Breaking Belly Button News


(December 31, 2012, from Mr Lady Torso Cheif @Schadenfreudette) Images from the scene have started to come in and they are indeed as disturbing as we had feared.  (Warning: these images are of a graphic nature and may not be appropriate for sensitive readers.)

After a busy day of speculation across multiple social media channels, Mr Lady retrieved the object pictured above from the Belly Button.  A resounding "WTF IS THAT?" was heard 'round the internet as theories once thought ridiculous, now seem completely plausible.  "When I first saw the pictures, I thought it was some sort of bug," said Schadenfreudette in between gagging noises. "But clearly it must be some sort of alien antenna. We've got people working on it now."

Mr Lady insists that the object actually appears to be an intact set of stitches, but was unable to explain where they might have come from. There is a remote possibility that Developer has launched a nanotechnology initiative to reconnect the umbilicus.  Mr Lady Worldwide Torso PR is standing by the theory of imminent alien eruption, as it is the more favorable of either scenario.

The internet is welcoming the tiny alien being with open arms, though the yet unnamed life form is trying to keep a low profile.  It has been spotted out and about disguised as Axl Rose and in the company of its pterodactyl posse.  It is also in talks to record a song with R Kelly entitled "Trapped in the Navel while Trapped in the Closet."

 3of3 has provided this illustration of her new "puppy-kitty-sister-brother!!!" and we hope to have a family picture soon.  

Reluctant to comment is Jim Lin, saying only "As long as that's the only orifice excreting alien/stich/nano things, I'm cool. But I'd rather not think about it too much right now."

It is expected that the "alien/stitch/nano thing" will have it's own Twitter account soon. This effort might be led by the team responsible for Bubble Yum Wind Tunnel.  We'll bring you updates as they become available.



Ninth Circle of Hell, AZ – (December 30, 2012) – In what can only be described as a definitive - yet gruesome - display of its true feelings, Mr Lady’s Belly Button spewed forth a significant amount of blood in the early morning hours.  The Belly Button was initially established over 30 years ago as an umbilical cord delivering vital nutrients directly from the original developer of the project, Mr Lady's mother.  The umbilicus was severed soon following completion and delivery,  and the figurative umbilicus was severed approximately 16 years later.  This recent development is widely regarded as a final "FUCK YOU" to the developer, as it was the closest portal by which they were connected, though there is still much speculation.  Until an official cause is released, rumors persist of an imminent alien eruption or the regrowth of Mr Lady's Uterus.  (Uterus could not be reached for comment, but was last seen on the Sarah Lawrence campus, double majoring in Public Policy and Women's Studies with a minor in Drum Circle Leadership.)  We are still awaiting photos from the scene, but witnesses describe it as "totally weird" and "a little unsexy, but just flip over."   

When asked about the possibility of reconstruction efforts, Jim Lin (Ladyparts Liaison and General Manager) was reluctant to confirm details. "The work done in 2010 was really fantastic, but this is a completely different orifice.  If we aren't careful, we'll have lint coming at us like ninja stars and that's not safe for any one."

We'll keep you updated as reports come in from the field.  If you have news regarding this breaking story, please contact Schadenfreudette with Mr Lady Worldwide Torso PR (Formerly "Mr Lady Reproductive Public Relations")


Related News:

Lights Out for Legendary Venue, Mr Lady's Uterus
The last photograph we tried to publish of my post-surgery belly button/demon 
Liz B totally called this demon thing, BTW.   

And then something came out:

That is cloaked in anonymity
But might be a satyr 
Or a sweet belly button demon of mine

And then we made a Pinterest board for it: 

Two Weeks, Four Days and Counting

My Christmas tree is not yet up. The only candies in the Advent calendars are the ones my kids found in them from last year. Which, how does that happen? I have yet to buy one Christmas present for any of the onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten people I have to shop for.

I have, however, managed to launch two strategic strikes in the Wish War. Priorities, I haz them.

I'm hosting the Houston Blogher holiday meetup on Saturday at my house (please, for the love of god, come) and my mother in law arrives here on Christmas Eve. And luckily for me, the day before my six week checkup when my hoo-haa doctor was supposed to clear me for normal activity which includes, but is not limited to, vacuuming, steaming the carpets, putting the large dishes away, lifting big ol' cars and big bails of hay* and test driving the new equipment, I got an infection in my throat the likes of which left me huddled in the fetal position at urgent care for 2 1/2 hours, which leads me to believe that they and I share different opinions on the meanings of both Urgent and Care, to eventually get one antibiotic shot and one injection of steroids in my fat, white ass, which was almost more painful to bare in front of the 5'2", 23 year old never had a baby or a birthday cake nurse than the shots were or the infection was. Almost.

And now I am back on a series of drugs that, though don't make me crack whore space cadet like the narcotics did, do interesting and colorful things to my intestines and their natural ability to regulate themselves. Which, I suppose, makes it a blessing that I just got some brand new intestines to go with the new cervix and vagina and perineum and labia, I guess. Everything has a silver lining.

Even better? My daughter has the same infection, but lacks the ability to willing take medication or wipe her own ass.

I guess my point is that I am simply not ready for Christmas. And that all I really want is a case of Purell and some Lysol.

*If you don't know where that comes from, well, I just weep for your childhood.

Of Eggs and PR People

In the eight weeks from when I first found out I was going to have all of this surgery, I did what I'd say was a remarkable job of avoiding Dr Google. I considered my situation a need to know basis, and I didn't. I needed to show up. I'm great at showing up.What I'm not great as is understanding basic human anatomy, so when they doctor told me I was having a Total Hysterectomy, but keeping my ovaries, I was a little confused.

I had my marching orders in hand from the doctor and the admissions people at the hospital and they all said Total Hysterectomy with blah blah blah other procedures and I was confused because I assumed that meant Uterus and Ovaries because who gives a shit about the Cervix and that is why I have tree unplanned children. As it turns out, your ovaries aren't actually attached to your uterus and don't count as part of it. Your cervix totally does. And some people get to keep their cervix. I am not some people.

Anyway, it's been three weeks since my surgery and four weeks since my last period and that means that I, right now, am having my first un-period. I actually prepared for this. By searching Google. Because I'm an idiot. I just couldn't fathom what my ovaries would do if there wasn't a uterus dangling near-by them and everyone in Googleville told me that I probably wouldn't have much in the way of PMS anymore since my eggs had no place to go but it turns out that my eggs don't dig the whole "unrequited" thing and have gone on the offense.

That is to say that, for the first time since my first period on October  8th, 1988, I have raging, evil, inexplicable PMS. How do I know this? Exhibit A:

PMS Striketh

Exhibit B: My Sent Email box.

I've been blogging for five years and 10 months. I get my fair share of email pitches, and most of them are bad, but I've never really care too much about them even though it's like the new rite of passage in blogging to publicly commiserate with your peers about the audacity of your PR pitches. This has always screamed to me of bragging, like, OhMyGod, Becky, I really need you to know you will never believe how many people didn't realize I was too good for them today harumph. Until I got some PMS. And now I get it. No my head is exploding every time I open my email.

PR people are seriously emailing bloggers and saying 'Hi, I work for this random obscure company you've never heard of. Please send all of your analytic information from the past six months to random at email address dot com'. REALLY. And that's it.

They want to 'suggest' articles for us to write or 'guest post' for us on our blog so that they can get uncompensated advertising on our blogs? Really? Ask the Wall Street Journal to link to you for free, I double dog dare you. No, I don't think my blog is the Wall Street Journal but if you think I write 'articles' and am in the habit of ''publishing' press releases, you clearly think I am.

Someone asked me to post pictures of their clothing in exchange for a VIP link to their website. Like, is there a line to get it? Do I have to get a boob job and extensions to order your clothes? Do I get an double pour of Hennessey in my snifter if I enter your site through the VIP link?

A PR person for a brand new mommy blogging toy review company thing who has zero experience in PR and less in grammar asked me what I charged for my email list. I will not only not sell you my email list, because A) I value my readers and B) it's fucking ILLEGAL, I will flag your name and the name of the site you're working for and the second I get a commerical message from you, I'll know you bought someone's list and I'll report your ass to canspam because guess what? I do email marketing for a living.

And the thing is, since my ovaries have no where left to funnel their rage anymore, I need a new outlet - which has come down to gorging on cheeseburger or replying to these people. I've chosen the latter, with my ad rates. Or advice. Which, oddly enough, really effectively shuts people up because I think a good many of these PR people have gotten the Public and the Media parts down, but they seem to have forgotten that Public Relations contains the world Relations. Social Media contains the word Social.

But not all of them.

Companies like Chevy get that we're people and we like to be treated like people. The fact that I can meet the regional PR rep for lunch and just have lunch speaks volumes about the character of the company. The fact that I've asked them for way more than they've asked me for, that they took the time to read the words on my blog before they emailed me tells me that they're in this for the relations and it makes me want to work with them.

Companies like Kenmore rebrand and rebuild themselves based on the the input of normal old people. They asked people to describe their company in a word, turned those into word clouds, and based their new product line on the results...from the font up.

I'm a sucka for a cool director's chair.

I found it fascinating and refreshing to see how, at every level, this major corporation was hearing people, rather than trying to make them listen. They're tapping into local media with their Kenmore Live Studios and Social Media with the funniest PR person the world has ever known and treating bloggers like people and professionals and actually paying them for insane things like their TIME and OPINIONS and all the while delivering a solid product that my kids could use to play hide and seek.

Big enough for 100 sodas or one kid

That's, like, the perfect storm of marketing and I suddenly wish my house wasn't top to bottom Whirlpool because I totally want to put my money behind the company that is putting their money behind customer relations.

Companies like XBox seem to understand that if I'm on Twitter asking my friends if Santa should bring an XBox 360 or a PS3 and one of your paid spammers replies to me with a link that looks legit but really isn't, I'm going to hate you. But if you reply to me even though I wasn't talking to you and you say actual human things and are actually humanly helpful over the course of 30 minutes, I'm going to buy your product simply because you as a company are willing to invest in your relationships with consumers.

But of course I screwed myself because I decided to buy the damn Xbox right when Burger Kind decided to have their "we're giving away an Xbox every 15 minutes" thing and my kids so I took them to try and win one, which cost me $30 and an hour of my life I will never get back. Also, their dreams are crushed. Thankfully, Christmas morning should see that mended and see my without another pedicure for two years. Such is the price we pay for childhood whimsy.

But to say thank you to Xbox for the good service and Burger King for the burgers with mayo, I'm giving away 20 $10 gift cards to Burger King so you can try to win your kids and XBox Kinect, too. The whole giveaway they're doing ends on the 28th, so we have to do this fast. I'll draw 20 winners on Sunday so we can mail the gift cards out on Monday. If we don't get them there in time, go here. You can get 6 free codes online to enter, but you don't get a Whopper with that.

And really, I just want the Whopper. With extra mayo and tomatoes.  More than I've ever wanted anything in my whole life. Is this really what PMS is going to be like for the next 30 years?

Bigger. Stronger. Faster. Pussycat.

Imagine you have a house. A normal ol' run-of-the-mill, not too big, white picket fence, American dream on a budget house. Inside that house is a load-bearing wall, a support beam that holds everything up that should be up, so that everything to the side can stay aside. This is a very important wall, we all know. Now imagine that in a very short course of time you put another house on top of your house, one that weighed the same as the original house, plus five pounds. Imagine you didn't add another load bearing wall.

Picture in your mind what that wall would start to do.

Now imagine that you rammed a Mac truck into that wall.

And then did it again, 23 months later to the day. And then once more 7 1/2 years later, for good measure.

Before the roof fell in and everything that was supposed to be up french kissed the basement, the walls would probably start to crumble. That fauz southwestern stucco facade you spent weeks carefully applying with sponges and brooms and 170 grit sandpaper and a shaman's blessing would have all but disintegrated before your eyes. The pipes in the wall might start to bend and twist and wrap around other pipes, ones the don't have any business touching. The wires might start to cross. Mere anarchy might just be loosed upon a world you couldn't even see, because it was all neatly hidden under a picture of your great grandmother Pearl.

But someday, you're going to want to hang a new picture. And then, friends, kaboom.

And that's exactly what happened to my chocha.

Anyone who follows me on Twitter with any amount of vigor will recall a conversation on April 23rd between myself and my two favorite dotcomrades, Two Busy and Adam P Knave, wherein we took it upon ourselves to scientifically analyze the feasibility and the moral, religion and socio-economical impact of turning my vagina into a potato radio. We're pretty sure that with the right mixture of Masingil, hardwiring and old fashioned elbow grease, it could be done. We're also pretty sure that Jesus hates it when you talk about making 7th grade science projects out of vaginas on Twitter, because as sure as the Pope wears a funny hat, here I sit 7 months later with a six million dollar vagina.

Sadly enough, I cannot get NPR on the damn thing. I blame the liberal elitist socialist agenda propaganda machine.

Your body has a wall, in between your evacuatory tract and your reproductive tract, and that wall helps you sneeze without peeing your pants and helps you poo out our booty and not your money-maker, and helps your internal organs stay way up where they belong, where the eagles fly on a mountain high. Your body does, mine didn't. Mine tore in half, all the way top to bottom clean in half, sometime between 1998 and now, no one's really sure which kid I get to saddle with the guilt of this for the rest of their life.

You will know this is happening to you when your OB asks you during a routine exam if you ever feel like things are falling, and you say yes, and then he asks you if he can stick his fingers up your bumm and poke around, and you say I'm going to owe you dinner after this, aren't I?* and then he looks up from between your legs and says, "Um, how old are you again?" and you say, "35?" and he says, "Huh, 'cause I can see Russia from your house."

When your OB can wave at himself through your vagina via your rectum, your house dun broke.

Needless to say, there was a good amount of reconstructive/plastic/biological transplanty surgery to be done in order to fix the Bubble Yum Wind Tunnel and its supporting cast. Everything from the public bone south had either torn completely in half (rectal-vaginal fascia), disintegrated (perineum, pelvic floor) dropped (uterus, bladder, Dow Jones Industrial Average) or had distended itself beyond function (labia, vaginal wall, rectal wall). All of that was repaired over the course of 5 hours, and they even took care of that whole pesky MY UTERUS IS ATTEMPTING TO KILL ME FROM THE INSIDE OUT thing I had going on, by yanking it out and suspending the tucked, tightened, pulled, yanked and shrunken vagina from the ligaments that once held Chez Mr Lady in place.

Post-op, my doctor told me "that whole thing (sweeping hand gesture around the source of my power and femininity)" was the single worst he'd ever seen on anyone, and he usually sees this only in women over 70. I told him he a way with women and it was amazing he was still single.

But then he told me that he'd given me the "hand-sweep again" I had when I was 16, and if I hadn't been completely annihilated on morphine I probably would have punched him in the throat because now I'm going to have to deal with a "hand-sweep" that is too emo to make any friends and can't even get a date to the prom and thinks that Extreme is, like, seriously, the GREATEST BAND ALIVE.

*True story. I am made of class.

Lights Out For Legendary Venue, Mr Lady's Uterus


Houston, Texas – (October 26, 2010) – Mr Lady’s Uterus, a renowned local hotspot, is closing its doors after a memorable history.  Founded on March 20, 1975, the Uterus remained an unknown until bursting onto the scene in the late-90’s when it launched the existence of 1of3.  Though it has been nearly thirteen years since those grungy days of flannel and angst, 1of3 still embodies that era and its sensibility.  “That was my first apartment.  I mean it’s not like I can go back, but I’ll still kind of miss it, ya know?” said 1of3.

Less sentimental was 2of3, who could not be reached for comment.  Though he emerged just two short years after 1of3, they don’t often play the same venues anymore.  “He tries to punch me in the face.  It’s not cool,” said 1of3.  The Uterus was dormant for a few years after 2of3, hosting only a local legend known as “Big Daddy” and of course the house band “IUD.”  But just five short years ago, 3of3 came on the scene, bringing new irreverence and joy.  “I’m a puppy!” she offered, when asked for comment.  Many will miss the historic hallowed halls of Mr Lady’s Uterus.  “That place was so fucking punk rock,” said Big Daddy.  “I rocked that joint so hard.  I helped make everything that came out of there.  It's the end of an era, man...”

Those feeling nostalgic for Mr Lady’s Uterus, will be please to know that although it will no longer be accepting new tenants (and will in fact be relocated to a nearby bio-hazard facility) visitors to the old site will be able to arrive via the newly refurbished Bionic Bubble Yum Windtunnel™.  Sound effects, wifi, a bottle opener and DVD/VCR combo are available options in the upgrade, but a full list of amenities has not been made available at press time.  Following the renovation, admittance to the Windtunnel™ will be strictly VIP, invitation only--- if admittance is even allowed at all.  Because seriously, the place will be pristine and we don’t need anything fucking it up.

For more information, please contact:
Mr Lady Reproductive Public Relations