pried me open with an icy metal speculum THIS big (the bronze vaginal dilators of ancient Rome are an excellent reference point), made a sudden exasperated announcement.
“Cheeky little monkey your cervix, isn’t she!”   
As always, I tried to make light of things.
"Ha ha! Maybe you should try some banana on top of the swab?!” I said. Like a twat.
She shot me one of those weary, angry, “not again” looks that people usually reserve for moments when they a) step in dog shit or b) hear something that Michael Gove said. Which is very fucking annoying indeed, as it was she who brought the monkey into the conversation in the first place.



I'm not a fucking vet, love. 

Of course, this isn’t the first time my lady parts have been treated as biological rarities. (A mermaid foetus? A two-headed dog? A kidney stone the size of Jupiter that also happens to have the face of a transmogrified Jesus? Whatever. For a whole sackful of proper weird, just try looking DOWN HERE, at cuntzilla.) 

Take my first-ever smear test, at the tender age of 25, when the nurse, after some protracted rummaging, said:
“You have a very long vagina. I’ll have to go get the longer speculum”.  
The way she said "long", it was as though she had accidentally walked the whole length of my vagina, realising, too late, that it was exactly the same length as the Wales Coastal Path. After a massive manhunt for the outsize speculum, involving two other doctors, she finally suggested that I “pop” onto my knees. I turned around on the treatment bed, sticking my butt in the air.
“Do you mean, like, doggie style?” I said.
I don’t know why I said doggie style. I was ALREADY more embarrassed than I had ever been in my entire life, except for the time my mother found a still-warm cucumber on my bedroom floor.
“Yip, uh uh”, she said, wearily.  “I’ll be able to reach up higher then.”
In hindsight, I’m surprised that she didn’t mention the cheeky little monkey who lives at the end of the Trans-Vaginal Interstate Highway, you'd think she would n'all, but either she was too frazzled to notice, or my cervix is actually, you know, a 'normal' cervix. 

* closes legs, suppressing a gibbering sound *





PS: This week is Cervical Screening Awareness Week. Go and get yourself screened. Beware, though, of all the public health advice that tells you that it doesn’t hurt (as we live in a society that loves to infantilise adult women and treat them like little girls), because it hurts Like A Motherfucker. Then again, if it saves your life, who cares?! As for the nurses who may or may not call your cervix a little monkey, or refer to your vagina as “down there”, I suggest you practice saying VAGINA and CERVIX really loudly in the mirror beforehand. Then you can introduce them all properly and be friends. Yay!




Thursday, 5 June 2014

N is for Nipple Pride


Everybody knows that there are two kinds of nipple. 

The first kind of nipple looks like a nipple, or, perhaps, a kitten's nose. Gentle but perky, with a hint of moist juiciness, it is usually attached to what family newspaper editors* like David Dinsmore like to call hooters, funbagsor chumbawombas. It can also be seen on a daily basis through pretty much anything worn by Rihanna or Beyonce. 

The second kind of nipple, conversely, looks like something you might find stuck to your shoe i.e chewing gum. Often the result of extreme breastfeeding, which in the UK means breastfeeding for more than three days, it could also (apparently) be mistaken for an attack of ringworm, or a scary witch's teat, which is why you never see it featured in newspapers, magazines, campaign billboards, or on the catwalks at New York Fashion Show

Not so long ago, I was confronted by a nip of the second variety on Embarrassing Bodies, when a concerned mother of three made the mistake of showing her cherub-chafed titties to telly doctor, Dr Christian Jessen. Drawing back the curtains (of his hair) and looking slightly bewildered, Dr Christian reassured the mother that "for someone who had breastfed three children", her nipples were, er, "okay". (Rumour has it that he also said, "Frankly m'dear, your nipples look like you've been suckling Satan. And all of his goats. But as an older woman, that's the least of your fucking worries." Which they must have edited out … )



Examples of Dr Jessen's sensitive engagement with women's issues on Twitter 
Now whilst I don't approve of Dr Christian's dismissive attitude (and I'm sure the mother in question was very cross for forgetting to reassure Dr Christian that although he had really shit hair, he had an inimitable bedside manner), I can nevertheless see where he's coming from. Because unless you're in the habit of drawing attention-seeking circles around your nipples using rhinestones and body glue, like those rad 'feminists' over at Cosmopolitan suggest, or unless your nipples are angled up by exactly 20 degrees with a picture-perfect ratio of breast tissue above and below, as described in The Times, or unless you're Head Nipple-Flaunter Rihanna/Beyonce/Scout Willis, I don't quite understand why would you give a flying fuck if your jalobies are a tiny bit less perfect than they once were? Seriously. 

Unless of course, you live in a society that  bombards you with images of perfect norks - and nipples - each and everyday. Perish the thought. 
  
Image courtesy of Closer
* Just to clarify. When I say family newspaper editor, I mean prick. 






Friday, 16 May 2014

THE MUMMIES AND DADDIES SPACE HOPPER RACE

When I was a kid, I used to love space hoppers. 

Or, to borrow modern-day parlance, I used to heart them. 

I loved their weird, rabbity, scrunched-up faces; their funny, whimsical, gormlessness. I loved their plump orange bodies, and their ribbed little ears, and the smell and feel of them, and the way they lay there, on your lawn, all forlorn-looking.

But, as always, shit happens. Or, as the philosopher and visionary thinker Samuel L Jackson famously put it, snakes on a plane man, snakes on a plane! 

And now, the sad fact of the matter is that I fucking hate space hoppers.

I do not heart them AT ALL.  

In short, those orange FATSOS are on my shit list.

It was a love affair that ended suddenly, traumatically, at my daughter’s ninth birthday party. The party - billed by our host venue, the local Bowlplex, as the Ultimate Birthday Bash - started well enough, with unlimited bowling, ‘sharing’ party platters, and a ‘glow bowling’ disco atmosphere, offering no hint of the horrible drama about to unfold. But then, just when we thought it was nearly over and we could all go back to our houses, or in my case, the dark sombre corner that is the downstairs scullery, the live entertainer (suddenly revealing himself to be an outright cunt) gleefully announced one more special game. Just for parents.  

The Mummies and Daddies Space Hopper Race.

“Hey, Mr Live Entertainer, say that again, so that I can use it a pretext for throwing a bowling ball with the inner core of a neutron star at your fucking head?”  

But I digress.

When my partner and I got to the starting line, having been loudly nominated by my daughter’s friends, two space hoppers were waiting for us. Not the friendly eccentric creatures of my childhood, but dog-faced grinning entities, with nothing inside them except Evil and the desire to humiliate.

And yet, the first few metres of the race – which involved bouncing 20m along the carpeted lobby area, around a reception desk, and back again – went surprisingly – freakishly - well. I bounced zestfully past my struggling partner, grinning broadly. After years of degrading, dehumanizing experiences at the hands of hockey, netball and rounders enthusiasts, all whorebags and motherfuckers, here at last was an opportunity to heal myself, to feel good again.

It was, of course, not to be. By the time I reached the reception desk, my knees were abnormally spongy. The space hopper was, I realized, a predatory life-form in disguise as a toy, sapping my energy, giving nothing. My partner, too, was gaining ground on me. Halfway around the reception desk, he pushed me off the space hopper, thinking it was all, you know, good fun!!!
“What the fuck are you doing?” I shouted. “Do you actively want me to spend the rest of my days rocking away in a corner, do you? DO YOU?”
Actually I didn’t say any of that. I just laughed a bit.

When it came to getting back on the space hopper, I couldn’t do it. Somehow, I managed to crawl a few more metres, dragging the space hopper behind me like some grotesque haemorrhoid, fighting back vomit, unable to think or see properly. I fell forward, and off again. The space hopper rolled away from me, like a bastard.
“Is she still at it? roared the live entertainer.  

I can’t remember the last few metres of the race.  I do remember standing up at the finishing line, my skirt was around my waist, my butt on show, like a baboon woman.  I remember finding out that my partner had quit the race, bored, half way through, and that I was the only one racing. 

I puked up in the ladies toilets. I sobbed.

Afterwards, I rejoined my daughter’s birthday party, and ate cake, quite a lot of it. On the way out of the Bowlplex, I remember seeing the space hopper, lolling around on the lobby’s carpet tiles, a monstrous look of satisfaction on its face.
“What’s wrong mummy?” said my daughter. “Is it because you didn’t get a present for winning the mummies and daddies space hopper race?”
“Gosh, no, ha ha ha! Of course not! It was just a bit of good old-fashioned fun”, I said. "I love space hoppers!" 

This is an artist's impression of the space hopper I raced on. I know I know, it bears an uncanny resemblance to Mr Hoppy, the space hopper serial killer from 'Monkey Dust', right?! 



And now, dear readers, time to share your moments of public humiliation ….


Tuesday, 4 March 2014

COFFEE TO GO ... DO ONE

So I know it’s unreasonable, even sociopathic.  But as March 2014 is Caffeine Awareness Month, now seems like a really good time to share my feelings on the subject of ‘to-go-coffee’ culture, or more specifically, the people (by which I mean tosspots) who partake in it.  

I mean, what’s the deal with ‘to-go coffee’ anyway? Is anybody really so busy micro-managing the shit out of everybody else that they can’t SIT THE FUCK DOWN at the table like any other self-respecting human being? Huh? Or is rushing around the place clutching a signature Triple Grande Quad Shot Espresso Macchiato With Ten Extra Shots of Salted Caramel JIZZ Foam seen as proof of one's success? A way of communicating to others that you are too important, too indispensable, to sit still?

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the need for caffeine, of course.  It’s just that as with most things in life, there’s a time, and there’s a place.

Take the other day. There I was, strolling around the place with my three-year-old daughter, when I stepped into the path of a hurrying businessman who looked like Big out of Sex and The City (you know the type gals, likes to engage in hilarious willy-bashing contests with workplace rivals but is also sensitive and likes art, etc.) This ubersexual was taking his first power-gulp of a steaming hot 'coffee-to-go' (judging from the unfeasibly large head on it - it must have been one of those Trenta Ten Pumps Extra Hot Drizzle With Ten Inches of Extra Whip), when suddenly he had to manoeuvre out of my way. The coffee-to-go missed its target, scalding his cheek. 
"Awwww!" he shouted. "Watch where you're going!"  






Afterwards, after apologising, I was fuming. OK, I know I should have been more vigilant. But I wasn't the one running about the place on an accelerated schedule, talking into my smartphone about 'performativity', whilst also attempting to transport a towering cup of boiling liquid from one place to another, when there were little kids about, and human flesh. 

Fucking cockmonkey.  

But, I suppose my real issue with 'to-go' coffee culture is not a concern over the health and safety implications of carrying hot fluids around the place. Neither do I really care if you want to demonstrate your extreme productivity and fast sexy lifestyle with your 'to-go coffee' accessory. (Even though it makes you look like a jerk-off. Just saying). My real beef is with the fact that 'to-go coffee' culture – and our addiction to caffeine in general - is symptomatic of a society hell-bent on promoting the idea that faster is always better.  A society in which people who stick to the speed limit get tailgated; a society that has created speed dating, and one-minute bedtime stories, and guides to achieving an orgasm in thirty seconds, and now Speed Yoga! Grrr. And yeah, I know I'm a bit of a slow coach and a hippie and I prefer tea (which according to a survey by coffee company Nespresso is not the drink of choice for "high achievers".) But I’m also saying it because everyone I know is knackered, because we now have ninety minutes less sleep than we had a decade ago, because  according to Carl Honore in his book In Praise of Slowness, fatigue played a role in disasters like Chernobyl, Exxon Valdez, Union Carbide, Three Mile Island, and the space shuttle Challenger. And, well, because we obviously need to slow the fuck down - not speed up. 

Or, as my favourite super-tramp and prolific Welsh poet and writer W H Davies put it, in his famous poem 'Leisure':

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Now, I’ll go stick the kettle on. And we’ll have some tea. And a nice biscuit. OK?


Tuesday, 11 February 2014

C is for Cats

Cats slaughter hundreds of infants every year. It's a fact. Their all-time favourite modus operandi is to position themselves over the sleeping body of a newborn baby and suck the breath out of its body, but, as if that weren't enough, they’re also into chest compression, suffocation, and spraying toxoplasmosis all over the fucking joint.

In short, they have a rap sheet that would dismay even Herod. 

A weight of new evidence suggests that cats may be shapeshifting witches 

My mother, who is a regional health and safety overlord, told me this as we were leaving the hospital, following the birth of my firstborn.

“I’ve been thinking”, she said, turning to me. “About Winnie and Patsy.” (my cats)
“Oh, ok. What about them?” I said.
“Cats can suffocate babies”, she said, suddenly gripping the infant carrier. “So, I’m happy to take them to the vet for you, for, well, you know what. And I’m happy to pay for it. As a Christmas present.”
“You want to kill the cats for me?” I said. “As a Christmas present?”
She looked away from me for a moment, and then nodded, her eyes filling with tears.
“For god’s sake mami, please don’t cry again”, I said, impatiently. “I bought a cat net from Mothercare. It’ll be fine.”
Just then, the baby started crying. I grabbed the infant carrier from my mother’s hand, a little too roughly. 
“I can’t believe I’ve got to feed her again!” I said.
“You’ve always hated me”, said my mother, nursing her fingers. “And I’m only trying to help.”

In hindsight, of course, I should have thanked my mother for offering to take the cats to the vet. After all, it wouldn’t have been the easiest of jobs. (“Hey there, Mr Vet, would you mind awfully putting these hellborn fuckers down?” etcetera etcetera) I should have told her that I loved her. But, in my defence, I had just squeezed a baby out of my front bottom. What's more, I was already ridiculously busy worrying about all the other threats to my infant’s wellbeing, such as formula milk, overheating, dehydration, failure to thrive, co-sleeping, cot bumpers, sunken fontanelles, germs on toys, prolonged use of car seats, dummies, second-hand smoke, Staphylococcus, paint fumes, vaccinations, antibiotics, television, Norovirus, pollution, carbon monoxide, toxic moulds, pesticides, paint fumes, radon, and FUCKING NIPPLE CONFUSION, and I knew it was only a matter of time before my mind darkened under the pressure...

NO. PLEASE NO. I DON’T WANT TO GO INTO THE RUBBER ROOM ... OH, HI MAM.

Needless to say I spent the following year or so policing the door of the dining room, where the cats slept. Some nights, I’d worry that the cats might master the door handle, and like Nosferatu, tiptoe silently up the stairs towards the nursery.  Or, I’d obsess over the possibility that they were already upstairs, biding their time in a cupboard, even though I’d already seen them through the glass door, minutes earlier. In my dreams, they took liquid form, like the T-100 in Terminator 2.  They could flow through gaps, and under doors, and do all sorts. The bastards.  Of course, in the end, nothing happened. But it could have …  it so easily could have …  miaw ha ha ha … miaw ha ha ha … miaw ha ha ha …. 

PS I dedicate this blog entry to my cat Patsy, who died on Sunday 19 January 2014. Aged 16.


My daughter's elegy. Now in a jam jar above the grave.
PPS: And if you're wondering why there are no reported incidents of cats harming babies, it may well be because of an evil cover-up by a network of witches working undercover in law enforcement. Or not. 



(This is an extract from the er, epic work in progress that is 'The Extremely Over-Protective Mummy's Handbook')


IF you like the blog, please consider nominating me for the 2014 MADS Blog Awards in whichever category you fancy (although the Most Entertaining Blog category is probably a better fit than say, the family travel category, as I never leave the house ...) 

Wednesday, 22 January 2014

THE 3AM GIRL. NOT.

So we all make mistakes, right?

Here’s mine. Last Saturday, I stayed up until 3.30am, drinking.

Now for some of you, this is normal. For some of you crazy-ass party bitches and crack hoes, 3.30am is an early night.  But just to put it in context, the last time I stayed up until the wee hours doing drugs n'shit, was during labour.

In the beginning, I thought I’d gotten away with it. On Sunday morning, despite flushing a sock down the toilet mid-morning (normal, right?), and a mild to moderate hangover, there were no obvious symptoms of brain damage. But then, at around 3pm, something happened. Something bad.

It started with a 'conversation'.

“The bins out, your turn it is. Fucking knackered, I am”, I spluttered to my partner, who was shuffling around the kitchen at the time, with no discernible sense of purpose.  
“Me Out Go Now” he said, descending into a kind of protolanguage not heard since Paleolithic times.

You see, in less than an instant, I realised that we had both lost the ability to string a sentence together; that in short, we'd become doodooheads. 

Throughout the rest of the afternoon, the effects of the previous night’s festivities proliferated. Frazzled, bad-tempered, and still, with only a rudimentary command of English, we started arguing. We argued about money, housework, and parenting styles. At some point in the proceedings, I brought up the idea of living in a self-sufficient, low-impact, off-grid commune and opting out of the capitalist bullshit altogether, which is the kind of deranged fantasy I always have when I’m pooped to the absolute max (along with signing up for online courses on basket weaving, putting the house up for sale, and quitting my job).
“Ugh!” said my partner, jabbing his forefinger in my direction. “You Crazy. Like You Mother.”
‘Separate then, maybe we should. Heh?” I drooled, like some overwrought, premenstrual Yoda.

By Monday morning, Saturday’s night of debauchery (and a further night of anxiety-related sleep-deprivation caused by a combination of cognitive distress and constant arguing) had also taken its toll on my body. Even at the best of times, dark circles under my eyes make me look like a fucking raccoon, but now, what with the circles, the hollowed-out tear troughs AND the gruesome discoloration of my skin, it was as though I’d used black bile extracted directly from Satan’s kidneys as a concealer. A night of sleeping on my daughter’s pull-out bed had also given me crushing neck and spine pain, resulting in a gait reminiscent of Boris Karloff.  

“You look, erm, pale”, said the school secretary, buzzing me in through the school doors at the spectacularly late hour of 10am.
“I was sick in the night”, I said, lurching lopsidedly towards her. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Erm, well, I hope you’re better now”, she said, obviously frightened.

So, folks, I hope you’ll understand me when I say that for me, any future late-night revelry is out of the question. To function properly, I need to be in bed by 9.30pm on weeknights, and 11pm on weekends. Furthermore, the only parties I can attend are ones that take place between 2pm and 4pm on Sunday afternoon in places called Ants Inya Pants, whilst late night drinking will be restricted to a cup of hot chocolate sprinkled with chilli flakes, which I can always pretend is heroin. As for a sex life, well, this is a horribly tricky one gals, because the only window of opportunity in our house for playing 'mummies and daddies' is between eleven and midnight on the weekend, after we’ve watched our Sky Plus recordings, and although it’s almost never a long drawn-out tantric experience it does, sadly, clash with my scheduled time for horizontal refreshment of a different kind. So I’m thinking of saying to my partner, “Ur, look love, honey bun, sweetie pie, you know where things are by now, so, you know, help yourself …”, which I’m hoping he’ll be cool about. 

Zzzzzz …. 




Gee whizz, I won't ever be going out with those drug sluts again!