Now, I don’t know about you, but I generally like my butterface underwear models to not look as if they are hiding a surgical scar beneath their cleverly located scarf. With a jaw line that looks like the sure marker of a Y chromosome lurking beneath a terrible dye job, I find myself left only with the feeling of dread that I’ll sprout an Adam’s apple and an inch of dark roots as I stand vulnerable in a pair of pink granny panties packaged inside. I understand that “high fashion” underwear companies don’t have a lot of money to hire Doutzen Kroes to make kitten eyes at the camera, but I don’t know a lot of women that aspire to ladyboy status.

Also, this creature appeared in a coworker’s noodle soup. She had already eaten half by the time the bugger floated, juice-drained and legs splayed, to the top of the whole soupy mess. The restaurant’s response: “We know that there’s cockroaches. What do you want us to do about it?” Oh, China.

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