Is it me? It’s me, isn’t it? I think it’s me.
I am a straight, healthy Canadian female…and yet…and yet I just cannot understand the appeal of this. Maybe that’s why that warning is on there. I’m under 35. I’m not offended, but the contents of what you will see if you explore that seemoresideeffects.ca site only make me embarrassed.
I don’t see the point behind male strippers, either.
Watching the men in seemoresideeffects.ca makes me, alone today in my apartment, cringe and peek between my fingers. The looks on the men’s faces as they attempt to make me moist and quivering just causes a furrow in my brow and a crinkle in my nose.
It’s me, I think.
I gotta come back to this. I’m not through.
Okay…click on the link. First, who ever sits on their white leather couch, dressed to the nines in white and just reads a magazine. Jesus. The woman is the older, classier female version of Puddy from Seinfeld. Was it Puddy? Or Putty? Whatever, you know what I mean.
Now go to the last box of night cream. It’s “The Gardener”.
UGH….now everything is making me angry. Why does she moan when I run my mouse over the choices??
Anyway…get him to do the windows.
What the eff is this supposed to do for me? The way that guy cleans the windows and then aggressively flicks off the soap makes me want to aggressively punch him in the face. And what’s with those faces he’s making? Doesn’t he have a sister and why isn’t she calling him a dork right now??
And then…AND THEN…when he gets to the last window..the one that hides his “package”. Am I supposed to be salivating with the hope that he’s going to clean that window and we’ll see his jewels? A few things: first, with the faces that guy made as he washed the rest of the damn windows, I certainly am not looking forward to seeing his soapy, wrinkly sack. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to see any strange man’s wrinkly sack. Honest. second, you don’t have to have been around the block a bunch of times to know that the last window will never be cleaned. third, fuck off. fourth, shouldn’t you be gardening? fifth, I would rather poke through my eardrums with my best knitting needles than hear that effing poem you’re going to recite.
Ack! So awful!