New York Shitty Day Ender: Not Your Mother’s Scrapbook

If there’s one thing being a junkstress has given me it is some insight into the human condition. Every day is a new day and with it comes boxes upon boxes of stuff— formerly someone else’s stuff— for me and my cronies to sort through. This appeals to my inner anthropologist. Usually this process is boring— but sometimes it isn’t. Which brings me to these scrapbooks:

They look innocent enough, yes? Never judge a book by its cover.

Yup.

Needless to say the Mister found them of interest. Before I settled into bed with a hot cup of tea to parse someone else’s (meticulously documented) fantasy life (with a shot of P.J. O’Rourke on the side— I was feeling dirty) we glanced at a few pages.

Me:

Is that Candice Bergen?

Maybe I should do this?

Inquired the Mister. I glared at him and turned the page. As luck (?) would have it, when I did we were sobered by a rather explicit photograph of a mass grave at Bergen Belsen. That ended the discussion. He went into the living room to quaff Old Fashions and watch Turner Classic Movies. And I got down to business.

Observations/Discussion from the Chez Shitty Forum:

1. It is an admirable, if abject, testament to perseverance.
2. It’s a “Who’s Who” of boobs from the mid 1940’s to 1980.
3. It’s like watching Spike T.V. without actually having to watch Spike T.V. (I’m not complaining, it’s better than Lifetime.)
4. When I see this level of documentation (at right), it gets my respect. Albeit as the expense of the mainstream press.
5. The man who assembled this personal archive (and after much debate the Mister and I agreed only a man would do something like you see at left) was a (to use my crude parlance) a “Bucket of KFC” kind of guy: breasts, thighs and legs.
6. He appears to a have a fondness for blondes— but red heads make an appearance every now and then.
7. Points #5 and #6 would explain the total absence of Audrey Hepburn, arguably one of the most beautiful women— inside and out— to ever grace this mortal coil. Too lanky. Too brunette.
8. Me to the Mister: I’m surprised this man didn’t graduate to pornography. (Flips page to find a spread— in the most explicit and literal sense of the word— from Swank magazine entitled “I Have A Dream”. ) Scrub that.

One can only wonder what Martin Luther King would think of this.

CAVEATS:

1. If pin-ups upset you, do not look at this slide show.
2. If the the female body in general upsets you, do not look at this slide show.
3. If knowing someone, somewhere thought Angela Lansbury was sexy upsets you, do NOT look at this slide show.

Without further ado, here are some highlights from my 100+ page excursion to Girlieland. Enjoy!

Before anyone maligns me for being “offensive” I would like to point out:

1. Tits and ass are nothing compared to atrocities human beings are capable of inflicting on each other. Which do you find more offensive: this or this? The latter merits front page coverage nowadays (just look at the New York Post), the former is the stuff of sexual harassment suits (which, it should be noted, is also something Rupert Murdoch, et. al. is contending with).
2. While feminist, I do have a sense of humor. Send out the reporters! Stab me with a needle! I will bleed! No need to erect a cucking stool to dip my agitating person into Newtown Creek. I will not go to Woodhull. I will go to St. Vincents. I have health insurance!
3. I would not have been able to write such a tome if there were not brave women who cleared the path for me: Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Germaine Greer, Gloria Steinem and…

Uh, nevermind…

Miss Heather

EXTRA SPECIAL PROPS: Go out to EV Grieve for capturing the latter most turd. I re-posted it here, albeit without your permission, but with proper credit. As for P.J. O’Rourke, if you’re reading this: you’re the only Republican I’d have dinner with— albeit with a very long fork! Oh yeah, I’m a vegetarian and you’re paying.