The Female Beast

Not one to shy away from controversial remarks, I'm just gonna say this and stand by it forever. Or until someone deconstructs my argument on every level in a logical and biting critique. Or until someone just tells me I'm full of crap. With conviction. You heard it here first folks: women are animals.

Now ladies, ladies, ladies - don't get your panties in a twist. I am a female. Surely this means I can get away with statements like this right? I'm one of you! I care! I was prompted to make this call recently when a male friend asked me the age old question:


Guy: What, oh wise Karen Fantana, what is it that women really want?
Me: What do women want? I'll tell you what women want. And you're gonna like this.
Guy: I hope women don't just want us to listen to them because I'm going to the cinema in 5 and I can't listen to your crap for long.
Me: Shut it. Women want only one of two things. 1) To be touched and 2) To be fed.
Guy: So, women are like dogs? A good scratch and a good feed?



Okay so we're not like dogs. That would be quite offensive. It's a little more sophisticated than that, but we are animalistic. Seriously try touching your girlfriend by stroking her hair, rubbing her feet or her shoulders. If you are living in the Appalacian mountains and your girlfriend is a dog then I'm not sure why you're still reading. If you're testing a human woman then I promise you will get an instant result of gratification and deep love.

If you don't get this result and find she does not in fact want to be touched then try feeding her. You can take her out (Olive Garden, the Outback Steakhouse or any 'eatery' on an industrial estate are off the menu) BUT it works better if you go into the kitchen and 'whip' something up. Like chocolate fondue. Or anything with melted cheese on it. She will be in the palm of your hand and her heart will be yours.

So to review: it's touch or food. It's that simple.

This little admission struck a chord with my male friend. "You're so right!" he tells me, "because when I was managing a strip club in Spain I would come in with lollipops once every week and the girls would go wild over them and me! They loved it!"

Me: See? What did I tell you. If you can't touch (they are strippers after all) then feed.
Guy: Wait. Maybe this just means that strippers just want lollipops. Not that women just want to be touched or fed.
Me: Maybe so, maybe so. But if a lollipop falls in a strip club and the base is pumping so no one hears it, does it really make a sound?
Guy: What the hell are you talking about?
Me: Dunno. I'm full of crap to be honest.
Guy: True dat. You wanna hit the Olive Garden and catch a late movie?

Karen Fantana

Ze Feelings

Face it. You've lost that lovin' feeling.

Okay when I say you, I mean me. But I say it in the hopes that someone out there feels the same way I do too. Jesus, what am I, penning a pop song?

Let's get back to what I like to call "the feelings." The Feelings (TM) are not the foreign impulses that overcome you when you decide to opt out of running over that kitten/squirrel/handicapper. No, "the feelings" are pre-pubescent-reminiscent (and okay for me, also very post-pubescent) sexual tinglings. And I might as well point out right now that if you are experiencing sexual tinglings by running over kittens or "cappers" then you've got much bigger problems than wasting time reading my blog.

I was reminded of "the feelings" because I recently experienced them as an adult, and were brought on not by watching Laybrinyth for the 45th time, NO, they were brought on by a real live boy. When, who was the last thing that gave you The Feelies?

For me, one or a combination of the following things gave me "the feelings" (and the beauty about my list is that it will be so different from yours, and no one can or should have to explain why weird things give them the feelings. Unless again it's kittens. Then you do have some essssplaining to do):

1) The movie Labyrinth - Bowie. In tights. With make-up. I think a simple ? sums that one up.

2) Kittens - JUST JOKING!! Hahahahhahaha.

3) The book Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret - Are you there Mom? Dad? Seriously, don't come in right now. I'M READING. Leave me alone!!!!

4) Austin Powers - Don't get it either. Could be the Brit Teeth.

5) Yule Brynner in The Ten Commandments. Combination of things at work here. The sandals + an open skirt + neato braid coming out the top of this bald tanned head. Dunno. Works.

6) The green man on crossing lights. I don't feel like I can or ever will be able to explain this, but let me tell you, navigating my way through a modern city is fu-un.

The Feelings (TM). They come from many un-expected people and places. When you get that lovin' feelin' back, embrace it people.

PS - Seriously, did you believe No. 6? Jeesh. Check yourself.

Karen Fantana

Flarting With Disaster

No, that's not a typo Captain Pedantic. I have finally come up with a verb for the way I engage with the male species. I'm a terrible flirt. And I don't mean that I flirt more than is necessary. What I mean is I SUCK at flirting. See I don't flirt, I flart.

Def: FLART: - 1) The act of mangling words, distorting your face, putting your foot so far down your big gob you're eatin' knee, cracking lame jokes, calling attention to random sweat patches that have appeared on your person in an attempt to attract the opposite sex.
2) a.k.a. Flirting gone wrong.

I wouldn't be worrying about my shortcomings in this area, however as the years roll on I wonder, "Am I actually getting worse at this? Could I possibly be screwing up the first step in attracting el Mano, thus never getting the date, thus never having a relationship, thus never getting married, thus being resigned to eating single cheese slices and watching the movie SINLGES (oh the Alanis Morrisette Irony of it all), SINGLE-Y for the rest of my life?

If you think I'm over-reacting, here is a snippet of recent flarting:

BOY: Well this weather sure is getting a little crazy huh?

ME: I studied piano at a Japanese music school for ten years.

BOY: Oh right...wow, that's uh, that's impressive.

ME: Yes I'm very good.

BOY: I don't doubt that. So this weather....

ME: I tan well.

BOY: Oh that's nice. I don't tan so well, I'm British. Ha ha ha.

Me: I do.


Aaaaaaaaaannd I don't really need to finish that conversation do I? DO I? Do you want me to finish that or are you adequately embarrassed for me, and almost mildy embarrassed yourself?

I take comfort in believing that flarting in front of men is a common condition. I pray one day another woman will tell me that she too has flarted many times. But dear god, once the flart is out there, boy does the stink linger. You've really got to do something spectacular and / or slutty to recover from these episodes. And no, I don't know what I was thinking when I was speaking. I appear to be making some random statements of fact in order to impress. Because having a handle on Japanese music techniques and having good pigmentation and solar tolerance is important to men.

I can still smell my own rotten verbal stench. Fack.

Karen Fantana

The Gripes Of Wrath

Never one to be irreverant and 'of my time' I'm only just catching onto the multifarious mantras of the eighties. Like 'Beat It!' Boy did I have great night in last night.

Or 'Girls just wanna have fun'. Good god, we DO! I've operating under the assumption that 'Girls just wanna have an ok time.' Life is looking up people.

Okay, so I'm embracing eighties 'live it up mentality' but there's still some things in this world bothering me. Important things. And in hommage to a great band of the eighties I must shout, shout and let it all out. For these are the things I can do without. I give you THE GRIPES OF WRATH (yes that clever second reference to another genius band of the eighties took me all morning. But it is killer non?).

You'll be glad to know that THE GRIPES is going to be a continuing thing (there's a lot of shit we can do without people) so I'm starting off with food related type things. Now to get to the most pressing issues of the day... I'm really sorry to get political on yer ass, it's been a while:

1) THE FAKE GRASS IN SUSHI SETS. Can we stop with this now? Does this add any aesthetic value whatsoever? And it doesn't even resemble grass. Have you ever caught anyone pick out that green plastic fence and go "Oh my God, I can't believe that's NOT grass!! HAHAHAHA. I'm so stupid.'"
Am I to believe the Japanese can't craft something a little more authentic? Hello Miyagi. This surely is a travesty.
Lastly, the faux grass is cutting my fingers to shit.

"Would you like some soy with your sushi?"

"Uh no thanks. I think my gushing flesh wound should salt this bitch up quite nicely."


2) PRODUCT RANGE DIVERSIFICATION. Especially in confectionary. Please, just stop. If you ever meet anyone at a party who tells you they're in product development, bitch slap them straight accross their shiny and freshly micro-dermal abraised face ASAP.
Give yourself a Kit Kat, give yourself a break you say? A Kit Kat AND a break I say? Well that sounds mighty nice. Maybe I would if I could find said original Kit Kat. 'Cause all I'm seeing is fuckin' Grandaddy Monster Size Kit Kat-o-Mint Jelly Bitch Bites. TM.
I don't see no original Kit Kat red. So screw you, confectionary industry.


3) WAITERS WHO INSIST I TRY THE CHEAP ASS HOUSE WINE BEFORE THEY POUR. There is nothing, nothing more depressing than acting posh when you're fucking poor. This is a perfect example. Can anyone out there pinpoint exactly when the service industry adopted this pointless excercise? My elbows are sticking to the laminated checkered table cloth, I'm probably pissed already - why do I want to taste what we all know is the most low rent alcoholic beverage in the joint? If you went into the storage and room and emptied out a bottle of vinegar and ketchup and mixed it up I would probably give you the same reaction. And now all my friends are staring at me awkwardly to see what face I could possibly come up with that would adequately describe the piss they are about to imbibe.
Waiter, I really can do without this.


Yeah so there's only 3 food related gripes I need to get off my chest right now. But trust me, there's more where that came from. What, oh children of the 80's (or any decade really), can YOU do without?

Karen Fantana

What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor?

In my humble opinion, the answer to this question posed in the classic English sea shanty was never quite satisfactory to me. If you're not a seventeenth century explorer or pirate and haven't heard this little diddy, here are a few of the suggestions for dealing with drunk blokes in the song:

1. Shave his belly with a rusty razor
2. Put him in bed with the captain's daughter
3. Put him in the long boat till he's sober


Shaving your bedmate's belly with a rusty razor is just well, mean. I do however understand why a gal might feel like getting back at her man when he is too pissed to do his duties. But gangreen ain't gonna help anybody.

And I doubt many of us ladies own a long boat or know any sea captains. So what is a gal to do when her man is pissed and flacid? Sorry - I hate to use the word flacid so willy nilly but that's what I mean. For once.

I've taken it upon myself to suggest a few fun activities when your man is flacid. See, I did it again.

1) You may want to take this time to sit on his face. Just puttin' it out there.

2) It is a perfect opportunity to ask him to 'define the relationship'. Seriously, men love that question.

3) Give him an ultimatum (men love these too): get it up, or get out. Men can also get it up when under immense pressure.

4) Pillow fight! Then ask him if he finds your best friend attractive.

5) Shave his belly with a rusty razor. Shit, that actually is a good idea. The man was selfish and put beer before you and sex. He is stupid and deserves gangreen.

Karen Fantana

Every Time A Bell Rings

If you haven't already purchased a goat from Oxfam to bestow on a needy third-worlder this Christmas, you needn't worry. You still have time to do your bit for society this year. If you are in an unsatisfying, dead-end relationship, well Christmas has come early for you my friend. Because the Yule Tide season is arguably THE best time to break-up with a loved one.

How is that giving back you ask? Well think about it. You'll be freeing up thousands of lawyers' billable hours to do more worthy work (insert guffaw here) in four years time, not to mention saving yourself hundreds of thousands of dollars and putting less strain on the mental health industry when you seek help as you feel yourself being nagged into an early grave.

I digress - this was supposed to be a hap-happy Christmas themed post. Okay, so breaking up is hard at the worst of times, but doing it now can save you a lot of aggrovation and hardship. Here's why EX-MAS is the most wonderful time of year to break up:

1) Like good rational beings we turn to the drink to get us through the 'merriment.' When you cut the cord, there will be dozens of office parties, wine 'n cheese 'dos, egg-nog chugging fests for your loved one to drown their sorrows.

2) And this really is an extension of no. 1, with so many Christmas parties going on, your partner is bound to find solace in the arms of another drunken reveller in no time. And once they've had break-up sex but only because they were hammered and missing you, well it's too late. The deal has been sealed. What a gift.

3) Stating the obvious - breaking up = one less chump on your Christmas gift list. Actually I would keep their name on there with the words "cold hard curb" next to it as gift just for shits and giggles. And to keep you motivated.

4) Family is everywhere this time of year. You can't escape them. Perfect for them, bad for you. Can you stand the thought of sitting through another 'Aunty May's Annual 108th Thing I Can Make With Cremated Ham' buffet? Didn't think so.

5) Speaking of ham, we all know women like to eat through the pain. Cut your missus out of your life and send her packing with the six pound fruitcake you just got from Aunty May. Kills two birds with one stone.

There's five good reasons to do some bad-good this season. If you were thinking of waiting until New Years Eve to do the business, well I applaud you. Not many people can pull of the 24-style countdown break-up. But if you want to make it easier on yourself, start the clock ticking right now.

Karen Fantana

Talk To The Hand

Recently after performing on a stage, attempting 'comedy', I asked a couple of male buddies in the class for some feedback. Feeback was thus:

"Can't tell you much dude, didn't hear a word you said as I was staring at your erect nipples the whole time."

Now whilst I didn't appreciate the objectification (well maybe a little bit), I did appreciate the frank discussion that followed. Ladies this just in, but apparently men (and by men I mean a whole sample of two of them in my pub) are concerned when nipples aren't in their erect state. Conversation was thus:

Boy 1: It really puts me off when ladies' nipples go flacid.
Boy 2: Yeah man. I worried I'm not doing my job when even the nipples lose interest.
Girl 1: Boys, boys boys. You needn't worry. Nipple erectness is not an adequate indicator of sexual pleasure. It could merely mean it's a warm room.
Universe: I am going to implode right now as you have just blown wide open everything I thought I knew about, well, me.


First of all, and not to sound too Seinfeldian, but what's the deal with men and nipples? Correct me if I'm wrong ladies, but unless you have weirdy ones, we don't really focus on that area of our bodies. There's no maintenance involved with them, you can't do much with them (milking and sustaining another human being's life aside) and here's the shocker of all shockers guys: they aren't in fact that sensitive. Yes it is true they can detect subtle changes in temperature (and for some women, seismic changes in the earth's mantle core) however, I'll say it again: nipples aren't that sensitive. Insult 'em. Call 'em names (insert nipple joke here). They don't care.

What's more, most women could care less about what you're doing with them. It's what's goin' on down south that counts. You are unlikely to ever hear the following converstation between women:

Girl 1: So how was last night with Mr. X?
Girl 2: Well he had a terribly small penis and the sex was disasterous but that's okay because his attention to my nipples was outstanding!
Girl 1: Lucky you!
Girl 2: Indeed.


A lot of women (myself included) also find to much nip action annoying, and sometimes rather unsettling. Looking down seeing a grown man suckling at your teat is waaaaaaay to maternal and baryard-like an image when you're gettin' it on. And no woman wants to feel like a heffer when she's gettin' it on.

I'm a little concerned with the prediliction men have for the nip these days. When once cunnilingus used to be the badge of pride amonst men, now it seems it's the poor cousin to her two ugly stepsisters. And I'm not talking high school grope action. I'm talking suckling of teat. Step away from the nips right now.

Do us a favour. Remember those two long limbs attached to your upper body? See those two funny looking paddles with what looks like five fingers attached? Those are your hands. Reacquaint yourselves with them, and gently, GENTLY place them on the woman's body. And detach your mouth from the nipps for a second. If you really feel the need to use it grab a beer. Cause we're outta here.