Thoughts From Paris · Humor Blog · Funny Blog Dumb stuff that has happened (and continues to happen) to me. Fri, 12 May 2017 18:12:53 +0000 en-US hourly 1 Thoughts From Paris · Humor Blog · Funny Blog 32 32 I Just Had Surgery and It Was Pretty Fun, Actually • Part One Fri, 12 May 2017 14:01:32 +0000 I couldn’t have been more excited the day of the operation.

not that excited
Well, not this excited.

Only once had I been cut up before, and it was for this laser eye surgery vision thing. It’s not exactly the biggest deal. The doctor doesn’t make you wear a gown with the open fanny area. You’re not doped up with medical grade opiates. You can wear your business suit during the procedure. You open your eye lids, hold still for 20 seconds, and congrats, you now have eagle vision. You’re back in your cubicle by lunch.

I remember thinking after that procedure, “Well, gee, I hope my next surgery is more thrilling.” Maybe I’d be lucky and get my hand chopped off in a lumber mill accident and have to get a cadaver hand sewn on. (I don’t work in a lumber mill, but a boy can dream, no?) What if the donor’s hand was more tan than me and the coloring didn’t match at the wrist? Or what if they gave me a woman’s hand because that was the only one in the freezer at the time? What if after the surgery I was at an important business meeting and I went to shake someone’s hand, and my new hand came right off my arm and the other guy stood there shaking an orphaned hand? That would be embarrassing.

As it turns out, my second surgery wasn’t much more exciting than the first. It was just a boring old umbilical hernia surgery. I wish I something way cooler to report. But I don’t. I only had like a 2% chance of death while in the operating room. Snore. I didn’t even bother to update my will beforehand.

So, what is an umbilical hernia and how did I develop one? No idea. I guess it just happens. A natural part of aging, the surgeon told me. I didn’t even bother Googling it after the diagnosis, that’s how boring the thing is. How I found out that I HAD an umbilical hernia is sort of interesting, however. Several months ago I was dating a woman named Maureen and she was staring at my belly button one evening (as women do). All of a sudden Maureen’s face turned sour and scrunched up. I asked her what was wrong. She said, “You have something wrong with your belly button.” I looked down because, well, I wanted to see what she saw.

I’ve probably only looked at my own belly button one other time in my life and that was back in high school when I at a party and poured a shot of Early Times whiskey into it and asked if any girl would care to slurp it out. No takers.

But when I looked down, at now forty years old, to examine my navel for exactly the second time ever, I sort of saw what she was referencing. There was something wrong. My belly button wasn’t totally fucked up or anything. But it wasn’t, well, normal, either. It was misshapen. The best I can explain it without having you retch all over your Pumas is that some of the inside parts started making a dash for it. A move toward the light. To freedom!

The Great Escape
Okay, I can’t lie. My belly button will never be as cool as Steve McQueen.

I could have showed 20 of you my belly button at the time and 18 of you would have said, “Dude, you have a really sexy belly button. I mean, aside from the dark hair surrounding it. Wait, aren’t you blonde? Shouldn’t those stomach pubes be lighter?” In other words, to the non-medical professional, it looked no different from the male models gracing the cover of Men’s Health. Well, a little different. Less ab definition. I’m talking about the actual hole. It’s a pretty killer hole, if I do say so myself. And I do. Or rather, I just did.

But now it was less killer. Like an aging Hollywood starlet, it had lost symmetry. And like an aging Hollywood starlet, there was only one reasonable option – surgery.

Oh wait, let me go back to the discovery. I’m not good at linear storytelling.

So, Maureen, being a senior graphic designer at a prestigious advertising agency, knew a fucked-up belly button when she saw one. That previous sentence was meant to be sarcastic, because Maureen had no medical training at all. Her best skill was designing print advertisements for the largest cheese distributor in Utah. A noble skill, but not one that included the hippocratic oath. But since I believe virtually anything anyone tells me, I assumed she knew stuff about hernias.

I started freaking out and ran to the bathroom to see my now-imperfect belly button staring back at me. I yelled over to Maureen to ask why she was confident that I had a hernia. I pressed my right index finger directly into the hole, because I thought hernias were supposed to hurt. I was a little grossed out, but there wasn’t any pain. She replied that her last boyfriend had the same shape in his belly hole and it turned out to be an umbilical hernia. She went with him to the hospital for the procedure. Also, nursed him back to health. She promised she’d do the same for me.

The next day I called a surgeon that knows about this stuff. I walked into his office and fifteen seconds later he confirmed what my ladyfriend had asserted. I had an umbilical hernia. He told me there was nothing I could have done to prevent it and that it was not a big deal. He suggested I get the surgery, but said I didn’t have to do it immediately. I had a suspicion that Maureen was on the verge of dumping me and I wasn’t about to go back out in the dating world with a messed up belly button. It’s hard enough being single. The doctor told me to think about it and I said, “No need. Let’s do it!” He didn’t say so, but he must have been impressed by my decisiveness. It was an act of leadership.

On the way out, I casually mentioned to the surgeon, “Actually, doctor… I’ve had a hernia before. TWO, actually.” He stopped and said, “Oh, really?” And yes, that much IS true. I did have a double hernia once. But, to be honest, I was just showing off. I told him that when I was born the doctors screwed up my mom’s epidural and hit her spine with the needle. It immediately put her in a coma. I was born and hustled off to my two grandmothers while she recovered. And from day one, my two grandmothers put me on human food. A tactical error in hindsight. My dad probably didn’t know any better (I was the first child), and he was probably bummed his wife was in a coma. So, he didn’t notice I got fat pretty quick.

When my mom woke up from the coma a few weeks later and they took her home, I was already obese. A big, fat, disgusting baby. And babies are already disgusting, even when they’re not huge slobs like I was. It was so bad I was raced back to the hospital where the doctors performed an emergency double-hernia surgery on me. The doctor yelled at my mother for letting this happen and said, “I’ve never had to cut through so many layers of fat in a baby before. You ought to be ashamed!”

Funny enough, I’ve never had a weight problem since. I was only fat as a baby. Which is the best possible time to have a weight problem, now that I think about it.

Anyway, after I was done telling this story the doctor laughed. I’m not sure if he believed me, but he clasped his hand on my shoulder and said, “Well, D.J., congrats. You’re about to have a second hernia surgery.” I corrected him and said, “Third.” His mouth started to open to correct me that a double hernia isn’t really two hernia surgeries, but he realized I was just making a joke. He laughed and pointed at me with a look that said, “Good one!”

I left the office and took stock of my emotions. I wasn’t sad. Nor scared. Not even angry. I was kind of excited, actually.

I called Maureen and said, “Remember that thing about my belly button? You were right!” She was in the middle of a cheese video shoot for an Instagram campaign. I told her I’d need a ride to and from the hospital in two weeks. and reminded her of her promise.

My belly button was about to get back to perfect. And, even if Maureen dumped me, I’d once again have a perfect hole and likely a cool scar and we all know chicks dig scars. The only scar I possessed at the time was a two-incher on my butt where I fell through a glass table in high school. It’s not exactly the kind of scar that you’d call a panty-melter.

I was excited. Who wouldn’t be?

dj paris umbilical hernia surgery before
See? Not lying. Excited. And they hadn’t even given me the good drugs yet….

… part II coming up …

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D.J. Reviews The F-Cup Cookie • Originally Published at InThePowderRoom Fri, 14 Apr 2017 00:30:32 +0000

This is an essay originally published at InThePowderRoom and is reprinted with permission

Attention, small-chested women!

Have you ever been dumped because of your tiny bustline? Sure you have. As a man, let me first apologize for the horrendous treatment of flat-chested women. It’s not entirely our fault—we were raised on a steady diet of the Playboys our fathers kept stashed in the upstairs hall closet—but to expect all of you to have the perfect rack of a twenty-one-year-old Jenny McCarthy is unfair. You deserve as much attention as the large-chested gals receive.

And I want you to get that attention. So I have a solution.

No, I’m not about to suggest that you head to the surgeon for saline or silicone implants. That’s the easy way, and nothing worthwhile in life is easy. Also, let’s say you get giant implants, and a month later you take up extreme kickboxing. The next thing you know you’re in the city’s kickboxing tourney, and the number one seed hits you with a surprise roundhouse kick to the left tit, and your implant flies out of your chest and through the air only to land in a guy’s beer the second row.

I’ve seen it happen.

No, my solution proposes a much safer and more natural route to a big juicy bosom. Intrigued? Introducing the F-cup Cookie from Japan.

f cup cookie pic

That’s right! You can now grow your jacks several sizes just by eating cookies! And while it’s true you can make most body parts bigger if you eat enough of any cookie, the F-cup Cookie is infused with an herb that allegedly heads straight to your mammers upon ingestion. You only have to eat a few cookies a day for natural breast enhancement.

Now, I know you’re thinking: “But I don’t want an F-cup, D.J.!” Don’t fret! In Japan, DD-knockers are called F’s.

Don’t ask me questions about how it works. I dated a chemist once, and let me tell you—that shit is boring. The important thing here is that you’re already eating some kind of cookie, right? But does noshing on Oreos increase your ability to get free drinks at bars? No. Does Famous Amos care that you wear two push-up bras at the same time? Not even remotely. But the makers of the F-cup Cookie care.

They care a lot.

So, just because you’ve been the chairwoman of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee since puberty, you no longer have to serve another term. Hand in your resignation and get ready for a lifetime of lower back pain and fending off perverts. You’re worth it!

The F cup Cookie pin

This original piece by D.J. Paris was written exclusively for In the Powder Rooma division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Featured image © doodco via

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D.J. Reviews DivaCup • Originally Published at InThePowderRoom Wed, 29 Mar 2017 15:16:47 +0000

One of the funniest websites south of the Mason Dixon was In The Powder Room. Run by funnywoman Leslie Marinelli and edited by funnywoman Sarah del Rio, this site accepted my pitch of a monthly column where I reviewed products for women. Sadly, the site is currently on hiatus, but they have given me permission to repost content I had written exclusively for them. I’m proud of my work, as silly as it was. They were a great partner and supportive of my immature ramblings. If they ultimately decide on a permanent vacation, I will restart the column here. In the meantime, read some old stuff.

I would like to point out that while all the words below are mine, they were edited by Sarah del Rio. She makes me funnier. I bow to her.

The DivaCup: What Does HE Think?


I should begin by pointing out that I failed Biology in junior college, and have never had a real girlfriend. My knowledge of how menstruation works is limited at best.

Also, I’m a dude.

Still, my understanding is that every month a woman gets her “curse,” and gone are the times where gals would be ushered to the edge of the village for three days. Victory for the Women’s Lib movement!

But before I talk about The DivaCup®, let’s go over the options a modern woman has to surf the Crimson Wave during Leak Week:

First, tampons. I don’t understand exactly how they work, but I did see a Playtex ad in Seventeen magazine once where a girl asked her mother, “Are you sure I’ll still be a virgin?” Since you should save your virginity for a true love, let’s steer clear of tampons. No girl should ever have to say: “My first time was with Tampax.” Keep your crack intact until the night of your senior prom. You’re worth it.

Next are sanitary napkins. I prefer this terminology to “maxi-pad” since it sounds classier. Plus, I don’t know what “maxi” means. But a napkin that keeps that area clean? Sign me up, s’il vous plait! (French idioms also make stuff sound classier).

But here’s the problem with sanitary napkins. Let’s say you land a hot date with a guy at the office in Accounts Receivable. He takes you for a high-end steak dinner (Pro Tip: steak is rich in iron, which is good when replenishing blood loss) and then back to his condo for “dessert.” Dessert, he tells you, is his wiener. So, you’re getting hot and heavy on his divan when all of a sudden you remember you’re having a spotting day. Gadzooks! You excuse yourself to the bathroom, but then what? You can’t flush a maxi-pad since you’ll clog up the toilet. If you toss the soiled napkin into the garbage, he’ll see it the next day and never speak to you again.

But if you’re wearing The DivaCup® you can yank the sucker out of your vajeen and wash it in the sink. Return to the loveseat, and let him ravish away without fear of embarrassing yourself—but remember that you’re going to need to actually remove it before he “serves you dessert.”

Highest possible recommendation!

UPDATE: I just learned you can get a patch or something where you never have a period again. Do that instead.

dj paris reviews the diva cup

This original piece by D.J. Paris was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Featured image © The DivaCup via Instagram.

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Allison (But Not Allison This Time) and D.J. Fix Your Stupid Problems About Your Best Friend Fri, 10 Mar 2017 01:00:30 +0000 D.J. and Allison fix your stupid problems about your best friend

To be fair, Allison tried on this one.

She wrote me a few days ago asking to bow out of this specific edition. Allison had just taken on two new clients and was now travelling a good chunk of the time. She kept attempting to write this piece but wasn’t happy with it. (After reading her drafts, I concur) Then she did that thing that all weirdos like her and I do – we go all or nothing. In a frazzled state she said, “I can’t commit to this any longer!” She was having a moment. I told her to have her moment, and that I’d handle this one. She’ll come back in the next one. She’s just a spaz.

Here’s what I wrote announcing Allison’s temporary departure.

In visiting Allison last week in her native Ronkonkoma​, we (D.J. and Allison) ate fondue at a local juke joint. Allison’s nerves got the better of her and she drank an entire fifth of white zinfandel during the appetizer course. We were asked to leave as Allison became belligerent when she suspected the waitress of “giving me a look probably because she’s jealous of my legs.” Allison, too intoxicated to drive, left her 2015 Honda Accord in the parking lot and we shared a Lyft back to her flat. Thankfully her roommates slept through Allison crashing into every piece of furniture on the way to her master bedroom. She passed out face first onto her duvet and I did the same next to her. In the morning, for a lark I told Allison that I had enjoyed our vigorous lovemaking, but that she should get tested in the coming weeks. She exploded with violent rage and accused me of sexual misconduct, but before I could explain the joke, I found myself outside her condo – door slammed in my face. She still has my iPhone charger, and I don’t dare ask her to mail it back. She’s pretty peeved about the whole thing, even though all I really did was peek through her underwear drawer for a few seconds whilst she snored. I’m going to give it a few weeks before I ask for her to write the column, and I suspect her self-esteem is low enough to consider partnering again.

None of this is true, of course. I’ve never met Allison Arnone in person. I’m not 100% certain she exists. But I’m excited to keep doing this stupid column about your stupid problems. Enjoy.

My best friend and I live four hours apart, so we don’t get to see each other in person very often. We’re also both very busy with kids and family, so phone calls are once a month and very long — on her end. I hardly get to speak. She drones on and on about people I don’t know, complains about her mother, and tries to sell me products from all four of her different independent consultant/representative businesses, from beauty to nutrition to candles to teas — all the while knowing I’m living paycheck to paycheck. Every time I get off the phone, my blood pressure has risen. I love this woman dearly. We’ve been through a lot together, but I can’t seem to even squeeze in an interesting or amusing comment or two. Help.

D.J. – Okay, time for some tough love. It’s you, not her. That’s the bad news. She’s a selfish narcissist with an agenda. Nothing unique there. Tons of people like that roaming around. But… you’re the one who chooses to be friends with a selfish narcissist with an agenda. Here’s the solution – learn how to set boundaries. Work on your own self-esteem and guess what? These people either get in line or disappear. Because a truly healthy person doesn’t attract friends like that. Since I’ve been a tad rough on you, I’m going to end with some good news. She’s unconscious of her own nuttiness. You have the chance to change. She never will. So – change, ding dong!

She watches NON STOP IDIOT (FOX) NEWS. Need I say more? Okay, I will. She quotes idiotic, untrue, totally delusional political factoids at me. I keep saying, WE CANNOT TALK POLITICS. But she continues. I want to stab her in the eye with a fork. Should I?

D.J. – I’ve been listening to Donald Trump a lot recently in speeches and stuff, and he says FOX news is the best news source. And he’s the president! And there’s no way I’m smarter than the president. I barely made it through correspondence school! Plus, he is a big shot developer and hosted a TV show. That’s kind of badass, right? WE SHOULD OBEY OUR LEADERS.

Some like to think that their lover is their best friend. I thought so, at least. We did nearly everything together. I got my best friend a job at a restaurant. I drove her to and from work everyday and night, when she didn’t drive my car herself. She introduced me to a guy “friend” from work…”you’ll really like him” she said. One day she called me and said “hey, come meet me and Vinny at the bar I want you to meet him.” Surely, I agreed. He shook my hand, bought me a beer, and then a few days later proceeded to fuck my girlfriend. I kicked her out of my house the evening that I found out. Since then she’s keyed my car, threatened me, had men threaten me, try to call me for a shoulder to cry on after other men have dumped her…needless to say I’ve blocked her on all social media (she got so bad I had to block her on PINTEREST!) as well as her phone number…she still calls me to this day. She cheated on me after a year of being “best friends” in September of 2016. The end. Thank god.

D.J. – From what I understand, you’re a lesbian who lost her best friend and lover to a greasy Italian dude. Look, this is what greasy Italians do – they turn lesbians straight. It’s in their DNA. Just ask Allison. While she was never a girl-lover, she ONLY dates guys from Long Island with IROC Camaros (aka Italians). They’re hard to resist, from what I’ve read. So while I can justify your friend’s affair, I cannot condone her keying your car. You should hit back by throwing a bucket of red paint all over Vinny’s leather sport coat

leather sport coat italian douche
Nothing to add. The image is way funnier than anything I could ever write.

She wants to be in a relationship, but does nothing to put herself out there in the dating world

D.J. – We’ve been poisoned by romantic comedies that suggest that Mr. Right just falls into your life, like when he’s seated next to you at a baseball game and he reaches for a foul ball and trips and ends up in your lap and then you fall in love but his best friend is kind of a jerk and he grabs your ass at a happy hour and you have to decide whether to tell him and you do and it strains his relationship and his friend lies and said you grabbed HIS butt and then he dumps you and then he finds out his friend was lying and to win you back he convinces the guy who runs the scoreboard at the stadium to video him apologizing to you in front of 45k fans. I guess what I’m saying is – tell her to hang out at the ballpark!

My brother publishes stories about my dad’s penis.

D.J. – I did publish a pair of stories about my dad’s pair, and I’m assuming this question came from my sister. To which I say this to her – You are free to write anecdotes on your blog about mom’s vagina. It’s a solid formula to drive web traffic. And we’re both in marketing, so we’re used to selling our souls.

Allison – When I saw this question and realized it had to be from D.J.’s sister, I laughed and told him we’re including this submission in the post.  I then felt bad for her because I realized she had to be related to D.J., and that just sucks.

I love my BFF, but she has the BIGGEST mouth. I want to confide in her and tell her personal things about myself, my family, my love life (or lack thereof) and other friends and it ALWAYS comes out that she’s told other people what I said. We’ve known each other a long time and she’s great, but how can I get her to keep her trap shut??

D.J. – Short answer is that you can’t. She’s going to blabber forever. So, if you’re harboring a terrorist sleeper cell in your neighborhood, you may want to keep that information to yourself. No wait – I’ve got it! TELL HER YOU’RE HARBORING A TERRORIST CELL. She’s blab to Betty, who in turn will blab to Sally, and before you know it, the FBI will be knocking at your door. But, hey – you’re not a terrorist, so no big deal, right? Then, guess whose door they’re hitting next? Your best friend. She’ll likely be put away on a felony charge of something or other. Then when she gets out of jail a few years later, odds are she’ll shut up about your secrets going forward.

She uses my jokes on social media, then doesn’t credit me. Then when I use my own joke, I’m accused of stealing from her.

D.J. – Here’s what you have to realize – 99% of people aren’t funny. But everyone thinks they’re funny. If you’re running around quoting one liners from Will Ferrell movies, you’re not funny. Don’t confuse memorization with humor writing. I was dating a woman last year who was wonderful in every way – and perhaps her most endearing quality is she would say, “I’m not funny.” And she never tried to make a joke. I loved that self-awareness and acceptance. That being said, I had to dump her. I can’t be with an unfunny person. Wait, I feel like I’ve made this all about me. Oh well. You’re on your own!

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Allison and D.J. Need Your Stupid Problems About Your Best Friend Wed, 15 Feb 2017 01:30:07 +0000 D.J. and Allison fix your stupid problems about your best friend

A guy a know who I’ll call Cullen used to say, “I love you enough to tell you the truth.”

After this proclamation, he would immediately follow it with a barrage of criticisms about how you’re doing things wrong. It was uncomfortable. You’d feel defensive. But after his assault concluded, you’d find yourself saying, “Dammit, the sonofabitch was right.” And he always was. A mutual friend of ours, Jen, was complaining about some shitheel she was dating. Jen is a psychologist and a strong, independent woman. However, she was dating a shitheel. He sucked. We all knew it. She suspected it, but stuck with him. One day, Cullen says to her (apropos of nothing), “What’s up with your self-esteem? You know better than to be with a loser. Get yourself together. Christ!” And Jennifer started to cry. Cullen didn’t flinch. He patiently waited for the sobbing to end. Then Jennifer said, “Yeah… I know.” Because she knew that Cullen was right. She dumped the guy a few days later.

The reality is, like the Buzzy Lindhart song preaches, “…ya gotta have friends…” And maybe the job of a friend, aside from being there when the world collapses around you, is to be there to knock you down a few pegs. For example if I wanted to meet out some buddies and I showed up with a ten-gallon cowboy hat, I hope they would say, “You look like an asshole and aren’t allowed to sit with us. Go home and change.”

But not all friends are created equal. Some downright suck.

Or, rather, parts of them suck. Maybe they always hit on your girlfriend. Maybe they never pick up the check at Applebees EVEN THOUGH YOU SAW THEM EAT ALL THE WINGS. Perhaps they ask to borrow money. Or they’re just not there when you need them most. Or, God forbid, they didn’t “like” the video you uploaded to Facebook about your child’s piano recital.

But, they’re your best friend(s) and you’re likely stuck with them. And they with you.

Let’s help you figure out how to fix the stupid problems you have about your closest pals. Allison Arnone and I are, if nothing else, pretty damned smart. Also handsome. And we have hips that don’t quit for days.

Below here you can enter in the issue you have with your best friend issue, and we’ll solve it. If you don’t see the form below, click here to submit.

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Allison and D.J. Fix Your Stupid Problems About Your Look Tue, 31 Jan 2017 00:22:59 +0000 allison and d.j. need your stupid problems about your look

Everyone wants to love what they see staring back in the mirror. And, I’m not referring to that inner-beauty nonsense that isn’t real. Well, inner beauty can be real, I guess. But your outer beauty is always being evaluated. Mostly by you. And I’d bet, if you’re like near everyone else on the planet, that you focus on the imperfections. When we check out our crooked nose or thinning hairline, it’s a reminder that not only are we imperfect, but we’re imperfect and aging. Those are two very heavy trips, dig? So, we asked for your questions about how to cope with said imperfections. Allison Arnone and I did our best to lighten your load. Read on, where we help you co-exist with your warts and all. (Oliver Cromwell reference, sucka!)

I hate the bump on my nose and wish I didn’t have “white girl butt.” Should I get them fixed or just deal?” – Jen

Allison When I was in Jr. High, I decided I hated my nose.  It’s a ‘family’ nose; I come from a long line of folks on my mom’s side who don’t exactly have cute little pug snouts and instead have pretty substantial schnozes.  I never wanted a Sweet 16 party (believe it or not I don’t like that kind of attention) (no, seriously) so I half-jokingly asked my parents for a nose job instead.  They always laughed it off, and guess what?  I got older, and I stopped caring.  My nose is fine.  It’s fine!  It’s not adorable or cute or little and it’s certainly not perfect but when I see my other family members rocking similar honkers, I’m glad I didn’t fix mine.

So, yeah. I’m willing to bet that bump on your nose is more of a tiny speed bump that only you notice and no one else – so I say leave it.

As for the butt?  Yeah, I have that problem, too.  I don’t know, guess you could do squats?  Wear butt pads?  Get that surgery that all the Kardashians have but deny having?

D.J.  Hi Jen. Here’s the thing about certain body parts – you literally never see them. I believe it’s the reason why so many women have horrible back tattoos. I’ve dated 27 women with horrible back tattoos and I always go, “That’s a horrible back tattoo.” And they go, “Yeah, I know. I should get it fixed or lasered off.” But they never do. Why? Because they never see it. Out of sight, out of mind.

But you have to stare at your nose bump for the rest of your life, every morning while applying foundation. You can’t escape it. And it’s going to piss you off every morning. Life is hard enough. Get the bump fixed, but not for vanity or sexiness – but because it makes you feel crappy and feeling crappy is not a great way to start the day.

As for your butt being “white girl” I’m assuming you wish it were bigger. Let me quell your fear. I have never heard a man say, “Ugh, my old lady’s fanny’s too small!” Not once. But (pardon the pun) we do complain if it’s too big. Less is more.

My husband and I have a great/healthy relationship, but he always “jokes” about how I should get breast implants. I’ve had a relatively flat chest my whole life and clearly it wasn’t a deal breaker for him, but should I consider surprising him and getting them?? -A-Cup

AllisonDo YOU want breast implants?  Feminist rant time: we’re currently living in a world where a bunch of men are trying to make decisions about women’s bodies.  Cool!  Personally, I have this crazy little rule where I only do things as it relates to my own body/mind if *I* want to.  You want to go from a 32A to a 34DD?  Go right ahead!  But do it because you want to join the Big Titty Commitee and not because your hubs “jokingly” pressured you to.  Also, have you “jokingly” let him know about all the penile enlargement procedures that are out these days?  Haha, what fun jokes!

D.J. –  Your husband sounds like a true delight. Joking about a woman’s breast size is a universal no-no. It would reduce even the most confident feminist to a pile of tears. I’ve dated As to DDs. Real and fake. And you know what? None of it really matters. If you’d feel better with giant bombs, go ahead. Or just tell your husband that joking about your cans isn’t cool. I’d suggest you make fun of his physique but I’m sure he’s already got six pack abs and a massive wang.

I look too much like my parents, who are toxic and whom I’ve recently cut out of my life. – Tits McGee

Allison Yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiikes.  I’m sorry you have a bad relationship with your parents, but hopefully it’s not to the point where you want to full-on alter your appearance.  But if you DO, I suggest using whatever surgeon the Kardashian family uses, since they all did a good job of obtaining brand new faces that don’t even remotely resemble the ones they were born with.  (I’m aware I’ve mentioned the Kardashian family twice already, but… #relevant)

D.J–  Okay, but Ms. McGee, were your parents attractive? Because if Brad and Angelina’s oldest emancipated, that kid would still look like Brad and Angelina. Which is not the worst lot in life. Now, if your parents had unfortunate jawlines and asymmetrical eye heights, then you should probably get on that face transplant list. You usually have to be attacked by a rabid monkey to qualify, but if you’re ugly enough, you might already look like that. Get a new face is what I’m saying.

I want (need) to lose weight, but I don’t want to diet. Or exercise. HALP -Dee

Allison Girl, same.

D.J. –  Easy – cut out sugar and grain. The weight will peel off within days. And let’s face it, you’ve eaten enough bread and Skittles for a lifetime. Oh, and you should sell your car and run everywhere. Now, I know you said no exercise. But if you don’t have a car, running seven miles to the Piggly Wiggly is just called “getting groceries.” It’s a brain trick, yo!

I have always been overweight and I think it makes me look hideous -Monica

Allison- This makes me sad.  If you’re truly unhappy, make some changes.  I wrote a blog post about this (click HERE if you want to read) where I talked about changing the things in your life that you actually DO have control over, since there are so many things we actually can’t control.  One of those things?  If you’re truly unhappy with your body, you can eat better and exercise.  I certainly don’t think it’s easy – in fact I know it can be very hard – but it is doable, especially when you’re ready, willing and motivated.  Good luck!  And don’t be so hard on yourself!

D.J.  Chicks have it tough with their bodies. Us guys can lose weight easily just by cutting calories and hitting the gym. You birds have all sorts of hormones that screw with water retention, fat storage, and metabolism. So, at the end of the day, there’s probably not a ton (pun INTENDED) you can do about your weight. Might just be genetics. Now, here’s the good news – your mind really only cares about effort. If you bust your ass in the gym six days of seven and say no to the office danishes, you’re going to feel awesome. Because you did something hard. Just keep doing hard things, and let the physical chips fall where they may. You’ll be happy regardless.

I have a cowlick just to the left of center at my hairline. It has been tormenting me my entire life. It is a wild, untamed beast. IT MUST BE STOPPED. What would you do? – Alyssa

Allison – I, too, have a cowlick right where I part my hair on the left.  I once cut bangs and it was glaringly obvious that I had rogue hairs that would NEVER be tamed and go where I wanted them to go, so I quickly grew the bangs out.  Now?  I just kind of deal with it because these are very scary times we’re currently living in and cowlicks should be the least of our problems.  Also, whenever I picture an actual cow licking someone’s face I laugh because that’s kind of adorable.

D.J.  Since I only made it through two years of Harvard Medical School, and I never got to the cowlick lecture, I’m not wildly qualified to answer this question. But, from Catholic high school I learned that God can fix just about anything with miracles. But he never did much with hairlines, from what I read. Moses, however, did part the seas for the Jews. And all he did was ask God for a little help. So, I’m guessing God can part your hair correctly. So throw your hands high to the heavens and ask that HE answers your prayer. Report back. Bonus tip – God responds well to flattery so maybe start with a compliment about his booming voice and how it’s really sexy sounding.

In the new year, I am trying to (surprise, surprise) lose weight. I also am trying to date more. That is where the problem lies! How can you be healthy while dating? So far, I told one guy on a first date and he did everything to sabotage me and I couldn’t lay the law down because I am trying to be nice… TRYING… Lol. That didn’t last. I definitely don’t want to be a cliche “I’m on a diet girl” when dating… Help! -F

Allison Ugh.  Men want us to be all cute and skinny but they ALSO want us to gorge on chicken wings and pizza with them.  MAKE UP YOUR MIND, BOYS!  I think there’s a happy medium here.  Go on a first date and get a couple of drinks (nothing too sugary or high in calories) and if you DO get food, don’t completely go batshit and eat something terrible.  You don’t have to eat a plate of kale but you also don’t have to split sky-high nachos, either. Keep in mind there’s also something called “living a little” and “cheat days” so don’t go too nuts if you’re putting in work the rest of the week.  Good luck!  (with both the dieting and the dating, cause they both suck.)

D.J.  Am I the only guy that loves it when you take a date to the best steakhouse in town and she only nibbles at her petite filet? You know why that’s sexy? Because I know she wants to wolf it down like a pig, but she’s showing restraint. That’s attractive. Ooh, but here’s the pitfall of that strategy – don’t leave 95% of the steak for the busboys. Tell the date, “I’m eating this tomorrow” and get a take-home bag. Nothing pisses us off more than when I woman orders a $75 ribeye and then leaves it. So, as long as you’re willing to walk around the rest of the night with a smelly piece of rotting steak in your Kate Spade clutch, you’ll have an awesome breakfast the next day.

Do guys really notice small things like eyebrows and nails?? -Fran

Allison – I’m not a guy so I’ll let D.J.  take this one.  But if I had to answer I’d say, “who gives a shit?”

D.J. – Not only do I not notice such things, I don’t even notice eye color. I’m not kidding. I’ve had many long term relationships and I’m not confident which of them had brown eyes or green. In fact I just had to double check my own. They’re blue.

Nails? I’ve never once thought of a woman’s nails. Neither has any man. Just don’t get too weird with it where you’re painting each one with a stenciled design and when you look at them all together it spells your name or something.

What is the best way to make sure I don’t have resting double chin face while in public? -Double Chin City

Allison Hope you have an Amazon Prime account cause this bad boy is designed to take that double chin and transform it to the single variety.  And it’s not weird looking at all.

face mask

D.J.  I have a far more simple solution. You know how photographers always shoot you from above your head facing downward to eliminate double chins in pictures? Simply make sure that all the people you hang with are taller than you. Sure, it might mean getting a new set of friends, but hey, the current batch probably weren’t all that great to begin with. What was their solution to your double chin? Probably nothing! Ditch ‘em and find better, taller people.. Your new friends will never even see your chins!

How do I make myself look more like the “Wendy” from the Wendy’s logo, and not like my dad, Dave Thomas, in a wig? -Wendy Thomas

Allison – Just so I’m clear, you want to be a young freckle-faced redheaded girl with pigtails?  I’m sure that can be arranged, but I personally think Dave Thomas is a stud. (RIP)

dave thomas wendys
Ooh, I like the way you work that spatula, Mr. Thomas.

D.J. – I’m hoping that you’re not more that seven years old, Wendy. If you’re an adult I’m sending the men with the white coats to come pay you a visit. It’s for your own good.

What is the best way to hide my wobbly bits during sex? – Anonymous

Allison – Two words: lights. off.  Always.

D.J. – Reverse cowgirl, duh.

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Allison and D.J. Need Your Stupid Problems About Your Gross Appearance Thu, 19 Jan 2017 04:11:39 +0000 allison and d.j. need your stupid problems about your look

I believed I was so ugly no woman would ever want to date me.

I remember confessing this to a college roommate one summer. He was a handsome fraternity brother who had to fend off women when we went out. He was asking why I never talked to girls and I told him, “Well, I’m just not attractive enough, so why get rejected?” Now, the worst thing you can do if someone confesses their most vulnerable insecurity is to confirm it. Since I believed I was an ugly troll as much as I believed my name was D.J., the only hope that I had was that I might be wrong. But of course, he said the worst possible response.

Look, at the bars, you just don’t go up to the most beautiful women. They probably wouldn’t be interested. Just go for someone who is okay looking. Not beautiful, though.

I thanked him for the advice and then walked slowly into the kitchen to find a sharp enough steak knife to slit my wrists. My biggest fear had been confirmed. See – I wasn’t crazy. Other people thought I was hideous, too.

A year passed and I decided that well, I just couldn’t do anything about my looks. Bad DNA. But, I knew I was funny. Funnier than just about anyone. So, every chance I got I would approach women and make them laugh. I’d stand next to them and point something out that was going on and goof on it. Comedians call it observational humor. Eventually I became so good at it, I decided it was time to try to parlay this skill into romance.

One day I met this girl and I made her laugh. She was about the prettiest woman I had ever seen. I wanted to ask her out in the worst way. But I didn’t want further confirmation that I was un-datable, which I was convinced would come if I asked her out. So, I told her, “We’re going out on Saturday. The lead singer of my band is in a play. I’ll pick you up at five.” See, she couldn’t reject me if I never asked her out. She laughed and said she was looking forward to it.

We went on a few more dates and one night she said, “You know, you’re really handsome.” I replied, “Look, that’s very sweet, but there’s no need to lie to me. I know what I look like.” She stared at me like I was nuts. “Uh, no. You’re good looking. My friends think so, too.” From that moment I no longer considered myself ugly.

My point is that sometimes change comes from the outside. I know every self-help book would like you to think, “You won’t feel pretty until YOU believe it!” and yes, that’s technically true, but it doesn’t mean that something external can’t tip the scales.

Allison Arnone and I can be that external source. Are you a man/woman struggling with a gock/gunt? Is your hairline receding? Did you join the Spanx of the Month subscription service? How about those ashy elbows? Do your teeth point in every direction but north and south?

I’d like to point out that we don’t think any of the above conditions are “bad” or need fixing. If you’re happy with your physical appearance and its many, many imperfections, congratulations. But I’d bet there’s a few things that annoy you when you look in the mirror. We can help solve those issues.

Also, remember, the form is anonymous. Feel free to share your most insecure physical issues. We won’t ask for a photo, and I don’t really want to see your superfluous third nipple anyway.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to brush my hair one hundred times while staring longingly in the mirror.

Click here or fill out the form below to submit your issue about your physical appearance!

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The Sticker Incident – Behind the Scenes at Allison and D.J. Fix Your Stupid Problems Wed, 18 Jan 2017 01:15:34 +0000 She hated the idea from the beginning.

“I’m going to have something made to send out to all the people that write in questions for our column!” Allison responded with, “Uh huh. Have fun.” Okay, she wasn’t into it. In fact, I’ve witnessed more excitement in line at a salad bar. Now, to be fair, Allison’s and my communication mostly consist of me writing stupid things on email or instant message and then waiting for her to get annoyed. Just yesterday I was drawing up the graphic for our newest column. As a goof I created an additional one which I emailed over with, “Next month, I have our topic.” This was attached.

unsightly privates
C’mon, we’ve all seen at least one.

Allison’s entire reply?

*sighs loudly*

Deep down I believed she laughed. But she doesn’t want to encourage me. Allison thinks my ego is big enough and has made it clear that someone needs to dress me down. So, even when I have what I think are great ideas, she’s often lukewarm. And, to be fair, her compass is well-tuned. Over the holiday break I ran with this idea that I would come up with something to send out to the people that write in questions for our column. When I landed on, “Stickers! We’ll send them a sticker!” Allison was confused. “Nobody wants a sticker, D.J. Least of all, about us.” However, I had already paid someone a few shekels to draw caricatures about us. I figured once she saw the end result, her opinion would change. After a week the artist completed the job. I emailed over the proof for Allison’s approval. As expected, she hated it.

allison and dj sticker
Would you not want to slap that on the back of your $2,800 Macbook Pro?

“Once again, I’m really not excited about this idea. Nobody needs another sticker and, by the way, that doesn’t even look like me!” I replied with, “It looks exactly like you. Now shaddup.” And, it does look like her. Way more more than mine. At least she doesn’t resemble an early-forties lesbian. I was going to ask the artist to draw in chest hair, which would have made people vomit, but at least confirmed my masculinity.

To me this was a slam dunk. We’d sign a bunch of these in advance, and then if when we answered questions we’d mail out a sticker. It’s a goodwill gesture and us showing appreciation to the readers. I’m not unrealistic, however. I’m aware someone would receive this sticker and deposit it directly into their garbage disposal. But that didn’t matter to me. I wanted to go above and beyond for the people nice enough to support us. And, in theory, it is a good idea.

There were a few problems, however. First, we don’t ask for anyone’s email in the question submission form. This is by design because often people write in anonymously with personal details about themselves or their families. So, I’d have to add that field to the form, and then email them asking for a mailing address. “Hey,, thank you for your question about how to handle your boss’s infatuation with staring at your butt when putting away files. Where should we send this thank you sticker?” It sort of undermines the whole anonymity premise of the column.

elon musk
Even though this IS a creepy pic, I was kidding about Mr. Musk. I still want a Tesla. Which reminds me – I need to marry rich.

I assumed Allison’s reluctance was a smokescreen for her true feeling that she didn’t like the caricature of herself. So I ignored her complaints and almost ordered a few hundred stickers. But, the truth was she just didn’t think it was a good idea. I disagreed, but after I reflected on it, she was right. Most people aren’t going to want to provide their personal information and, even if they do, aren’t going to get excited about a dopey sticker.

So, the sticker project is scrapped. I’m working on some other ideas to thank our readers. Here’s a prototype I’m toying with. A thank you throw pillow. Practical and classy!

allison and d.j. throw pillow
Maybe I should run this by Allison first.


photo credit: Bill David Brooks iphone 6 Plus Elon Musk Wallpaper via photopin (license)

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Iceland Memories – I Didn’t Notice The Attractiveness of Icelandic Chicks Sun, 15 Jan 2017 18:26:12 +0000 dj paris iceland horses
I think we can all agree the horses are pretty good looking.

But are Icelandic women hot?

I’m surprised that I’ve received this question since I’ve returned from my trip. Three individuals have asked this independently, and it strikes me as odd for a number of reasons. First, I’m forty and my friends are around the same age. Everyone is married, mature, and with responsible careers. This is not a question anyone my age should be asking. Second, the trip to Iceland was not sponsored by Tinder and I didn’t check to see if there was a “Hot Broads of Reykjavik” meetup group. Third, I was traveling with my sister and her husband, and the idea of scoping out local trim didn’t seem like a healthy move. Fourth, I’m dating someone which further distances me from such silliness. Fifth, and most importantly, I truthfully don’t have an answer for this question. And I’d like to talk about that further.

What I’ve noticed visiting foreign countries is that there’s an inverse relationship between how well the country is doing on its own and the overt friendliness of the natives. A negative correlation, if you will. I crafted this simple chart to drive the point firmly into Iceland’s frozen ground.

country friendliness chart
Even though I had to take Stats 201 twice in college, I’m pretty sure I built this correctly.

In other words, the less a country needs you to come spend money, the less they tend to kiss your fanny. Just head down to the Caribbean where every busboy becomes your new best pal. They need your dough.

Iceland has a lot going for it. There’s almost no crime, the citizens are well-compensated at their jobs, and they just seem as a whole to have their shit together. Last year they ranked third in the world in overall happiness. The U.S. ranked 13th. Icelanders focus on education, hard-work, and family. On a walking tour our guide told us if we see a homeless person not to be afraid, as an Icelandic homeless person would never approach and ask you for money. We didn’t see even one homeless person, by the way.

We were staying on the main strip, about a block from the prime minister’s office. The most important person in Iceland’s office is a nondescript two story building. His car was parked in the adjacent lot and we witnessed him walking to and from the office. No security. He was – right there. No big deal.

iceland prime minister office
Oh the garishness!

Iceland has no soldiers. Part of the reason is that Iceland isn’t interested in meddling in foreign affairs. They have enough going on with inclement weather and volcanoes that erupt. But what about defense? Ha! (imagine that laugh with a hearty Icleandic viking timbre) No nation in their right mind would try to occupy Iceland. 80% of the country is uninhabitable and the other 20% isn’t exactly Club Med.

And even though I spent six days in Iceland, I still don’t have a sense of the Icelandic people. I would say that they are polite and stoic. But I can’t recall even one Icelandic person coming over to me on their own to strike up a conversation. On New Year’s Eve I went over to the two singers performing at the party we attended. Both are locally famous. When I told Svavar Knútur that his song, Wanderlust, was one of the best songs I’d heard in some time, he said simply, “Thank you.” I took a picture with Una Stef and she seemed genuinely surprised that someone would want a photo with her.

dj paris una stef
Una Stef and I are palesies twins.

It’s not that Icelandic people are unfriendly – they’re very helpful and kind. But they don’t seem overly concerned or impressed that you’re visiting. And we do the same thing in the United States. If a traveler from Australia is visiting the U.S., it would never occur to an American to say, “Thank you so much for visiting our amazing country, Sheila!” (It’s a fact that 87% of Australian women are named Sheila). We don’t fawn over visitors because, well, we don’t need them. And Iceland is the same way. People have only been vacationing there for fifteen years.

All of this leads me to my original statement that I have no idea if Icelandic women are hot. I didn’t see or speak with a ton of them. Well, I did see them – but since the temperature was always around 32 degrees Fahrenheit, everyone is bundled up at all times. You can’t tell what’s doing under all those sweaters.

But even if Icelandic women were the hottest women in the world, it still wouldn’t have impressed me. You’d have to peel off seven layers of clothes before even getting to see boobs. And that’s just too much work for me. Plus, as mentioned earlier, the woman I’m seeing wouldn’t have appreciated it. She’s square that way.

So I’m sorry to report that I can’t comment on the overall attractiveness of Icelandic females. I can comment on eating whale, however. One of their delicacies. It was gross.

icelandic whale sushi
I still wolfed it down, however.
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Iceland Memories – Why I’d Make a Pretty Great Viking Mon, 09 Jan 2017 01:12:02 +0000 birds in iceland december
Even the birds go to Iceland in the winter.

Who goes to Iceland for New Year’s Eve?

When my sister sent out a blanket email to her friends back in June, I was in a terrible place in my life. Weeks before I had just been dumped by the woman I thought I would marry. I had sold my condo to move into hers but after the breakup found myself in a high rise rental nursing a broken heart. I’m a big believer that during crisis I’m best off doing what others tell me. The email my sister sent said simply, “Who wants to go to Iceland for New Year’s Eve?” My mind flashed to instances where people vacationed to Reykjavik and reported that it was one of the best vacations of their life. It took less than thirty seconds for me to reply. I was in.

I believe the original group was seven, but in December I learned that it would only be my sister, her husband, and me. We picked up a few books about Iceland and started reading. My knowledge of the country was nil. I was familiar with a few Bjork songs and knew they had the world’s first woman president. Oh, and something about the northern lights. That’s it.

We spent six days in Iceland exploring the country. The weather was better than Chicago and averaged around 32 degrees. Cold but not miserable. At this time of the year the sun comes up around 11:15 am and departs at 3:15 pm. If you wanted to see stuff without flashlights, you needed to plan your day.

I’m going to focus on a few events and sights, but spread over a few posts. Let’s start with Iceland’s most popular attraction, The Blue Lagoon. This is not to be confused with the Brooke Shields film of the same name where she plays a nude fourteen year old who falls in love living in the jungles of the South Pacific.

By the way, how did that movie ever get made? Must have been the pervy-est pitch meeting of all time. “No, don’t worry – we’re going to tape her long hair over her cans so you can’t see the nips. It’ll be classy!”

Iceland’s Blue Lagoon is about an hour’s drive from Reykjavik. Because it’s so popular you can’t just show up – you need an appointment. Oh, I haven’t told you what it is. It’s the world’s largest geothermal spa. Crap, you probably don’t know what a geothermal spa is. Well, I don’t either, but here’s my best attempt at explaining. 100% of Iceland’s power comes from renewable sources likes sun, wind, and water. Because of the volcanoes in the country, the lava underground heats up the natural water. Power plants take in the hot water and harvest electricity and then ship the water back out into the earth. Near the Blue Lagoon is a power plant. Instead of just feeding the water back into the ground, somebody figured it would make for a fun spa experience and built a huge pool. The water leaves the power plant and tunnels into the Blue Lagoon where it swishes around for two days before naturally returning to the earth. It’s a milky blue color and averages just under 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

dj paris outside the blue lagoon in iceland
Peeing while in the lagoon is strictly forbidden and I honored this custom (out of respect).

When you arrive at The Blue Lagoon the first thing you notice is how many other people are there. There’s hundreds of other tourists running around and if you are looking for a relaxing spa day, this isn’t going to meet your needs. Odds are your idea of relaxing is not to swim around the world’s largest jacuzzi while it snows on your face. Because that’s exactly what happened during our trip. Well, it actually did much worse than snow on my face. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

My brother-in-law and I booked massages and I thought we’d be shuffled off to private interior rooms with folding tables, patchouli incense and bad new age music. Nope – this massage would be done in the water. Outside. We quickly showered (a requirement before entering the lagoon) and stepped outside to find the water-massage area.

the blue lagoon deck
Excuse the blurriness. This was taken from inside the clubhouse where we were about to walk outside in our bathing suits. In the snow.

We found our courage and stepped out into the air, glancing around for the water-massage area. It was a good fifty yards from away and the cold air pierced my body with impressive force. I couldn’t run because the deck was littered with snow and ice and the risk of slipping was very real. Plus, it’s important to look cool in front of other people, so I shuffled over at a pace that suggested “Huh, is it cold? I hadn’t noticed.” I’m sure the other tourists were impressed with my ruggedness. Meanwhile frost had developed on my chest hair and I could no longer feel my feet. We reached the massage pool and quickly stepped in the water. The water was so warm that within a minute I no longer noticed the outside freezing temperature. I was comfortable. There were eight masseuses, seven of them men. My brother-in-law and I both prayed we’d be assigned to the one female. Nope. We got dudes.

Let me explain the water-massage setup. It’s a pool where the massage recipient lays on a flotation mat, face up. There is a blanket on top of the body to protect exposed areas from the cold. Each masseuse wore a thick bodysuit and wool winter hat. The men have dense beards. While I didn’t snap a pic of my masseuse, he looked exactly like this.

blue lagoon masseuse
I guess this makes sense since the nation was founded by vikings.

My masseuse, whose name I didn’t catch but I’ll call Magnús (because it was probably Magnús) hoisted me onto the float raft and draped a heavy blanket across my chest. He asked if I wanted a towel to cover my face. “No, Magnús. Did you not see how I strolled over without discomfort even though my left pinky toe went into frostbite?” He shrugged and started the massage. I was a few minutes in and starting to relax when the first piece of hail hit my cheek. Within seconds my face was being pelted with small, stinging pieces of ice. “Uh, Magnús, I’ll take that face towel now.” He laughed and a few seconds later a towel draped over my eyes protecting me from the ice bullets. The next thing I knew I felt the face towel came off and I saw clouds. Instantly I snapped back into consciousness and realized the session was over. I had fallen asleep. In a hailstorm. Face up and in a pool.

I shook hands with Magnús and exited the massage area. He didn’t say how impressed he was that I could brave the elements, but I could sense it on his face. However, I will not be joining any viking armies to further prove my masculinity, but that’s just because there aren’t any decent viking wars going on right now. Which is a bummer because I’m certain I’d be excellent at pillaging. Plundering, too. I do, though, get seasick like you wouldn’t believe. I’d be heaving my guts before we left port. Bonine – I’d have to bring a shitload of Bonine. Or those tabs you put behind your ear. Oh, and I’d have to grow a beard, I guess.

dj paris viking beard
And if the viking thing didn’t work out, I could always join a ZZ Top cover band.

The Blue Lagoon part II is coming next.

photo credit: acase1968 Johan Hegg of Amon Amarth via photopin (license)

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