Guest Blogger: House's Leg Speaks Out!

DAHLINGS -

As you know, every now and again I let a guest blogger take the burden of writing this blog-thing out of my perfectly manicured hands. And as I am not remotely interested in writing anything about Pippa Middleton, it seemed the right time. I take no responsibilty for my guest's language.

Ciao, Elisa

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HOW FUCKING COOL WAS LAST NIGHT’S EPISODE?

AND THE WEEK BEFORE THAT?

No, we’re not talking about the story, the angst, the script, whatever.

I GOT MAJOR MAJOR SCREEN TIME! OH, YEAH, BABY, THE LEG RULES! WOO-HOO!

Front and fucking CENTER, man, they showed my huge scar, showed that House ISN’T IN FUCKING PSYCHOSOMATIC PAIN—EAT TURDS, “CONVERSION DISORDER” FUCKTARDS! IT’S PAIN! SHOOTING, SCORCHING, PAIN! YOU CAN EAT MY ASS--wait, I don't have an ass, the ass lives above me--YOU CAN EAT MY KNEE!

For almost two seasons I’ve had to pretend the pain barely existed, that it wasn’t so bad. Do you have ANY IDEA what that is like? Huh? I wanted to BOOGIE when House started downing the Vicodin again But I couldn’t because I’m only one leg and he’d fall over and there’d be hell to pay.

As I once said:
IF YOU HAVE A HUGE PIECE OF MUSCLE AND BLOOD VESSELS AND FAT REMOVED, WOULDN’T YOU FEEL IT JUST A TAD?

Gotta admit, I was begging for a stunt leg during the episode where he’s working me out with the rubber band or whatever the fuck that thing was. Damn, I deserve an EMMY for those scenes! You don’t have to be a Method Actor, all you need is a GINORMOUS CHUNK CUT OUT OF YOUR THIGH!

The other leg bitched about how I was getting all of the good scenes, and I was like, “Look, jerk-off, they see you all the time. Let the limb have his moment, yo!” (Shit. Have to stop hanging around Greg Yaitanes.)

But if I had to endure screaming hideous pain BECAUSE I HAD A HUGE PIECE OF—oh, crap, there I go again, but I’m still pissed about it—it was worth it for these two episodes! Free at last, free at last, God almighty I’m free at last! Yeah, that fucking scar of mine is MAD HORRIFYING, isn’t it? BECAUSE THOSE ASSHOLES TOOK A HUGE—did I already say that?

Anyway, there was NO WAY they were going to cut me off, I was going to go kicking and screaming (well, not screaming, technically, because I don’t have a mouth) if they pulled that shit.

To squelch any rumors, I am signed for Season 8. With no fucking pay cut. Shit, I should get hazard pay just for walking around, because of the HUGE...oops.

I admit, those were some special effects when he was taking the tumors out of me. I have my limits. But I was too preoccupied with basking in the glow of STARDOM to care! Two whole episodes revolved around ME!

House’s leg! ME!

At the end of the day, it’s all about the work.

No, it isn't. It's about the close-ups. Suck me, Charlie Sheen.

A Multitude of Shins! And Today's Fashion Quote!

DAHLINGS -

It has come to my attention that those in charge of deciding what women will wear have decreed that legs are “the new erogenous zone” (A term I have always despised. It takes all of the mystery out of l'amour and makes it sound like car repair.) Various reasons have been posited, but your faithful correspondent will reveal The Truth:

Legs are the one area that models can expose with absolutely no flesh on them and be considered even semi-normal.

The heroine-addicted little dears gangle down the runways, with hocks like Clydesdale colts and thighs the size of pencils. And this is considered “the new erogenous zone.” Of course, the girls are so thin a man could have sex with them without the girl bothering to spread her legs.

Je n'aime pa ças, to put it mildly. Legs are also one area most women cannot expose with impunity past the age of twelve, but in fashion, ‘twas ever thus.

For instance, on www.style.com, we have Miuccia Prada's explanation for the high heels, bare thighs, ultra-abbreviated duchesse satin skirts, and even shorter shorts displayed on her Spring catwalk: "I just didn't like anything I did below the waist."

So we are to be the victims of this woman's fashion mental block?

For those past puberty who aspire to have those unreal pencils dangling from their hot pants (a fashion item one thought one would NEVER see again!), there are regimes of laser therapy, scelotherapy to reduce varicose veins, and some sort of treatment that has to be done every three weeks to tighten the KNEES, and worn with support stockings!

Pardonnez moi, but I intend to be well past Social Security eligibility age before I wear support stockings. My terribly sensitive skin is much more suited to silk, or nothing at all.

Of course, it is claimed that much of this new look is inspired by the pin-up girls of the 1940s. Ridiculous. No-one has bothered to point out that the sex goddesses of the Second World War actually had some delicious meat on their well-formed bones. Betty Grable's legs were easily twice the size of any runway model working today.

As always, the beauty and fashion industry conspire to make us larger lovelies feel bad about something we had not even thought to feel bad about (I use “we”, although I have a spectacular pair of long, shapely legs and would rather set myself on fire than wear hot pants. But. one needs to keep the common touch. In the current parlance, I feel your pain).

In other words, in addition to every other part of your anatomy, now The Fashion Powers That Be want you to feel bad about your knees.

Well, to that I say Ha! And Ha Again! Yours truly will continue to wear tastefully short skirts, high slits that do not Show All, and of course, high heels. And I encourage all of you to do the same.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

Today's Fashion Tip:
"Many women are imbued with the strange idea that love and romance are for young girls only, that if a woman does not make a glorious match in her twenties, when she is budding, flowerlike and lovely, she might as well tear this page out of the book of her life. What an insane thought! Why, at thirty and beyond, a woman has just reached the point where she can truly appreciate the real thrills of romance."
Terry Hunt, Design for Glamour, 1941