Muchas gracias to The Frisky for highlighting this beautiful work of sheer genius by an art student at USF: a music video of clips from The Muppet Show synched to the musical stylings of raunch-mistress Peaches. We dare you not to laugh at Miss Piggy singing "Fuck the Pain Away," especially when she slows things down and takes it to the bridge. Still, we can't help but feel a little bit dirty at the tarnishing of such a great kids' classic. But we'll get over it.

Photo via Splash

I was just watching videos from Isabella Rossellini's new Sundance project, "Green Porn," which is a beyond amazing, totally twisted series of film shorts about insects mating. Not only is it a brave, fascinating and whimsical project, but Isabella looks refreshingly unretouched and plastic surgery free. Of course, she's still one of the most legendary beauties around (with Ingrid Bergman's genes, how can you go wrong?). But it's so nice to see an older actress who doesn't look pulled and taut, or ridiculously unnaturally preserved (hello Madonna!) for her age.

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If you've ever had a pervy fantasy about one of the all-business, no-smiles officials at passport control, then you have to take the quiz at AreYouBritishinBed.co.uk. The results themselves are about as useful as your standard Cosmo sex quiz (come on, you know you fill those out at the dentist's office) and not quite as insightful as our own virgin contribution to the oeuvre, but it's worth it just for the interactive feature that lets you lengthen a policeman's truncheon to your ideal length. Hello, officer!

(And yeah, yeah, we did notice that it's also a big promo site for KY Jelly. What can we say, we're suckers for a good campaign. Also, lube is a good thing. And no one needs to pay us to say that.)

I have been told before that I am far too smart for my own good--which I always assumed meant that I think I know everything when really I totally don't and someday that's going to bite me in the ass. It has also meant that I analyze things to death, that I insist I am correct and cling to my rightness righteously to the point of giant blow-outs, and that I have a sassy mouth for which I was about to be grounded. It has never before meant, and never before did I think it would mean, that I am just way too intelligent and educated to have good sex. That's what a German survey suggests, anyway--that 62 percent of educated women had difficulty having orgasms.

Of course, I'm skeptical about this survey--a small sample; it's just a questionnaire given by a lifestyle magazine; it's hardly scientific or conclusive and is filled with hastily drawn and probably extremely shaky correlations that have nothing to do with causation; and I am taking this very personally, I suppose, because I've got a graduate degree and I don't have any difficulties with orgasms. Though maybe it's because I screw my brains out. Ha!

But mostly, this survey worries me a lot, because it makes for the kind of story that's ripe for spinning into the quick and easy sexist stereotypes that make you angry (or should)--the uptight brain versus the dumbass blonde with her knees behind her ears, the frigid smarty pants versus the ditzy good-time girl, the pervasive idea that a smart, educated woman can't really enjoy sex, or talking about it or thinking about it, which was pretty prevalent, as our smart commenters point out, not all that long ago--and still too frequently crops up.

Some bloggers were in a tizzy over the "Butt Facial" yesterday, a treatment apparently performed by Renée Zellweger and Ali Larter's Beverly Hills derm of choice, Dr. Harold Lancer. The oh-so-controversial subject was first reported by teen site Elle Girl, then picked up by Jezebel, who chastised the site for running a story better suited for the more developed (and therefore less impressionable!?) readers of the senior Elle. Fox News lopped the ass facial in with other "Top 7 Weird Spa Treatments" including the caviar pedicure (What's so weird about that? I had one yesterday!?), and Daily Candy wrote a cheeky (get it!?!) little review saucily called, "Booty is in the Eye of the Beholder."

Now of course, we've all heard of the Bacne Facial, and sure, we'll even concede that in a weird way, in a world where we had nothing but time and money to traipse from spa to spa getting fish eggs slathered on our feet here, butt zits popped there, this treatment makes sense. Still, my sharp investigative journalism skills went into red alert mode, so I did what any beauty reporter worth her salt would do: I called Dr. Harold Lancer.

I was going to lose my virginity, and I needed an outfit to do it in. Not the little black dress in which you break a heart slowly over the course of dinner, because you are all the way across the table and not there in your sweetheart's lap being vigorously admired in a hands-on fashion, though I needed one of those. I was going to lose my virginity on Valentine's Day, after all, and we were going out somewhere fancy and for both reasons, I had to look spectacular, celebratory, fantastic, delicious enough to deflower.  

But I was worried about the rest of it. What was supposed to happen after dinner? We'd get undressed, and then I'd be naked, and that would be it? We did that all the time. This was a special occasion. There had to be some sort of intermediate stage to commemorate the big event and, if I were being totally honest with myself, slow it down a little bit. I had vague ideas that lingerie would perform this service: if I was wearing lingerie, which I never had, ever, in the whole course of my life, then he'd have to stop a moment and admire it, right? And then--I was fuzzy on what would happen afterwards. How did we go about getting on with it? We had done everything except actually putting it in, but for some reason, factoring in the actual process of penetrative sex made me panic, made me dither, made me lose my mind and start obsessing about what I would wear.

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This photo was forwarded to us via email (along with a number of other heavily hair-gelled classics, including a guy posing with his Porsche and numerous men in tank tops with Oompa Loompa-style fake tans) under the subject heading "Why I don't live in Jersey." But we'd like to title this one "The day the fish-pout finally jumped the shark."

Can we all please now agree that there is absolutely nothing sexy about the moue? Okay, so maybe when Angelina does it...but for mere mortals, the look is harder to pull off than dirty talk in daylight (Em has a hundred drunken photos of herself to prove this point). Miley Cyrus may think she looks come-hither when she does it -- as do a million teen girls in their MySpace profile pics, where the Blue Steel look is de rigeur -- but all we can think when we see this expression is, "Who farted?"

Have you ever played The List game with your partner? I've also seen it called The Celebrity Safe List. It's the game where you choose a selection of famous people--up to ten, usually, but sometimes only one or only three, depending on the generosity of your sweetheart--that you are allowed to sleep with, no strings attached, if you are ever granted the magical opportunity and also a broom closet in which to do it.  

It lets you play with fire, just the tiniest little bit, doesn't it? I mean, what if you really actually totally had a magical chance to go down on squinty-but-oh-so-beautiful Tyson Beckford? You could, so free and so clear, and he would squint sexily down at you and you know what he's squinting is oh baby, if only you weren't so totally in love with your partner, I would carry you away to Paris and impregnate you with my beautiful model babies. And isn't that so nice to think about?  It's also an opportunity to compile a list of so pretty people you like to think about, and then open season to think about having a lot of sex with each and every one of them.

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