She'll sleep through anything.

Apparently the way we celebrate the armadillo today is to drink Four Loko from a super soaker while dancing around in a moshpit to the New Pornographers with mostly National Merit finalists.

Oh, what's that? Linen pants are breathable? Oh hey, that's great! Let me just plunk down $200 for a pair at Banana Republic, because that's totally within my price range. Organic fabric only for me! Oh, and look! They don't have any waist sizes above 28 inches! Because everyone who shops at Banana Republic is some kind of magical skinny Eurofairy who stays reed thin on a diet of cigarettes, cocaine, and gross self-absorption! BLOW ME. Take your fucking edict and DIE. I'd love to dress like Danny Ocean, but the sale rack at Old Navy isn't cooperating.

I know men don't have the prettiest legs in the world. They're hairy. They're gnarled. Sometimes I see an old man in shorts and his veins look ready to shoot out of his leg and wrap around me, asphyxiating me to death. I get that. But it's fucking HOT. Now, maybe it isn't hot for you if you're Tom Ford, and you weigh six pounds and a slight draft sends you rushing for your manpashmina because you decided to live your life like a fucking tuberculosis patient. Not all of us have a goddamn tennis court to retire to, cuntflap.