Smoking Vagina Bear = Worst. Build-a-Bear. Ever.

You guys? I have SO many questions.
IMG_4055Is the bear my vagina?

Why is it smoking?

Is vagina-bear smoke good?

Will a Summer’s Eve product stop the smoke or fan the flames?

Did the Summer’s Eve market expand to lubricants rather than just making my vagina smell like a dryer sheet or a fresh meadow?

There really need to be more words in this ad.

S&M Bear lived on the outskirts of Care Bear Village…

Dear Reader,

Is your significant other into S&M, furries, and terrible wannabe-Twilight fan fiction?

I just made your Valentine’s Day shopping easier than me after two martinis. You’re welcome.

Love,
Smug

Vermont Teddy Bear Fifty Shades of Grey BearIMG_3822

Crisis averted?

Oh. Well, as it turns out, Valentine’s Day WON’T be just me and a vibrator. Interesting…

You guys have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. (Well… Have anal sex if that’s what you like. But for fuck’s sake, don’t go see “Endless Love.” That’s pretty much all I won’t do.)

I love y’all. 💕

Vagina Imposters

Hey, ladies?

Just a reminder, your vagina is totally repugnant when left to its own devices, so it should be drenched in discount lady-flower fragrance — Designer Imposters for your naughty bits! — before being accessed by anyone with functioning olfactory senses. If not, they will be completely repulsed and your evening will be ruined.

RUINED!20140214-123237.jpgHappy Valentine’s Day!

For the word nerd with circulation issues!

We’ve already established that I’m an odd woman. I’m not that into flowers, I don’t wear a lot of jewelry, and I’m picky about candy. (Especially Whitman’s samplers — seriously, how the everloving fuck are those still around?) And we’ve discussed the giant, mutant teddy bear.

Basically, all that shit they try to sell men on Valentine’s Day, I want no part of. I don’t know many women who do.

But this is a Valentine’s gift I can get behind. And one that will get you behind me.
20140213-182117.jpgI’m always cold, especially with this clusterfuck of a Northeast winter we’ve been having. I love blankets, I love words, and, theoretically, I’d love you. I’d be wrapped in your love! I’d always have your love to keep me warm! Cheesy? Certainly. But I’d melt faster than low-end chocolate for that shit. Don’t judge me.

Gentlemen? Don’t.

Oh. My. Fucking. Hell.

I can’t even.

A hundred dollars. For a bear. Who’s almost as tall as I am.

I am a grown-ass woman with clutter issues and no money. I would literally be more inclined to have sex with you if you presented me with the $100 in cash, rather than in the form of some hulking stuffed animal who probably goes all Ruxpin and plots my death while I sleep. (Whatever, you know Teddy Ruxpin was into some fucked-up shit. Creepy little bastard.)

For the record, I have never once asked a boyfriend if I looked fat. I have eyes, a brain, and a mirror — if I look fat, I can see it for myself.

P.S. I sent this to a friend and she wrote back:

“Is this commercial just code for a sex aid for furries? I was waiting for the part where they talk about ‘yiffing’ and the storage compartment where the dildo goes. But it’s possible I’ve just been on the internet too long.

“Also, if you’re relying on purchasing stuffed animals to help you get laid, you might be a pedophile.”

Coupon code: CONDESCENSION.

While listening to Pandora Radio, an Adam and Eve ad came on and invited me to make this my “hottest Valentine’s Day ever” with a special coupon code.

Outstanding. Even the Internet knows my Valentine is going to be a vibrator. (To be fair, there will also be a nice dinner, wine, candles. Don’t worry, I treat my vibrators right.)20140212-180733.jpg

Gal-vanize!

OK, ladies, gather ’round. We need to have a meeting of the Girl Nation.

Ahem. “GALentine’s Day?” Is not going to be a thing. This is the second time I’ve heard it this week, and…no. We can’t let this happen. We can stop it, I have faith. Do not use it, do not attend/organize events based on it, do not send cards that say it.

You’re making it sadder. This is why no one will fuck you, because you say dumb shit like this. Just…get a copy of “Bridget Jones’s Diary,” a numbing agent of your choice (food, alcohol, etc.), and a vibrator, and hunker down. We’ll get through this together.

With love,
Smug
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