I enjoy shopping online for clothes because I can find awesome pieces, like the mid-century, blue velvet cocktail dress that I will never actually wear but will loyally store in my closet until I die.

Shopping online can be a gamble when it comes to finding a good fit. Buying pants and shoes is high risk. Potentially disappointing. Like the high-waisted jeans I bought with a 29" waist that turned out to be a European brand that fit like a 25" waist. I can't remember ever having a 25" waist. Eat some trans fat, you pompous Europeans.

Those who have history with me know that I am a vintage whore. However, times have changed. At one time the biggest challenge in finding good vintage was sizing and dodging deodorant stains from 1963. Now good vintage is difficult to find, and when found, is expensive.

Online shopping has offered vintage inspired throw backs for those of us who live in fashion-less, butt fuck nowhere. Pinup Girl Clothing is one that sells mid-century inspired rockabilly and pinup digs, including the brand Dixie Fried, which I have been a fan of since my early university years.

Let's recap the necessary steps required in successful, online clothes shopping:

1. Finding items that will flatter one's shape/ body type for maximum hotness. And to avoid being surprised by Stacey and Clinton from What Not to Wear at one's place of work.

2. Sizing. Knowing how a specific brand fits (see my European, high-waisted jeans example).

3. Gauging how the item will fit based on it's cut and/or how it fits the model wearing it.

Here's my beef. You knew it was coming because I am always complaining about something.

So, Pinup Girl Clothing. Love it. But seriously, guys, do you have to limit your online catalog to predominantly models with DD or F cup breast implants? I understand that pinup culture is all about curves, which is refreshing among the anorexic, celebrity crack whore culture than constantly bombards us. But fuck. I am at your website to buy clothes, not twiddle my twat while having lesbian fantasies about over exaggerated, female prototypes carved by a plastic surgeon. That's why God created porn.

I apologize to my mother for that last comment.

It would be awesome if women's clothing brands would actually market to the buying needs of the average woman. You know, their demographic. How am I supposed to look at an article of clothing and visualize how it would look on my figure when it's being modelled by a figure that has endured extreme plastic surgery? This is about buying clothes, isn't it? ISN'T IT? Victoria's Secret is another culprit. Okay, Victoria's Secret is THEE culprit. The brand is more known for their genetically mutated and/or surgically altered models than their actual product. How retarded are we as consumers?

All I am saying is that I want to buy your shit, Pinup Girl Clothing, but you're increasing the gamble of my purchase.

Like many others, I can appreciate a pair of nicely sculpted boobie implants, all perky and perfect-like, staring up at the sky like they're answering to God. However, I am getting tired of the increasing commonality of them and the seemingly compounding notion that beautiful breasts are breasts that are fake. It's scary to think that our cultural beauty standards have reached such a level of artificiality that supreme beauty equals plastic surgery. If I ever have a daughter, I feel so bad for her.

My arch enemy (yes, Megan Fox), embodies everything I hate about modern beauty ideals. It's common knowledge through people in the film industry that she has no soul, but who cares, right? SHE'S HOT! That deserved two T's for stupidity. I mean, SHE'S HOTT! She's a woman who has been sliced and diced to perfection, and we're in awe of this-- not natural beauty, but surgical perfection; paying to be cut, broken, stitched, and bandaged with gauze to absorb the ooze from our seeping wounds. Molded into an ideal. We're such sheep. I also dislike the fact that her surgical enhancements highlight the part of the male brain that has the depth of a retarded dog. The part of the male brain that I try my best to ignore. 'Cause I have sex with men, and I am trying really, r-e-a-l-l-y hard to respect them.

My homie, Laura, is titillated by the prospect of someday getting breast implants. Of course I am all like, "no, buttercup sunshine, don't do it." But, like many, she doesn't like her boobies, and consequently they sit high on her insecurity list, a list that most of us women carry around on our backs like 200lbs babies, the kind of babies who live off a diet of Doritos and corn dogs and then get taken on the Maury Povich show by their formerly meth addicted mothers. But if Laura eventually does get breast implants, I will care for her all the same. I will, however, give her the nick name "Boobies". And when she wins the pageant for Hottest MILF in Alberta, I will be her manager and PR representative. Yes, I, too, will find a way to bank off her boobies. No, I am not that aversive to hypocrisy.

Whether you're for boobie implants, or not for boobie implants, or even if you're apathetic about boobie implants, lets take a moment of silence to honor what God gave us, a dying, natural art form: natural breasts.

A hologram of an asymmetrical, imperfect, natural beauty printed on my (new) AWESOME vintage match book.

Moment of silence starts now!