We are now doomed. Enter the Red State world of the "Passion Party."
From MSNBC: Reinertsen, a no-nonsense 30-year-old suburban mom from Shawnee, Kan., goes on to demonstrate “Gigi,” . . . (snip) . . . by squeezing a generous amount of lubricant into it, then sliding and twisting it up and down the . . . (snip -- you get the picture).
“This is going to make your job so much easier!” she says, sounding a lot like a vacuum salesman who’s just spread topsoil on the carpet.
At that, 15 women turn to look at me, as if to say, “Well?” It's then I realize that being the only man at a Passion Party can be uncomfortable.
But in this room, I'm the only one blushing, which is saying something because Cathy Pearson, 44, is here with her two daughters, 18 and 24. Not only is she not embarrassed, she regards the sex toy party as a chance for some mother-daughter bonding, a deliberate effort to change the sexual conversation she heard as a girl.
“I was so sheltered … I was very naïve,” she tells me. Like many in the area, she grew up Southern Baptist, got married out of high school and “all I knew was this little world. When I got divorced 10 years ago, I felt so stupid.” She doesn’t want her daughters to feel the same way.
Five things pop into my brain, in no particular order:
1) Where are the Babdiss now when we need 'em?
2) Where's my late Aunt Sybil when we need her? (That's jus' not right, dahlin'! Put that stuff away! You tell them young gals to get married.)
3) I have no polite word for a mother who sees a sex-toy party as a means of bonding with her daughters.
4) Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions and at least one mortal sin.
5) If you need this crap, something's wrong.
Tacky, tacky, tacky.
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