My Proposal to a Polygamist.

Anyone who has read this blog for any period time knows that I love the channel TLC. Mainly because I love learning. And polygamy. It's my favorite combo.

Anyway, it should be of no surprise that TLC is premiering a new show called My Five Wives. The network originally aired a special by the same name in September, which is when I used my voodoo magic to predict that it would become the network's next original series--but I was hoping it would be titled 'Gangbangin' for Jesus'. You can read that previous post here.

Obviously, this is not the first time I've written about televised polygamy, but I think I've been too hard on the husbands in the past, going as far as to suggest that the only way these dudes landed wives is because of chloroform and Stockholm's syndrome.

But I'm starting to have a change of heart.

Maybe these ladies are on to something. And I'm not just saying this because barista-ing isn't panning out and my reality show pitch about me sitting on my couch, watching Netflix, and eating mac and cheese out of a coffee cup got rejected. (Eat a dick, AMC.)

In fact, I think I would be an excellent addition to this show. So, Brady Williams I'm proposing marriage. Here's why I would make an excellent sixth wife:

1. I'm a freakin' hoot. I have at least seven people who read this blog and probably three or four of those people can vouch that I have a terrific sense of humor. I could really add some color to the show. 

And by color, I mean profanity. Boom, ratings! 

2. I'm kind of a sex expert--sexpert if you will. Now that doesn't mean I'm actually any good at sex. I'm mediocre at best and there's usually a lot of crying, but I will talk those other broads into doing all kinds of weird shit. Seriously, it's a gift. I have this unbelievably trustworthy face. I'll be all like, "hey sisterwives, I read in Mormon Cosmo that it's totally normal for your husband to want to put it in your armpit." They will eat that ish up. 

Sidenote: I will never be intimate with you. I mean, if you've just got to have some Allie action, I'll offer one no eye-contact handjob on a birthday of your choosing. That's non-negotiable. 

3. I'm smart. I graduated college and have read books that don't have any pictures in them. I could probably do your taxes and help your 30 kids with their homework. I just saved you $100,000 in tutoring fees. You're welcome. 

4. Speaking of kids, I'm great with them! I myself am like an 8-year-old girl with boobs. I love to color. I dig on naps and cookies. I love swings and don't know how to sit properly in a dress. They're going to love me.  

Also, I can take care of all those uncomfortable sex talks. See: number 2. 

5. I'm from Florida. We've got people doing bizarre stuff on lock. Me joining your little clan will not even be a blip on the radar. 

Now that we discussed all my pros, I do need to fill you in on a few minor cons. 

1. I will never have your children, because I'm slightly repulsed by the idea of our genes mixing.  

2. Also I'm not one for rules, so that husband is in charge stuff won't fly. Me and Kelly Clarkson, Miss Independent, ya know. 

3. Once again, no sex. Ever. I would rather Sylvia Plath myself.  

4. Speaking of sex, I'm going to need access to other dudes. Also, I might turn out one of your wives. We'll just see what happens on that front. 

But other than that, I'm totally game. Balls in your court, Brady.

My Five Wives premieres on TLC Sunday at some time during the day, you could probably Google it. I'm too busy waiting on that dreamboat to call!

American Apparel is Bringing Back the Power Muff and I'm Super Psyched.

Fuck shaving forever.

Yep, you heard me. I'm done. American Apparel is trying to bring back '80s porn bush, and who am I to argue?

I know I'm not alone when I say that shaving my lady junk is easily my least favorite thing of life, mainly because I don't like doing advanced yoga in a shower while welding a razor blade. It's dangerous. I've nearly given myself a clitoridectomy more times than I care to count.

You may be curious what I'm rambling about, which is a typical response when I start screaming about my distaste for pubic grooming, so let me clear things up. An NYC American Apparel attracted a lot of attention Thursday when a window display featured lingerie-clad mannequins rocking full-fledged vagina sweaters.

Now I know what you're thinking, "Wow, those mannequins must be part werewolf, because that is an impressive cooch carpet." And you're right, that bitch looks like a Kardashian between waxes.

And then, "I bet people freaked the EFF out." Also correct.

Everyone with a Twitter account lost their mind because American Apparel--the company that previously sold a shirt featuring a bleeding vagina--did something provocative.

Shock! Gasp! Awe!

I DIDN'T KNOW WOMEN EVEN GREW PUBIC HAIR ANYMORE! DIDN'T IT GO EXTINCT IN THE LATE '90S? I FEEL SO LIED TO, PORN!

But for every newscaster made horribly uncomfortable for even having to talk about a mannequin's bush, there was someone on Tumblr rallying behind the brand for advocating pubic hair acceptance--which is an actual thing, just so you know. In fact, Cameron Diaz and Gwyneth Paltrow have both went on record endorsing a more natural look for their nether hair.

Well shit, if it's good enough for Gwyneth, it's good enough for Allie. I'm 'bout to throw out all my razors, and let that junk get long and luxurious. I'm gonna deep condition it with organic coconut oil and brush it 100 times a day. It's going to be beautiful like Rapunzel's, except when I let down my hair for a handsome prince, I'll get arrested. Because apparently, only mannequins can show their power muffs in public.

Wanna do something about that bullshit, American Apparel?

I Might Get Married. I Might Buy a Cow.

I might get married this year.

But don’t go planning the Twitter bachelorette party just yet, it’s still a pretty big might. I’ve been engaged for nearly nine years, but for the first time in that span, me and the Dude I Share A Bathroom With are actually talking about making it official.

When people find out that me and DISABW have been doing the marriage tango for as long as we have, they usually jump to the conclusion that something is wrong with our relationship, that we are commitment-phobes waiting to throw in the towel at the first sign of trouble. Those people are usually on their third marriage. They’re also assholes.

Let me clear some things up, I’m not against the institution of marriage. It seems cool enough—tax breaks, monogram towels, the chicken dance. I’m not mad at it. In fact, I’m extremely vocal about my support of marriage equality. I think everyone is entitled to legally bind themselves to someone forever (except for that creepy guy with like seven wives, he should be uninvited to the marriage party), but there’s always been a part of me that’s a little uneasy with the whole “until death do us part” thing.

Death? Fuck, that’s pretty permanent. What if he starts doing meth, can I leave then? Or worse, starts voting Republican, can I throw up the deuces without giving him half of my shit? 

I think the main problem is that I’ve always assumed people are untrustworthy, probably because my parents used to do a ton of smack when I was a kid—but I’m working on that with a trained therapist and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. But that fear of permanence is still there, and it’s just something I have to get over in my own time. 

But besides the fact that marriage is super weird and scary, can we can talk about the real problem? White washes me out, y’all. I tend to look more radiant in a jewel tone. And I don't think people who talk about dicks on the internet can even legally buy a white wedding dress. It's one of those old laws like not being able to own more than six dildos in Texas.

Plus weddings are stupid expensive. I don’t want to feed my second cousin steak because I tied myself to one penis until the end of time. How is that fair? Shouldn’t we at least go dutch for my random sex funeral, BYOB, something?! Also, I don’t like wedding food. I like burritos. I will only get married if we can all eat cheap, questionable Mexican food afterwards, deal? 

More issues: I like my last name—Allison Wilson is not happening. I don’t want people to immediately start asking when I’m getting knocked up. I’m not even sure I like kids. I want to still be able to dance to the song Single Ladies. I have no need for two waffle makers, can’t I just register for a new ukulele? Most of my family are raging alcoholics and getting them together with an open bar is going to end with me crying on COPS. 

But with this ever-growing list of marriage drawbacks freaking me out on the regular, I can’t stop myself from watching shows like Say Yes to the Dress, mainly because I enjoy saying things like “that seems reasonable” to a $10,000 dress, while my boyfriend silently has an anxiety attack next to me, but also because all the cons don’t quite measure up to the one big pro. 

I kinda want to marry him. 

LAME, I know. But even so, I can’t help but think it would be nice to make the big commitment with this man who has put up with me for the last decade. So maybe this will be the year after all, and I'll become an honest woman and we can buy a cow or some milk or something. 

Cows are pretty cute. I wonder if I can register for one of them? A cow, a ukulele, six dildos, and zero waffle makers.

God, I'm going to be a great wife. 

Get in the Kitchen and Make Me 300 Sandwiches

Have you heard some woman is making 300 sandwiches for her boyfriend so that he'll propose to her?

I'm assuming you have, because I've seen nothing else on social media since this morning. Ted Cruz talked for 21 hours, and this chick is making sammiches upon sammiches upon sammiches.

A lot of folks are pissed. And a part of me gets it, the woman behind 300 Sandwiches, Stephanie Smith, a senior reporter for Page Six, is trying to make herself known for giving breath to every douchebag who thinks "make me a sandwich" jokes are funny. For the record, they're not. And never were.

To them, she's the Patron Saint of Domesticity. A beautiful woman whose boyfriend gets to say the following without the fear of castration:

“Honey, how long you have been awake?” 

“About 15 minutes,” I’d reply. 

“You’ve been up for 15 minutes and you haven’t made me a sandwich?”

For real, sweetheart? I completely understand that some things said in the confines of a relationship may not translate to the outside world, which is why you don't blog about those things. Because now everyone hates your boyfriend. He looks like a mega-tool. And I'm sure he's not, he just really loves sandwiches.

It's the same reason I don't blog about my boyfriend calling me a gutter slut, because people wouldn't understand that it comes from a place of love. (By the way, I'm pretty sure my dad's reading my blog now. So have fun crying that one out, Pops.)

But she put this all out in the open--every slightly disheartening comment.

As he finished that last bite, he made an unexpected declaration of how much he loved me and that sandwich: “Honey, you’re 300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring!” 

I paused. … Maybe I needed to show him I could cook to prove that I am wife material. If he wanted 300 sandwiches, I’d give him 300 sandwiches — and I’d blog about it.

Now don't get me wrong I make my boyfriend sandwiches all the time. I cook. I bake. I clean. I do all kinds of things that would make June Cleaver proud. But none of the aforementioned duties are performed with hopes of proving that I am "wife material". What does that even mean, anyway?

And how long after the 300 sandwiches are made does he have to propose? Is there a window of time or will he dropping to one knee while wiping dijon off his face? What if on sandwich 298 she finds him balls deep in her best friend? Is the agreement then void?

It just seems bizarre to be so attached to a proposal that you're willing to barter like you're buying matrimony on Craigslist.

I don't know Stephanie Smith so I don't want to judge her too harshly, but I do question how it feels to compromise the natural course of a relationship with a deli item? Will she feel a slight pang of regret when he does propose, because it was based on a sandwich quota? Is the thrill still there? Or is it like a modern day dowry? I'll give you 2 goats, an acre of land and 300 sandwiches.

But maybe we're all bartering in relationships. Look how funny I am. How good in bed. How many goats I have.

Maybe Stephanie Smith is on to something. Something really fucking weird.

Now I wonder if she'll make me a sandwich? No mayo, babycakes.

TLC Presents: How did this Dude Trick Five Women into Marrying Him?

TLC, the channel responsible for all your learning needs, is debuting a one-hour special that has 'hot new series' written all over it.

My Five Wives follows the life of Brady Williams, a Utah polygamist, his five wives, and his 24 children. Williams and his wives practice polygamy, despite being shunned by their church and community.

Yep, even the Mormons thinks this shit is a little excessive.

The premise sounds a whole lot like Sister Wives, which if you're not familiar with Sister Wives click here (you probably also have a worthwhile life and don't need terrible reality television to fill the hole inside of you). But it's better, because instead of four wives--there's FIVE!

Ohhhh, scandalous.

Every time I see a show about some dude with, like, 10 wives, I can't help but wonder what kinda voodoo, black magic is this bastard dappling in? It's the only explanation, because it's always some man who you're pretty shocked has one wife.

How did he pull this shit off? What did the conversation sound like?

Okay ladies, I understand I'm a slightly balding Mormon of average wealth and body type, but I think y'all should let me routinely bang each and every one of you. In return, you'll get to bare and raise about two dozen of my children

Oh, and there might be a TLC show.

Do these bitches not know how to negotiate?

I mean, Honey Boo Boo got her own show and all she had to do was represent a cultural stereotype and say stuff like "a dolla make me holla".

Shit, girl, a dollar makes me holler, too. You have a valid point.

I just don't understand. I can think of no man that is awesome enough to make me live with four other women and blow out my vagina. It's like a really fucked-up sorority.

Oh, and have you never heard of birth control, Brady? You're not in the Mormon church anymore, can you not pull out? Even that '19 Kids and Counting'
woman thinks you're being a bit ridiculous. When the Earth is overpopulated to the point where I can't get quality kale for my green smoothies, I'm coming to your motherfucking house. Believe that.

Here's hoping, that TLC decides that My Five Wives is not a good fit amongst its high-brow programming. Mainly, because I don't want my boyfriend to get any ideas.

My Five Wives airs tonight at 9/8c. And Breaking Bad airs on AMC at the same time.

Somehow the show about Meth seems less detrimental to society. Your call.

I Saw Lady Gaga's Vagina and Now I Hate Myself.

I have a problem.

I am obsessed with seeing celebrities without their clothes on. It's not something I'm necessarily proud of, in fact, it might be getting a little out of hand. As soon as I hear that someone with a Wikipedia page had their iPhone hacked, I am all over that shit.

Do you know how long I searched for the uncensored version of Anthony Weiner's dick pictures? A really long time. Did I want to see it? Absolutely not.

See, it's a kind of a problem.

Oh, and I've seen them all--and their sex tapes.

I chalk it all up to being a curious human being and/or a sexual deviant. I'm not entirely sure which category I fall under yet. But I'm nearly positive if I was a man I would be in jail by now for peeping through someone's blinds. God bless my boobs. They're always getting me out of stuff, like tickets and criminal voyeurism.

Today I watched the Lady Gaga Kickstarter video that features her running around upstate New York naked, chanting and dry-humping crystals. You can find the video HERE, if you want to see some really odd shit for like two minutes.

I assume this video is similar to watching a snuff film. You know you should turn it off. You know that it's going to cause some irreversible damage. But, hell, you've already come this far.

Now don't get me wrong, not every photo/film of a celebrity or pseudo-celebrity taking their clothes off, to further their career and having their privacy violated, is scarring.

I saw Scarlett Johansson's breasts, and I'm a better person because of it. I also might be a little gay.

I've also seen Screech from Saved by the Bell's penis--and once again, I might be a little gay.

But something was different about watching Lady Gaga galavant around a forest with her vagina out. Maybe it's because it's supposed to be art, and I'm about as deep as a puddle. Or maybe because it wasn't some grainy, night-vision "mistake" done by a socialite who has had more baby juice in her than a sperm bank cup.

Either way, I think my pervin' days are done.

Unless there's ever a video of Ryan Gosling giving Gerard Butler a junk-out neck massage, because in that case I want that masterpiece playing at my wedding.

Hillary's Vagina is Under Fire and Other News You Might Have Missed.

Sometimes you can't keep up with all the hard-hitting news, so I decided to compile a few of this week's most compelling stories.

Pete Santilli, some bullshit online radio host, said earlier this week that he wanted to shoot Hillary Clinton in the vagina. Santilli said,  "I want to shoot [Clinton] right in the vagina and I don't want her to die right away; I want her to feel pain." 

Little does Santilli know, that's actually just a day of light masturbation for Hillary.

Reports are circulating that Beyonce and Jay-Z are expecting their second child. While it hasn't been confirmed yet, Kanye West has already announced that Beyonce is the best pregnant lady of all time.

Sorry, Kim. He's gonna let you finish, though.

Kai, the hitchiking, hatchet-weilding internet sensation, is the suspect in the murder of a New Jersey attorney. The homeless 24-year-old was arrested Thursday, but suggested on his Facebook page days before that he was sexually assaulted by the attorney.

Well there's nothing funny about sexual assault or murder so let's remember a simpler time...

Shame. He seemed like such a stable guy.

My Life as a Barista: A Photo Album

Sometimes at work people order things like this.

Or this.

And I'm like.

But they don't care. I'm sure I've played more part in people getting

 Type 2 Diabetes than every ridiculous Pinterest dessert ever made.

Speaking of Pinterest. There is no mother fucking Starbucks Secret Menu. I'm not

 saying I work for Starbucks (ignore above cups), but if I did I'd be ready

 to castrate the next person who came in asking for a

 "Bleeding Zebra" or "a one-eyed Asian."

Okay, so not everyone is bad. But for every ray of sunshine, there is some dude

 missing at least 4 teeth expressing his discontent for the word "macchiato." He

 will then proceed to explain that he's "not a homosexual and therefore

 cannot use the word espresso." True Story.

This usually leaves me feeling like this.

Or this.

But then I remember it could be worse. I could be doing this. 

Or this.

Eww. Thank God, I'm not doing that.

Plus, sometimes my fellow baristas leave little surprises. Like Bon Jovi's head

 popping out from my drive-thru camera.

And it's like he's reminding me that I'm halfway there. Whoooaa, living on a prayer. So who am I to argue with Bon Jovi and his glorious hair? And that

 makes me feel better about being a barista.

Well, kinda.