Limbo Bimbo

What, dare I ask, IS a Limbo Bimbo? Francesca if she only went to first base with Paolo? The woman who takes the cheers of "How LOW can you GO?" at her local limbo competition a little too metaphorically?



If the latter, I think the creators of this shade have done an excellent job of capturing the spirit of tropical harlotry. Actually, this exact shade of pink is what I imagine on the toenails of the runner-up of MILF Island as she scrabbles desperately for a foothold during the Bikini Limbo-Off over the Pit of Snakes and Baby Oil.

I think the most pressing question, though, is what kind of woman wants to deliberately go out and associate herself with outdated misogynistic slang. I appreciate the rhyme, but in this context, it just feels like a set-up for a vaguely seedy limerick:

A lady out painting her nails
Hopes to lure in a new set of males:
"If my fresh coat of Bimbo
Doesn't catch trucker Jimbo
I'll look bad on Springer!" she wails.

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.