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Please Get Your Vagina Outta My Face, American Apparel

August 18th, 2009 | 0 comments | Posted by Jen

Usually I’m pretty amused by American Apparel ads. Yeah, they’re porn-ish, but they’re also kinda goofy, an aspect I attribute to the clothes actually being advertised, which aren’t sexy so much as fugly. Half the time, it seems like American Apparel isn’t advertising clothes or sex even but jazzercise, that form of aerobic exercise that was so popular among people’s Tab-drinking moms in the 80′s (not my mom, because Chinese mothers don’t “work out” per se, unless you count speed-walking around the neighborhood in a visor and a noisy nylon windbreaker). It’s like the grimy hipster version of jolie laide, emphasis on the laide.

But a recent round of photographs advertising pantyhose on American Apparel’s website, featuring Hyunha the “Spanish gymnast,” are neither sexy nor fugly, they’re just gross.


When I look at these photos, Brazilian bikini waxing, anal bleaching, and pap smears come to mind. They’re not goofy, they’re gynecological. (Admittedly, they conjure amputees too, which are sexy to some.) But really, there’s so much vaj up in my grill, I’ve lost my appetite for all things, sexual, retail, or otherwise. And I’m definitely going to skip the tuna fish for lunch, that’s for sure.

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Scrunchies Kill

June 29th, 2009 | 0 comments | Posted by Jen

I like to think of myself as a game person who’s up for a lot of things, but there are a few things in life I’ve never tried that I’m really glad I haven’t. The reason being that these things, in one way or another, I associate with death.

  1. Heroin
  2. Roadkill for dinner
  3. Scrunchies in my hair

I have never worn a scrunchie in all of my [REDACTED] years on this not-so-green Earth. Not even to the gym. (Okay, okay, I never go to the gym either.) But a scrunchie has never touched a hair on my head and it never will. I don’t care what you say, American Apparel.


I don’t care how much T & A & Mounds-of-Crotch you throw at me. I don’t care how old this makes me sound (“I remember when they came out with scrunchies the first time around…honey, be a dear and hand me my teeth, will you?“). And I really don’t care that that this means I will continue to be judged through lowered, sloppily-mascaraed wall-eyes as someone who doesn’t “get it” by some 80 lb. airhead working the American Apparel cash register who subsists solely on a diet of vegan food, Parliaments, and bad spelling.


I’ve got a record to uphold. Not to mention my dignity.

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