Kate Upton | art of modern living

Only one of you out there will get the reference of the title of this post and you and I will laugh together at the misery of it all. For the rest of you, suffice to say it’s SPRING MOTHERFUCKING BREAK and it is snowing projectile polar bear diarrhea outside, how’s that for IRONY? If there was actually school, it would be cancelled and declared a snow day for sure…oh, the weather trolls win at this one. Yesterday was sunny and warm and we were wearing shorts and waving to the light at the end of the tunnel and calling it in for some cocktails while we sucked in our stomachs and maybe shaved our armpits…and then today, jokes. Trololol.

*pulls grey sweat pants out of the laundry*

Something exciting happened last week though. I got a message from a reader named Erica from TASMANIA. I know y’all know your geography and are aware that Tasmania actually exists outside a Bugs Bunny cartoon and is the island state south of the main giant blob of Australia, but I am just grooving to the fact that she and her awesome flatmate (Hi, Meagan!) read this blog from such afarness and found it by googling “hot ginger men.” Hot. Ginger. Men. HOT. GINGER. MEN. Sorry, that’s my SEO whore coming out, stay with me and we will be discussing GIRLS. IN. BIKINIS.

Anyway, Erica was on vacation and travelling through parts of Canada and the U.S. and asked if I would meet up for a coffee (lol) or a pint (YES) when she comes to Toronto. I love this kind of thing! We bantered back and forth while she was in Quebec and I encouraged her to try poutine there because they have the authentic cheese curds and don’t get all pretentious and add foie gras and charge you $17. I think Quebec is a nice place to visit, even in the winter because both cities, Quebec City and Montreal, have that old scary wretched architecture which compliments the brutality of the freezing cold, it’s like being in a thrilling Gothic horror film. Like you could be brutally murdered at any moment. In a good way. AND THE CHEESE CURDS SQUEAK ON YOUR TEETH! How magical is that?

But here in Toronto, the shite weather is an embarrassment. I know that sounds weird because the weather is not anyone’s fault *per se* but on the other side of the coin, isn’t it strange to run around with Canadian Pride because “we” won at hockey in the Olympics? Seriously, the day of the men’s final, I did nothing but wake up at an obscenely early hour on a Sunday and drive around trying to find a spot in a bar that served beer at 7 a.m. I am so Proud of my contribution to the Olympic gold medal. As a Canadian citizen, I bitterly pay my taxes and enjoy the “free” healthcare and the rest of the time I grumble about the weather and the shitty potholes ruining my tires. Maybe I am Canada’s insolent teenager and should be Grateful (freedom! diversity! microbreweries!) but seriously, fuck this town. I do not belong and sometimes it takes a visitor to make you realize that.

I met her at the Eaton Centre, and we drove around the city, showing her some main bits that are normally charming but that day was all kinds of depressing shades of grey that don’t involve melting candle wax and orgasms. Who knew what the city really looks like when you actually look at it? I am a happy hermit, normally all I see in January and February is my tv screen. Kensington Market in winter looks like a bleak version Borat’s village but at least there were no righteous neo-hippies banging on my car yelling that I am “idling” and “ruining the environment” at a stop sign…But! Get this: As we were driving around, Erica said: “The snow is so pretty!” And I’m like, wow, this girl is CRAZY! She’s also hilarious and smart and if that’s what Aussies are like, I want to move to Australia. Anywhere but here.

Soon.

*scratches bum through grey sweatpants, opens new tab to Netflix*

brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Now it’s Spring Break, or March Break, whatevs, it’s technically not really spring yet and may never be if the weather trolls get their way. The level of despair here has given me my first ever actual panic attack. Yes, I have anxiety like everyone else, I have insomnia where I ruminate, fret, and number crunch at night, and by morning I’m so beat up, I don’t care anymore. This little episode was different. On Sunday, the Golden Boy, aka Freddy, left for his school trip to Cuba. Cuba! So jalooooz! We got up early, had a leisurely breakfast watching Comedy Central because we both have impeccable time management and organizational skills and then I drove him to his GF’s house to catch the cab to the airport. I got home, walked into the kitchen and noticed a puddle of water by the dog bowl. I had turned on the dishwasher before I left and was gone a half an hour and jumped to the conclusion that the pipes exploded and some plumbing disaster had occurred and I immediately got wound up so tight (like the Tasmanian devil!!!) that I went into a tailspin. I started to hyperventilate, I couldn’t breathe, and I lay down and made a whole lot of noise of some sort that Betty the dog took notice and jumped up and sat on my chest. Wagging her tail like a helicopter, she forced her snout in my face and licked furiously inside my mouth. Thank gods for furry friends and their awkward methods of resuscitation because otherwise this would have gone on a lot longer and seriously, once I came to my senses, I realized the puddle wasn’t a plumbing disaster of epic proportions but merely some tea kettle spillage. What the hell??? I can’t logically reason with my brain when I get in middle-of-the-night insomnia/fret/mathematic-number-crunching-manic mode, but this little meltdown was in broad daylight and for no good reason. Is this just the tip of the Titanic’s iceberg? Is my mental state in peril? And why am I the only bat I know over 40 I know who isn’t medicated?

Thank gods of mental health for HBO and Netflix. Let’s cheer up now, shall we?

GIRLS IN BIKINIS!

You know what’s actually a good movie? Spring Breakers. It is chockfull of drunken party gratuitous frontal nudity that you would hope and expect because why else would you click on this:

I guess the American release poster made me think it was a trollop-in-training parade of ex-Disney starlets making duck faces but no! It was a cinematic masterpiece, who knew? Freddy knew. “It’s an art film,” he said when I asked him if he had seen it. Which meant no. I guess kids today don’t need to bother with “art” bikinis when there is so much floppage to scroll through on Instagram. It was dark and moody and really scary and James Franco is sinister as fuck. I had just finished watching “Freaks and Geeks” for godsakes, was not expecting postmodern Marlon Brando.

And then there was the episode of “Girls” where Lena Dunham wears a green bikini in almost the entire episode, even when they go grocery shopping, which now makes hilarious sense since it was filmed after Spring Breakers was released. Her character, Hannah, says “Spring Breakers was a beautiful blend of art and commerce.” Genius:

Go Hannah, shake yo jello. You make me happy to have HBO.

Also normally I like to boost my slumping blog ratings with an homage to the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue but I think we can all agree that not a single gym sock in any of the Americas was soiled with this year’s cover:

Ugh, it’s painful to even look at these starving girls. I am not buying the contrived sex appeal here. They are arching so hard, they look like 3 bony centaurs. And oh, how I laughed because my local magazine store opened up all the magazines and displayed the inside cover instead:

MUCH BETTER! Home girl, Kate Upton, the mighty blog whisperer herself! Go, Kate, spike my ratings!

Why do girls in bikinis sell? Hope. Hope for warmer days and sunburns on the top of your feet and bug bites and sand in your cracks and orifices. I think everybody should just shut up already and put on our bikinis and go walk to the store and hang out, Spring Breakers style. If we all stand united, maybe the sun will finally shine. Or we can just warm up and build a massive bonfire and throw our parkas in it.

SIGH

*spills wine on grey sweatpants, laughs, pours another glass.*

I love Kate Upton. She has big boobs and so do I. Chicks with big boobs are part a secret sisterhood, we like to stick together and brush each other’s hair and whisper things that only we only know about. Kate is only twenty and she is our reigning poster babe! Ave, Hootervus! I think of her as a sister but more like my daughter from another ovary because I’m so old now. Ugh, soon I’m going to have to give up flashing my boobs, it’s so inappropriate. I can’t help it, I’ve been doing it since eight grade when I answered the door topless for the pizza delivery man on a dare. I dared myself to do it. True story.

Last year when the Sport Illustrated Swimsuit edition came out with Kate wearing a 3 triangles the size of a wedge of Laughing Cow cheese, I posted the cover on this very little blog and thanks to StumbleUpon came so much traffic, little blog’s site states on that day looked just like a big, soaring boner. It’s Kate’s World, we just swim in it.

So anyway, this is her second cover and I’m going to ride with it, click here for more Sports Illustrated (or less, check out how tacky the body paint is).

And I have a lot to say about big boobs.

1. There are Kate Haters among us. Any time my girl Kate makes the news, be it with her fapworthy Cat Daddy dance or her Mercedes Benz (Meh-cedes) commercial, there is always some little bitch on any given forum: “Kate Upton is fat! That’s the only reason she has big boobs!” Oh my God, she is such a hambeast! Put her on a diet now or our retinas will burn because she has meaty bits. Last year at some adult birthday party (insert eye roll, grown up birthday parties are ridiculous), I had a conversation with some married dude about some new cleanse diet he was on (insert another eye roll, people on cleanse diets: STOP, there’s no pork spackle from 5 years ago glued to your colon wall) and you know how middle-aged men are now the new teenage girls? They have become all body conscious and they think if they get rid of their love handles, we won’t notice their receding hairlines. And then they get all ripped and start some kind of hair follicle growing operation on their heads and they think we won’t notice the personality disorder. Talking to Mid-Life Eating Disorder Guy is the worst, because he is also obsessed with the way his wife looks and he shows me some iPhone photos from his vacation where they are on a beach and his wife had just got a fresh boob job: “Look at my abs,” he says,”They’re an 8 pack, I have to cut out all carbs after 5 pm.” And me (more eye rolling) trying to be nice and thinking this would be a compliment: “Your wife looks great, too, just like Kate Upton in that white bikini.”

AND THEN HE RESPONDS: “Kate Upton? She’s a cow! Her waist to hip ratio measurements are way too low. They call her a supermodel but she could never do runway!” Oh. My. God. If I had a husband and a sentence like “She could never do runway” came out of his mouth, I would drive that Brokeback to Woody’s on Church Street and set him free, no judgement, and if he came back it like the butterfly that he is, I would assume it would be to steal my stash of Elizabeth Arden Prevage eye cream.

Yesterday I asked my son, Freddy, age 16 and famed boob-man, if he knew who Kate Upton is.

Freddy: Kate Upton? Of course I know who she is. (Duh)

Me: Do you think she is fat?

Freddy: Fat? No! She’s not fat!

Me: What about her boobs?

Freddy: MOTHERRRRRRR…..(insert massive eye roll)

Faith in humanity restored.

2. Kate is a supermodel but she could never do runway. Okay, so let’s just address Brokeback’s statement: I knew you were coming so I made you a gif of a cow lumbering down a runway. You’re welcome:

3. Sometimes boobs cannot be tamed. This is true, the good folks at Sports Illustrated are always putting Kate in toddler sized bikinis as if to put greater emphasis on this point. There is much humour in this that only the secret sisterhood of chicks with big boobs can laugh about. I can stuff my boobs in a bra and walk around and the earth will still rotate on its axis. I can put them in a Shock Absorber (that’s a sports bra) and I can run and play tennis without creating a spontaneous sink hole. They are tame on dry land. They will sit and stay on command. But put them in a swim suit and add water, they become rambunctious Labrador Retriever puppies. They just want to jump out and run in opposite directions and the more you stuff them back, the crazier they become. They slither out the bottom, pop out the sides, and explode out out the top. The best beach vacation I ever had was in Miami where most of the women of all sizes and ages didn’t wear their tops at all. UNLEASH THE HOUNDS. The best dog park evarrrrr!

4. Not all big boobs are enchanting. Some of them are like heavy bags of marbles and they give a lady back pain. I get it but mine are not like that, it’s all about density. The insides of mine are soft and mushy and feel like ricotta cheese with some soft bits of exploded bubble tea. I flopped one of mine onto a fish scale last summer and it didn’t even come in as a pound, so when I hear someone who gets an breast reduction say they took 3 pounds off each tit, I am like, yeah, go girl. CANADIAN HEALTH CARE PAYS FOR IT. Cautionary tale: I know of a woman at my gym who was in the double D range like moi and at 5’10 could carry it AND they were spectacular! Just like a milk maid from a porno movie! But she wanted them smaller so she could buy “pretty bras!” Yes, your tax dollars at work so homegirl can shop in all the drawers at Victoria Secret. She got them reduced and meh, couldn’t even really tell that much but now her hips look so much bigger :(.

5. Big boobs get the last laugh. For some reason, people think they can say anything to you when you have big boobs. “You’re going to sag when you older,” said my friend when we were 18. She was one of those types of girls who walk around naked all the time like Lena Dunham(!). And back then I thought, kudos to you for not caring that you have a loose hunks of beef shwarma hanging from your crotch but shut up, “That’s just rude,” I said. “It’s true,” she said, “You’re going to sag and I’m going to be perky forever,” or something to that effect. You know I can still get worked up over that bitch. And although I don’t actually know what happened to her, I have seen some post-lacto members of the A-cup sisterhood, and if I’m going to go down, I’m going to take your deflated baby socks with me, ho. And two words: Susan Sarandon. She is our Grand Poobah.

But really in all earnestness, all boobs are good boobs, take care of the ones you’ve got, sisters, and don’t be afraid of the waves!! Kate has taught us that. I also made you another flashing gif and yes, while she might be little meaty, she is like a big messy slice of pizza after a night of heavy drinking. Fuck yeah, Kate Upton, you go girl:

art of modern living

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Tag Archives: Kate Upton

Girls in Bikinis and Boys Doin’ the Twist

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