The Bathtub

Men in Cages: A Brief Listing of Updates on Topics I Once Blogged About

So, I was really psyched about the possibility of providing everyone with a massive end-of-tub update on my life, wherein I would alert you to the current status of everything that was once discussed in my posts.  I was going to tell you about my fabulous match.com girlfriend and my brother’s haircut and all sorts of other wonderful changes that have come to pass in the world of Tori.  Unfortunately, I still don’t have a fabulous girlfriend, my brother’s hair is still atrocious, and my life is really quite similar to how it was a few months ago.  Nonetheless, I'm going to do my best to provide updates anyway.

Men in Cages: If You Don't Have Balls, Maybe Playing Ball Isn't For You

Those who excel in the realm of sport are generally treated like kings.  Hell, they're generally treated better than kings.  They get all the riches in the world and never have to deal with shit like ruling a nation, waging war, or undergoing defenestration.

But, just as most kings are (by definition) men, most athletes who receive regal treatment are men as well.  Male athletes receive far greater salaries and garner far more media attention than do female athletes.  Male athletes are worshipped, adored, and have sneakers named after them.  Female athletes, in a word (or rather, in a contraction), don't.  And, wouldn't you know it, this disparity has been known to piss off the feminists . . .

Men in Cages: I'm Going to Get a Lump of Coal for This One . . .

Let's face facts: holidays are pretty ridiculous.  They're ridiculously good in that they get us a day off from work.  They're ridiculously fattening in that they involve substantial feasting.  And they're ridiculously ridiculous in that our reasons for celebrating them are completely absurd.

All major Christian holidays are based on a series of highly questionable premises.  And I'm not talking about just one or two weird premises either.  By my count, there are seven ridiculous premises one must accept in order to justify the celebration of Christmas and Easter.

Men in Cages: I Could Have Done A Better Job With This Topic . . .

So, as those of you who pay attention to the news are probably aware, much ado about sex toys down in Alabama right now.  (I never pay attention to the news (even the sex toy news), thus, I only found out about this sex toy hysteria recently when Emily sent out an intra-tub memorandum on the topic.)  Once I became aware of the sex toy scuffle, however, you better believe I read up on it. 

I'd summarize the whole to-do for you, but all the awesome jokes have already been made elsewhere.  And you know me - I like to keep it fresh.  Well, actually, I can't resist; I'm going to be un-fresh for a minute here.  (And by "be un-fresh," I of course mean "blatantly plagairize.")  How hilarious is this bit?  "[T]he law doesn’t prevent people from using these devices.  The law merely prohibits the sale of sex toys . . . [So it's okay for us to use sex toys so long as we make them ourselves?]  Give me a break!  Who has the time or skill to manufacture their own sex toys?  Besides, if we were that good with our hands, then perhaps sex toys wouldn’t be necessary in the first place."  Oh man, that's funny stuff.

Anyway, since I'm not going to discuss the realities of the situation, I thought I would do some feminist musing about why people object to sex toys.  That sounds good, right?  Okay then - on with it.

Men in Cages: Richardpotatoboat

I have been told, on more than one occasion, that I "put the 'tori' in 'dictatorial'."

Well, actually, I've never been told that, verbatim.  Rarely are my adversaries so poetic when alerting me to their distaste for my tyrannical leadership style.  But yeah, I can be a bit of a crazy person when in power.

Anyway, it is with regret that I inform you that I won't be putting up a full post this afternoon, as I am currently driving to Ithaca.  (I am going to Ithaca in order to re-live my glory days as supreme overlord of the Cornell Big Red Marching Band.)  This might upset you, but I gotta say - I don't really care.  Ain't nobody but me in charge of this here column and that's the way I like it.

Men in Cages: Kate

So, I actually have a really good friend named Kate.  My Kate doesn’t have all that much in common with the Kate of song – she doesn’t play the drums, she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing the same thing everyday, and I can’t say that I’ve ever seen her hand out the Bhagavad-Gita. 

All that aside, when my Kate smiles, rainbows do indeed appear – not because she’s a member of the “rainbow brigade” (as my grandfather so affectionately calls the gays), but because she’s just that radiant a lady.

Men in Cages: Men in Long Hairdos

When my brother was a wee one, he was affectionately known as Bryan Brantley Bald.  This moniker was appropriate, given the extreme dearth of hair atop my young brother’s head. 

Brother was not unique in this respect.  Few members of my family enter toddlerhood with more than a strand or two decorating their scalp.  I myself was nearly devoid of hair for many of my formative years.  But, alas, Victoria Noelle Bald lacks the pleasant allerterative bounce that Bryan Brantley Bald has going for it; thus brother got the clever nickname and I was just “that kid who vaguely resembles a cancer patient.”

Men in Cages: Damn Unpretty

Here's the thing about me: I'm really fucking great at everything.  I'm smart and funny and charismatic.  I'm gifted musically, mathematically, and linguistically.  I take miraculous photographs.  I drink like a champ.  I have mad wilderness survival skills.  The only thing holding me back from being an Olympic athlete is the fact that I'm so damn good at eating all time.  Basically, I'm perfection.  Everywhere I go, people want to be me.

That being said, I'm the first to admit that I do have flaws.  Most notably, I'm not all that physically attractive.

Men in Cages: Hit 'em Up

Note:  This is a special Internet Potato version of Men in Cages.  D.C. is taking over.  The theme being revisited is "Hits."  Respect, bitches.

Look, I know women don't like being called bitches, but I feel like I'm allowed to, because I'm a feminist now.  Totally.  And I'm a lesbian, because I like kissing girls.  I don't think this is just experimenting either.  I think I might actually prefer girls sexually, like, forever. 

I even left the title of the column as "Men in Cages" when it would have been SO EASY to change it to "Women in Cages" and I could have just posted a misogynistic rant about whogivesafuck and scored some cheap laughs.

Actually, considering that I'm somewhat pressed for time, I may just do that.  Maybe.

Men in Cages: Cocktails Aren't For People With Cocks

I won’t claim to be the girliest girl on the block.  I may be a feminist, but I’m far from being feminine.  I don’t own a lot of pink.  I have no idea how to apply mascara.  And it’s a rare day that I "accessorize” or “primp” or even “carry a purse.”

There is, however, one exceptionally girly aspect of my persona.  And, in this aspect, I am girlier than just about every other female I have ever met.  I am, of course, referring to my drink preferences.