Thanks to Dustin’s blessedly laissez-faire attitude about what constitutes real, serious journalism, Kristy, Agent X, and I have been able to blow your mind holes right open with our discussion of the sex lives of Harry Potter characters, Disney villains, and the Avengers. (And several Avengers-adjacent characters. We didn’t go for the entire MCU, because that’s a fuck-ton of people and we do actually have lives that don’t involve fictional characters fucking, but suffice to say the #1 supreme grand poobah fucker is Peggy Carter, forever and ever amen). It’s not random .com bullshit—it’s character analysis. All of us are open to discussion if any enterprising college that’s #hip with the #kidz wants to hire us to teach a class on the sexual proclivities of Thomas the Tank Engine characters.
Your latest Pajiba bump ‘n’ grind may just be the most cerebral one yet: BREAD. For some reason Kristy and Agent X Homer giffed away from this one, so to round out our discussion I’ve invited my therapist, Dr. Imelda von Pufnstuf. Hi, doc!
Dr. Pufnstuf: I want you to know that there are people in your life who love you and care about you.
Rebecca: Awesome! So, we’ve already discussed the intricacies of bagel-fucking in the Avengers post. What do you think the worst type of bread would be in the sack? I mean, white bread is obvious, but I also feel like sourdough wouldn’t be particularly respectful of your needs?
Dr. Pufnstuf: I was led to believe this was an emergency.
Rebecca: Cool, cool. I’m thinking rye might have some insecurity issues stemming from the fact that it is awful. Never a good recipe for sexual satisfaction.
Dr. Pufnstuf: Rebecca, why are you doing this?
Rebecca: You have a point… the fact that rye always felt like it had to work for whatever it has could be a positive under the right circumstances. That doesn’t necessarily make for the most inventive sexual experiences, but at least it won’t take any of its partners for granted—
Dr. Pufnstuf: —Rebecca, stop. I’m here to help you.
Rebecca: —unlike baguettes, which, ugh, fuck baguettes. I mean, not literally—it is vaguely the right shape for it, I guess, but crumbs up in your business do not a good time make.
Rebecca: With pitas, we’re looking at flat, dry… better than nothing, but still going through the motions, you know? Not necessarily worth the effort. Now you know and I know that focaccia gets fucking insane—like, damn. Not much of an emotional connection, but some Olympic-level stunts. And don’t get me started on panettone.
Dr. Pufnstuf: We’ve talked about your obsessive tendencies, Rebecca.
Rebecca: Brioche… eh. I feel like brioche talks a big game, but when it comes down to it there’s a lot of yeast and no rising, if you get my drift.
Dr. Pufnstuf: I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t.
Rebecca: Cornbread, more like pornbread.
Dr. Pufnstuf: I’m hanging up now. I can’t help you if you aren’t willing to help yourself. You have to make that choice.
Rebecca: What do you think about challah, though? Steady workhorse, GGG—but willing to branch out if its partner brings something to the table. To wit: challah french toast. Are you hungry?
Dr. Pufnstuf: …I am very much not hungry.
Rebecca: K cool, me neither. Now, communion waf—hello?
Rebecca’s not entirely as weird as this post would indicate, if you want to follow her on Twitter.