CONCERNING THE LADIES

Today marks International Women's Day. This blogger is not a woman. Never was, never will be. That's both biological and a matter of personal conviction. It seems appropriate to mention that many people who read posts here aren't either, for probably very similar reasons.

I know that because the most popular essay today AND most of this week has been Difference Between French Cut and High Cut, which I wrote over four years ago for the benefit of confused people.
It is about pretty cotton things.

The folks who read that are most likely men.


What if the uplift happened, and everybody raised to heaven (the one hundred and forty four thousand "select" of Protestant mythology) was female, leaving nothing behind but their cars and their clothes?


A DAY WITHOUT WOMEN

We'd find their panties still warm on the Freeway, scattered around in the wrecks and detritus their salvation had caused.

Not all of them would be pretty cotton things. Women's spiritual worth does not correlate to their taste in underwear. That explains some of the strange (disturbed) garments in the Sears Roebuck catalogues from the sixties and seventies.

Better pray that the End Times never happen, boys, because you never want to see those garments again. Ever.

[SOURCE: The Bra Doctor. Featured in this article: Rocket Bras and the Fifties.]

What I searched for was "Missile Bra", and this was the first thing I found.
Those old Sears Roebuck catalogues were weirder, trust me.
Still, that's a lovely skirt, don't you think?

Imagine finding that on the Freeway, amidst all the screeching car crashes and wrecked empty vehicles. It would fire your imagination.
Women don't wear skirts like that anymore.

[Must mention that a sales slogan on the Bra Doctor's Blog says "lingerie for any occasion -- Bras from A to K cups". A to K? "Okay, sometimes I wear an A, but there are days when a K is more festive, AND I've got somewhere to store my cellphone, lipstick and wallet. Plus a place for spare change!" There are probably women who have that thought all the time.]


Are there situations when just Bra and Panties are appropriate garb?

That depends upon whether it's my purely hypothetical significant other wandering through our dwelling on a bright sunny day, or my equally imaginary teenage daughter away at college possibly "doing things".

You do not need to know further details of those fantasms.
And keep your filthy mind out of the gutter.


Missile bras are now worn primarily by Madonna and men in drag. Bikini briefs with their low waistband are suited to imaginary girlfriends and manga babes, whereas French cuts have high leg openings canted forward, and are ideal for both comfort and a natural look. Full skirts, such as the zesty item in the picture above, were popular from the late forties through the fifties, and made the waist look smaller while hiding the size of the hips. They also are favoured by men in drag. The look is extremely flattering on a woman, less so on most men.


Apparently there's some sort of strike ("a day without a woman") planned for today. It will probably go entirely unnoticed by many people, because as British comedies set in war time have shown us, men are perfectly capable of passing for girls. In every platoon there's at least one fellow who wears female drag well and all the boys love him.

Usually it's the slim young thing with no facial hair yet.
Sometimes it's the regimental sergeant-major.
Rank has its privilege.


Scotsmen should never wear bras and panties. That skirt and those hairy legs are disturbing enough.



PLEASE NOTE:

Acceptable: Briefs, Classic briefs, High-cut briefs, French cuts, Hipsters, Boylegs, Bikini. Marginally okay: Control briefs, Tangas. Unacceptable: Thongs, G-strings.
All of this goes double for the sergeant-major.

Cotton or silk only.




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HERRING HAIRCUTS, MOUSTACHES, AND BAGGY COSSACK PANTS - IT'S ZESTY!

Readers have on occasion taken me to task for dwelling overmuch on certain subjects. They feel, wrongly so, that I have the same subjects on my mind far too often. Young ladies, pipe tobacco, underwear of either gender, milk-tea, and other depravities. Sometimes, they say, this seems a fetish blog.


And what, pray tell, is WRONG about that?!?
Everyone on the planet has fetishes.
We are all obsessed.

One of my friends dwells absurdly on his fantasy baseball team. Another one finds tequila infinitely fascinating. Yet others will, when squiffy, admit to keen curiosity about feminine undergarments.
At least I focus on the nether-gear of BOTH genders.
My own snazzy boxers, your lovely panties.
It's healthy, is what it is.


FETISHISTS OF THE WORLD UNITE! YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR CHAINS!


Wait a sec, that didn't come out right. Some of you do not want to lose your chains. But that's okay. In a protest march, you can scream in unison "pantie revolution now!"
If nothing else, avoid cotton fatigue; cast off your tired old undies.
This blogger is at heart a revolutionary.


A blog is NOT a source of news. It may provide opinions, but these need not be about weighty matters. A tin of pipe-tobacco is two ounces, a pair of lovely deep-pink cotton panties is scarcely half an ounce.
Nor is it a source of hard data, necessarily. See the two facts above.

If it is anything at all, it is a soap-box.
Think of it as an outpost of Hyde Park.
Or a rational alternative to Fox News.

Never-the-less, to cater to that segment of my readers who inexplicably are NOT endlessly fascinated with food, cotton with lace trim, pipe tobacco, or comforting beverages quaffed around four o'clock, it sometimes proves necessary to offer matters of more general interest.

Wherefore I present something else.

Dancing bare-chested men!



Запорізький марш


[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4j4AYK8KGKU.]

The bare-chested men appear around the fortieth second in. And my heavens, though it barely lasted ten seconds, that is a sprightly dance!
It is a veritable ode to spring! Did you enjoy it?

Additionally there are large stocky gentlemen (with smooth chests) beating on a drum. That, too, may prove unbearably exciting if you are thus inclined.
Personally I would prefer to see the other gender so 'clothed', irrespective of their dancing skills or musical ability. But that's just the way I am.
I like the dude with the pipe, by the way.
His nickname is "crooked nose".
That's a lovely pipe.

I do not care about his underwear. I'm reasonably certain that it isn't a pretty cotton item. It is immaterial to me what he's got on down under, though it is to be hoped that his pipe-tobacco is excellent, his baggy boxers are comfy, his milk-tea is sufficiently sweet, and that he has nothing but wholesome and upstanding fetishes.

As do the rest of us.



AFTERWORD

Yes, panties are nice. Especially if clean and fresh. But it's more about the person inside of them. Who should also be clean and fresh.
That is all.


Please note the handy clickable label below ('Panties'). Hitting it will bring up everything I have to say about such, most recent post first. Which today is this. Just go below for more insight into the matter.
Pipe tobacco is also mentioned.
But no bare-chested men.
This is the first time.
For that subject.



NOTE: The scenes above are from the Polish movie 'With Fire And Sword', about the Cossack revolt that ushered in the twilight of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. When informed that the Poles were sending a military force to suppress ferment in the trans-Borysthene Ukraine, the leader of the Zaporizhian Sedge ('Kozaki Zaporoski') Bogdan Chmielnitski responded by marching against them, and in a series of well-done attacks routed their hosts. For the next several years Poland and Ukrayina burned, while the Polish king struggled against the constipation of his nobles and the magnates of the realm. All of this is lovingly detailed in the novels 'Ogniem i mieczem', 'Potop', and 'Pan Wołodyjewski', written by Henri Sienkiewits in the late nineteenth century.

Further note: Polish feminine nether garments might be red with white lace trim, Ukrainian scanties possibly blue with gold embroidery. But this is just random irresponsible speculation.




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DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FRENCH CUT AND HIGH CUT

You know me as a helpful person, right? You've read this blog long enough that you instinctively realize that underneath this cool and unemotional veneer beats the heart of a man who only wants to love and cherish you, and encourage your development and further education.
If I could, I would give you candy or champagne to help you study.
I respect your inquiring mind.

Especially when you feel the need to look up definitions on the Internet.
I too use the Internet for that exact purpose!

I am therefore unutterably overjoyed to find that not one, but several (!) readers have discovered this blog by entering this sentence into their search field: "difference between french cut and high cut".
No doubt there was more to the sentence than that, but google won't tell me what else it was.
Yet I can figure it out. More or less.

"Difference between french cut and high cut...'"

Because they found a post written over a year ago.
Which detailed some pertinent facts about panties.


BIKINI BRIEFS, FRENCH CUT BRIEFS, AND HIGH CUT BRIEFS
[No thongs, hipster briefs, boy shorts, or yoga pants, ever!]

It was, more or less, a prose piece in praise of cotton.
You have no need to know what prompted that blogpost (as I recall, it was something both European and political in nature), suffice to say that good information was freely given.
As all worthwhile data should be.

To that end, I shall quote the most important part:

"The difference between them is that bikini briefs have a low waistband (in contrast to granny panties), French cuts have high leg openings canted forward, and high cuts have deep leg openings more in-tune with a natural design and a waistband slightly on the high side."

That is it.

I'll assume that the persons looking for this information are trying to upgrade their underwear collection, and are too shy to talk to the elderly matron in charge of the pantie department at the local shop.
Which I can fully sympathize with, as I too am far to shy to do that.
All my knowledge of bikini briefs, French cuts, and high cuts, is the result of assiduous research, coupled with unquenchable scientific curiosity.

If any young people out there benefit from it, I shall be quite happy.
This blog wishes to be informative and useful.
It's a mission.


Are there any questions?



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HAPPINESS IS STEALING YOUR ROOMMATE'S SHAMPOO

The last two times that I washed my hair I used her shampoo, not mine.
You see, I had run out. The brand I had been using is no longer available, neither are the previous two brands.
And truth be told, the last one was a stop-gap that didn’t really please me.
I’m too cheap to throw out a nearly full bottle, so I finished it.

Finding a product that doesn’t pong like a Parisian bagnio isn't easy.

The brand she uses smells good, and really makes my head feel nice.
I don't know if it does the same for her, as it has been years since I had hair-touching privileges.
We've been just roommates for such a long time now.
And there are some things we just don't share.


SURREPTITION!

I mentioned stealing her shampoo to a friend, who promptly insisted that there are many other things I should pilfer. What he specifically suggested was her panties. Little feminine panties, he averred, should always be stolen. Always!
I've observed her panties when she folded her laundry.
If I were a panty thief, they would tempt me.
They are indeed lovely panties.

But I'm not sure I get his point. They would be far too small for me, and I've got clean underwear of my own. Baggy boxers are better for men in any case. Comfortable! Many of mine have happy blue stripes in various widths. Or they're solid pale blues, that radiate dignity and gravitas. Especially when that is all I'm wearing.
Furthermore, if I were to steal her panties, the painful constriction might distract me so much that I didn't look where I was going, and get hit by a car. Or have some other accident.
The emergency room staff at San Francisco General would no doubt look at me askance if they had to cut nice cotton or silk panties from my traumatized torso before they could attend to my wounds.
What kind of man abuses such nice panties, they would ask.
I do NOT want my medical care impacted by my nether garments.

That goes double for brassieres.
Which he didn’t' include.

We share many things anyway. Coffee, tea, cookies, barbecue chips.
Almost everything in the fridge is up for grabs, within reason.
The fresh salmon is hers. The smoked salmon is mine.
But the milk, butter, eggs, bread, preserves, condiments, cheese, and ice-cream are communal property.
They always have been. I want her to share my ice-cream and cheese.
And my condiments. Mi chilipaste con garlic es su chilipaste con garlic.
If we had herring, we'd share that too.
Both of us love herring.


SHAMPOO!

I've been warned not to take her soaps or hair care products.
She doesn't want to run out when she really needs them.
Finding them depleted would make her "peevish".

So, to prevent apartmental discord, I am replacing what I stole.
And to make sure I get to use more of it, I got two large bottles.


MOROCCAN ARGAN OIL SHAMPOO

"A unique, precious blend of Moroccan argan oil which instantly penetrates the hair shaft restoring shine and softness while strengthening and creating soft, seductive, silky perfection."


Part of me feels soft and seductive.

Silky too.



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BOURBON AND ROMANCE

I really must stop hanging out with the cigar smokers. They're damaging my reputation for saintliness and clean living.
What with them being all dissolute and riotous.

Example: Just as Whippiedips answered his cellphone, a word for the male genital attachment was uttered very loudly. After his conversation was over, he chided Seeing Eye and Scottish Crust for using that word while he was on the line with his office - we all told him that it was best if he stepped out of hearing distance when answering calls - and followed that by boasting about his big, BIG cigar lighter. It's humongous!
So the next time he said "hullo?", Seeing Eye started yelling that "Whippie ALWAYS puts video cameras in the ladies room, Whippie always puts video cameras in the ladies room".

Whippiedips thanked him by remarking that it would be a miracle if he was still employed by the end of the day.

I had stepped away from the rowdy cigar smokers by that time.
We pipesmokers have an image to uphold.
We're blooming saints, is what.
You should know that.

"Cameras in the ladies room!"

Later, Whippie wished to discuss refined summer beverages and his own drinking preferences, so I explained the Henry Darger Cocktail to him.
Bourbon, dash of Grenadine, and a little Angostura over ice in a highball glass, filled up with ginger ale, cherry on top for the pervert.
Mild enough for a little girlie, strong enough for a big degenerate.
If you have a Hello Kitty Swizzle Stick, use it.

The conversation eventually slid off into "starter bourbon". Followed by a knowing comparison of Old Granddad, Old Crow, Urinal Cake, Ten High, and Evan Williams.
We complimented Whippie on knowing how each of those tastes.
Vast experience, as Scottish Crust confirmed, and something about face-planting.
Seeing Eye mentioned the time he had given his wife a bottle of Four Roses on Valentine's Day, then told her to drink three double shots and call it a bouquet.
They're still together after all these years.
She hasn't found anyone better.
Qué romántico.

I'm fairly certain that three double shots of Bourbon, especially the way San Franciscans pour, would render the drinker comatose.
They probably wouldn't be able to remember what they did the next morning. Not sure if that qualifies as 'romance'.....
Probably not even 'worthwhile face time'.
I prefer my dates sentient.

Seeing Eye often sleeps with a crash helmet on.

The trees are out to get him.

*    *    *    *    *    *

See, that's why I need to start avoiding cigar smokers.
They're a horrible influence.
Very bad men.

Quite unlike pipe smokers.


ADDENDUM

In answer to a friend who was curious, you should know that bikini briefs have a low waistband, French cuts have high leg openings canted forward, and High Cuts have deep leg openings more in-tune with a natural figure, as well as a waistband on the high side.
Bikini briefs look good on trim short women, French cuts are for slim yet curvaceous girls, and almost anyone can find high cuts that flatter them, even if they are overly statuesque drag queens on Polk Street.
Granny Panties are often suitable for overweight men.
But avoid loud patterns.

I was planning to post about food today.
But I got distracted.

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VERY SINCERELY SORRY

Apparently, the sneering in yesterday's essay at Hello Kitty and the humans who have been savaged by the demented feline upset some readers. Or at least one reader, who took advantage of the letterbox I have pasted underneath each post to write me a heartfelt and sincere note.


I should “consider the joy”, she writes, “that the sweet personality of Hello Kitty” brings to all manner of people, who may like nothing better than to squeal, drool, and wet their panties over the cutesypoo icon.
Note: the squealing, drooling, and panty-wetting is just a happy guess.
She didn’t write that, I did – it seemed appropriate.
As well as extremely likely.

In my mind’s eye, people all over the world are squealing, drooling, and wetting their panties at this very moment.
They're filled with unbearable Hello Kitty love. Oh, the tenderness, oh, the heartache.
Please stop wetting your panties. Especially those of you who are men.
It’s unseemly, is what it is.

You women should probably stop also.

Have any of you ever heard of Stockholm syndrome?

Look, if you start seeing things from Hello Kitty’s point of view, you may need help.
You’ve been brainwashed, and require a dose of reality.
Perhaps an intervention.
We’ll get the dumb pussy stinko drunk, and you’ll find out what kind of gutter-trash she really is.
Dancing on tables with a lampshade and a bottle.
Dropping her panties in public.
Rude to a cop.

Then savagely attacking someone’s guide dog for the blind.

I tell you, I’ve seen stuff like that happen before.
It’s always the goodie-two-shoes who pull crap like that.

Sailors! I betcha she sleeps with sailors! Hah!

Stupid cat.


Anyhow, miss, I’m very sorry I offended you with my totally undeserved slagging of Hello Kitty yesterday, and I apologize.  Sincerely.
I realize now how much Hello Kitty means to you.
And you seem like a really nice person.
Please keep your panties dry.



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A MILD OBSESSION WITH LACE, SILK, AND COTTON.

You may have noticed that I placed a clickable LETTERBOX underneath my posts, just in case some of my readers wish to contact me privately.
It’s simply a dedicated comment field underneath a particular post, and serves no other purpose than confidential communication.

So far, one reader who remembered me from another blog dropped in to say ‘hi’, several sporadic visitors have introduced themselves, a few people asked questions to which either I do not know the answer OR to which I will eventually respond.
A multitude of spammers have tried to seed my box with adverts – they’ve been deleted.

And one person sent me a question that oh boy howdy do I know the answer to.
TEN answers, in fact.

Name withheld asked: “How do I get into girls' panties?”

It’s an interesting quandary. It says more about the querent than he could possibly imagine.
In fact it indicates a particular bent to his mind which is neither uncommon, nor entirely sane.

"How do I get into girls' panties?"

I did not consult anyone I know, as they do it naturally.
It's something they've done every day of their lives for as long as they can remember, but never thought about.
It hasn't been a problem; they wouldn't have a clue how to answer that question.
Might even consider it somewhat forward.

I've given it some serious thought, however.


TEN WAYS TO GET INTO GIRLS' PANTIES
1. Harvest items from the Laundromat.
2. One leg at a time.
3. Creatively rename your boxer shorts.
4. Hide in a hamper (do not go 'boo!').
5. I'm into pipe tobacco myself, btw.
6. Wait till there's no one else in them.
7. Insist on trying things on at the store.
8. Lose a bet with your college dorm mates.
9. Be careful what you wish for.
And lastly:
10. Zen-like concentration, grasshopper, Zen-like concentration!

Like any hobby, read up on the subject and learn about the materials before you start collecting. Decide whether you want to focus on size, texture, or trim. Or even delicate variations in hue from year to year.
Also, bear in mind that while it isn't rare for a male to develop a fascination for feminine undergarments - heck, ninety percent of the men I know find it an intriguing subject - women tend to look askance at this, especially if it becomes obsessive. Women never get into men's underwear, and no young lady has ever glanced at the manly men in the Sears catalogue modeling their 'tidy whities'.

Even comfortable boxers, such as I myself have on AT THIS VERY MOMENT, do not excite the female of the species.
Good lord man, no one actually has a clue what women like about men.
But it sure isn't our underpants.


Keep me updated on your progress, and feel free to post pictures of prize specimens on the internet.
And thank you so much for asking for my advice.
I have never felt so avuncular!


NOTE: The question that 'name withheld' actually posed was “How do I get into Chinese girls' panties”, but I felt that was narrowing it down a bit too much. Here in the Bay Area, MOST young ladies wear panties; consequently the diversity of sizes and shapes available at the stores is immense. The chance of finding panties in YOUR size is much greater if you expand your range.
As far as I know, there is no special material or decorative detail to Chinese girls' panties that sets them apart.
They wear much the same as everyone else.

What, you thought it was something like the secret Masonic handshake?


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SMALL DEGENERATE WATCHING A GENTLEMAN BATHING

The perfect thing to do during a cold-afternoon, especially on a day off, is to take a long hot bath. Nothing really beats lazing in the tub, with suds pooling in my navel and warm steam rising.
Yes, ideally there would be another person there too, but you can’t have everything.
So instead there's a book, a pot of tea, and an angry raccoon in the bathroom.


洗熊

This particular angry raccoon claims to be German. He says he studied at Heidelberg.
Remarkably, there are indeed such creatures in Germany.
Raccoons were introduced both deliberately and accidentally, starting over seven decades ago. They've made themselves right at home.
Gone all native, so to speak.

He looks disapproving whenever he’s near me, and often mutters something about ‘nasty Dutchy, crush you’.
Not exactly the best company during a long soak. I’ve told him that I would vastly prefer someone female and clearly human, can’t he at least gaily wave around a pair of panties (with or without lace edging) to evoke some feminine charm for chrissakes, but he ignores me and gets dangerously close to my teacup.
Sometimes I’ll sit on the edge of the tub smoking, while he glares at me and suggests that I should use more soap. Like many Germans, he disapproves of my display of Dutch sensuality, and my charming badger-like nature.
I think he feels threatened by it.

Along with several of the other stuffed creatures, he has an attitude problem. The majority of them are not fully grounded in reality, and some are exceedingly maladjusted.
Fortunately, only the raccoon watches me bathe. It’s the water that entrances him. This is not surprising, as the German term for the raccoon is "der Waschbär" - 'the washbear'.
I doubt that it's my slickly wet male body, glowing and fragrant - there has never been much evidence of a sense of aeasthetics from the beast, and that again is very German of him.

Gunther (the raccoon) says he's willing to take a pair of crisply CLEAN panties from a nice young lady to wave about, but under no circumstances will he accept any panties that I might offer him. He distrusts any and all feminine undergarments to which I have any connection.
He also claims that my boxers and my socks roam around the floor at night looking for victims, who will never be seen again. Several of the roomies have similar beliefs about my clothing. Something about a bad aura or bad karma attached to the human male.
Well, specifically to me. Probably some masculine rivalry going on or something.
Be that as it may, they vastly prefer feminine underwear, and I shall not fault them for that.

Gunther has even said that if a nice young lady were to donate her panties, she could come over once a month to wear them for a while. Just to keep them in shape, he has no objection to that. Why, he'll even help her!
Despite his weird fascination with scanties, I try to keep him on the subject of underwear, because otherwise he'll threaten to bomb Rotterdam, or bring up the famous autobahns again.
Plus Stukas, and raids over Coventry.
He's rather obsessive.

Once, Gunther and one of the other residents in the apartment had a long quarrel about bikini briefs versus French-cut high waists. With or without lace edging, in nice fruity colours. It ended with the loser screaming about the siege of Leningrad and the bitter cold on the Russian Front, which, apparently, was an argument for more fabric.
Gunther holds out his arms to indicate how big precisely and no bigger the nice young lady whom he wishes would donate such a garment should be. Given that he's only a foot tall, you can imagine that she won't be much larger than that - he has short arms.

He's never spoken of brassieres, so it is quite likely that breasts are entirely beyond his reach. Or at least his attention. Though there is a distinct possibility that the fierce small she-sheep, who regards nice female bosoms as HER real-estate ("mine! I found them") has Pavlovianly dissuaded him from even coming near such things, by growling at whoever dares come close when she is happily nestled in between. Whatever the case, he will on occasion wax lyric about small feminine bottoms lovingly encased in silk or cotton.
With or without lace edging.
Then he starts singing in German.
I usually give up conversing with him at that point, and retire to the tub to read my philatelic catalogue and blow bubbles. Crazy furball.

A pot of tea, a few cigarillos, and an argument with an irascible raccoon, will take up a good hour of soaking.

If panties actually were involved, it would take a hell of a lot longer.
And I'd unceremoniously chuck the raccoon into the hallway.
He can stew in his own neurotic juices out there.
Rail furiously against the closed door.
Screaming "panties!"


Honestly, I have no idea why he's so obsessed with cotton, silk, curvature, gussets, and lace edgings.
Must be one of those German things that I just don't get.


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THE FOUNT OF ALL WISDOM

Words to live by:

1. Don't ride the elevator if you ate beans. Please.

2. When someone drops their panties, be a gentleman and pick them up.

3. Little children and old people scare easily. Enjoy.

There.


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PINK PANTY EMERGENCY!

A friend recently had a man-purse disaster. The can of carbonated energy drink in his satchel ruptured, and the liquid sloshed around happily without him noticing for several blocks. It's a sturdy waterproof bag so he didn't find out till he got to where he was going. Where I saw him disconsolately swabbing out the inside of the bag with glass cleaner, surrounded by the Essential Material Goods he carries with him every day.

Those E.M.G.s say a lot about the man.

Sunglasses. Toothbrush and two kinds of tooth paste. Stuffed bunny. Electronic gizmo that plays music upon demand. Cell phone. Address book. Fully loaded small handgun.
Boruch Hashem he only considers one can of energy drink per day essential.
I'd hate to see him tweaking on caffeinated corn syrup, then whipping out the toothbrush and clobbering someone with it.
He's not one hundred percent stable.
Excitable chap.

I am an entirely different person.
My man-purse is a standard issue back pack.
Just a notebook for writing down details of my plot to become emperor of the universe (beloved by my cringing subjects), three pipes and two pipe-tobaccos, pipe cleaners, pens, and a large packet of condoms.

You never know when you're going to need a large packet of condoms.
Printed on each wrapper is "Israel - it's still safe to come".
It's always time for some PR outreach.
Use it in the best of health!
Effective Hasbara.

One of the women I know, however, exemplifies the "too much baggage" phenomenon.
Lipsticks (hooker crimson, temptress tangerine), pepperspray, recording device.
Pens, pencils, pocket knife, spare keys, batteries (both AA and AAA).
Pain pills, vitamins, and a few hundred Euros from a trip.
Three phrase books and a harlequin romance.
Cleenex tissues and a handkerchief.
Scotch tape and sticky notes.
Hello Kitty wrist watch.
Box of latex gloves.
Topical creme
Steno pad.

And a very nice pair of panties.
Pink cotton, French cut.
With ruffled lace edging.
Just for an emergency.

I only know about the lovely pink French cut panties with lace edging because once, without looking, she reached in for her handkerchief to wipe her forehead.
It was a very hot day.
There is something absolutely charming about someone abstractedly wiping her face with a pair of panties.
I didn't say a thing. I should have, but who am I to spoil a golden moment?
I only regret not asking if I could 'borrow her handkerchief'.
Before she noticed what she was doing, that is.
After she got her lipstick on them.
My complete attention.
Respect, even.

We haven't had a hot day in San Francisco for ages! This has been a very cold summer, and the warm weather which we expected during September has not materialized. It's been rather miserable.
Perhaps by the end of the month we'll hit eighty or ninety degrees.

I'm looking forward to it.
I really like cotton.


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NO HAIR, NO PANTIES

I think I've finally figured out why men and women don't get along. Men are from right here on planet earth, women are from a very strange place.
We're not speaking the same language.

A man will say "I like being with you". What it means is that he likes being with her. Simple, and straightforward.
That's not something a woman will say. To a woman, the phrase "I like being with you" can only mean "I want to get into your panties". And seeing as most men don't have panties, saying it to a man just doesn't compute.
The subcontext of that sentence, or any other sentence expressing good natured pleasure in her company, can in her mind only refer to panties.
Hers, specifically. Contents of. The.
Instead, a women will make some remark about her hair. Or cheerily offer that puce really suits her.

Um.

Okay.

I like being with you, but I have NO clue what you're on about.


In actual fact, I don't really like being with women.
Well, most women.
Most women are stark-raving batshit.

Why do they talk about hair?

If I were a barber, OR a creepy fetishist, the discussion would thrill me.
The percentage of such people among the general population cannot be large enough to encourage that conversational motif.
Not as a social gambit, not as a survival mechanism.

Would it encourage interaction if I said I had panties too?

Not that I do, mind you, but I'm quite willing to go out and buy them if that means we can actually talk.
Cute panties.
I'll even share them.
No boast, but I think I have good taste in panties.
Over the years I've devoted considerable thought to that subject, but unless you bring it up, I shan't mention them.
It will remain my secret.
That's why I say things like "I like being with you". If you didn't mention your hair, or the colour puce, we might move on to other things, like "hey, how about going to get something to eat", or "wanna see a movie?".
Telling me that you're thinking about dying your hair puce, however, is distinctly a non-starter. It doesn't suggest any further exchange.
Really, what am I to follow that with?


Dear reader, if you were a woman, what would you want me to say?
Brilliant suggestions are welcome.
Feedback, please.
Talk to me.


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UNDERPANTS GNOME

There's an old joke in Dutch about three gentlemen who join the French Foreign Legion, namely a German, a Dutchman, and a Belgian. Now, to understand the joke, you should know that Germans are logical and organized, the Dutch are like the Germans but better (more intelligent, more creative), and the Belgians are dim as burned-out bulbs.
The German is sworn in and told to pick up his kit at the supply-sergeant's desk. How many underpants? Seven, he says. "Seven? Why Seven?
The German responds: "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.... "
The Dutchman, when it's his turn, requests eight. "The other chap needed only seven, why do you need eight?" "Monday, Tuesday ...... and one extra for emergencies! "
The Belgian requests eleven. "Good heavens, man, eleven?"
"Yah, dot's January, February, March....."


Something on e-kvetcher's blog had me thinking about underwear all the way through my lunch. Burrito con carnitas y salsa picante, sin frijoles. Except that they mixed up my order with someone else's, and I got frijoles anyway.
Not so much underwear in general as panties in particular; bikini briefs, French cut briefs, and high cut briefs. The difference between them is that bikini briefs have a low waistband (in contrast to granny panties), French cuts have high leg openings canted forward, and high cuts have deep leg openings more in-tune with a natural design and a waistband slightly on the high side.
Bikini briefs look good on trim short women, French cuts are for slim yet curvaceous girls, and almost anyone can find high cuts that fit them, even if they are overly statuesque drag queens on Polk Street.
Hipster briefs and thongs should not be worn by anybody.


Years ago some genius came up with the concept that panties should have the day of the week embroidered on them, much like the fancy seven-day briar pipe sets that were sold by companies such as Dunhill and Comoy.
This is the kind of idea that ONLY makes sense to a man.
Yet, for some reason, those panties are still being sold. Women, apparently, like the snarkiness of wearing the wrong day.
Possibly because it's disconcerting to other people, though one has to wonder: who would know?

One little accident, and the set is ruined.

Pipe companies, in addition to vending seven-day sets, also sell anniversary pipes, and a number of them also make a 'pipe of the year'.
While I consider such things no more than silly marketing gimmicks, it would make complete sense to do the same with panties.


Hypothetical advertisement:
"The 2011 Panty Of The Year is a fine French cut with a soft triple panel, ivory-hued Belgian lace at waist and leg openings, in electric raspberry or chartreuse silk, available in sizes 4S through 7½L, and for a limited time custom-built for all XL and XXL sizes. Allow two weeks for delivery, six for custom-builts."


What a wonderful idea! I could collect all sizes, from several different companies, each year. All pieces mounted on museum quality paper-board in matching glass-fronted display cases, suitable for either hanging on the wall or storing in a climate-controlled cabinet.
Original wrapping, mint condition, store-starched.......


"Now this here is a very rare Pearlbox™ lowrise baroque twelve-month set, solid black front panel, with Indian cotton gusset, and a sheer rosé back. Notice the very fine ruby lace along the waist. It matches the month-name script-appliqué."


Imagine, if you will, the fascinating individuality of each aficionado's collection. Some men would specialize in certain sizes, others would go for only French cuts or Hipster Briefs, "eccentrics" might like thongs.....

And, because of the delicacy of the material, there would have to be specialized restorationists. Professionals familiar with fabrics, clocking, replacing elastic, mending lace, weaving over minor damage caused by insects.
Delicate laundering, careful ironing.
With proper care, and a yearly once-over, a panty library might last for centuries, slowly fading and acquiring that precious air of antiquity.
Rare top-quality pieces in excellent condition would be sold at auctions attended by the cream of society.


I think I've come up with a whole new field of connoisseurship here. The possibilities are unlimited.
Good lord, I am brilliant!


I am ready to be admired.

Feel free to share your thoughts and preferences in the comments section.



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HIGH RISE UNDERWEAR

Normally I hate other people's cellphone conversations. It just seems so inconsiderate to subject the world to one's private business, especially on a bus or in an elevator.

Sometimes, however, it is delightful.

The other day an attractive young lady rushed to get on the elevator, which already had eight other people in it. Three of whom were going to floors higher up than mine.
Her floor was the second highest.


She was telling her friend on the phone that she didn't like the cold weather.
[Sweetheart, nobody likes the weather we're having. That, you had to explain?]

'The rain was SO depressing!'
[Us too, but we're not kvetching on the phone.]

'It was horrible! Horrible!'
[Thank you so much for reminding us! Reminding us!]

'She couldn't WAIT till the weather got better.'
[Neither can we, dear. Your bellyaching is making it worse.]

'So that she could wear her nice thin silk panties.'
[Hello?]

'They felt SO smooth against the skin.'
[They do?]

'Made her feel all warm and sensuous!'
[Oh.]

'And silk panties are much more cute than a thong.'
[Much more!]

'Talk about comfort!'
[Yes please]

'Like they're hardly even there!'
[! ! ! ! ! ! ! !]


After the silk panties girl got out of the elevator, there were three of us left.
Two more floors to go.
No one got out on the floor after hers, or on the last floor.
That wasn't what I had expected when I had surreptitiously hit the button for twenty.
We pressed for our real floors, and rode down in silence.



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TALKING ABOUT SEX WITH TEENAGERS

Over cocktails, a friend mentioned that he has to give his children 'the talk'. You know, 'that one'...., the one about the birds and the bees. He is NOT looking forward to it.

I can sympathize with his trepidation.
I remember my father's version of 'the talk'. It was shortened considerably by the fact that both of us boys in theory already knew all about human reproduction by the time we were nine years old (it was the practical aspects with which we had no experience).
My father's version of the talk was, accordingly, simple.


"Always keep yourself clean, especially your privates - some nice young thing might stick her tongue down there."


At this point, my brother turned green and ran from the room making retching sounds.
When he returned, the talk resumed:


"When you masturbate, hair grows on the palms of your hands."


This second datum, delivered with a straight face, had the desired effect.
Again my brother left the room.

That was it. Simple.

[You could expand it by adding in the advice he gave me when my pipe-smoking had been discovered: "Stay away from the perfumed crap; good tobacco shouldn't smell like a Turkish cat house".]



GIRLS!

My friend, on the other hand, is dealing with a darker and more complex world. He has daughters.
And there is no guarantee that their school has touched upon human reproduction.

I doubt that I am the best person to ask for advice. Never the less.



THE TALK

Girls, you aren't supposed to have sex. Yet you are reaching the age when you may think about it.
There are five rules that all boil down to 'safe sex'.

Avoid getting pregnant, avoid getting infected, avoid getting abused, avoid getting talked about, avoid getting found out.

The best method for achieving all of these aims is abstinence, but let's be realistic.

PREGNANCY
Know about your body and about basic biology - pregnancy is most likely to ensue during your fertile period, which starts more or less nine or ten days after the beginning of the menses, and continues till retirement age, errrrm, I mean until a few days before the next period. Fercrapessakes, read up on it!
Condoms are the best method of avoiding the transfer of sperm other than abstinence, the pill goes a long way towards preventing fertilization, but has side effects, and is contra-indicated in many cases.

INFECTION
Condoms help prevent infections, but are NOT guaranteed. Consequently you must be extremely careful in your choice of partners. Not all diseases are curable, many have long incubation periods. Sexually Transmitted Diseases are a fascinating subject, please read all about it.
A clean, intelligent, kind, and well-behaved person (good manners, morals, and ethics) is probably far less likely to be the Typhoid Mary of the clap than the captain of the football team or the class delinquent. Evenso, assume that most teenage boys are carriers of something vile, and you probably won't be far wrong.
AIDS is incurable.

ABUSE
Sports jocks are oafs. You should not associate with boys who are selfish or domineering.
If a boy with whom you are in a relationship hits you or verbally abuses you, cripple the bastard. Preferably before things have gone any further than holding hands.
Your mom and dad are here to bail you out if you get arrested.

REPUTATION
Boys only want one thing. Whether or not they get it, they will talk about it. Some of them will talk trash and name names when they haven't even gotten within a mile of it. On the other hand, some boys go nuts if they don't or no longer get it. At which point the entire school will know about it. Consequently there are many boys whom you must avoid.
Girls also talk trash, and some will gladly make another girl out for slut.
Choose whom you associate with carefully.
Sex is like net ninety terms; once it has been put on the table by the morons in the sales department, it just will not go away.
If anybody ever calls you a slut, break their jaw.

CAUTION
If you have a relationship, no one needs to hear about it. Not your classmates, not the neighbors, not your relatives. If you cannot guarantee complete discretion and silence (in other words, don't get pregnant, don't get infected, don't get abused, don't get talked about, don't get found out), don't even take the risk. Ninety percent of the foregoing about personal association and common sense choices applies here as well.
Avoid football players, bullies, delinquents, or trash talkers. Clowns too.


BUT BEYOND THAT...
The safest partner is someone who knows exactly what is at stake and what both of you have to loose. This means an intelligent, well-mannered, insightful, and considerate person. Someone who is likely to keep confidences and secrets, and will not embarrass you, or weasel-out on you.
Which, almost by definition, is someone beyond their teenage years who is not into sports. A mature individual, like an engineer or an accountant, heaven forbid!

There are risks.

So you should probably wait until you're eighteen before you jump into the sack with anyone. Better yet, wait until you've graduated college.
A doctorate. At least a Masters Degree.

-----------------------------------------------------

AFTERWORD

One might get the impression from the foregoing that sex should be avoided, being more trouble than it's worth. That is by no means correct.
I'm sure my readers realize that sex is as good as food. But it should NOT be shared with the world. Whether you like tight frilly panties (still occupied, OR nicely laundered), constricting naughty garments, or even unguents, heating lotions, and a black tarpaulin, go ahead and do your thing.
Just don't be messy about it, get to know the person first, and for heavens sakes keep it private.
If you live at home, don't forget to wash your sheets.

Oh and by the way - smoking is bad. Stay away from tobacco.



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PEACHY OBSESSION

Two days ago I mentioned, in passing, "I prefer not to discard underwear, or ignore it. Ever. Some underwear is in fact worthy of obsession, especially if nicely ruffled, with a bit of lace, tight, and of a pleasing fruity hue.
Such as I might be wearing right now. Maybe."

Please note the word 'maybe'. It really means 'very unlikely, extremely so, so unlikely as to be hardly even imaginable'. Not likely at all.
Unfortunately some readers may believe otherwise.

Spiros remarked: "Patel Sahib will be so grateful that you are not discarding underwear."
The next commenter under that post wrote: "Please, describe it more. I am all ears", followed by "It sounds heavenly".

I am not entirely clear what sounds heavenly - is that what you imagine nicely taut fruity panties with lace edging to sound like?

If so, I cannot help you. I do not own any panties with lace.


FOUR

I do, however, posses one pair of raspberry pink panties, one pair of pale pistachio hued panties with white trim, a pale peach panty, and something rather naughty. They are different sizes, they do not fit me.
They are what you might call 'laundromat trophies'.

I would not be surprised if most men in this city have similar collections - if you use a laundromat, you tend to find such things when you return home.
Never any other garment, just panties. Women seem to be very careless about their panties at times. Just discarding them hither and thither, as the mood strikes. Quite gay and casual.

It's very strange. We men are NEVER casual about panties. From our point of view, they are probably the loveliest of garments - we often wish the attractive women in our lives would wear them.
And little else.
We men love panties.


FOUR SCORE OR MORE

Grant Patel will be keenly disappointed, I'm sure, to hear that for a brief shining moment I owned several hundred lovely cotton panties, in a variety of hues, cuts, and patterns. All of them petite.

In 1983 when I first visited the Philippines, I arrived with hardly any clothes, intending to have several items made while I was there. Except for forty cartons of American cigarettes, a crate of walnuts, pajamas, a conservative English tie, a blazer, and a phrase book, my luggage was pretty empty.
Somehow, I had forgotten to pack any underwear.

So I went to a department store in Makati. I had been up for close to forty hours, and I was tired, grumpy, and grotty. But I realized that I would need some clean items the next day, while I was being measured for slacks, shirts, and suits, at King Philip Tailors in the Quad.

Philippine cotton is very nice. I first bought briefs. Then wife-beaters. Then some tee-shirts. Then, without noticing, I veered towards the display case with women's panties.
Oooooooh, THAT looks nice! So does that one! And those! Oooooh!

Please remember, I had been awake for nearly forty hours. It may have affected my judgment.
I had NO intention of wearing the panties. But they were VERY lovely, and at the time I may have considered them a nice souvenir for everyone back in the Bay Area.


'Here's one for you, and one for you, and one for you! And this lovely one ...... is for you!!!'


I was thinking of keeping some for myself. There were plenty of them.

I knew hardly any women at that time. Probably a good thing, as I now realize that gifting panties to one's friends and colleagues might be considered odd. Possibly eccentric. By the women, if not by the men.

We men love panties.

In addition to the panties neatly folded in plastic among my regular luggage, I had supplies of panties stashed in three different places in Manila. Carefully folded, in tissue, in gaily striped carrybags.
For quite a while I dragged a very full box of spotlessly clean and crisp, never been worn but oh so soft and femmy panties, all over the Philippines. Took it back to the airport with me on the way home. Checked it in.
Then forgot to pick it up from the luggage carousel at San Francisco Airport.
I had plenty of panties, so I didn't even think about it till two weeks later.
You don't remember such things untill you NEED them.

[What's that under the seat? Why, it's a huge woven carrybag - and it too got panties!
Samples, I tell you, these are just 'samples'. Heh.]

I decided not to pursue the matter - asking around the airport for a missing crate of feminine undergoodies might have proven a little embarrassing.

Somewhere a very petite little missy, probably a Philippina, is still wearing MY underwear.
It must feel good.



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I AM BY NO MEANS A PERVERT!

But Grant Patel probably is. This in fierce rebuttal of an assertion made by miss Snooky Wong, who wrote: "Most of my regular readers are perverts. There are four who comment frequently: Grant Patel, the Amphibian, Spiros, and Atboth. [cut] And I enjoy their comments, so I guess that means I like sharing myself with perverts."


Again, I am not a pervert. I stress this.
I just have a healthy interest in young ladies BLOGGERS who live in the same town as myself. All perfectly normal.


The remark was made in regards to her sex-life. Which appears to be either "not sure" or "other". As is perfectly appropriate for a person of her tender years.


She describes her probable lack of hanky panky here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/05/no-answers-about-my-sex-life-here-just.html


As you will note, the e-mail which prompted her speculation was innocent enough.
I wrote: "Here is what is possibly the most interesting survey ever! At least, from mister Patel's deviant point of view. Actually, ONLY from his devpov.http://blogs.jta.org/philanthropy/article/2009/05/05/1004935/everything-you-wanted-to-know-about-you
You will probably want to NOT respond to a single one of these questions. Mister Patel should under no circumstances answer any at all, though he would almost certainly wish to wax at length."

Quite innocent, no? Speaking for everyone except mister Patel, who most splendidly rose to the bait (and revealed himself a degenerate in nearly all particulars), I can say that other than a mildly avuncular curiosity, we (myself, Spiros, and the Amphibian) have no interest whatsoever in Snooky's love-life. Or the complete and utter absence of same - which she confirms in a subsequent post:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/05/my-exciting-sex-life-part-deux.html


RANDOM QUOTE:
"Some of the questions are easy to answer, though if this was a test, even a multiple choice one, I would probably fail.
See, that's why Chinese American kids don't do sex surveys, it's performance anxiety! We're afraid we won't get into Berkeley or Stanford if we give the wrong answers!"


On second thought, strike 'mildly avuncular curiosity' and make that 'avid fascination. Especially after she mentions that she is a "blond sex-type thing". You have our attention now.

=================================

In other news, we have been informed that Stas Feldman is the glue that holds the universe together. Something about the second law of thermodynamics, stuff going blooey, and the third kommisar from the back. We entertain doubts about all of this, and seek proof. Musk oxen are involved!



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FRILLY PANTIES AND A GIANT SPLIFF

Some things have the capacity to give great pleasure. And as you get older, you become more particular in your tastes. I know this from experience, having recently regretted divesting myself of certain very pleasing things many years ago.

I realized this quite by chance. A few days ago I was shopping at Cala Market late at night (they're open 24-7), when I chanced upon an acquaintance in the spice section. He was holding a jar of peppercorns and muttering, in the style of Homer Simpson, "black pepper, mmmmmmmmm, black pepper...". After putting the jar back, he blinked, then slowly reached out a hand, seized the same jar, read the label, then repeated "black pepper, mmmmmmmmm, black pepper...".


"Black pepper, mmmmmmmmm, black pepper..."

He did this several more times over the next ten minutes. Having nothing better to do, I watched him the whole time during this stellar performance. Yes, black pepper is marvelous. But I cannot imagine it exerting such attraction.

Lest you consider my acquaintance feeble-minded, I hasten to assure you that he is not so at all. He is, in many ways, an utter genius, but that night he was stoned out of his mind. I deduced this from the fact that he had two shopping carts filled with the most amazing array of edibles, the things that only someone with a bad case of the munchies would buy.

Liverwurst, chocolate cake, barbecue chips, pickled habaneros, sardines, licorice ropes, york peppermint patties, cheese-doodles, twenty four pack of veggie burgers, ice-cream (clearly melting), a variety of carbonated beverages (many in several different sizes), zucchini, brie, edam, gouda, mixed nuts, lamb chops ........

Must've been one hell of a spliff.

When he finally saw me, he said "oh hey (long pause) you're here too?"
I affirmed that I was indeed there. He though about it for a while (his ice cream was leaking on the floor while he thought, but I didn't wish to distress him by mentioning it), then he said "hey, ah, you're ..... (long pause) here?"

This was not the most stimulating conversation we've ever had. The last time I had seen him was four months previously when he returned from the Philippines. He had with great good humour described some of the strange souvenirs he had bought while over there.


Which made me remember cotton panties.

When I went to the Philippines the first time, back in 1983, I purchased several hundred frilly cotton panties. In many lovely hues or print-patterns.


No, I am not a pervert.


I had no intention of wearing them myself!


But they would've looked stunning, I assure you.


It was the cotton. Philippine cotton is of a type that you cannot find in the US. Smooth, breathable, and with a sheen to it. Marvelous fabric. And it lasts for years.

When you mention to someone that you are going to the Philippines for the first time, they will usually tell you to pack really light, because you will buy clothing while there. Suits, slacks, shirts, sports coats - all can be made by Philippino tailors. Such as King Philip Tailors, located in the Quad in Makati. Even pajamas. Everything for only a fraction of what it would cost off the rack in San Francisco. And better made to boot.


Even undergarments should be bought while over there.

So naturally I went to Tesoro's. And bought everything in sight. Such lovely souvenirs!

What was I thinking?

It is not a good idea to give one's female friends frilly panties for their birthday, unless one really does know them that well.
I did not realize this at first, but soon understood it perfectly.


So, for years, my male friends would get frilly panties for their birthdays instead.

If any of them asked why, I'd tell them I was stoned while shopping for their present - It must have been one hell of a spliff.

I now realize I should've kept some of those panties, just for old time's sake. Such nice cotton, such lovely hues - and a sheer delight to touch.
Did the recipients of those gifts ever appreciate them quite as well?
Or ever even wear them?

I should ask. I miss those panties.



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GRANT PATEL, BEYOND ALL BOUNDS

Frequent commenter Grant Patel seems to have gone all loopy. The results, from the point of view of this blogger, speak for themselves, and disclose utter volumes.

The vast majority of my far too few commenters are utterly sane, and very real individuals. Not so the perverse Patel. Who seems, with each passing day, to be in ever fiercer competition with himself for most eccentric statement.

Mr. Patel has bugs up his donkey about several things.


But mostly, it seems, the following four:
CHEESE
PANTIES
PAKISTANIS
SNOOKY WONG
[The last subject mentioned is rumoured to be a petite Chinese-American female. She also comments here, so please, no stalking. It would upset both this blogger, and Mr. Patel, as well as infuriate the subject herself - you really do not want a small Cantonese woman angry at you (trust me on this).]


Mister Grant Patel (Esq. & Perv.) inhabits a unique universe.
I flatter myself that this blog encourages him to occasionally come down to earth, though not, alas, establish a firmer bond with reality.


Grant Patel on the subject of CHEESE:
* "Beautifully hued, like a saffron orange. The precise colour of silk on blonde skin. Yummy and sweet, my precious, yummy and sweet."
* "Do either cheese or teatime snackypoos offend the bollocky Muslims? They can stuff a kipper in it, and pound it sideways, is what they can do."
* "If the Jews desire feta, they should by all means have it."
* "Ooooo, stinky stinky!"

Grant Patel on the subject of PANTIES:
* "I needs must retire to fondle my collection of fine laundered panties for solace. So very buggery sad."
* "I, of course, think panties better. So soft. So smooth. So tight. Definition adding, and flattering to any form."
* "But I wear a starched dhoti."
* "ATBOTH's only obsession is probably panties in size 'teenager'."

Grant Patel on the subject of PAKISTANIS:
* "The Brits are becoming all Paki in their sensitivities. It is a shame. What is this world coming to?"
* "Buggery bollocky Pakis, finally halfassedly admitted that they planned the Mumbai massacre. Can't trust those sodding bainchotes."
* "And their camels! Meh, I say, meh! My emotions are numb. Time for a beating party. With cream pies. Oh indeed."
* "Lying like a sawar is second nature to the Pakiwakkis."

Grant Patel on the subject of SNOOKY WONG:
* "Who is this Telmacky daddy-o? Some kind of stalker? A fetishist? A tulmud-whacker? A very hungry teenager who lusts after the presumably hot young bod of the fabulous miss Wong? Girlie, you have a fan! Congratulations! Do we need to advise you on your legal rights vis-à-vis restraining orders? [skip to next comment] Give me a call. Let me speak to you of legal issues. Contracts, and prenupts. Your rights, privileges, and pleasures. Exchange cell-phone numbers, take my card. Lets do lunch."
* "First a gibber-rant about a teenage girlie without panties, then a long diskvisition about tobacco without panties."
* "To me it sounds as of the notorious panty thief ATBOTH needs a span in the military himself. It might do him some good, and keep him from harassing little Chinese girly bloggers."
* "I say take that evil minks off your blogroll. You devote FAR TOO MUCH time to the huggable Cantonese bints. It is a shandah!"


Perhaps the most telling communication from Mr. Patel is the statement he made at the end of January: "I am by no means off my meds. Who told you that?!?!"

Lets just say it was an educated guess. But if you insist the contrary, we shall just have to take your word for it, mister Patel.
Thank you in any case for sharing your marvelous thoughts with us. We are honoured.



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DEATH BY NOODLES - TAMING THE SAVAGE BEAST

Fellow San Franciscan blogger Snooky Wong, also known as Death By Noodles, has with great forbearance put up with the suggestive and sometimes crude comments of Grant Patel.
[Her blog: http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/]


For several weeks, the intemperate Patel has lurked in the comments on her blog, leaving his verbal footprints under nearly every post. He has a fetish, and is almost stalker-like in his attentions. And despite discouragement, he proved impossible to shake, impervious to criticism, and deaf to blandishments. He was persistent, and utterly unmoved.


But no longer. She got him good.

Please view Snooky's latest post, in which she skewers the ungentle Patel.

http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/01/panties.html



She takes him to task for his meshune and perverse annotations, then provides the intemperate Patel with four tempting links for his unseemly fetish: 'Her Room Lingerie', 'Petite Lingerie', 'Hello Kitty Lingerie', and 'Dreaming of Lingerie'.

The first three links are to stores that sell brassieres and panties, among many other wonderful things. The fourth link takes the reader (the Patel in question) directly to a site discussing erectile dysfunction.


It looks like poor mr. Patel did not appreciate the gentle humour, and is smarting from the jab.


My regular readers will not be surprised to discover that I have been a reader of ms. Wong's blog from nearly the beginning. And have enjoyed her occasional quirky insights.
[The idea of a fellow blogger being a petite Cantonese girl in the same city as oneself is rather delicious, don't you agree?]


Earlier this month, Death By Noodles took issue with some of the protests on the streets of San Francisco.
Here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/01/angry-people-tribes-with-flags.html
And here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/01/more-angry-people.html


Significant quote from the second post:
"But some of the older men on the blue and white flag side looked nice. Pinker, too.
They are cute with their little colored beanies."

A better argument for wearing a kippah can scarce be found.

That day I wore no yarmulke, alas, and in consequence I fear she did not notice me at all. I was invisible.

She may have been the charming young lady with a doggie who sat a little distance off on our side of the street. But I will probably never know.
Next time, a keppel. It is necessary.



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