Minniegupta.com

Head

2009-10-28T16:04:00.000-07:00

Peruse the advertisements in the back of any men's magazine and they're pitching products that increase virility, increase penis size and of course...those horrid Pick up Artist techniques that would make you about as desirable as that Mystery freak. I wish all the would-be Casanovas realized the real way to a woman's heart--or at least her bedroom.

I mean can Playboy, Maxim, Esquire and whatever hot magazine for heterosexual males du jour please teach men the proper way to give head?

Men can be divided into three groups--those who don't even bother giving head, those who give head but it's terrible and ineffective, and those who actually know how to give head. The Cunnilingus Connaisseurs are in the minority it seems, sadly.

And no, I'm not giving a head lesson in this mere blog. It would be too graphic and would make some pervert creeping upon this page overly-excited, and that's never good. There is a plethora of information out there so you may consult the oracle of Google. But I recommend taking advice from a woman and not a man--and especially not a man who calls himself something ridiculous like "Dr. Playa." Bad head can be at best merely boring but at worst painful...think of a girl giving you head who doesn't cover her teeth (!)

I once had a boyfriend who was rather dumb and I absolutely hated. Not love-hate...just hate. But his secret was that he was so talented at head! I spent two years with a detestable man just because he was good at head. Do not underestimate the power of a Cunnilingus Connaisseur.

(And if you don't know what the word "cunnilingus" means, please also consult the oracle of Google...you make me very sad).

And let me shock all you penis enviers with this fact--good head is even better than having a big penis. I mean we'd prefer both. But if you don't have either, please be prepared to buy lots of jewelry.

excerpt "The Winner Stands Alone" Paulo Coehlo

2009-10-01T13:15:00.000-07:00

The following day, he did something he hated having to do: he went to a psychiatrist.

Something must be wrong. He discovered then that he was suffering from an illness that was fairly common among those who had achieved something beyond the grasp of ordinary folk. He was a compulsive worker, a workaholic. According to the psychiatrist, workaholics run the risk of becoming depressed when not immersed in the challenges and problems of running a company.

"We don't yet know the origin of the disorder, but it's associated with insecurity, childhood fears, and a desire to block out reality. It's as serious an addiction as drugs. Unlike drugs, however, which diminish productivity, the workaholic makes a great contribution to the wealth of his country. So it's in no one's interest to seek a cure."

"And what are the consequences?"

"You should know, because that's presumably why you've come to see me. The gravest consequence is the damage it causes to family life. In Japan, one of the countries where the illness is most common and where the consequences are sometimes fatal, they've developed various ways of controlling the obsession."

Igor couldn't remember listening to anyone in the last two years with the respect and attention he was paying that bespectacled, mustachioed man before him.

"So there is a way out then?" "When a workaholic seeks help from a psychiatrist that means he's ready to be cured. Only about one in a thousand cases realizes that he needs help."

"Oh, I need help, and I have enough money..."

"That's what all workaholics say. Yes I know you have enough money, you all do. I know who you are as well. I've seen photos of you at charity balls, at congresses, in private audience with our president, who, by the way, shows the same symptoms. Money isn't enough. What I want to know is this: do you really want to change?"

Igor thought of Ewa, of the house in the mountains, the family he'd like to have, the hundreds of millions of dollars he had in the bank. He thought of his position in society and of the power he possessed and how difficult it would be to give all that up.

"I'm not saying you should abandon what you're doing," said the psychiatrist, as if he'd read his thoughts. "I'm simply suggesting that you use work as a source of happiness and not as a compulsion."

"Yes, I can do that."

"And what would be your main motive for doing so? All workaholics thing they're happy doing what they're doing, and none of their friends, who are in the same position, will see why they should seek help." Igor lowered his eyes.

"Shall I tell you what your main motive is? As I said before, you're destroying your family."

If you forget me

2009-09-29T19:54:00.001-07:00

If

2009-07-08T20:49:00.000-07:00

If he doesn't make me tingle from toes to scalp, taking away my breath in a gasp when I lock eyes with him...why would I even bother? That's the male way of thinking...sex for the sake of sex. Please. I detest casual sex the way anyone hates what they can have too easily...it's not a conquest. It's not even likely to be that great (I know most guys are deluded into thinking they're great in the sack, but that's what our centuries of faking orgasms have taught them. Sometimes we just want you off of us so we can finish our book.) Most likely, we'd be able to please ourselves better than you can.

So you're handsome. You're successful. You have a big penis. You're famous. Your Mommy tells you that you're a catch. All females should fall at your feet in groupie-like adoration.

Yawn. If you think there are a lot of beautiful women in Los Angeles, guess what? There seems to be just as many hot-powerful-famous-special men to choose from. And there's always one who's even hotter, richer, more famous than you. (And as far as your penis goes--there is no point to packing a big pistol if you don't know how to shoot it, okay?)

What does set one man apart from the others? Being charming, having a sense of humor. The way he looks at you. That mysterious pheromonal chemistry that makes you just want to take a bite out of him. And of course, the way he treats you, hopefully like a combination of a princess and a hot desireable thing.

It's funny. Men will cheat on women with someone they deem inferior to their mates (a study found that only 12% of men thought the woman they cheated on their mate with was more attractive). But most women I know? If we're considering someone else, it's because we like him better than you.

Quality over quantity, you know?

So if she's washing her hair, shaving her legs, putting on coordinating shoes, fragrance, handbag and lipstick, she probably thinks you're special...or hopes you are.

Otherwise...why leave the comforts of home, the quiet of your thoughts and a movie or novel that lives up to the fantasies most men just cannot?

Pee

2009-06-16T11:36:00.001-07:00

I once shot with a photographer who was quiet and rather pleasant except for one creepy thing--he kept peeing with the bathroom door open. I had just met the little tinkler, so I found it quite awkward.

He had all these bottles of water lined up that he kept drinking while we shot. He had to go to the bathroom every 15 minutes. And he refused to shut the door.

He asked me if I wanted any water. I just shook my head--who knew what kind of weird watersports he was hoping for.

He told me about meeting the Dalai Lama. Then he excused himself to pee again.

I never saw him again, but I just Googled him and he's still around...yet no mention of his frequent urination. I want to contact the other models he's shot with and ask...did he pee throughout your shoot?

Hot Pursuit

2009-06-02T00:53:00.001-07:00

There is something that has a more potent effect on beautiful woman than your dreamy eyes, or your rippled abs or your power/status/fame/homes/cars/whatever.

Adoration. A beautiful woman wants to be adored, to be chased!

It's not a matter of playing games--a woman just has to eliminate the weaklings, or the ones who don't care enough. She wants to believe that she is just so incredibly desirable that you will not give up on her. It's a matter of fluffing her ego--it's the ultimate form of flattery.

Of course there's a right way and an incredibly creepy-psychotic-stalkerish way to do this. Don't be a doormat, because she'll never respect you. Think of Rhett Butler in "Gone with the Wind"--he never gave up on Scarlett through her marriages to other men, through her constant refusal and insistence that she hated him.

He never debased himself in his pursuit...yet he refused to give up.

I know there's men out there who are thinking "why should I chase her? I'm such a catch myself! And there are so many other hot women out there, I don't need her." You obviously don't want her enough. Leave her to the one who does...

(by the way, this was how I once had a boyfriend for two years that I had nothing in common with, nor could I stand. He was persistent enough that I had to give in despite all the times I swore I would never see him again).

Isn't persistence key to success in anything?

XVII

2009-05-31T02:26:00.000-07:00

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

~Pablo Neruda

You had me many years ago...

2009-05-23T21:22:00.000-07:00

..when I was still quite naive, as the song goes.

I mean I lived in Arizona, my standards were lower. I was surrounded by Republicans, juiced-up guys in tight t-shirts and the most generic types of guys with generic mortgage broker-type jobs. I was starved for something different, something wacky, someone fun to play with.

I lived there and I just didn't know any better. It was fun at the time.

I'm a tad more worldly now. You wouldn't stand a chance.

You're so vain you probably think this blog is about you, don't you?

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Poked

2009-05-19T15:22:00.000-07:00

It's not everyday that you meet a man for the first time and he tells you "I'm going to put it in your butt."

It didn't hurt as much as you expect once you relax.

After you pull up your leggings you make small talk and instinctively check for a wedding ring.

It was my first B12 shot. I'm quite impressed with the effects!

Stiletto

2009-05-06T14:13:00.000-07:00

I clearly remember my first pair of heels. I was four years old and my mother gave my sister and I pairs of strappy cork sandals to wear with our sundresses. The heels were not very high, but I remember the empowering feminine force that immediately took over.

My sister and I went next door to see our neighbors Christopher and Jonathan, two tow-headed boys close to us in age. Suddenly as we were sitting on the couch, Leela and I became inspired to kick the boys repeatedly with our new heels. It was a sign of things to come.

(And I wouldn't be surprised if now Jonathan hires a dominatrix to walk over him in her spike-heeled boots once a week. I always suspected that he'd turn out to be a weird one.)

I was always puzzled by Cinderella's glass slippers. I mean, the worst that could occur certainly wouldn't be losing your shoe. I would not be able to waltz happily with Prince Charming if I was concerned that I'd soon be stepping on broken glass.

Perhaps they meant lucite--Cinderella wore stripper heels to the ball. It seems appropriate considering the foot fetish it ignited in the Prince that made him fall madly in love.

Someone once told me an old European superstition, that you should never buy your woman shoes, otherwise she'd use them to walk away from you. I wondered if there was some truth to this when I was dressing for a blind date with a new man, stepping into the gorgeous heels bought for me by an ex shortly before we split.

These shoes were very high, with a spike heel that could inflict brutal pain. But of course, it made my legs look so long and lean, my butt so round.

It ended up being one of those times you meet a perfect stranger but immediately felt familiar. We liked each other, that was for certain, but maintained a polite distance that proper etiquette would dictate.

After dinner as we were walking I suddenly lost my graceful composure as my high heels threatened to spill me to the ground. But my Prince Charming was quick to reach out and catch me. He clasped my hand to steady me...and well, he never did let go.

If I had worn more sensible shoes, would I have needed my knight in shining armor to rescue me from a fall? Or would we have just awkwardly bid adieu at the end of a night that neither of us wanted to end, wondering if we'd meet again, turning back into pumpkins by the stroke of midnight?

I think I understand now why Cinderella chose fashion over comfort. Bless my enchanted stilettos!

Name drop

2009-05-01T19:11:00.000-07:00

I've noticed that the way someone introduces themselves to you in Los Angeles tells you a lot about that person. It's more than just looking out for sweaty palms or limp handshakes. How they introduce themselves has another meaning.

"Hi, my name is (first name)." This indicates a relatively normal person introducing themself. I say relatively of course, because this is Hollyweird.

"Hi, my name is (first and last name)." This person is important (actually or in their own opinion) and is just dying for you to Google or IMDB-search them. They hope that you have internet on your phone so you can search their name before you forget it.

"Hi." And then they just extend their hand and smile smugly. This person is a celebrity and knows that you know their name. You should be impressed just to be in their presence. (This actually happened to me with a certain redheaded TV actor).

I'm thinking of introducing myself as "Hi, I'm Minniegupta.com." You know, it saves time Googling...

Chinatown

2009-04-22T14:30:00.000-07:00

I was a bit tired and hungover from the night before but I was up early to pick up Laura to explore LA's Chinatown. We are two of the smartest models we know, but for some reason as we approached the dragon gates I blurted out the question "Are dragons real?" I mean, maybe they went extinct or something.

Aren't I entitled to a dumb model moment from time to time?

We prowled the shops for feng shui goodies to make our lives even more awesome than they already are. Afterwards we popped into a restaurant and took forever looking at the menu. Fish ball soup seemed to be quite popular.

"Do fish have balls?" my beautiful Laura with a degree in chemical engineering asked.

"Laura can you imagine fish swimming around with big dangly balls like that?"

After giving our orders Laura threw in a request for leek cakes. "What are those?" I asked. Laura just shrugged.

The elderly Chinese woman who brought over the food looked a little surprised. "These are for you?" she asked Laura as she held her plate of leek cakes.

"See, I'm being authentic," she said as she took a bite of a leek cake. "Mmmm you have to try this."

"It's good? Really?" So trusting my best friend I took a bite of one. I looked up to see Laura laughing. Seriously...leek cakes are the nastiest things I've ever tasted! I nearly choked trying to swallow it, and then Laura and I were laughing so hard that we had tears streaming down our faces. No wonder the lady thought we were strange for ordering them! We told our other best girlfriend Claire that she had to try them and thought of getting them in a doggie bag, but realized that it might make my car stink of leek cake...forever. (Sorry Claire by the way, it would have been a brilliant joke, but you might have not spoken to us for a week after.)

So what did we learn today? Leek cakes are disgusting. Dragons are not real. And by the way when I got home I googled to see if fish have testicles.

The Fairy Tale

2009-04-15T14:35:00.001-07:00

My lovely sister posted a blog that made me have an epiphany...now I know what screwed up my head at such a young age.

I first watched "Pretty Woman" at a slumber party as a little girl (obviously I was too young to see the R-rated movie in the theaters). As controversial as it was at the time, all of us suburban princesses thought of it as a modern Cinderella story. The seeds were planted early on--although I had no intentions of donning a blonde wig and thigh-high boots to stroll Hollywood Boulevard for my Prince Charming (heaven knows that I hate to venture East of La Brea).

In LA we have a particular archetype of romantic hero--Edward Lewis.

Edward Lewises have at least one prior failed marriage. They are dashing, charming and successful. They throw themselves into work as a substitute for love. But they're waiting for an idealistic little Vivian to come along. She's Cinderella and Eliza Dolittle combined. She seems to be the one in need of rescuing but of course in the end "She rescues him right back."

He offers her only a small part of himself and she refuses to settle for anything less than the fairy tale. But honestly, I don't know if the real Edward Lewises are capable of being rescued, or even capable of love.

Is it just silly of us not to settle for what's good enough and hold out for the fairy tale? Edward Lewis, are you going to swallow your fear and your pride and scale the wall for love?

What's in a name?

2009-04-07T23:28:00.000-07:00

You're amused by the name Minnie, right? Well, I have a cousin named Pinky. Pinky is quite a common name in India, believe it or not.

And there is an actress named Dimple, who has a sister named Simple, and she named her daughter Twinkle. (The Khanna family in Bollywood). I wonder if there is an ugly child stashed somewhere named Pimple. Or Tinkle, who never outgrew the bedwetting phase.

There have been Tulips and Twinkies, Kikis and Cookies, Sunnies, Mickeys...

It's kind of cute, kind of absurd. But it could be worse...

A popular Punjabi name is "Sukhdeep," which could make someone quite popular, except that it's not a name for a girl...

The Mystery of Sex Appeal

2009-04-03T15:10:00.000-07:00

A man once told me that a woman knows within a few minutes of meeting someone if she wants to have sex with them or not. He insisted that this was true.

Maybe that's true for men. I think they look at a woman and think either they want to have sex with her, or would have sex with her when drunk. As much as I like to channel my inner (sometimes flamboyantly gay) man, I just don't see myself looking at someone and thinking "wow, I'd like to bang that." I think more often than not I'll just consider whether or not I'll see him again, or even continue talking to him.

There was this man I once went out with when I was licking the wounds of a breakup. He was one of those dreaded "good on paper" types--decently attractive, late 30ish, Harvard-educated. He was an absolute gentleman on our date, and kept telling me I was so smart and beautiful and perfect that my swelled-up ego made me want to see him again.

Things were lovely until he tried to kiss me at the end of our second date. The revulsion set in, and I could never see him again. I began dating my weirdo born-again Christian personal trainer instead.

Then I once met a man who hardly even registered in my brain. I couldn't even remember what he looked like. But then another time I was at his house and we walked through his bedroom together--immediately I felt little sparks of electricity flying off of his bed. I shook off a shiver from my spine and later on whispered to my girlfriend "I'm in trouble."

And I was. The best kind of trouble.

The Milkman didn't do it

2009-04-01T22:42:00.000-07:00

Auditioning as a Latina the other day, the director asked me what my background was.

"Indian, and what else?"

"The Milkman," was my reply.

When I spoke to my mother today I asked her if they even had milkmen when I was born, and if they would ever be the kind of man she'd fancy.

"No milkmen in the US, but we had milkmen in India," she told me. "And they were not like American milkmen. They would come door to door with a cow and milk it for you right then and there."

"Well I guess that's very fresh--and unpasteurized. Were the cows on a leash?"

"No, they didn't put their cows on a leash. The cows would just follow their milkmen around."

After this important discussion with my mother, I concluded that I would not have been fathered by a milkman. Those milkmen smelled like poo and my Dad smells like Burberry. And they couldn't be diddling lonely wives with an unleashed cow following them around.

Once upon a time

2009-03-16T20:50:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time I had this incredibly awful boyfriend. After we broke up, in order to sort my head out over the stuff he put me through, I began to write about him, my first attempt at a novel. Writing is, and always has been my preferred form of therapy. But in my story, he would meet his untimely demise in a car accident shortly after the protagonist left him. I foreshadowed the ending as she told him "You drive like you have a death wish," during the beginning of their love affair.

But before I could complete the novel, my ex-boyfriend did die...in a car accident. Now I only write lighthearted things.

The End.

Airport

2009-03-06T18:51:00.000-08:00

I had never been randomly selected for a car search at LAX, so when it happened today as I was dropping my best friend off to catch a flight, I was nothing but excited!

The officer was wearing a hat. Really, hats just complete an outfit. I thought that same thing the other night at the strip club when I saw a girl dancing onstage in a black vinyl nurse outfit without a matching hat. So I had to compliment the officer on his hat.

As I shared my curiousity about the missing accessory in most officers' wardrobes these days, he told me there are certain occasions where they are required to wear hats, and airport searches were one of them. Hmm, you learn something new everyday.

He then asked how my girlfriend and I met and she replied, "During a threesome."

"Yes," I agreed, "mid-threesome I said to her, 'You seem like kind of a cool chick, let's hangout sometime.'"

The officer asked who the lucky guy was. "Who's to say it was a guy we were having a threesome with?" was my reply.

We chatted with the officer for a bit more and he invited us to stop by again for a car search anytime. We figured he'd be talking about the two nutty models who weaved a tale of menage a trois during a car inspection for quite some time.

Then I heard that Coolio was arrested for possession of crack cocaine at LAX today...leave it to a fading 90s rapper to steal our thunder :(

I don't like to kiss and tell, but...

2009-02-17T14:05:00.000-08:00

...I'm dating Abraham Lincoln. I'm a democrat and live in LA, he's a republican and dead, but somehow it works.

I've been trying to get this rumor going for months! But now it looks like I might have to wait...Abraham Lincoln is going Hollywood. Yes, so much for honest Abe. He's going to be caught at Chateau Marmont with hookers and blow, he's hiring a publicist, he's going to have a reality show and be linked with Jennifer Aniston.

Have you noticed how hot Lincoln is these days? Not just with Obama paying homage to him. I saw him in the previews for a new Ben Stiller movie last night. And then he got a mention on TMZ.com today...and they talked about his amazing abs and Hugh Jackman-esque appeal! You know how I love a hot president with great abs.

He's perfect for Hollywood. Tall, charismatic, possibly closeted-gay...oh dear, is he joining the Church of Scientology soon?

Oh Abe...it was great while it lasted

Yawn

2009-02-16T14:19:00.000-08:00

The most dull start to a conversation in LA=What do you do?

Can we please pass a law that forbids such an inane question upon meeting someone? As if being a model/actress/whatever could possibly define someone (maybe if you're one of those total bores who take themselves entirely too seriously and want to prattle on about how you study your craft while this tipsy man is staring hungrily at your boobs).

If I ever answer that question sincerely (on one of my extraordinarily rare serious moods) it leads to another dull question like "Who's your agent?"

And I have lots of agencies--agents are like men. You don't want to be exclusive until you find one who satisfies all your needs.

The worst is when you meet someone who then wants to "help" your career. There are three types of men who want to offer assistance in your career:

1. One who wants to fuck you.
2. One who does it because he really loves you.
3. One who actually believes in you.

The third type is not likely to be found while socializing. And if he is in a position to help you he can sniff out a user, or a hungry fame-chaser. And he's likely to use you and then drop you before you get so much as an IMDB credit.

I spent about six months being a brain surgeon (freelance, of course). That was fun when a man asked me what I did as I was leaving an audition with pictures in hand. "Yeah, why do have a headshot then?"

"This is Hollywood, after all," I called back to him with a smile.

Sometimes I'm an contract killer. When I'm not feeling talkative, I'm a mime. Lately though, I'm a poet...a haiku poet.

In a kiss...

2009-02-14T14:39:00.000-08:00

Kissing is just wonderful, isn't it? I never subscribed to all that romantic nonsense about kisses being magical...but it seems to be a litmus test of the chemistry between he and I, it can truly hook me to someone I never thought of that way before...

But towards the end of a relationship, when I've been hurt or betrayed too much, I just can't bear to kiss him anymore. My kisses are the first to go. I will actually turn my face away. (The next thing to go is the sex...and coming from a Scorpio that's major!).

It's a relief though that even though I've been so toughened up through all the romantic damage, my heart is still not frozen enough to resist the magic of a kiss...

I met him on a Monday and my heart stood still...

2009-02-14T14:29:00.000-08:00

...that's the way the song goes, right? And that's what it was like, when the door opened to a man who I had chemistry so strong it practically crackled in the air, it threatened to knock me down. Swept off of my feet, literally.

Fucking chemistry. That's why they say if you wait too long to consummate your relationship you're doomed to fail because it means you had no real chemistry. Chemistry is what I believe lead my parents to marry after only knowing each other eleven days. "When it's right, you just know," my Mum always says in her naive, dreamy way. Sure, she lucked out, but it didn't work out so well for say...Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee, who had a similar length of courtship. (Thankfully the similarities between my parents and Pam and Tommy end there).

I'm convinced that it's these funny little chemicals that are leading us all astray. It's like Puck playing a prank on us all, aiming his arrows in the wrong direction, driving us madly infatuated with whoever's the most inappropriate match for you.

"Lord, what fools these mortals be!" --A Midsummer Nights Dream Act 3, scene 2.

Moobs

2009-02-14T14:26:00.000-08:00

Moobs aka Man Boobs aka Bitch Tits. The proper medical term is Gynecomastia. Men grow boobs either due to obesity or hormone imbalance, generally caused by steroid use. Surgery to remove gynecomastia is one of the most common plastic surgeries for men. This is not to be confused with men who get pec implants to feel like a rippled Adonis.

It can also be treated with medication or a push-up bra. If choosing the latter, it is important to have matching thong underwear and possibly stockings.
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Romance

2009-02-08T18:50:00.000-08:00

I'm never the romantic one in my relationships. So come Valentine's day, I favor gifts from the local sex shop. Oh, let's face it, I like to get gifts for any holiday from the sex shop, including Hannukah and birthdays. It ended up being quite a useful and thoughtful gift one year to get my girlfriend those extra-large condoms.

But looking at all those pornos, multitudes of speciality lubricants, vibrators for every orifice, strap-ons, dildos, penis pumps, furry handcufffs, massage oils, cock rings, nipple clamps, blow up dolls, butt plugs, feather dusters...it just makes me tired. Who has time in LA to get so fancy? Or is that the real reason everyone has insomnia here?

I just sigh when I look at it all and know that I'm going to end up exhausted.

I think you would need to go on a vacation to really enjoy all that stuff. But I get worried about all the lubes being in 3 oz. containers, per TSA regulations. And how many of those things would be considered weapons? Weapons of mass seduction of course...purrrrr.

Another dilemma...even if you skip the candy on Valentine's, do those flavored lotions have carbs in them? And then will you have to put in extra hours at the gym?

I'm telling you, this holiday is just tiring.

Hot President

2009-01-31T14:02:00.000-08:00

While Obama's ears always bothered me, I'm apt to forgive them now that I've seen him shirtless. Actually I would have voted for him in the primaries had I seen that picture earlier. People made such a big deal about Sarah Palin's hotness, but really, Obama would have won in the swimwear competition.

I'm semi-obsessed now with the washboard abs of our nation's leader. I have a recurring dream where I meet him and the first thing I do is complement him on his body.

Now this makes me ponder a few questions:

1. Is Bill Clinton resentful for not being the sexiest president of recent times anymore? Sorry Bill, but you don't have Obama-abs!

2. Was Abraham Lincoln was ripped up too?

3. Do women sometimes like to date corpulent men because they make them look skinnier on the red carpet? And not because of money or power, like some people might assume when they see the supermodel with big fat old guy.

One of the truest quotes from Sex and the City:"The country runs better with a good looking man in the White House. I mean, look what happened with Nixon; no one wanted to fuck him, so he fucked everyone."

Ahem, and nobody wanted to make sexytime with Dubya, did they?

PS. Michelle Obama has a nice badonkadonk.

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