Dolls of love Part 2

It was only a matter of time.

A company called pipedream products has decided to combine my two favourite obsessions (celebrity and plastic dolls), and has produced a series of love dolls based on famous women.

The collection caters for catholic tastes. Pamela Anderson is a given, bless her. But Sarah Jessica Parker? No offence, but I’ve never heard of a straight man fancying her. But then you look more closely at the packaging, and all becomes clear. Apparently, Sarah “loves sex in her shitty” (geddit?). Tori Spelling, again not usually number one on fantasy lists, is known as 9021HO. Clearly, a group of bored, inebriated students, inspired by the Wildean wit of "One night in Paris", had brainstormed this list in a pub.

But then I saw the Paris Hilton doll. She’s the key: you could only ever have hate-sex with her (“don’t let her social status intimidate you”).

Classic love dolls are there to provide an illusion of solace and intimacy, and occasionally to vent out feelings of anger against womankind. But with celebrity dolls, you can target your misogyny.

You can degrade the woman who’s out of your league (Eva Longoria, “the whore next door”). You can demean the sassy, independent one your girlfriend aspires to be (“Sarah Jessica Porkher”). And the one who is much, much richer and more successful than you will ever be- well, JLo will take it in three “tender love holes”.

It makes me look back at Sleeping Kunika with something approaching nostalgia.

Stroke my brow

I’ve been ill, hence the silence. It was gastric flu, should you care. No one else did. Everyone’s had it recently, so they were all a bit blase. Projectile vomiting, pah. It’s not sexy like typhoid or blonde like malaria (oops I forgot to take my super powerful pills that people in the third world would kill for). It’s just common or garden ill, like the ubiquitous cold.

The indifference is bad enough. But everyone has to become an amateur epidemiologist. “Ooh yes, there’s been a lot of that around recently.” I don’t know about you guys, but I live, for my sins, in a cold wet country, where the damp permeates my bones and there’s always a rabies or plague carrier sitting opposite you on the bus. Of course there’s something going around. That’s the point: we live in a crowded, dirty city, God love it, and I get more intimate with some passengers on public transport than I do with my partner.

But, as I was saying, no one cares. I have to find an illness that’s not contagious (TB), not deadly (cancer), not going to affect my looks (leprosy), not a complete social killer (depression) and not too painful either (most things). Something a bit glam and special. Something I can dull with a couple of painkillers and some soothing words from loved ones. It’s not an illness I want, is it. It’s attention.

My name is Hillaria...

I was wrong. She’s taken Ohio, Texas and Rhode Island. She’s back, like the Terminator, or a bad smell.

The thing is, I actually quite like Hillary, despite describing her first-born as minging for America. It’s a bit like the feeling I have for Gordon Brown, or funnily enough, Jeffrey Archer.

You see, I have a soft spot for soul-eating ambition and delusional hubris. I don’t know what this says about me. But my feeling is, if she wants it so bad, can’t we give it to her?

Given that in America all you need to run is a rictus and a trust fund, surely psychotic ambition can be given its due. In a gladiatoral fight to the death between Hillary and Obama, or Brown and Blair, you know who would pull out the small poisoned knife. “My name is Hillaria Rhodama Clintonia, wife to one President, mother to the next…” It’s all in the eyes, you see.

I don’t know if it’s psychologically healthy to thwart such a desire. Because then you end up with Jeffrey Archer. Or Ross Perot, God love him.

New address

Finally, I've managed to move. The new site is www.ladderedstocking.com . All pages should redirect automatically from ladderedstockings.blogpot.com, and if you've already signed up to the email, it should continue to work. And if you haven't already subscribed, you can do so now by entering your email address in the box in the top right hand column.
Next steps: graphics, layout, stump sex.

Stop Chelsea

I was in Amsterdam this weekend (it was lovely by the way), and everywhere we went, my partner said, “Here’s some more material for your blog.”

But I don’t want to write about free market prostitution or porn shops or girl-on-dog peep shows. I want to talk about Chelsea Clinton.

Bear with me on this one. Now, I vowed not to mention the H word, and it looks like, bar a miracle this week, I won’t have to. She’ll be dropping out of the race quick smart in order to star in an award-winning documentary about female genital mutilation.

But now there are growing signs that Chelsea might be the Clintons’ next best chance of political success. Put to a side all the weirdly meritocratic thoughts that have bubbled up in your head, like what is it with America and family dynasties. Concentrate on Chelsea.

Chelsea was the person who made every thirteen-year old girl feel like a supermodel. She made adolescence easier, because there was someone out there who had it real hard. Her parents hated each other, her father slept with blowsy babysitters, and her mother looked like she discussed her period with her teacher. And how we laughed, at her and with her, and our cruel teen hearts melted, secretly, at the thought of her misery.

But now the ugly duckling might win the biggest prize of all, and that just isn’t right.

If she becomes President, it will kill the American dream. In teen movies, you take away the glasses and the ponytail, and the prom queen rises like a phoenix from the ashes of the geek. But Chelsea got rid of her afro and specs, and she still looks like shit.

If she wins, it destabilises everything. It means that the fugly girl gets the boy. It means that being the pretty and popular cheerleader is not the root to success. It means that having wealthy and well-connected parents is more important than natural beauty, which although a lottery, is a democratic one. And who wants that?

I can’t give up on my American Dream. So in 2016, I’m going to be supporting the Stop Chelsea ticket. Especially if it includes Jenna Bush and Ross Perot.

Food for thought

I feel like I've finally made it.
Pointless Banter is hosting a humour blog carnival, and they've kindly included one of my postings. Check out the others by clicking here.
There's nothing like a bit of external validation. It's cheaper than therapy, what's not to love?

The technical problems are still up and running, so I'm not sure I'll be able to share the intricacies of stump sex with you today. But here's a taster: there is a whole David Cronenberg world out there of amputee stalkers in a mall near you. You have been warned.

Power to the people

Well, the proposed technical changes are not happening very quickly. I was looking forward to a revamped site, but so it goes.

Anyway, since this proved reasonably popular last week, here’s another poll for you to choose what I write about this Friday. I’m going to try and diversify, because I’m worried that my silo-based approach (sex and poo, sex and Barbie, sex and poo) has limitations.

Opinion Polls & Market Research