My Worst Nightmhair

So I was cleaning out my junk drawer the other day, and amidst the deflated Madonna Confessions Tour balloon, $2.00 bill, penis candy, myriad of business cards and a “Sexy Bitch” bachelorette party button, I struck gold when I came upon these most beauteous photographs to behold. So rather that make fun of others as per my usual modus operandi, I thought I’d level the playing field a little and put myself on blast because if you can’t laugh at yourself then who can you laugh at? The following pictorial is listed in chronological order so as to accurately portray my metamorphosis into the Bucky Nasty butterfly I am today. Don’t hate me cause you ain’t me.

Circa 1987 – 4^th Grade – 9 years old

Check me out, bitches!  I’m the #1 chick when I step out on the scene at recess on the jungle gym or playing four-square in my hot pink kool-lots, matching turtleneck and feathered bangs. Jesus, I really hope my hair is in a ponytail and not actually that short. Between my brawny stature (yes, I already had boobs in the 4^th grade. In fact, I remember beating up Steve Barone that year at the bike rack for telling me that all the boys were talking about my boobs at Chris Galley’s birthday party) feathered hair and flannel shirt, I look like a suburban lesbian or a bottle of Pepto Bismal. Just looking at this picture gives me heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach and diarrhea.

Many other questions come to mind when looking at this picture, like why are my bangs taking up half of my head? And what’s the deal with the white knee socks and white flats?  Was my mother trying to color coordinate this picture with her petunia flower bed to the right? Why does my brother look so constipated?  Does it hurt his balls to have his pants hiked up to his neck with those suspenders?

Circa 1990 – 7^th Grade – 12 years old

Oh, the anorexic years where I was so skinny that I suffered from the same big head syndrome as Nicole Richie. I mean, I look like Kip Winger, but I’m not even close to 17; I am 12. Pretty soon my hair will start falling out from the eating disorder, resulting in the Molly Ringwald-inspired do I’m rocking in the next photo. You’ll notice that I’m wearing the same white shoes as in the picture from the first day of fourth grade three years previously. I was so preoccupied with food that even my clothes have fruit on them. I distinctly remember listening to Knockin’ Boots by Candyman on Z-95 while I was preparing myself for my big unveiling at 7^th grade after losing 35 lbs that summer because that's how every well-adjusted kid spends his or her summer vacation.

Circa 1991 – 7th grade – 13 years old

I’ll bet you didn’t know that girls could have blow-outs too?  One look at this bad boy, and Pauly D will fist pump a load right into his Ed Hardy underpants. Props to me for being so fashion forward. My friend, Stephen, told me that my head looked like a Dorito, which of course made me think of that They Might Be Giants song, “Particle Man”:

Triangle man, Triangle man

Triangle man hates particle man

They have a fight, Triangle wins
Triangle man

Damn right Triangle man wins!  Who in the hell could make it past this fortress created by 20 cans of Rave Mega 4X hairspray?  I think I single-handedly kept Salon Selectives in business during the early 90s.

And for the love of God, why am I wearing another turtleneck?  It’s not like I’m a fucking Frenchman. I also have no visible teeth thanks to my braces. They irritated the shit out of my gums to the point that they swelled over my teeth, and all you can see is gums and braces. Charming!

The other thing I can’t get past is my eyebrows.  My mom always told me that I had Brooke Shields eyebrows, but they look more like two caterpillars about to mate on my forehead. This really makes me wonder if I’m somehow related to Eugene Levy…

Circa 2009 – 30 years old, and absolutely no excuse

For a limited time only, Glamour Shots by Deb are 75% off.

This picture was taken by my mom on our spring break to Amelia Island, Florida in April 2009 with my aunt, uncle and cousin, and even she doesn’t know what I was doing. 

All I can say is that this picture bears a striking resemblance to the chick on the box for Massengill douche.  Mom, do you ever get that no-so-fresh feeling?

Enough said.

The Plight of My Pectineus

Hi, my name is Lisa, and I have a dysfunctional pectineus. Once an avid runner who could knock out half marathons in two hours, I have been reduced to air-humping and crotch-lunging exercises that unearth my buried treasure for all the fellow patrons of Bally’s Fitness Center to see. And how could I ever forget being repeatedly and unrepentantly ass punched by Tammy’s hands from many precarious and dehumanizing positions in an effort to bitch slap this muscle back into normalcy? But before I can tell you how I arrived at looking like a bondage sex slave back-up dancer in a Lady Gaga video minus the ball gag and thong underwear on my head, you must first better understand what the pectineus muscle is and how it operates.

Located at the upper front of the pubic bone, the pectineus is a flat, quadrangular muscle that makes up part of the hip flexor family responsible for hip flexion and thigh adduction and rotation. This muscle works in concert with its neighboring core muscles to provide stability for the pelvis during activities such as running, kicking a soccer ball and copulating or “boning” to use the parlance of our times. How apropos, since my pectineus is quite the little fucker.

To fully understand my pectineal injury though, I feel it only necessary to also drop some knowledge on the anatomy of my lady flanks. After all, they do make up part of the ass, and everyone, not just Sir Mix-A-Lot and the Black Eyed Peas, is sprung on the ass. It’s undeniably the most talked about body part in hip hop culture, for without which women of the world everywhere might never know how to shake their money maker, drop it like it’s hot, or make it clap - which is my personal fav. In fact, I’m making it clap right now as I write this.

So allow me to break it down for you: The hip consists of a ball and socket joint that is formed between the femoral head and the acetabulum. As a result of the shape of this joint, it is capable of a wide range of motion in all directions - forwards and backwards, side to side and rotation inwards and outwards. In addition to this large range of motion, the hip also joins the leg to the trunk where a there is a tremendous amount of force that must pass through just by performing regular daily activities let alone when working out. In fact, many running studies have shown that each heel strike produces a force that is equal to 3-4 times your body weight.  And the force doesn't just act at the foot. As the heel strikes the ground the impact force will then travel up the shin through the thigh and hip and into the pelvis and trunk. Due to this high amount of force, combined with the large range of motion, the hip must rely on a complex system of muscles to control and protect the area, and to ensure that the body is able to attenuate to these forces, it is crucial that there is proper mobility at the lower extremity joints, adequate strength, endurance, and balance of muscles that control the leg, pelvis and trunk. As long as the muscles and joints are working together in an integrated manner, it will greatly reduce the chance of injury. 

When muscles become tight or weak from the repetitive forces of running over time, he body will develop compensatory patterns and create an imbalance by placing added strain on the other muscles as they must work harder to pick up the slack from the tight or weak muscle. Although I have muscular thick thighs, protuberant hamstrings and an ass you could swipe a credit card through, my lower abs are apparently not strong enough, so the force is concentrated on my pectineus instead of being transferred through the muscles and joints along the kinetic chain. This news was shocking to me too, since I always thought my lower abs rivaled that of Janet Jackson in her “If” video. “If.” Ha Ha. What a song!  I’ll tell you what I’d do “If” I had Janet Jackson’s abs. I’d quit my job at the glove factory and move to Fiji and live on the beach in a grass skirt sucking down coconut milk yucking it up with the natives since I wouldn’t need clothes or money. “If” only. But I digress.

Over time, this tissue strain developed into microtrauma and increased scar tissue formation placing even more strain on my muscles as they had to stretch and contract against these adhesions until my pectineus tightened to the point where it pulled against the bone and fractured my femur resulting in total loss of function. Every time I even tried to stand my groin would flare up sending a sharp, shooting pain down my entire crotchal region. Not even the thrilling tingling sensation of BioFreeze could distract me from the pain, and I piled that shit on there like I was building a goddamned vagina teepee. At least I was gaining street cred with the urban demographic for walking around with my newfound pimp limp.

After following the doctor’s orders of avoiding all strenuous activity for 8 weeks and experiencing minimal to no results, I was told I needed both physical therapy and ART massage to correct the muscle imbalance and strengthen and stabilize my core while returning my now fibrotic muscle tissue to its normal tone. Basically, they wanted to completely break me down so that they could build me back up.

Physical therapy was a colossal waste of time and money. Athletico (or AthleticNO or AlthleticDONT as I like to call it) didn’t teach me any exercises that I didn’t already know, and to make matters worse they weren’t supervising me so I continued to perform in a compromised state placing further strain on my pectineus. I experienced a significant increase in the ratio of the nights to which I was icing my privates compared to not, and co-workers were growing tired of me interrupting meetings to go lunge it out. I still could not put on a pair of underwear without my hip locking up and timbering to the floor like the old lady from the Life Call commercial.  I was desperate and starting molesting tennis balls and foam rollers in an attempt to massage the affected areas until I could have my ART therapy.

My first ART session could be likened to some form of medieval torture. I don’t know what was worse, the fact that it felt like I was having my leg pit put through a meat tenderizer or that this poor woman’s head was all but two inches from entering my heavenly gate. I didn’t know what the proper etiquette was for such a situation, but I certainly felt like I should’ve at least been taken out for a drink or dinner or something afterwards. Tammy then went on to tell me that pain is the body’s last symptom in the repetitive strain cycle, and that the source of the pain is not always where the problem is. Did you hear that, Shakira?  Apparently my hips DO lie since the reason for my pain was weak abs. So put that in your pipe and smoke it. 

Tammy continued to throw me around like a rag doll until my legs were camouflaged with bruises. It seriously looked like I was shot at in close range by a paint ball gun or got stuck in a hail storm sitting spread eagle.  But the fun didn’t stop there. No siree, Bob!  For the grand finale, Tammy dug her knuckles into my ass cheeks.  I started to feel the way I felt when the Costa Rican masseuse took certain cultural liberties and included my breasts in my full body massage on my 30^th birthday.  No thanks, dude. These party poppers are reserved for a more private celebration.  My poor glutes were just collateral damage to defective pectineus. 

After several treatments and contusions later, I stand before you a stronger woman.  I have not yet regained full ability off my pectineus, but I have a newfound respect for my body and its limits. So the next time the dude a chump pump points a finger like a stump I tell him step off, I'm doin' the Hump!

Douche-Dodging: Early Detection is the Best Prevention

You’ve undoubtedly heard of the classic 80’s comedy Ghostbusters where Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd are called upon to save the Big Apple from pesky ghost and spirits terrorizing the city and sliming victims with their ectoplasmic goo? While watching this film recently, I couldn’t help but draw a parallel to a more modern day nuisance equally as terrifying and repugnant known as the douche bag. Like their freakish counterparts, these douche bags spew their own douchey brand of slime with their overuse of Axe cologne and bad one-liners. They provide no real tangible positive societal contributions. Rather, their abhorrent behavior depletes other’s energy, time and sanity and sends them reeling with nausea and disgust.

 

Nothing puts sand in my vagina faster than the onslaught of a douche, and I can’t tell you how many times a day I’m forced to encounter them in multiples - whether it’s the fuck stick listening to Quiet Riot driving the S. Rosen’s Bread truck who’s bound and determined to run me off the road on my way to work every morning, or the ass hat with the baby sea turtle tattoo air drumming with his head on the bike next to me at the gym. Wouldn’t it be great if we could simply pick up the phone and call the Douchebusters to come and exterminate these vermin? Well, until that happens, I’ve devised a way to help you easily and successfully spot a douche bag so that you can take the necessary precautions to avoid them and navigate your way to a douche-free zone.

Below I’ve identified eight species of douche bags for your edification and inclusion into your douche repertoire, because knowledge is power:

1. Flagrant Douche – This is the easiest to recognize and least threatening of all the douche bags. He typically has gelled hair, wears muscle shirts, drives a sports car with an obnoxiously loud engine, laughs at his own jokes, has a popped collar, wears sunglasses indoors, listens to techno music and eats protein bars not necessarily all the same time, but also not mutually exclusive of one another.
2. Dumb-Ass Douche – Often also lovingly referred to as Doofy Douche, he has absolutely no self-awareness or ability to pick up on social cues. However, he firmly believes he is the smartest and most important person on the planet. A dumb-ass douche is uncultured, unrefined, eats with his mouth open and makes fun of those who are smaller, less fortunate, or of a different sex or race than him to compensate for his own inadequacies. This is the guy that copied off you in high school because he thought the word “errands” was spelled “aarons”.
3. Deadbeat Douche – If you have a shorty but you don’t show love you are not only a scrub, you are a douche! This guy probably also lives at home in his mother’s basement because he doesn’t have a job and he can’t afford rent. He also probably doesn’t have a car or a driver’s license because of his amassing DUIs. He’s the type of guy that would ask a girl out to dinner at Ruby Tuesdays and then tell her to pay when the bill arrives.
4. Derelict Douche – A hybrid of the dumb-ass and deadbeat douche, the distinguishing trait of the derelict douche is that he is a belligerent drunk who also usually operates on some other form of controlled substance because he can’t cope with the sad reality that he is a douche, thereby increasing his douche factor. Kourtney Kardashian’s boyfriend, Scott Disick, is a shining example of a derelict douche. You can often spot a derelict douche passed out on a park bench or getting jumped on the subway.
5. Juiced Douche – Similar to the aforementioned ass hat, the juiced douche is the meathead at the gym who tries to intimidate you with his grunting and moaning as he attempts to bench or squat twice the weight of which he is capable. He’s also the guy that stares shamelessly at you while you’re running on the treadmill or doing your butt-biter exercises to try to catch a glimpse of your goodies when it’s his speed bags that are conveniently dangling out of his yoga shorts accosting all those passing by. He also likes to invade your personal space by breathing down your neck at the machines you are using to ask if he can “work in” between your sets when the only thing he wants to work into are your pants.  
6. Cyber Douche – Rather than interacting with people face-to-face like a normal human being, this douche prefers to sit in his room for hours on end playing World of Warcraft or chatting online with his “model” girlfriend who is really a 500 lb. Scandinavian named Helga. He has not one, but a network of computers so that he and his roommates don’t ever have to actually talk to each other when they can just log on and IM, and he spends most of his time whacking it to Internet porn or inventing new Trojans and back door viruses to infect other’s computers and steal their personal information or corrupt their operating systems. His proclivity toward antisocial behavior definitely favorably positions him as a future serial killer.
7. Emo Douche – Skinny jeans + shaggy hair + wearing a knit hat in the summer = douche!
8. Down-Low Douche – The most rancorous and predatory of all douche bags is the DLD. Of all the douches in doucheland, there is nothing worse than a douche that thinks he’s a nice guy. This douche in disguise will attempt to Jedi mind trick you with lines like “you are too good for me” or “I think more of you than that” because he’s too cowardly to admit that he’s a stupid asshole that doesn’t deserve the pleasure of your company in the first place. Time to bust out your douche goggles and get to the nearest toilet or bidet because you’ve just been hit with a big, giant bag of vinegar-scented Massengill douche spra

There are also many various sub-cultures of douche bags - all of which fall under the eight hierarchies of douche bags listed above. Take, for example, the hillbilly douche (douchabily) driving around town in his pick-up displaying his truck nuts and naked chic mud flaps, or the papi douche who thinks he’s slick making dirty comments to you in Spanish. There’s also the Euro douche strutting around the beach in his Speedo who neglected to wear deodorant. The list goes on an on.

 All in all, it’s a douchey-douche world, and we’re just living in it. Most days, I feel like I’m on Old McDonald’s farm of douches – here a douche, there a douche, everywhere a douche, douche. Believe me, if I could vaporize them with my mind, I would. But rather than sit around waiting for the day researchers isolate and eradicate the douche gene, empower yourself and others by learning to deflect them by tuning in with your inner douche dial.

 

Paris to Fashion Penal Ware

The stupid, spoiled, whore we all love to hate is at it again, folks. And this time, she's going down -- not on Rick Solomon's poor excuse of a shrinky-dink, tickle dick, but for felony drug possession charges. News of her .8 gram cocaine bust spread faster than the herpes on her cavernous spelunking cesspool vagina last Friday night, and I couldn't help but rejoice and be glad even more than the times she was bucked off a horse and punched by her pet kinkaju monkey, Baby Luv.
For the record, I hate Paris Hilton. She has no discernible talent whatsoever and is as vacant as the pubic hair on her sideways bacon sandwich that's flopping around in the wind and constantly thrust into the public eye because she refuses put on a pair of underwear. Moreover, she looks like she's suffering chromosomal damage with that drooping eyelid and cock nose. It's enough that I have to endure the auditory raping of her Stars are Blind singing attempt, but she continues to try to make herself relevant with sex tapes, perfumes, books, TV shows and now criminal offenses. I wish we could all be so lucky as to run away from her like her precious Chihuahua, Tinkerbell. I hope someone hangs her by her Crenshaw-looking weave when they throw over-privileged ass in the clinker.

Top 10 Things You Should Know About Buck Nasty

Bucki's my name and nasty's my game. And nasty I most definitely am. Not just your regular, everyday, run-of-the mill, diet Pepsi just one calorie nasty…I am the epitome of nasty, the pinnacle of nasty, the epicenter from which all nastiness radiates. I am, I was, I forever will be BUCK Nasty.

But why Buck Nasty you ask yourself? My friends adopted the moniker as a testament to both my Polish heritage and my wonderfully-crass behavior, which oftentimes includes running around "Buck" naked, acting "Buck" wild or even inducing a "Buck" fever.

As you might have surmised, I stand for freedom of expression, doing what you believe in and following your dreams, and I couldn't possibly spend more time caring less about those who have a problem with that. Those haters can suck my left one.

I am a full-on (and sometimes nearly hysterical) extrovert who thoroughly enjoys meeting new people and experiencing new things. Born a Gemini, I am mercurial by nature and thrive on constant change because I get restless very easily. I'll try anything once, and I get annoyed with people who don't share the same open-minded and adventurous outlook. I am college educated, but I'm also a pure-bread Polack, so I have been known to say and do ridiculously stupid things from time to time. I once mistook the sound of the ice cream truck for my cell phone ringer. However, what I lack in understanding, I make up for with my enthusiasm and willingness to experiment.

Top 10 Things You Should Know about Buck Nasty:

10. I have cleavage in a turtleneck.
9. I make a kick-ass spinach and artichoke dip.
8. I have impressive burping skills and can even execute words or entire sentences on command. My belches are so formidable, in fact, that they’ve actually made peoples’ cheeks flap in the wind when caught in the line of fire.
7. I am a celebrity in my own right. As a former employer of Beltone Electronics, my now famous ears have dazzled many various billboards, newspaper ads and direct mail pieces seen throughout the country.
6. I have been told that I have a very distinctive laugh, which has been likened to the sound of a lamb getting hit by a mack truck.
5. My brother’s name is Wally, and I at one time owned a dog name Beaver.
4. I can understand and recite all the words to “Informer” by Snow.
3. I presently work for an industrial safety manufacturer and can easily provide stretchers, flame-retardant clothing, fall protection and respirators for all your party needs.
2. I am a survivor. I’m not talking about some lame song by Destiny’s Child, I mean I’m a literal survivor. I recently took on four pulmonary embolisms and an additional thrombus in my pelvis to boot and still came out kicking. I’m like the Tupac of blood clots…except, well, I’m still alive.
1. Did I mention I have cleavage in a turtleneck?

Who wants to get Bucktified?