Cathy, the Inflatable Cow. Slut. Lover. Temptress.

Whenever someone tells me, "I saw this and thought of you," it's never about helping orphans or something--I don't know--reputable. No, it's always about some weird-ass horse fetish gear or a big honking dildo with wings or something.

Today was no different. Someone saw this and, well, you know. Let me just show you the photo.

Let us read the ad copy together, shall we?

Elsie Blow Up Cow is an inflatable cow. Elsie has a rear entrance and makes a moo sound when she is excited! For farm sexual enhancement.

Okay, let's stop here a moment and take stock. "Cathy" is an inflatable cow. That you fuck. That much is clear. But as highly disturbing as that is in itself, it is just the beginning of the conundrums Cathy brings up. For one, why does it come with the supposed aphrodisiac Spanish Fly? If fucking a blow-up cow is your thing, shouldn't an aphrodisiac be unnecessary? Two, why does the product come from a company called Discreet Romance? Maybe it's the writer in me, but I think the word "romance" is a bit strong for what's going to go down with poor Cathy. And finally, and perhaps most unsettlingly, don't the people who designed the box know that there's no apostrophe in "moos"? It an outrageous misuse of punctuation, I tell you!  

And not to offend both the right wing and PETA with a few careless words, but is it really so difficult to get lucky with an actual animal? I mean, how much of a loser do you have to be to not be able to score with livestock? "Yeah, last night I was with this really cute sheep. I bought her dinner and got her pretty drunk, but she's just not ready for an intimate relationship."  

Maybe I don't understand. Cathy and I would have to overcome several barriers to have a "romance." One of which is that I am a women and the only thing I can think of to do with Cathy is to go down on her. And that doesn't seem like it would do much for me or Cathy, despite the potential for Cathy making "a moo sound when she is excited." 

If you want to create a whole sexy barnyard menagerie, you can also get some of Cathy's buddies, including Blow Up Billy Goat, Erotic Love Piggie and Luvin Lamb. That way, if you and Cathy have a fight or something, you can still get some sweet vinyl love action. (Although, I can't help but worry about those jagged seams where the vinyl meets. Sharp seams + personal area = can't be good.)

If you're still determined to go this route, as I see it, your biggest problem--besides, of course, that you're fucking inflatable animals--is making sure you have a really, really good hiding place for them. Even the most penis-like looking vibrator can be semi-passed off as a personal massager, but good luck explaining why Luvin Lamb is lying ravished in your bed, all covered in Spanish Fly lube. "She's....she's....she's...oh, damn it, we're IN LOVE!"

xoxo

jill 

Addendum:  I was discussing Cathy with my friend Tim and told him that on her web site there were all kinds of testimonials from supposed "customers" on Cathy's reputed hotness. They were all along the lines of "I got Cathy as a joke, but then one night I was feeling lonely and..." 

My friend considered this and said, "I've been lonely, but I've never been 'cow-lonely.'"

Guest Post: Molly Mounds from Scary Sextoy Friday, Plus I Digress

Mounds brandishing her
weapon of choice. 

As you just read .00054 seconds ago in the title, today's guest post is from Molly Mounds, penner of the accurately named Scary Sextoy Friday. Mounds, a writer and online smut peddler in Silicon Valley, reports that she "encounters many terrifying sextoys on a daily basis and chronicles them for your pleasure, dismay and horror." Last week's entry's was particularly heinous and I feel the urge--nay, the need--to pass it on to you. So without further ado, please give a warm welcome to Miss Molly Mounds and The Molestache:

OK, it's been awhile since I literally jumped out of my seat:

, 

GAHHH!!!!

I don't even know where to start with this one; the creepy '70s molestache, the Jay Leno-sized chin, or how about the ROWS OF FUCKING SPIKES INSIDE?

Also, there's something oddly familiar about this...thing. 

It's reminding me of something...

Someone...

Someone from my past...

Wait! I've got it!



AHHHHHHH!!!

There you have it folks: your childhood, ruined. Again.

You're welcome!

Again, that was Miss Molly Mounds at Scary Sextoy Friday.

Oddly, the Molestache also reminds me of a Jim Henson creature, only in my case, it's Cookie Monster.* I feel that this toy would, for sure, make a Cookie Monster-esque "Mmmwahhh, ummmmwha" chomping sound as it serviced your member.

Anyway, if I did have a member wishing to be serviced, I would be way too afraid to stick it in there. Who knows what the hell might lurk inside? If the scary pokey spikes are the thing you can see, I'm guessing something even worse hides in its bowels. An evil gnome? The entrance to Narnia? The imprisoned and miniaturized cast of Starsky and Hutch? I don't know, but I'm not hanging around to find out.

And you? Your thoughts?

* Addendum: I am not proud to admit this, but after writing this, I interrupted my important vacuuming duties and googled "cookie monster sex" to discover if anyone did, indeed, harbor sexual fantasies about the insatiable blue Muppet. Besides an oddly high number of Youtube videos of Cookie Monster having sex with, among others, Barbie and Elmo, I found the following chart from LA Weekly, detailing the results of a UCLA sex survey of college students.  The question here was: Which innocent childhood fantasies could best morph into adult sexual fantasies?

There's Cookie Monster, right there with a host of other WTF choices like "Strawberry Shortcake and Lemon Meringue," "My Little Pony" and "Oral Sex with Barney." Compared to these, Cookie Monster is starting to look sexier by the moment. At least he seems passionate. On the other hand, the Count is European, which might make up for his rather boring conversational skills...  Hmmm, I am assessing the sexual potential of various puppets--clearly it is time for me to return to my vacuuming.
bye.

Enough With the Freakin' Robot Sex, Lady

(part of 3 of what has become the In Bed With Married Women Robot Sex Trilogy, a series so generally unpopular that it makes me want to write about it all the more.)

A few readers have noted the bitter inequality that is the lack of male sexbots. If you are a women, and want to get down with an inanimate human-type object, you have to go with gay robot lovin'. Gay robot lovin' is fine and all that, and I do appreciate there being an area where gay chicks don't get shafted, as it were, but as the lovely Barreness put it, "Um...where's the dude version." Chimed in Harleyq, "What about some ripped rubbed action for those not willing to share personal attention with the T.V.?"

Well, y'all raise a valid point, but don't be rushing to renew your NOW membership quite yet, or better yet do, but heed these words: The way robot technology is today you do not want gender equality. I draw your attention to the TrueCompanion site, the web site for Roxxxy, the interactive sexbot. I linked to this before, but it was only later, after you all were gone, that I looked, really looked, at that site, and damn, is it bad.

If you don't want a visit to a sexbot site in your computer's search history (and I would encourage you to figure out the "private browsing" feature--stat), I can give you the highlights since, as I've noted before, my computer's search history is already a ravaged mess, filled with web sites for balloon sexual fetishes, disembodied vagina sex toys and, most recently, the home page for the National Organization of Women.

If I was at your house showing you the True Companion web site (and don't think I won't do it), I would point out:
1. The hideous quality of the site. Web sites and sexbots both are computer-based and, on that alone, I can safely say that there is no way in hell that I would have sex with anything designed by the same people who made the site.
2. Creepy videos.

The guy on the left (above) who looks like George Costanza is Roxxxy's creator. In all his video appearances, he wears this same white lab coat. I guess it's so he doesn't look like a creepy-ass weirdo, but the coat doesn't quite do the trick. But look at Roxxxy! I mean, where to start? The way she is sitting, her drag queen body and worse--if you are brave enough to watch the video--the frightening way she turns her head to look at him. Creeeeaaak! Aaaaaaaah! It's alive! Also, there is the matter of that hideous couch, but at this point, I think that's the least of our worries.

Or this, a video in which Roxxxy demonstrates her "new leg, head and body movement in action!"

In it, Lab Coat Dude sits at a computer, trying desperately to convey that not only is he a respected member of the medical community, he's also computer literate. This is immediately disproved with the continuation of the vid which inexplicably has no sound. In eerie silence, Roxxxy demonstrates her new hip movement by thrusting in the general direction of an wooden dining room chair. Although she is wearing thigh-highs and animal print undies (rawwrr!), she moves with the sensuality of a bag of frozen peas. Right in the middle of the damned thing, Mr. Lab Coat walks into frame--not to have his dirty, dirty way with Roxxxy--but to remove her wig! Help! Suddenly bald Roxxxy! Not real girl, scary robot! Fantasy abruptly ruined! He sort of fondles her bald pate for a moment, then places the wig back on and walks back out of frame. I think he is demonstrating something, but we'll never know what because over at TrueCompanion they haven't yet mastered the technology of talkies. (Again, they can't even put friggin' sound on videos. Do you really want to stick your wiener in something they've designed?)

3. The history page for TrueCompanion in which mention is made of an earlier 1993 'bot called Trudy. She was not "user-friendly" is all they will allude to, and frankly, I don't think I want to know any more. Also mentioned in the history are 9/11, a dead friend and the idea of recreating said dead friend via talking robot which leads--obviously--to...sex robot!

And finally, 4. A male robot is indeed in the works. His name in Rocky. On his order form (he's about $7000 plus $19.99 monthly service fees), you can choose his hair color, race, razor stubble ($100 extra), etc... I was briefly intrigued until I remembered the horror of the Roxxxy video. I can only imagine what sort of hideous barely-representative-of-human-male creature would arrive at my doorstep. They won't even show Rocky's picture on the site, so I think he might look a lot like the Rocky from Mask.  (My worse fear: Rocky looks just like Mr. Lab Coat, despite my asking for a German-speaking Asian man with black eyebrows, hairstyle #7, and paying $100 extra for razor stubble.)

Oh wait, I forgot about 5. The weird prudish language on the site. Here's what they have to say about Rocky:

When you are using Rocky’s private “area”, it is like sleeping with a beautiful hunk that is really big down there and he moves it around to please you instead of just pleasing himself! Plus, the vibrations from his manhood coupled with his erotic personality is described as unbeatable. 

"Private 'area'"? "Down there"? "It"? "Manhood"? What the fuck is that? "Attention purchaser, touch me in my private 'area.' Feel the vibrations from my manhood as it touches you 'down there.'"

Oh, I could go on, but my butt, it grows numb. Suffice it to say, if you have a spare $7000 earmarked for sex toys, I can think of about 233 better things to spend your money on. I bet you can, too. (May I suggest Good Vibrations? Good products, eco-friendly policies and a sweet sweet cut to IBWMW if you buy something through this link.)

Balloon Sex And Other Excruciatingly Specialized Phone Sex Lines

I was reading Playboy's site The Smoking Jacket, because--oh, there's no time for explanations, dammit!--and came upon "8 Strange Phone Sex Lines You'll Never Call." I don't like to be told what to do (or do I?), so I had to read it immediately. At the very least it was going to be better than their other so-not-my-demographic articles like "Stuff You Should Know: Balding" and "Which Malt Liquor Is Right For You?" (Although I might give "Why Robots With Vaginas Are a Bad Idea"  a perusal later. Why are they a bad idea? I have to say I haven't given the matter much thought.)

Anyway, the strange sex lines were not, I am sorry to report, staffed with a perky group of robots with vaginas, but rather with women who sneeze over the phone, women with gas, and women from Canada. ("I am aboot to take off my bra. It is a red colour.")  

There's also a balloon sex line. Says Jenny (shown above lovingly cuddling with a very very special balloon):

My fantasy is a room full of balloons for me to roll around in. Even if I only have one balloon I just want to rub it all over myself. There’s nothing better than the squeaky sound of a balloon squished into the palm of my hand while I rub it all over my body especially on my tits and yes, even between my legs! The static electricity is definitely a turn-on.

I am so curious as to what event--exposure to balloon animals + inadvertent boner?--had to happen to someone to birth this balloon fetish, but apparently there's a whole balloon culture with sub-fetishes including riding balloons, squishing balloons, popping balloons and balloon domination. ("The balloon doggie wants you to touch yourself. Do! It! Now!")

There's also giantess phone sex for those with a shrinking or growing fetish. I'm not quite sure if it's caller or callee who is shrinking or growing and, since I am writing this in public at Barnes and Noble, I am not especially keen to be hanging around on their web site too long to find out. Here's the link, if you're feeling so inclined. There you will find the helpful advice that a caller should "Ask the dispatcher for the hottest women dealing with shrinking or growing." I guess it's so you don't get the un-hot giantess. "Yeah, yeah, I'm giant now. So what? Have you seen my corn pads? Dammit, it was a brand new pack!"

There's also a line for amputee phone sex which is bothersome, not because of the whole phone sex thing, but because the women in the picture clearly isn't even a real amputee. She obviously just bent her leg up and then applied the most rudimentary of photoshop techniques to blur her "stump." This sits the wrong way with me, like when actors play someone of another race. I mean, how much lower can you go than taking a job from an amputee?

As for me, I am keeping the Granny Phone Sex line in mind for myself in case In Bed With Married Women keeps up its stubborn refusal to make more than 67 cents a day. How easy would it be to take calls, repeatedly yelling "What grade are you in, dearie?" and talking about neighbors who have died. Dude, c'mon, it's two bucks a minute.  

xoxo
jill

Scary Sex Toys R Us

Today In Bed With Married Women is hellbent on destroying whatever is left of your fragile sense of innocence and, to that end, we direct your attention to the site Scary Sextoy Friday. Written by Molly Mounds, a self-described "online smut peddler...who encounters many terrifying sex toys on a daily basis," it chronicles the most terrifying toys for your viewing pleasure.  Sex toys--terrifying? Oh yes. Oh god yes.

Consider this product from www.aliendildos.com, which is, that's right, an alien dildo. Because I think we can all agree that when you think of E.T., you think "sexy bastard." And I'm not entirely sure of this but--these look pretty realistic--I think they were probably molded from genuine alien genitalia.

So, yeah, alien dildos. "Oh, yes, Zortoxysys375 from Sector 9, Planet Nebulon, stimulate my inner regions with your scaly member." The alien dildo comes in several different colors because I guess there are people out there who totally want to do it with a purple alien dildo, but a green alien dildo...? No way! That would just be weird! One of the available colors is "glow in the dark," which brings to mind all kinds of scary-ass scenarios involving a glowing alien penis coming closer...and...closer. Aaah! Hide under the covers! It's your only hope!

All products come with a "handy storage bag" so you can carry it around, ever ready in case of sudden hot alien sex possibilities. Also available: alien butt plugs, for the unhappy few not chosen by butt-obsessed aliens doing yet more of their disturbingly frequent anal probe experiments.

If Scary Sextoy Friday had but this one alien dildo post, we would have already been in love. But there are more, including toys shaped like lemons, octopus arms and the Loch Ness Monster. I could tell you about it all day but I don't think that would be healthy for either of us, so you're just gonna have to go over there and check it out yourself. (If you have just a small chunk of your day penciled in for perusing scary sex toy web sites, I recommend the posts from 2009).

Okay, okay, I'll show you one more but that's it.  It's Barry the Beaver, a vibrator with buck teeth.

I will leave you today to contemplate the following Barry mysteries:  1. Why....just why?  2. Was this the unfortunate result of a communication glitch involving a request for a sex toy that looked like "a big sexy beaver"? And 3. Can anyone explain the tighty-whiteys? Anyone? I'm guessing it's a modesty issue but, if so, this beaver is definitely in the wrong line of work.

Bad Sex, An Update

Our favorite bad sex story thus far comes from one Anonymous (sort of the Smith or Garcia surname among In Bed With Married Women readers.) Miss Anonymous writes:

My boyfriend Eddie was an engineer for one of the big 3 auto makers, and his idea of sexy was a fast red car. He would show me pictures of fast red cars in glossy magazines, with the hope that I might take on some of their sexy qualities and fulfill his deepest fantasies. One day he brought me red lingerie: a tight bodice, a g-string, sheer stockings, and a pair of garters. It took forever to suit up...I was in the bathroom trying to wrestle it on for a good half-hour. Back in my room, Eddie was waiting. And waiting. And getting more and more irritated that his red hot fantasy was not riding in fast enough. Finally I rolled into the bedroom wearing the getup. Something wasn't quite right about the g-string, though. It was neither sleek, nor aerodynamic. It had a baggy, pouchy, wind catching shape in the front. I grabbed a pair of socks and stuffed them into the man pouch on the front of the g-string, then did a cheerful pelvic thrust dance for Eddie. I have never seen someone get so mad! I completely screwed up his fantasy! I was slow. I was not aerodynamic. I crashed his sexy car = sexy woman ideal with a single, mocking, cross-dressed pelvic thrust! We broke up a few days later.

Anonymous adds:  "I apologize that my bad sex doesn't contain any actual sex." Hey, girl, anyone who has the (sock) balls to do such an awesome fantasy-ruining cross-dressing pelvic thrust doesn't owe us any apologizes. Although I have to admit, I harbor an embarrassing desire to see a slo-mo recap of Eddie's expectant face slowly changing to horror--"Ooooh, noooooooooooo," he cries in a deep, low 33 rpm voice-- as his fantasy goes terribly, terribly wrong.


In Bed With Married Women is still collecting your bad sex stories, because we're weird like that. Drop us an e-mail or add a comment below. Maybe your moment of shame could be immortalized in its own post too!

Who's Up For A Little Bad Sex?

Jezebel bravely asked their readers to submit their tales of bad sex and have compiled the finest in The 10 Worst Sex Stories. At first I was bitterly jealous I hadn't thought of such a great idea.  However, I was appeased somewhat by the enchanting fact that they discovered an entire sub-category of bad sex called "surprise anal." ("Surprise Anal"--part of the new fall line-up on NBC!)

My favorite of the worst sex stories is the first entry which reads:

I met some guy at a party, and ended up going to his house... Mid-thrust, he started laughing manically and yelled "I am fucking an alien princess! I am fucking an alien princess!" I, far too sober, immediately stopped, and then had to listen to him say, with wide eyes: "your vagina looks like the fridge scene in Ghostbusters." I fell asleep and woke up in the morning to him eating a whole key lime pie in bed. Not even looking over at me, he said: "you can't have any." I walked home.

It's the end touch of the unshared key lime pie that makes that story great for me. Although entry number 5, which had 10 distinct points of badness, was also pleasingly bad. I love that the sex was so heinous that this chick felt the need to quantify the exact badness with a numbered list, including a 5b. (I sense a Powerpoint presentation coming on.) In the interest of space, I will list only four of her points here:

2. the dirty talk came in full sentences- each one had a subject and predicate. such as...
3. "you are my sexy little socialist." (he is a republican and i am not) definitely not the venue for political discourse of any kind, let alone when said during one of the many time that he....
4. stopped f*cking so he could stare into my eyes. no joke, at least a dozen times he pulled back to give me this puppy dog face because somehow during this farce he'd decided we were soul mates.
5. he kept going soft, which wouldn't have been so god awful if he didn't stop to blame the condom each time. and in the manner of a stand-up comic. "what, are these condoms made out of lead or something?!"

If you are way into bad sex (and who isn't?), you can read through all the contenders in their painful, body-fluid-spewing, surprise-anal glory, here in the original Jezebel article.

Reading about all this hideous sex got me to thinking--surely all of us here at In Bed With Married Women have better bad sex stories that those! (Uh, did that sound kind of insulting? No offense...) Let's hear about your worst sex. You can drop us an email, if you're the shy type, or add your story as a comment below (remember: you can always comment anonymously.)

I am still undecided as to my worst sex--not that you asked. Was it the first kiss in the junior high parking

Vajazzling, And Other Upsetting Topics

Have you heard about this whole vajazzling thing? Vajazzling, so says the Urban Dictionary, is "the act of applying glitter or jewels to a woman's nether regions for aesthetic purposes." Also "the transfixion felt by the pointless wonder of vaginal glitter."

Vajazzling first came into public consciousness when Jennifer Love Hewitt revealed in her memoir that to get over a break-up, she had Swarovski crystals applied to festoon her "precious lady." She does not reveal whether or not the break-up was precipitated by her penchant for using the term "precious lady." (My guess:  yes.) 

But vajazzling is but one part of what women are doing to fancy up their precious ladies, according to an article in The Globe and Mail thoughtfully sent in by a reader, "Vaginas Enjoy Their 15 Minutes of Commercial Fame".  Says the article--and why would they lie about this?--some among us are dyeing their

Friday Mail Bag

The mail's here! Let's see what our increasingly disgruntled postal worker has brought today.

(shown in photo: mail carrier nervously speeding away from our house)


One reader, reflecting upon the giant papier-mache-looking V in a previous post wrote, "There's something about the fact that it seems to be built onto a bicycle, and there's this bored, bizarrely-dressed woman standing there, like she's resting from a cross-Europe vagina awareness tour. Also, I wonder if maybe there are prizes inside." Egad!  Prizes? Like a pinata? Oh, but what would these "prizes" be?  I shudder to think.

Another reader reported that looking at In Bed With Married Women inspired a "night of love" with her husband (and, in all fairness, no, she did not use a phrase so icky as that). I am a little perplexed at what might have been the source of arousal. Was it the giant papier-mache-looking V, the treatise on the female condom, or, god forbid, the post on the anal ring toss game?  Perhaps she will be good enough to report back. This blog is about sex, but I don't know that it's horribly sexy. What do you think? Has In Bed affected your sex life, for good or for evil? E-mail us or pop a comment down there at the bottom of the post. (Attention Fellow Oldsters:  to comment, push the button there that says "comment" and a form should pop up for you.)

Female condom, where art thou?

Ahhhh, remember the female condom?  Yeah, neither do I.  The poor old female condom seems like one of those ideas that got lost in time, like Esperanto or getting Americans to understand the metric system.  I mean, did any of you ever use a female condom?  Or even see one?  (If so, do tell.)

It's not much of a mystery why we aren't all using female condoms on a daily basis.  (Although I personally am wearing one right now.  You know, just in case.)  According to the Wikipedia entry on female condoms (because I am willing to spend minutes on research for you, dear reader), "reported 'rustling' sounds during intercourse turn off some potential users, as does the visibility of the outer ring which remains outside of the vagina."  Yes, the rubbery thing hanging out your nether regions seems like it would be a deal-breaker for most people, especially since the instructions for the contraceptive warn that the device should be hanging out at least an inch.  Yes, hanging out there an inch, flapping in the breeze.  Promotional materials also note that the female condom can be put in early. Perhaps as a way to pre-tease you lover via rustling sounds and the obvious visual.  "Damn girl, is that what I think it is hanging out your pants?"  As if all this weren't enough--and believe me, I think it is--the name given female condoms by the FDA is "vaginal pouches."

The odd coda to all this that Female Health Company (FHC), the maker of female condoms, was just named 8th in the top 100 fastest growing publicly traded small companies by Fortune.  How can this be?    Well, it seems we have been distributing massive amounts to women in developing countries, like a mean big sister handing down clothing rejects.  "Here, these are totally lame.  But you might like them."

And btw, if all this talk of female condoms is making you hot, they're still available here in America from Good Vibrations.

More bad literary sex

A new reader who we shall not identify because he is a notable man about town writes:  "Just to join the fray...I put down Philip Caputo's latest book, 'Crossers,' immediately after reading this, on page 192:  Billy pumped her full of the sweet marmalade of his little limb.' Urf."

I am not quite sure what the exact translation of "urf" is, but it clearly applies here.  If you want to find out what happened to the "little limb" and its magical marmalade-pumping powers, you can order Crossers right this very minute through the little blue link.

And oh, we are loving this bad sex.  Readers, pillage your book shelves and send us more!  I simply must insist.

Bad literary sex...and not bad in a good way

I was once reading a racy romance novel (Yes, I had a romance novel phase. I am properly filled with shame over it so we needn't discuss it further) and just as the characters were going to fall passionately into bed, the author lapsed into a lengthy description of the apartment decor.  I would argue that it's difficult, nay, impossible to be in the throes of passion while simultaneously noting the delightful upholstery pattern on the curtains.  It completely ruined the moment.  And moment-ruining, my friends, is what makes for a bad literary sex scene.


Each year, The Guardian honors the worst of bad literary sex with the Bad Sex in Fiction Award.  The lucky winner in 2009 was Jonathan Littell's The Kindly Ones: A Novel.  A sample line: "I came suddenly, a jolt that emptied my head like a spoon scraping the inside of a soft-boiled egg."  Ugh!  Can we all just agree--right here, right now--that there should be no talk of soft-boiled eggs during sex?  Here are excerpts from some of the other contenders in 2009, if you can stand it.  


One of my favorites is 2008's To Love, Honour and Betray, Till Divorce Us Do Part by Kathy Lette.  (see others from 2008 here.)  Writes Ms. Lette:   "His towel fell away. Sebastian's erect member was so big I mistook it for some sort of monument in the centre of a town. I almost started directing traffic around it."  Thankfully she did stop herself from directing traffic around Sebastian's "erect member" because I can't imagine that going over well even under the best of circumstances.  


Have you ever come across a literary mood-killer?  Well, send it on in.  We love that stuff around here.

So not what I was expecting when you suggested Game Night

Let us pause for a moment and consider this item: Anal Ring Toss. Yes. Anal Ring Toss.

Okay, a). Ring toss is not a particularly entertaining game in the first place, b). Excessive cleaning of said toy would be required and c). And perhaps, most importantly, ring toss in the butt = so not hot.

"Stop moving, damn it! I'm trying to get a 6 pointer!"

What does this say about the state of married sex? I don't know, but it doesn't seem good.

I am plagued by unanswered questions about this Tweety Bird found on a nightshirt at KMart. What's with the jutting out hip? Is Tweety trying to be sexy? If so, is this designed to inflame the passions of a lover? And if your lover is indeed inflamed by the provocative Tweety, isn't that a problem of its own? Your input, please.