The Love That Dare Not Use its Name

Apparently, residents of the Greek island of Lesbos are sick and tired of gay women calling themselves "lesbians." So they've taken the issue to court.

Come on.

We've used the L Word to describe our Subaru-driving, flannel-wearing, cat-loving sisters for like a zillion years, and suddenly now in 2008 the islanders want their name back?

Take it up with Sappho, people.

Spam - The 11th Plague

I've been playing with different social networking sites and applications lately, trying them out, seeing how they work, and having fun splashing around in my geekiness.

And then I stumbled on Reunion.com. (No link for them; don't wanna send any eyeballs their way.)

In a nutshell, or anywhere else for that matter, they suck.

When I signed up for what appeared to be just another innocuous way to connect with friends online, that chazzerai-ridden site hijacked my entire gmail contact list and spammed the hell out of them.

And to be kicked in the head by the by-product of a beast with non-cloven hooves on Pesach? Well, it's just not kosher.

Read what the LA Times has to say about these scummy sheisters.

The Goyfiltefish Incident

I introduced gefilte fish to some non-Jewish pals today.

Doubt it'll become a late-night craving for any of them.

Happy Pesach!

Let My People Know

I just found a site debunking Jewish urban legends called, cleverly enough, Jewish Legends.

Did you know that "Mama" Cass Elliot was born Ellen Naomi Cohen in Scarsdale, NY?

And she died from a heart attack, not from choking on a ham sandwich on Yom Kippur. Um, ham? On Yom Kippur? Helloooo??? She was a Heeb, already!

I also learned that, although she's claimed it for years, my mother does not actually know everything.

Typo Lypo

I am not worthy.

The Typo Eradication Advancement League, or TEAL, is on a serious mission to rid the U.S. of typos one city at a time. Talk about a way fun road trip (for some of us, anyhow).

And I thought I was in the top percentile of word nerdiness.

Thanks to Grant Barrett, co-host of public radio's A Way With Words, for his recent post about this group on the show's discussion forum.

Kosher or Keebler? You Decide.

This is Rabbi Yaakov Y. Horowitz, who heads the 17 rabbinical inspectors who oversee production at Manischewitz, a kosher food company.

He's the guy who makes sure our matzo is truly kosher for Passover.

But I think he leads a double life. Doesn't he resemble a Keebler elf?

Sound, Off!

Here's what I hate: websites that assault you with music or cheesy sound effects the moment their home page loads. And some sites don't even let you turn off their freakin' bird calls or, even worse, nasty smooth jazz.

For example, I love the Estancia Hotel , but their home page plays the same flamenco guitar riff over and over.

And, what's worse, You. Can't. Make. It. Stop.

There's a little sound icon in the top right corner, but if you click on it, the music stops for about 10 seconds and then starts up again.

And, under normal circumstances, I like flamenco music. Just not the same six notes in a continuous loop. I would think that if you're trying to sell very expensive hotel rooms and spa treatments, pissing off your online audience isn't a really good idea.

The Estancia site is supposed to be all about relaxation, but the only thing I feel after clicking through a page or two is the urge to hunt down Ottmar Liebert.

Tiara del Fuego

Okay, so the G-Shot doc found my blog and returned fire with a post about my reference to his procedure (scroll down to April 5th entry).

And he called me a JAP!

Yep, I'm a Heeb and an American, and I can be a royal pain in the arse sometimes, but a princess? Oy, that I'm not.

PS. Comedian Margaret Cho actually got the G-Shot. Read about it here.

G-Spot GPS

G-spot amplification is the latest trend in female sexual enhancement. Men get a little blue pill; we get large hypodermic needles.

The G-Shot works like this: first you're injected with an anesthetic. Then you're injected with human engineered collagen. And then supposedly your G-spot plumps up like a Ballpark Frank on a hot grill to about the size of a quarter. Although, with the current recession it may feel more like a dime.

And, if you believe the hype, your elusive G-spot, something your frustrated partner equated with a tiny town in rural Ohio, will be as easy to find as the Statue of Liberty.

Personally, I'd rather date someone with a good sense of direction.