Scanner : kansas city is in missouri dot com

Girls and Boys and Beer With Mustaches

Emily Farris — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 15:58:00 GMT

Friday night we broke free from the confines of our ginormous Midwestern apartment, took the first shower we'd had in days and ventured out to a place we were certain would be stocked with hairy men: a mustache contest hosted by the Ozanam Guild. We were really excited when we got asked to judge, but our excitement quickly faded when we realized we were wrong about the whole plethora of hairy men thing. However, we made a very important discovery: women in mustaches are sort-of hot.

Perhaps there is something in the Kansas City water that prevents men from growing facial hair:

This is the best the men of Kansas City could do. Four men competed in the "real" 'stache contest. The guy on the left won and the guy in the Adidas t-shirt got second place because this was his first 'stache and he was super excited about it. See that guy in the sweater? His facial hair may have been better than T-shirt Guy's but he said he was going to shave it as soon as he got home. Mustache FAIL:

While the mustachioed men had a weak showing, the women of Kansas City let all their hair hang out:

And the women who won rocked these sweet flavor savers:

And of course, we had to rock our own Scanner 'Stache:

Naturally, we suggested the Ozanam Guild have a beard competition next time.

Related:

Kansas City Scanners: Join Me for Some Friday Facial Hair Fun

Three More Days to Pledge in Support of Scanner Bryan's Sweet Sweet 'Stache

Does that Womb Broom Belong to a Porn Star or a Politician?

Today in WTF: An Omegle Love Connection?

Emily Farris — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 17:18:00 GMT

O, hai. Have we missed the point of Omegle, the site that lets you talk to strangers without even signing up? We thought it was to have a random chat with no strings, no worrying about what you say, no... nothing? But apparently, like every other aspect of our lives, we are still worse at finding love than everyone else on the planet. Or at least we're worse than this Chicago girl, who thinks she may have found her special someone on Omegle.

Oh, sweetie. We should probably tell you that your Kansas City boy is actually this guy:

[Craigslist]

Related:

It's A Slow News Day Because Everyone's Busy Playing With Omegle

Damn You, Ina Maier!

Scanner Highs and Lows: That Was Then and This is Now

My Deflowered Memoir Is Not So Flower-y

Emily Farris — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 16:11:00 GMT

I lost my virginity to my manager at Just For Feet ("The world's largest athletic shoe store!") two weeks before my 18th birthday in his apartment behind the bowling alley behind the mall. He was 23 and had just broken up with his fiance. It was less than spectacular.

That is the abridged version of my deflowering. If I were to tell you the longer vesion I might include the part where I left thinking "wasn't that supposed to hurt?"

If I were to write the longer version, I might also submit it to Deflowered Memoirs, a new website (and hopefully book) that shares women's stories of their first times.

Because I was sick with nerves, I wanted to treat him like a sex deliveryman who had come to quickly perform a service…to rid me of this stupid embarrassing leftover of babyhood. Then, he could be off to his next sad and pathetically old virgin client. Unfortunately, he wanted to eat before we got started. So, we went to the local Tasty Freeze, just like "Jack and Diane" of John Mellencamp's teen love anthem, which retrospectively seems ironically appropriate. Energized by burgers and fries, we headed back to my apartment, where I nervously attempted small talk. Thankfully, Mike grew impatient quickly. He clumsily lifted me mid-sentence, pushed me hard against the nearest wall, and shoved his tongue down my throat. "It's beginning" I thought with relief as he carried me to my room, threw me on the bed, disrobed me and deflowered me. There was no pain, no blood. I even had an orgasm thanks to his "cunning linguistics." About five minutes in to the experience I thought, “this is so not a big deal. What the fuck was I worried about?” Nevertheless, when it was over, I prayed for him to leave. I didn't want to be bothered with a post-coital intimacy that didn't exist. Thankfully, he did; and I quickly called Jackie to tell her all about the experience. Then, I made a list of other boys I wanted to "hang out" with now that the virginity monkey was off my back. But, before moving on to that list, I decided to travel north to Indianapolis to perfect my skills with Mike the following weekend…and the weekend after that, and the one after that…and then all hell broke loose...and I realized that perhaps sex wasn't as perfectly simple as I wanted it to be.

That's an excerpt from creator Abby Kincaid's memoir. But it sure does sound a lot like ours.

[Deflowered Memoirs]

Related:

When '2 Become 1' Becomes 25 Cents, or How I Didn't Lose My Virginity to the Music of the Spice Girls

Virginity Auction: Now How Much Would You Pay?

Your Frenemy's Christmas Gift: The Artifical Virginity Hymen

FOXNews Claims Jesus Will Guard Your Daughter's Vagina

When '2 Become 1' Becomes 25 Cents, or How I Didn't Lose My Virginity to the Music of the Spice Girls

Emily Farris — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 16:20:00 GMT

When I moved to New York eight-and-a-half years ago, I came in a U-Haul packed full of junk, including wicker furniture, a Laura Ashley bedspread and a milk crate of CDs that, at the time, I thought were pretty cool.

While the wicker furniture was put out on the street years ago, I haven't been able to part with the CDs. I have lugged that damn crate to eight different apartments because I couldn't bring myself to part with the music of my youth—which in retrospect mostly sucks, and not even in an ironic way (the first CD I ever purchased was the soundtrack to the Adams' Family Movie).

Now that I'm moving back to Missouri, however, and am determined to not be the girl I was determined not to be when I left, I decided it was finally time to let the music (and some muzak if we're being honest here) go. I figured the stoop sale I was having on Saturday was the perfect excuse.

As I put the Dixie Chicks, Master P (which I still like, but it's a little scratched up) and Wilson Phillips in the box labeled "The Most Embarrassing CD Collection Ever, $0.25–$2.00," I came across a loose, teal CD. It was "2 Become 1" by the Spice Girls. I started holding onto it when I was 15 or so, because I wanted to lose my virginity during that song... in a clean bedroom full of candles. I did not have a clean bedroom. Or a large collection of candles. And I sure as hell didn't lose my virginity to the tune of the Spice Girls.

I don't even think there was any music playing.

The short version of the story is that I lost my virginity to my manager at Just For Feet when I was 17. The less short version is that I lost my virginity to my manager at Just For Feet ("The world's largest athletic shoe store!") two weeks before my 18th birthday in his apartment behind the bowling alley behind the mall. He was 23 and had just broken up with his fiance. I really don't remember much more about it. It was less than spectacular.

That was a few months before I moved to New York. I held onto the CD thinking that sex had to be better than that—that someday 2 would become 1 and it would be spectacular.

Over the years I lost the case. The CD got moved a lot, never played.

Saturday I put it in the 25-cent box at the stoop sale. At the end of the day it was still there. I looked at the back. It was totally scratched up and even a little cracked. [Insert tortured metaphor here.]

I never realized that the Spice Girls are practically having sex with New York City in that video. Good thing I still have the CD and 12 days left in Brooklyn.

Related:

How Long Were You a "Technical Virgin?"

Sloppy Seconds: Guess Who Has a Brand New Vagina!

Scanner Roundtable: Purity Rings

China Says "Virgins Get Better Husbands"

Scanner Highs and Lows: Because We Have Nothing Better To Do on a Friday Night

Emily Farris — Sat, 22 Nov 2008 03:42:00 GMT

Yet again, we find ourselves grateful that the worst thing our mom ever did to us was show her boobs at our book party. Twice.

Highs:

We watched some sexy movies.

And discovered the greatest. move. ever.

We know what we're most thankful for this year. Mmmhmm.

We crushed a little on Borat's brother.

Could Barack and Michelle Obama be any fucking cuter? Ugh, probably.

OMG! Ashley Alexandra Dupre finally talked!

So did Pete Wentz. About those penis pictures.

We absolutely agreed with GQ's choice of Man of the Year.

Lows:

Yet again, we found ourselves grateful that our mom only showed her boobs (albeit twice) at our book party.

We got a glimpse of what life will be like in our new city.

If it wasn't Kansas City, it was going to be in Oregon.

We have officially reached the point where we'd rather eat (or fuck) a taco than fuck an actual man.

Apparently, girls really do have cooties.

Miley Cyrus. Just her. In general.

We continue to wonder why our cushion hasn't gotten us more pushin'.

We contested People's choice of sexiest man alive.

Kansas City Mayor Loves His Wife (Too Much?)

Emily Farris — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 17:19:00 GMT

The mayor of our former and future hometown of Kansas City, MO filed a lawsuit against the city after the City Council banished his wife from City Hall.

Mayor Mark Funkhouser (yes, his campaign ads included "We Want the Funk") says he works better with his wife by his side. And since she's been banned from City Hall, several days a week Funkhouser works from his three-bedroom house.

Is this a tale of true love or creepy codependency?

After Gloria Squitiro successfully ran her husband's mayoral campaign she took a desk nearest his office at City Hall. But after a former mayoral assistant filed a lawsuit that accused Ms. Squitiro, Mayor Funkhouser and the city of creating a "hostile work environment" the City Council passed an ordinance stipulating that elected officials could no longer have relatives working as volunteers in their offices on a regular basis, according to the Wall Street Journal.

"It is bizarre, in a word, for the mayor to sue his own city," says Ed Ford, a member of the city council. "He seems to be saying there's one overriding issue that I care about more than anything else, and that is my ability to spend time with my wife at City Hall."

"It's a classic love story," says Garry Cushinberry, a bank vice president who sat at the mayor's table at an awards dinner Nov. 14. "He's risking his political career for the woman he loves. You have to respect that."

While Funkhouser and his wife have made more than a few rookie mistakes, politically (and this seems to be one of them) we can't help but focus on "a Christmas letter the couple mailed last year to about 100 friends in which Ms. Squitiro described her husband's prostate exam, which she sat in on, at his doctor's office. The letter, excerpted on the Internet, got national publicity."

[WSJ: Kansas City Gives Mayor's Helpmate the Heave-Ho From City Hall]

Geography Lessons: Kansas City is in Missouri and So is Scanner Emily

Justin Timberlake Moves to NYC, We Leave

Get Up, Get Out and Do Something

Emily Farris — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 15:05:00 GMT

Here's the dilly-o: It's election day. I'm in Missouri. Do you think I'm really going to sit in front of my computer and write about Britney Spears' vagina and Pete Wentz's penis? Fuck no. I'm going to hit the pavement in my homestate (and possibly soon to be home) of Missouri for Obama. Scanner Brian has a live thread going, at least until the Secret Service detains him, and I'll try to call in a few updates from the ground in Missouri. Needless to say, Scanner is going to be Scanner lite today. But you're probably not even sitting in front of your computer. You're calling your friends in swing states, making sure they'll vote, or maybe you're watching porn on VHS or DVD to remind yourself of a time when we had a Democratic president.

Whatever you do, get off your ass and vote. And then find someone to have victory sex with.