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valentine's day heart

Pimp Your Vajajay for Valentine’s Day!

2021: When I wrote this ten years ago, I had no idea this post would be evergreen. Most things come and go quickly but every product and service I mentioned here is still a thing, a decade later. In fact, it’s become so mainstream that Gwyneth Paltrow’s This Smells Like My Vagina candle is a huge seller on her lifestyle/vanity brand, Goop. It has cedar notes, which must come in handy when she’s trying to keep moths out of her cashmere panties. Then there’s her jade egg, purported to balance hormones when inserted in the, well, you know. She had to walk that claim back . . . a little bow-leggedly, perhaps?

But I digress. Without further ado, here is how you can still pimp your vajajay for Valentine’s Day.

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Dear Reader, are you pining for romance this Valentine’s Day? Do you have a guy but your love life is ho-hum? Is he happy to spend all his time uptown? Well, drop those thongs, girls! The Magick Sandwich is going to show you how to put the magic back in your, um, sandwich.

Maybe your sweetheart is acomoclitic. In other words, he prefers and is aroused by hairless genitalia. After a quick Google check to confirm he’s not a registered sex offender, pop some Percocet and head over to your friendly neighborhood waxing establishment. There you’ll pay someone to tear off all your pubic hair while you hold your legs in the air. And not in a good way.

valentine's day heartBut wait, there’s more! There’s a pretty good possibility that you’re going to get a few in-grown hairs. Quelle horreur! Your hoo-hah beautification process has only just begun. Luckily, in the war against unattractive privates, you’ve got weapons.

The folks at Haven Spa in New York offer a first-rate vajacial. The Peach Smoothie promises to “gently cleanse the area with a special exfoliating AHA scrub, followed by an expert application of an acid peel to help free those trapped hairs and blocked pores.” Thank goodness they’re using experts to apply the acid. Have you ever gotten hot sauce in your eye? Imagine it in your crotch.

Once you’re properly denuded, head to Juvenex for its Gyno Spa Cure. This “ancient remedy that Asian cultures have known for centuries” involves squatting over a steaming bucket of water and herbs “to irrigate the vaginal passage and restore optimum health.” (Did you know your vagina was sick?) If you can hold a squat through the twelve recommended sessions, your inner thighs will be hard as rock. If you’re weak, though, you might fall into the bucket and end up with your labia looking like a couple of poached chicken cutlets.

Speaking of womanly wares, have you looked at them lately? Really, really looked? Ladies, there’s only one acceptable hue down there. Otherwise, how could there be such a thing as discoloration? Luckily, a product exists to combat this new source of shame. South Beach Skin Solutions sells a lightening gel that uses sodium hydroxide, also known as lye. The CDC lists it as a hazardous chemical that should not touch the skin. Did I mention that it’s used in drain cleaners and wood strippers? But why be a worrywart? Isn’t the uniform tint of our collective genitalia worth the risk?

My New Pink Button genital dyeNow that you’re bleached, why not choose the perfect new color? My New Pink Button was invented by a paramedical esthetician “after she discovered her own genital color loss.” She gives you several options. There’s the Marilyn, the lightest shade, for a subtle change. Bettie is hot pink, Ginger is rosy and Audrey is a bold burgundy. (I’ll never see Breakfast at Tiffany’s the same way again.) One blogger tried it and said the powdered dye tastes suspiciously like Kool-Aid.

While we’re there, let’s say hello to our neighbor, the anus. Why should he miss out on all the fun? He’s been waxed, buffed, and steamed but only because of proximity. He’s the janitor to your pretty cheerleader in the high school of your pelvis. Make him feel special with My Pink Wink. (I’m trying to erase that visual as we speak.) Pink Wink bleaches the rectum using kojic acid, which can cause allergic contact dermatitis. Red rash, bumps, itching, pain, blisters, and dry, red patches of skin—the same reaction you’d get from poison ivy or poison oak. Sexy.

After you’ve been plucked and bleached and dyed, you may feel like something’s missing. Namely, pubic covering. How to replace those curlies? Well, you could purchase a merkin made of human hair.

Human Hair Merkins Magick Sandwich

It does seem a bit silly to glue on a stranger’s bush after all the effort you’ve made to go bald. For something a little different, I submit to you the bacon merkin:

Bacon Merkin Magick Sandwich

Just when you thought bacon and sex couldn’t get any better, now there’s Bacon Sex®! Imagine the possibilities. But please keep them to yourselves; I can’t get past the hygiene issues.

For those not thrilled by the prospect of having nethers redolent of breakfast meat, there is a more elegant solution to the quest for pubic decor. I’m talking about vajazzling. Jennifer Love Hewitt has become the de facto spokeswoman for this most intimate embellishment. Here, she tells George Lopez all about it:

“After a breakup, a friend of mine Swarovski-crystalled my ‘precious lady’ and it shined like a disco ball,” she explained, adding, “I am currently vajazzled.” I’m duly impressed but I have a question. How “precious” can she be if you keep letting your new boyfriend slam his dick in her face? That ain’t no way to treat a lady, Miss Hewitt.

In conclusion, there are many ways to disguise the loathsome state of our loins. Even Barbie, our greatest feminine icon, decorates her smooth, hairless, featureless vagina.

Note: In the intervening years, pictures of Barbie in various states of undress and absurd situations have become sufficiently “triggering” that YouTube includes a warning on this video. I assure you that there is nothing pornographic, no reason to fear clicking on the link. I’m probably wasting my breath here. Anyone who would find this upsetting didn’t read this far, having clutched their pearls and fainted many paragraphs ago.

If it’s good enough for Barbie and Jen, it’s good enough for us. But be careful: those crystals are a choking hazard. Happy Valentine’s Day, everybody!

More Valentine’s Day advice:
9 Ways to Prevent Your Own Valentine’s Day Massacre

copyright Magick Sandwich 2021

 

valentine's day heart

9 Ways to Prevent Your Own Valentine’s Day Massacre

valentine's day heartLet’s face it. Valentine’s Day is the cruelest of Hallmark-induced holidays, practically guaranteeing a crappy outcome. Either you’re single and confronted with the perception that there’s something wrong with that, or you’re attached and no matter what you do, it will not be “romantic” enough.

Since romance can be largely attributed to the hormonal rush you feel at the beginning of a relationship, if you’re a few or many years in, you’re basically screwed. Or not screwed, really, since this is a day where the pressure is so high to live up to an imagined standard, it fairly defines the term performance anxiety.

Please allow me to help you navigate this minefield with these handy tips.

     1. Size matters. One year my hubby ordered from an 800 number and his order got switched with someone else’s. I got 3 roses delivered to the office while another woman got my 2 dozen. Imagine that guy’s surprise when she called to thank him. Was he psyched not to look like a cheapskate? Did he send her 3 because they’d only slept together once? Did she think he was trying to tell her he was madly in love with her? Was he really just making a friendly gesture? That’s the stuff of sitcoms.

My point is that 3 roses don’t scream “I think you’re hot.” They more likely whisper something like, “Thank you for ignoring my chancre.” Bigger is better, guys. And don’t order from an 800 number. Not ever.

If Valentine’s Day falls on a weekday:

     2. Do not turn your gift into more work for your sweetheart. Monday through Thursday, send them in a vase. Otherwise, she’ll have to spend part of her workday locating a vase and sawing at the stems with office shears to cut them to fit it, then cleaning it all up. Work.

If the date falls early in the week, you’re golden. She gets maximum jealousy from her coworkers and they’ll die by Friday—the roses, not the coworkers—so she won’t have to carry them home. Problem solved.

On a Friday afternoon, send them in a box with the little water condoms on them so they won’t dehydrate at her desk. You’ll be making her bring the box home like a UPS guy, but at least she won’t be taking public transit or driving with a sloshing bowl of roses. This is precisely when the flowers stop being a gift and start being a reminder of how thoughtless you are for not foreseeing this problem.

     3. You must always send roses. Always. Don’t listen if she tells you not to. Even if she means it, she will feel ripped off. Even if she’s so allergic that she lives in a bubble, she will still want to look at them and touch them through her rubber glove.

But:

     4. Do not attach balloons to the bouquet. Although they may look cute on the website, these things should be reserved for invalids in the hospital. And they’ll hate you for them, too. And while we’re on this subject, suffice it to say, the only gift you should give her that comes in a mug is a cup of coffee.

     5. Don’t forget the chocolate. Even if she’s diabetic, you will be expected to get her one of those cute little boxes with two truffles so she can have a taste. Hopefully, you’ll remember if she’s diabetic, because nothing ruins a romantic evening like an impromptu coma.

There are additional rules that apply if Valentine’s Day falls on a weekend. Take heed:

     6. You must spend the entire day with her. No Xbox, no war porn on the History Channel, no car magazines. Not for one minute. You must stare lovingly into her eyes all day. Don’t think you can get sneaky if she’s blind. She will sense your inattention.

     7. Buy her jewelry. You’re in a bind here. It’s unrealistic for her to tote flowers and candy into the office on Monday to show and any tale she tells of a toe-curling weekend of romance will be suspect. (Trust me on this. No one will believe it.) Jewelry is the only proof, so make it good. Remember every carat adds an inch to your wang.

If you don’t have that much scratch and you know her birthstone or favorite color, you can get her something semi-precious and save a bundle. You’ll also look like a hero for being so thoughtful. See how listening when your loved one drones on about herself can benefit you? If not, don’t try to fake it by calling and asking one of her friends. She’ll tell her immediately. We’re bitches.

And here’s one for the ladies:

     8. Do not give your man “love coupons.” It may seem cute and sexy to give him things that say stuff like “Good for One Massage with Happy Ending.” In reality, they’ll just sit around until your mother finds them when she comes for a visit…or worse, he’ll try to redeem one and make you feel like a prostitute.

A final tip for everyone:

    9. Do things for each other all the time. The saddest thing about this stupid holiday is that it assumes we need a specified day and way to recognize our loved ones. The inference is that we must be directed to appreciate them on one day of the year or we won’t do it at all. Or that we don’t need to. Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, even Administrative Professionals Day–aren’t they a little offensive? If we care, don’t we care all the time? If we don’t, then these holidays are all about faking it. No wonder Valentine’s Day sucks so much.

There now, didn’t that sound like an After School Special? I think that’s the name of one of those coupons.

More Valentine’s Day advice:
Pimp Your Vajajay on Valentine’s Day!

copyright Magick Sandwich 2021

 

Magick Sandwich

My Busy Life

File this one under You Waited Over a Whole Year to Blog and You Did THIS? As a self-involved person—and, really, we all are unless we’re in a dissociative state—I thought, wow, my life is so interesting! Why don’t I share a window into my diseased psyche to show you all the muy importante things I’ve been doing instead of blogging. (ICE, if you’re reading this, the Spanish was just an affectation. You don’t need to come to my house.)

Last night, while watching Brian Williams interview Edward Snowden, I came to some conclusions about my life, but not what you might think. I had TiVoed it so I could pause Snowden’s frightening revelations about constant technological surveillance to mess around on the internet. I like to work against my self-awareness at times. Keeps it on its toes.

First up, I happened upon this tweet by Geraldo Rivera regarding Brett Kavanaugh’s playful indecent exposure as a Yale student. That’s a Class B misdemeanor in CT that’s punishable by up to a year in prison, by the way, but I’m guessing Geraldo would think I’m just being a prissy bitch. I’ll put it here, although I’ve never seen anyone pad a post with Twitter dross before. I’m a pioneer, I guess.

Geraldo Rivera tweet re Kavanaughs wang waving

Say what you want about Twitter. (As if I could stop you.) It’s one of those egalitarian places where everyone’s opinion counts so no one’s counts. Of course, I had to put in my two cents. After midnight, it’s really only a ha’penny worth. (By the way, my Twitter handle is the name of the T-shirt company I started this year, which has made me fabulously wealthy tens of sales.)

Fighting Words Designs tweet

Being a night owl neither wit nor wisdom confers. Today, on Instagram, I added details of the CT law mentioned above and recommended that Geraldo ponder whether having an unwelcome dick thrust in his face (or one of his daughter’s faces) might cause him upset. My God, don’t you wish you could hang out with me all the time? Surely my bon mots (French now, pulling out all the stops!) should be collected and preserved in the Smithsonian or in a time capsule so when aliens land to see the blasted hellscape of Earth, they’ll know the extinction of the human race was no big loss.

Anyway, à propos of nothing—note to self: great title for my memoir—I went on Amazon. (The MSNBC interview was over so I could get back to important things.) Someone identifying himself as Ben K. had taken umbrage at the use of fragrance in a natural deodorant. I’d seen his review before and had emailed the company to find out what ingredients fall under their rubric of fragrance.

The company’s answer? Okay stuff, with just a hint of obfuscation that lets me know there’s some minor thing in it that would be questionable to a real Cassandra who drinks alcohol, smokes pot, or just, you know, lives in the world but thinks perfume presents a clear and present danger.

The email also stated there is another, fragrance-free version for sale as well. So I copied the info and clicked on the review to paste it and leave a comment. But someone had beaten me to it. Ben K. had responded to that person that the version on the page is the fragrance-free version. I scanned the product page, ready to pounce on Ben K. for his damnable lie. Alas, I found that Ben K. was correct. So, ever forthright,  I acknowledged that. But then, it got weird.

existential Amazon review Magick Sandwich

I’d classify this as an existential Amazon review or, perhaps, an Amazon review for depressives. It captures the absurdity of a search for meaning that elevates strangers’ opinions about drain cleaner, shampoo, and super glue to a position of staggering importance, signified by the amount of time I spend poring over them as if they contain the secrets of the universe. I’m not the only one, judging by the fact that “135 people found this review helpful.”

I’ve learned a valuable lesson, which justifies my time-wasting but possibly not the time you’ve wasted reading about it. (My apologies.) I should never tweet late at night and I should always write Amazon reviews late at night.

There was a third benefit, too. As I attempted to drift off to sleep, always difficult after the exhilaration of doing absolutely nothing of substance and having a great time not doing it, I had a flash of insight. I actually sat up and made a note of it on my phone so it wouldn’t be lost in the ether of fitful slumber. It is my new mantra.

Satisfied with the inspirational message served up by my helpful brain, I drifted off to happy sleep, then got up this morning and made it into a T-shirt.

You’re welcome.

Copyright Notice 2019 Magick Sandwich

6 things you should never tell cancer patient

6 Things You Should Never Tell a Cancer Patient

6 things you should never tell cancer patientFive years ago, on June 1, 2012, I found out that, like one in eight women in America, I had breast cancer. Within a two-week period, one of our cats died, my husband lost his job, his aunt passed away and, while he was in Illinois attending her funeral, I got the news by phone.

It was caught early by an eagle-eyed radiologist who saw a small spot on my digital mammogram. Insurance companies often won’t cover this more sensitive test because it costs more. In January of 2016, the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force raised the recommended age at which women should begin mammography screening from 40 to 50. (The medical community had opposed the change since it was first proposed in 2009.) Had I waited that long, I might be dead now.

I had a lumpectomy on July 3rd, followed by chemotherapy and radiation, which finished up at the end of January 2013. Five years later, I’m still cancer-free.

I bonded with several women going through the same thing. We’d pass our time in the waiting room joking about how none of us had lost weight from chemo despite what movies show, and how easy it is to forget where your eyebrows were after they fall out: Sometimes you draw them on and look angry or surprised, or angry on one side and surprised on the other.

We also talked about the comments well-meaning people said to us when they found out we had cancer. I related my friend’s story of how strangers touched her belly when she was pregnant, then got offended when she told them to stop. With cancer, too, people feel entitled to weigh in, assuming a level of familiarity that may not exist.

Here is my list, gleaned from my experience, of six things you should never tell a cancer patient:

1. Everything happens for a reason. Yes, the reason is cancer. Is it because I paid the gas bill late or didn’t send a Christmas card? Think this through, please. Even if there is some cosmic plan, is that supposed to cheer me up? (“Your death will provide a valuable life lesson for your family.”)

2. [She] is fighting a battle with cancer. My chest is not a war zone. I prefer to say I’m having a slap fight with cancer. Sounds less ominous and it’s a nice visual, too. I’ve rarely heard anyone say, “She just gave up. What a wuss!”

3. Check out this email from Johns Hopkins about what really causes cancer. This is a hoax that’s been circulating since 2008. Johns Hopkins has repeatedly refuted it, but it still terrifies people. Whoever who wrote this should be flogged.

4. This [alternative therapy] really works. Ever meet someone who cured cancer by drinking his own pee? Probably not. Want to talk to Steve Jobs about the miracle macrobiotic cure he did for months before agreeing to conventional treatment? Oh, that’s right, you can’t: he’s dead.

5. Cheese causes cancer. I blame some Internet sub-genius for starting the Big-Dairy-doesn’t-want-you-to-know-this-is-killing-you panic about casein, what Alex Jones likes to call an excitotoxin. (Funny, that’s what I call him.) Casein is a protein found in mammalian milk, including human milk. So…breastfeeding causes cancer? Milk is murder?

I’m not saying I’m an expert. Having cancer doesn’t make you an expert any more than sitting on an airplane makes you a pilot. I understand that sickness scares people; it’s only human to want to define it and reassure themselves it won’t happen to them. Bullshit artists like Louise Hay have made a lot of money blaming people for their own illnesses. Which brings me to:

6. Negativity causes cancer. If that’s true, the person who says this must be riddled with it.

You know how they say a stranger is just a friend with an unsolicited opinion you haven’t heard yet? (Okay, nobody says that, but I’m trying to start a trend.) Everyone from my cat’s veterinarian to a city’s worth of taxi drivers felt compelled to share their wisdom. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to say, “Oh, this isn’t from chemo. I shaved my head to commemorate that time I killed someone for sticking his nose in my business.”

Sometimes a little negativity can be fun, no?

Related posts:
I’m Radioactive – Laughing at Cancer
Tales from the Waiting Room – Laughing at Cancer
Pink Ribbon Products from Car Horns to Handguns

Copyright Notice 2018 Magick Sandwich

I'm Radioactive - Laughing at Cancer - Magick Sandwich

I’m Radioactive – Laughing at Cancer

June 31, 2012: On Friday, I had a radioactive seed implanted to mark the exact site of my cancerous breast tumor. The isotope is Iodine 125 with a strength of .13 millicuries.  Though Marie Curie was a pioneer in radiation research, she died as a result of long-term exposure.  It’s silly, I know, but the use of her name in dosage measurements doesn’t give me a warm fuzzy feeling. She died in 1934 and even her cookbooks are still kept in lead-lined boxes and can’t be handled without protective clothing. It’s a shame, too, because I’ve been looking for a good banana bread recipe.

Before it was injected, it was checked with a Geiger counter. The meter looked the same as ones in old Civil Defense films during the duck-and-cover, build-a-bomb-shelter-in-your-backyard era. As if the contrast to the high-tech equipment in the room weren’t enough, the clicking noise sounded like the reading of radioactive coconuts on a show about Bikini Atoll I watched recently.

So I’m radioactive. Which reminds me of this song from the 80s:

The post-implantation instructions are interesting. I have to minimize contact with young children or pets where the seed is implanted. If the seed becomes dislodged, I need to use a piece of tape or tweezers to pick it up, store it in a remote location such as a cabinet or closet as far away from carbon-based life forms as possible, and call the Radiation Safety Office immediately. So, inside boob: good. Outside boob: call the hazmat team. Iodine 125 has a half-life of 59 days but it will be taken out tomorrow morning during surgery. Today, I had a contrast dye injected. This will help my surgeon locate the lymph nodes she wants to take out. The dye contains technetium 99. This stuff is a gamma-ray emitter. Woot! Bruce Banner time!

More technetium, with a blue dye added, will be injected during surgery. So I’ll have Smurf pee for a day or two. I know I sound like I’m freaking out but really, truly, I know that without all these things, the tests and dyes and machines and doctors who use them, my prognosis might not be so good. All these things have saved many people and undoubtedly will save many more. That said, I want to leave you with one factino I learned about technetium 99. It’s reported to be dose equivalent to 500 chest X-rays. And that reminded me of this quote from Repo Man.

“Radiation. Yes, indeed. You hear the most outrageous lies about it. Half-baked goggle-boxed do-gooders telling everyone it’s bad for you. Pernicious nonsense! Everybody could stand a hundred X-rays a year. They ought to have them, too.”

That’s just how my brain works, people. See you on the other side!

Update – January 26, 2018: I’m still here. Five years have passed since my lumpectomy, chemotherapy and radiation treatments, with no cancer recurrence. So far, so good!

Copyright Notice 2018 Magick Sandwich

World Play-Doh Day

Happy World Play-Doh Day

Magick Sandwich Play-Doh DaySeptember 16 is World Play-Doh Day. After writing about it on Worldwide Weird Holidays, I found that some of the prose was a bit inappropriate for that site—in other words, perfect for Magick Sandwich. Call it WWWH After Dark, if you will. (I’m pretty sure you won’t.)

Fun Facts about Play-Doh: The compound was created in 1933 to clean coal soot off wallpaper. The inventor ripped off the formula homemakers and servants had used for decades.

By 1956, homes didn’t use coal anymore. No soot, no need for the cleaner. The company was tanking when the sister-in-law of an employee suggested repurposing it as a toy and came up with the name. Of course, she received no credit or payment.

The employee convinced Bob Keeshan, a.k.a. Captain Kangaroo, to feature it on his show once a week in exchange for a percentage of the sales. Similar to payola schemes run by radio disc jockeys, this was truly a case of “pay to play” or “pay to play-doh,” if you’re feeling punny.

Bonus Fun Fact: A tell-all book by longtime stage manager Daniel B. Morgan alleges that Keeshan liked to expose himself before the show, sticking a pencil under his little captain and waving it at Hugh “Lumpy” Brannum, who played Mr. Green Jeans. Per Morgan:

“Then the Captain would come through the door, greet everyone, and hang the keys on the key hook. On with the show! So now, at the end of the program (which probably included credits), Bob was backstage reading the final voice-over…(and) during Bob’s final read, Lumpy pulled out his penis and began to pee on Bob’s leg.”

Captain Kangaroo liked to pull out his dick before greeting his fan base of millions of small children. Doesn’t everybody? (I need to Purell my childhood memories. Can someone find out if that’s possible?)

*****

Do you long for the simple charms of shaping and smushing, but can’t figure out how to integrate Play-Doh into your daily work routine without attracting undue attention? How awkward would a trip to Human Resources be? Even the most exhaustive employee handbook has no listing for “Play-Doh, abuse of.” There are no talking points, no rehab to recommend.

On second thought, there could be a highly-specialized treatment center somewhere in, say, Malibu. Right now, someone is getting equine therapy to break the cycle of Play-Doh addiction. In case you’re unfamiliar with the modality, the Equine Psychotherapy website explains: “It is the discipline of using horses as a means to provide metaphoric experiences in order to promote emotional growth.” It sounds a lot like getting a horse to babysit so the human can go grab a cocktail. (Horse-sit: say it three times fast.)

Now you can avoid the humiliation of being narced on by coworkers—and the deceptively pleasant-sounding shame spiral which follows—while enjoying the essence of Play-Doh every moment of every day with no risk of sanctions. Demeter Fragrance Library, the maker of such classic scents as Lobster and Funeral Home, offers PlayDoh cologne.

Don’t be surprised if the scent inspires an admirer to pull on your pigtails. (Apparently, little boys used to do that to little girls they liked, but we can’t find anyone who’s seen or done it.) Guys, it’s unisex, so if you spritz it on, don’t be surprised if someone pulls on your man-bun.

On the subject of male grooming, why is practiced, casual vanity so often inversely proportional to a man’s personal hygiene habits? I’m thinking of a 1980s TV star who claims to have no interest in fashion but festoons himself every day with at least ten necklaces and as many rings as his fingers can hold. (We have no problem with male adornment, just hypocrisy.) Coincidentally, he looks like he hasn’t taken a shower since the 1980s. Surely there’s a circus nearby where the elephants can wait a moment so he can be hosed down.

Back to the hairdo: A man-bun says, “I write poetry, I love to cuddle, I’m sensitive and attentive and I smell like a week-old, bloated goat carcass.” Happy World Play-Doh Day, everybody!

Copyright Magick Sandwich

Mother Lode of Stupid Baby Names

The Mother Lode of Stupid Baby Names

Bad Baby Names

As we wait with bated breath to learn the name Kim Kardashian and Kanye West choose for North West’s little brother (because nothing else is going on in the world), let Magick Sandwich entertain you with its nearly comprehensive yet thoroughly incomprehensible list of stupid baby names and the sadists who came up with them.

Repeat Offenders

Jessica Simpson and Eric Johnson named their daughter Maxwell Drew in honor of his dad’s middle name and Jessica’s mom’s middle name, respectively. Son Ace Knute was born 20 months later in 2013. He was named Knute after Eric’s grandfather and Ace after, what? A bandage? Frehley? The Red Baron?

Gwen Stefani and Gavin Rossdale named their youngest son Apollo Bowie Flynn after their mothers’ maiden names. Since their other sons, Zuma Nesta Rock and Kingston James McGregor, were named for Stefani and Rossdale’s favorite places, can we assume they took a secret trip to the moon between tours? (Maybe that’s what split them up–it sucked all the oxygen out of their relationship.)

Soleil Moon Frye and Jason Goldberg have a son, Lyric Sonny Roads, and two daughters, Poet Sienna Rose and Jagger Joseph Blue, names that remind us of ice cream, crayons and paint chips, not necessarily in that order.

Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin named their son Moses for a song he wrote for Coldplay and daughter Apple because it sounded “lovely and clean,” not because they were on a fruit cleanse or illegally downloading better music onto their iPods. If only their kids could consciously uncouple from their names.

Girls

Jay-Z and Beyoncé liked Blue Ivy, the name they chose for their daughter, so much that they tried to have it trademarked. It had already been taken by a Boston wedding planner. Isn’t there a site they could have checked first? Yes–Trademark Electronic Search System (TESS), in case you ever need it.

Alicia Keys and Swiss Beatz named their daughter Egypt in honor of a life-changing trip. Thank goodness it wasn’t to Bayonne.

Holly Madison, previously one of “The Girls Next Door” known for letting Hugh Hefner play with her lady parts, named her daughter (with Pasquale Rotella, not Hef) Rainbow Aurora. Warm up the stripper pole. Was Inflamed Herpes Sore already taken?

According to Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher, they decided to name their daughter Wyatt after coming up with it at a Lakers game. Anything would be preferable to actually watching a Lakers game.

Kristen Bell and Dax Shepard named their daughter Lincoln Bell and claimed it had nothing to do with our sixteenth president. Instead, she was named after Shepard’s first car. If so, it’s a good thing it wasn’t a Gremlin. Then they’d have to explain their kid had nothing to do with a certain beloved movie franchise from the 1980s.

Why did Zooey Deschanel and Jacob Pechenik name their daughter Elsie Otter? Zoey explained on the Today Show, “We just really liked the name Elsie and then we both love otters. They’re very sweet, and they’re also smart.”

Otters are vicious carnivores. Narwhals are cute. Everybody knows that.

At least Elsie is a recognizable name. Blake Anderson named his daughter Mars Ilah. Mars. Ilah. Lorenzo Lamas named his daughter Press. That isn’t even a proper name, is it? Garlic, cider, permanent: those are presses.

Rob Morrow named his daughter Tu. Tu Morrow. What a dick.

Other questionable girl’s names include Arlo Lemoyne Yoko (Johnny Knoxville); Romy Hero (Sam Taylor-Wood); Royal Reign (L’il Kim); Pilot Inspektor (Jason Lee); Moxie Crimefighter (Penn Jillette); Maxwell Lue (Lindsay Sloane); Autumn James (Jennifer Love Hewitt); Harper (Tiffani Amber-Thiessen); Harper Seven (Victoria Beckham); and James (Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds).

Boys

Musicians Ciara and Future named their son Future. It’s too bad his dad’s given name is Nayvadius Wilburn. Otherwise, he could be called Future II and that would put us in mind of another beloved movie franchise of the 1980s.

It should come as no shock that Jenelle Evans of “16 and Pregnant” gave birth to son Jace Vahn when she was sixteen. Last year, she had another son and named him Kaiser Orion.

Kaiser joins Banjo (Rachel Griffiths); Kal-El (Nicolas Cage); Bodhi Ransom (Megan Fox and Brian Austin Green); Kase Townes (Jewel and Ty Murray); Meredith Daniel (Jay Mohr), Sundance (Kerri Walsh); Bear Blaze (Kate Winslet); Bear Blu (Alicia Silverstone); Axl Jack (Fergie); Kroy (Kim Zolciak); Zolten (Jillette again); Brooklyn, Romeo and Cruz (Beckham again).

Double Winners

Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon occupy a category unto themselves: first-timers guilty of multiple offenses after the birth of their twins. They named their girl Monroe after Mariah’s idol, Marilyn Monroe. What inspired them to name their son Moroccan? He’s named after the décor in one of Mariah’s favorite rooms of her $9 million penthouse in New York.

It gets weirder. Cannon bragged that Mariah insisted her Madison Square Garden performance of Fantasy be played during labor, so the twins emerged to the sound of applause.

The Stupid Baby Name Award goes to…

Jeremy Sisto and Addie Layne, who named their daughter Charlie-Ballerina in 2009. They wanted to call her Charlie Kyd, but David Duchovny had already used Kyd for his son. So when their son was born in 2012, they named him Bastian Kick. They reasoned that Kick was close to Kyd and, according to Sisto, “He felt like a ‘B’ somehow … and we went for the B’s,” What, he didn’t deserve a hyphen?

Congratulations,  Moms and Dads! You suck. Luckily, you can afford the therapy your children will require for the Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder they will experience after suffering through their childhoods saddled with names so stupid, fruit flies would kill themselves to avoid a lifetime of embarrassment…and they only live a few weeks.

Kids, you can change your name! If you want to mess with your parents’ heads, switch to something even crazier. May we suggest Glyph, Magma, Subvert, Irony, Periodic Table or ellemenopee?

More crazy names:
Stupid Baby Names Generator, or Zuma Nesta Rock Paper Scissors: Home Edition
Stupid Baby Names, Part Duh
Still More Stupid Baby Names

Copyright Magick Sandwich