I’m Sexy and I Know It

I don’t think I’ve ever been this bummed that I don’t have that kinda junk.

Except, maybe, when I’m in the car on that long road to nowhere and I gotta go.

I mean, seriously, have you ever seen a package shake like that? Does he have a back problem? Because I have a set on me and, whoa, I can’t go up or down the steps without fear of knocking myself out. I have considered an emergency alert bracelet for braless laundry days, but I went and bought out of control animal print pants instead.

Because I’m sexy and I know it.

On laundry days I may or may not have a fro and sock-less slip ons, but I am fairly certain Ron Jeremy is not in my basement.

Fairly certain. I’m not 100% here.

I know that shaking your humongous package in slow-mo is gag inducing. Oh, I totally gagged. And then I pounded on the table with tears at how funny I thought this was. You mean to tell me there are guys in Speedos, tanning their pasty selves, and then wiggling all over a bar?

How exploitative.

And hilarious!

Did I mention there’s an update to the Michael Jackson’s Beat It leather?

Oh, there is.

With a bedazzled Speedo. And a bat that Dude #2 pulls from the middle of his legs.

Someone’s clever.

I love the idea that these guys are not sexy at all–by far–but think they are. Since it’s the New Year, the hate yourself weight loss commercials are, well, completely out of control. I can’t watch my Real Housewives with the normal amount of self-loathing. Now, I get to feel stabby about my muffin top too. Instead of my choice in programming.

Sexy is about confidence. Sometimes it’s about shaking your balls.

If you don’t have them, work with what you got.

Hit the gym because you want to get or stay active. Don’t go because some commercial shamed you into it. If you have the confidence to roll out of bed with leopard Hammer pants and glasses with no lenses and still call yourself sexy? You’re crazy enough for me to believe you too.

And that’s exactly what I aim for: people with just enough crazy to think the party starts when I arrive.

How Ke$ha of me.

I hate myself just a tad more for actually writing that dollar sign.

I love people who are fun to be around. Not sloppy fun, but self-deprecating. Like, for instance, being a super tall white guy with peach fuzz on your chest and walking around like your last name is Pitt.

Which makes me a Jolie.

Now where in the hell is that thong of mine?