Something called Retro Space unearthed a 32-year-old Victoria’s Secret catalog which is NOTHING like the current incarnation, most notably because it features un-airbrushed women without overinflated lips and breast implants and twenty-five pounds of hair extensions. The Daily Mail says:

Unlike the marketing imagery we see today, the ’79 cast of models have uneven skin tones, slight love handles and even sagging breasts.

Muscle lines – which would normally be softened – are prominent, waists are not carved away, and tan lines, nipples and even pubic hair are visible.

It’s so nice to see a real woman. Today’s Angels look more like the cloners on Kamino than anything that could actually bear children. And that’s what it’s ultimately all about, isn’t it? It just never sounds as sexy when you frame it along the lines of the biological imperative.

Brooklyn Decker appears in GQ Turkey, and she looks good and all, but I would have hoped they opted to go with a Turkish theme and throw in a camel toe for good measure. Way to disappoint, GQ.

My recent foray into bitterness and crappy Moscato got me to thinking: how could I possibly make myself feel even worse today than I did yesterday, even though I’m out of wine and lighter fluid? And then I thought, “Oh, yeah! How about some pictures of an airbrushed-beyond-perfection lingerie model who’s ten years younger than me and the very manifestation of idealized and unattainable Western beauty?” Yep, that does the trick alright. Like my mom always said, if I’m going down, then I’m taking all you fuckers with me.

Candice Swanepoel in next month’s British GQ:

Esquire’s back to their usual secret gay agenda trickery by putting Sofia Vergara in a corset on the cover of next month’s issue and stamping the word “sex” in all caps directly over her hoo-ha, figuring it’s so over-the-top and in-your-face that your average heterosexual male will hardly even notice the tiny little words printed there in the bottom corner: “14% of married men say they have had sex with a guy.” They’re banking on you not noticing until you’ve already invested in a pair of driving moccasins and started sharting Astroglide. Trust.

Victoria’s Secret model Karolina Kurkova is so incredibly beautiful that you could almost forget she doesn’t have a belly button. Almost. There are two logical conclusions to draw regarding her mysterious lack of navel: 1) that her beauty was self-sustaining in utero, negating a need for a placenta and umbilical cord-assisted gestation; or 2) she was grown in a lab by an evil scientist who wants to take over the world by creating an army of supermodel assassins just like her. Yeah, my money’s on the second one, too.

According to the cover of next month’s Maxim, Jennifer Love Hewitt has a naughty secret! And that secret is clearly photoshop. P.S. it’s no fucking secret, either. We all know what you look like in real life.

The first ads for Bar Refeali’s new lingerie line Under Me are out, featuring the Victoria’s Secret model playing tennis in nothing but her bra and panties, and let me be the first to give them a big thumbs up. I always knew that clothes were really hampering my backhand, but nobody at my grandparents country club seemed to understand my lament. Mace is their answer to everything over there.

Let’s be honest — there’s really no point in me even typing words here. It’s not like you’re gonna be looking at anything other than Kelly Brook’s rack for the next fifteen minutes.

Photographer Kate Orne clearly knows that subtlety is for pussies. Just like condoms and seatbelts.

Thumbs 1-7 from the Kate Orne photoshoot; thumbs 8-15 from New Look Lingerie photoshoot:

I’d like to give Rihanna’s latest Armani ads a big thumbs up, but I can’t, on account of the cuffs and everything. I sure hope somebody’s writing an outraged letter to a Congressman or staging a protest on my behalf, because I wasn’t “charging toward Rihanna wielding a knife” — it was the Dagger of Heccabees forged by a coven of dwarf-witches long extinct — and I wasn’t trying to “stab” anybody, I was trying to harvest a lock of her hair with the Blade of the Dwarf-Witch Queen so I could properly cast a protective spell around her. Honestly, I don’t see what’s so hard about this.

You know what I can’t say no to? No, besides a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and a bottle of Wild Turkey. Boobs. I’m not even that particular if the girl is attractive, but today I lucked out with Behati Prinsloo being the bearer of the breasts. I’d say more about her, but now that I mentioned ice cream, I’m starting to get hungry.

All I know is I passed out in 2011, and when I woke up this morning, it was already three days into 2012. So Happy New Year, boys and girls! A fortune cookie I found under the seat of my aunt’s Chrysler LeBaron told me 2012 is supposedly the Year of the Dragon, which I know is just a secret code meaning “The Year the Chinese Finally Take Over the World.” Don’t worry, I’ve already started stock-piling weapons and I dug out a bomb shelter under the foundation of my aunt’s house, so when the Asian apocalypse is nigh, you can bet I’m gonna be the last white girl standing. That goes double for zombie attacks and alien invasions. Believe me, I’ve covered all my bases.

And when I get a chance to wallpaper inside my bunker, I’m gonna do it with these pics of Victoria’s Secret model Lily Aldridge: