Running errands this morning, The Nymph and I were walking though the parking lot of the local department store. There was a pickup truck with camper shell there with a rather dirty back window. Over on the right somebody had used his finger to scribble the boring classic: “Wash me.”

But I liked rather better what was inscribed on the left:

“I wish my wife was this dirty.”

Everybody knows this, of course, but it’s rare to see a person of the pretty girl persuasion admitting it:

The majority opinion seems to be that through both a lucky spin on the genetic roulette wheel, and a lot of diligent care and maintenance, I am a Pretty Girl. And as I move through the everyday world, that’s made my life easier on thousands of different occasions. University administrators, traffic cops, doormen, job interviewers and employers, apartment managers, auto mechanics, waiters, taxi drivers, hotel clerks these are just a few of the types of men who’ve overlooked small transgressions, given me extra perks, or somehow gone out of their way for me because I’m a Pretty Girl.

But here’s the really fascinating part — this particular Pretty Girl understands why it works. No, Officer Doughnut-Gut doesn’t really think she’ll sleep with him if he lets her off with a warning. But what he does get is worthy:

I gave those men nothing except my smile and wow-you-are-such-a-great-guy gratitude. And most of the time I was perfectly sincere if someone gives me a break, especially when I know I don’t necessarily deserve it, I am grateful to them. So I show them a picture of themselves in my eyes, surrounded by a rosy glow of Great-Guyness.

And that, Pretty Girl, is not “nothing.”

The market for blog entries about bukkake has been sorely underserved ever since The Reverse Cowgirl folded her blog. (We are still miffed that she vanished without so much as a farewell entry, but there it is.) Still, this humble sex blog fills her footsteps when it can. Herewith: a bukkake song.

Katy would make Eddie Rabbitt proud. She writes:

We sat under a blanket to keep the rain off, and it wasn’t long before I shed my t-shirt, which was my only piece of clothing. There’s something about feeling the spray of rain on skin, about being exposed to the elements.

The thunder gods smile, it is said, upon those who show a proper sensual appreciation of their storms.

The Smoking Gun reports that one John Lookebill was arrested a few days ago for impersonating a police officer after conducting a bogus traffic stop of a female motorist. This was the badge he used:

Bad luck for John that the woman he stopped and flashed his “Pussy Inspector” badge at was a Palm Beach County Sheriff’s deputy….

The never-ending drumbeat of demand for this simple sex blog to go political cannot be ignored. You want politics? I’ll give you politics:

No, wait. The drumbeat can be ignored. On second thought, just enjoy the pic. Go bother Daze if you want the political context.

This item follows up the post from last December on the supposed aphrodisiac powers of ginger root (freshly peeled, and not eaten, but applied internally, if you know what I mean and I think you do). Now there’s a web page devoted to links and resources for the ancient art of figging.

If nothing else, a nice fresh ginger root ought to liven up the mannequin-impersonators the ladies were complaining about in the comments to this post.