#ThisBody was made for sarcasm. And hotness.

Hmm… Wasn’t there some burger chain commercial with bikini-clad chicks who probably never ate burgers gyrating on cars and shoving the fast-food equivalents of “big dick” porn into their faces?

Ah. Yes, this covers it quite nicely: Via Jezebel, A History of Disgusting Carl’s Jr. Ads.

So I have a hard time being offended by this. Though I guess “slightly NSFW” in that, perhaps as a general life policy, maybe you shouldn’t have lingerie chicks lolling about on your work computer.

Via SELF magazine: This Body-Positive Lane Bryant Ad Was “Too Sexy” for TV.

 

Also, let us please continue my possibly-creepy worship of Ashley Graham.

“Against Kerry Washington, you will lose.”

I read Self magazine because I applaud the bold, innovative way they’ve cleverly shortened the title from Self-Loathing.

But also, the latest cover model is Kerry Washington, who is my personal Jesus. And in the interview, she says she begins her day by drinking a liter of water with lemon and doing pilates. (Or, after a liter of water, pee-lates, I can only assume.)

Today I was thinking about how I started my morning:

“Well, Self, I swore out loud at the alarm clock and hit ‘snooze’ 86 times. I hoisted myself out of bed angrily and fumbled around naked looking for an outfit, anything that fits because I’m never sure anymore. And then I shoved Lexapro and two types of OTC drugs into my sinus-infection-addled face with a Dixie cup of tap water from the bathroom sink, followed by an enormous vat of coffee, and now I am finally, but still barely, able to face humanity.”

This is why they don’t let me talk to the media. And why Kerry Washington never returns my calls.

“Looks like there’s been some girl-on-girl crime here.”

I apparently have a lot of feelings today…

I hate women’s magazines, and Self in particular — it’s basically Marie Claire wearing sneakers — so I’m enjoying watching this tutu debacle unfold.
I don’t like running. At all. But part of the reason I still do it, and the main reason I pay to do races, is that runners are (generally) some supportive sons of bitches, and it makes me feel awesome to be part of that camaraderie.

And this? Is bullshit. I don’t give a baker’s fuck what that woman is wearing — she’s out there running. (While, I might add, SURVIVING CANCER.) I personally don’t do the tutu, but I’ve run in a tiara. Why? Because I CAN. I like running because you can do it in a tutu or tiara, or in high-tech running gear, and it’s all good. I know there are some judgey panda “real runners” out there, and you know what? Whatever. I’m having fun, and being active, and feeling good about ME.

As long as I’m wearing clothes, my friends who run aren’t gonna go all Regina George on me: “That is the ugliest effing tutu I’ve ever seen.” Because my friends aren’t assholes. And from what I’ve seen, particularly in this case, a lot of runners aren’t assholes, either.

So screw you, Self. And by the way, on Wednesdays, we wear pink. Pink tutus.