Below the Belt

There are many things below my belt. However, I would be concerned if any of them were this color:


(spotting courtesy of Drisana)

Even if we are to take this name metaphorically rather than literally, I am still dubious. Below the belt: underhanded, dirty, not allowed. I can see traffic-light red, or corrupted-soul black, but all's-clear angelic white? I don't think so.

Then again, there are people out there who make an average of $1.79 an hour to determine the sex of baby chickens by squeezing out their feces to open their anal vents and look inside for tell-tale male bumps, while somebody got paid more than ten times that to come up with this name. Talk about below the belt.

I'm Not Really A Waitress

That's right, honey, you're a nail polish.



Oh, you mean the person wearing you? What is she? If this is her signature color, and her days are taken up by waitressing, I think I have a guess in mind. It starts with "p" and ends with (cover your eyes, young readers) "rostitute" or (OK, open your eyes now) "erson who doesn't have to stand on her feet all day to make a good living."

I assume this name is a nod to the stereotype of the would-be starlet who flies out to the Big City and, just until she gets her break, takes a job slinging burgers. (Do people in Los Angeles still eat burgers? She is probably slinging macrobiotic fiddlehead ferns. [Incidentally, Slingin' Fiddleheads is my new band name.]) Of course, when we check in on her in fifteen years, she's still there, calling the customers "sweetheart" and urging them to try a slice of the cherry pie (acai berry flan).

So, I guess my question here is: is that someone we really want to channel? I mean, maybe I'm just not fabulous enough, but rarely do I wake up in the morning and think, "Today I want to decrease my glamour quotient, you know, but I also want something that says 'I'm just not good enough for my dreams.' I wonder if any one product can fulfill both these needs. It can? And it also says 'I've abandoned my family and home for a shot at fame, but I'm stuck in a menial job while my rapidly fading looks make my chances of success ever more depressingly negligible'? Thanks, OPI!"

What's Dune?

What's Dune? What's DUNE?



By Liet-Kynes, OPI! You are going to find out in a hurry when a sandworm emerges to eat your melange trawler and you don't even have your riding hooks. Anyway, I better stop typing before the Butlerian Jihad finds me, but Shai-Hulud have mercy on your soul.

Don't Socra-Tease Me!

OPInterlocutor: Why have you left the Lyceum, Socrates? And what are you doing standing in front of the Sephora?

Socrates: Alcibiades got jealous when I was always hanging outside the gymnasium. But he doesn't seem to have a problem as long as I settle for teenage girls. What brings you here?

OPI: I am here to deliver a new nail polish shade.

Socrates: What is it called?

OPI: You will think me mad when I tell you.

Socrates: Is it a hideous color?

OPI: No...well, actually, yes. But that is not the reason. I have named it after you; it is called "Don't Socra-Tease Me!"



Socrates: ...Have you been sniffing hemlock?

OPI: Please, do you expect me to take advice on beauty products from someone whose idea of a well-put-together outfit includes gladiator sandals and a toga? Paris Hilton isn't hosting the Symposium tonight.

Socrates: When it comes to nail polish names, I know only that I know nothing. Will you enlighten me and tell me what makes a good nail polish name?

OPI: The best nail polish name, Socrates, is that which is beloved by the consumers.

Socrates: But is a nail polish name good because it is beloved by the consumers, OPI? Or is it beloved by the consumers because it is good?

OPI: You don't seem to understand how this industry works, Socrates. We have a few bowls of wine, toss an encyclopedia in the air, and throw a javelin at it. Whatever word it hits, we pay a slave boy to think of a word that sounds kind of like it and slap the name on the bottle. Give a few free samples to the disciples of Aphrodite, and bam! Suddenly they're lining up at the agora to tell you how witty your nail polish name is.

Socrates: Look, if you wanted to tell me you're a sophist, you could have just said so.

OPI: Anyway, I've got to run. I have a meeting scheduled with Sappho to work some product integration into her latest poem.

Socrates: I was wrong. I do know something. You guys suck.

Sexagon

Guys, I have made it big. My dream as a blogger has finally come true: today, I received my first kick-back! Our faithful midwestern nail polish correspondent Suzanna has sent me some nail polish that is the perfect combination of beautiful in color and hideous in name. (A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but I think we all know that tamely-named nail polish just doesn't have the same sparkle.) Thanks, Suzanna! However, I would like to assure you all that my devotion to strict journalistic integrity remains intact. I remain firmly committed to revealing and reviling the stupid names of the nail polish world (however, have I mentioned what a lovely name Suzanna is?)



Anyway, what is going on with Sexagon? I wish I could believe that this was just an unfortunate result of someone mixing up her Greek and Latin prefixes, but my time in nail polish academia has taught me cynicism. In fact, the reference is much more literary. I am pretty sure that this is actually the title of Edwin Abbott-Abbott's lesser-known and extremely pornographic sequel to Flatland.

An excerpt:

Their vertexes locked across the room. The sexagon slid boldly over the plane until he stood before the lithe young triangle. "Hey, baby," he said. "If I told you that you had a beautiful perimeter, would you hold it against me?"

The triangle blushed and looked shyly at her smallest angle.

"Come on, doll," the brazen sexagon continued, "Don't be obtuse. It doesn't suit acute one like you. You don't want to be a square, do you? I'm not going to stand here and complement you all night. Let me buy you a gin and conic."

"No, thanks," the triangle said. "What's your angle?"

"My angle? You could fill the null set with all the other guys in here who would give you the coordinates of the origin. Look, you know you're the right triangle for me. Let's go back to my place and we can give it an ol' whirl around the XXX-axis. Tangentially, it's cool if you're bisectoral, you can bring a friend."


I'd go on, but I have underage readers. Anyway, don't worry, moralists! I don't want to spoil the plot, but it all wraps up satisfactorily when the deviant sexagon does some hard time in high-security prism. The shy triangle realizes the error of hanging out in shady parts of the coordinate grid, joins the convex and becomes a nonagon.

Forgive, Forget, For Me I Will

Look, I know that the economy is rough right now. It can be hard for companies selling non-essentials like nail polish to make ends meet. But can I make a suggestion? If you must downsize your entire nail polish naming and marketing staff and replace it with one work of literature, make it a dictionary. DO NOT, under any circumstances, use the poetry journal of an eighth-grader whose nom de plume is Mistress Raventwilight Sorrowgoth.


(photo courtesy of Vampy Varnish)

"Forgive, Forget, For Me I Will"? What IS that? I want to call it a sentence fragment, but I think that is too generous. Sentence fragments make sense with additional words placed before or after them, but all that I can think might come after this is "The dark miasma of my tortured soul cries out. / Brandon didn't ask me to the Homecoming dance. / Life is an endless shadow."

Misa, it is no coincidence that when I tried to find a picture of this nail polish, the first page of Google search turns up this:



Forgive this naming travesty? I don't think so. Forget it? I'm trying as hard as I can. Do you think sacrificing a hamster to our Dark Wiccan Vampire Lords would hasten the sweet caress of blessed oblivion?

Mrs. O'Leary's BBQ

You know a nail polish name is destined for greatness when the least offensive interpretation of it combines all the charm of a national tragedy like Pearl Harbor with the crispy dead cow flesh "eww" factor of Meet Balls. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mrs. O'Leary's BBQ:


(spotting courtesy of Krissy)

The more offensive interpretation, you ask? Well, let's just say that the "cow" part of the story is urban legend. But a lot of people died in that fire...

I mean, I'm not saying that OPI is trying to glamorize cannibalism. It's just that if you peeked into the lunchbox of the staffer who came up with this, I wouldn't be surprised if it contained the other white meat, you know what I'm saying? Or if during her last weight-loss craze, she learned how zombies kept their figures so lean (Atkins himself is Atkins-friendly, dieters!). And I bet she never had any problem figuring out what to serve her in-laws...and the question became academic after one night. And maybe she...uh...put people...in her mouth...and digested them...wink wink nudge nudge.

Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is no matter how much this looks like a black cherry soda, please don't drink it.*

*Papua New Guinean readers, please disregard.