— How To —

An Important Message About Breast Health from Antonio Banderas

Hello. Antonio Banderas, here, with an important message about breast health.

One out of every eight American women will be struck by breast cancer. That makes me, Antonio Banderas, very sad. But there is something you can do to fight this insidious disease. I refer, of course, to breast self-examination. It is a simple procedure that every woman should know. If you do not, allow me to explain how it is done.

Breast self-examination can be done anywhere. But wherever you choose to do it—at home, at work, even in the shower while the hot, soapy water cascades down your taut, arched back—the important thing is to feel comfortable. In fact, why not put on some relaxing music? Perhaps some soothing Spanish guitar, like something I, Antonio Banderas, would have played in Desperado. Incidentally, where I am from, we just call it “guitar.”

Now that you are comfortable, we will begin.

Stand in front of a well-lit mirror and undress. Slowly, now—one button, two buttons, three buttons—yes, that is the way. The socks, too, so that you may enjoy the feel of the bearskin rug between your delicate toes. What is that? Oh, do not worry, for the rug is faux. I, Antonio Banderas, love all living things, especially the furry things. You may enjoy the faux with a clear conscience.

Now comes the examination itself, which is in three parts.

First is the visual inspection. Start with your arms at your sides, then raise them above your head, then lower them back down and place your hands on your hips. While you are doing this, observe your breasts closely—the pale skin, the gentle slopes, the nipples like ripe berries aching to be plucked. (Shall I, Antonio Banderas, pluck them now? No, now is not the time for berry plucking. But who knows what the future holds for us?) Look for anything out of the ordinary, such as changes in size, shape, color, or texture.

Next is the manual inspection, what you call “hands-on.” Raise your right arm and hold it over your head. Now, using the middle three fingers of your left hand, examine every inch of your right breast using small, circular motions. (Some women find this part of the examination uncomfortable. That is perfectly normal, especially if it is your first time. If you like, you may imagine that it is my fingers, still rough from many hours of sword training in preparation for The Legend of Zorro, that are so insistently probing your bosom. Does that not help? I, Antonio Banderas, knew that it would.) Feel for anything out of the ordinary, such as lumps, knots, or thickening of the tissue. When you are done, repeat the process with the other breast.

Now is the final step. Lie down somewhere comfortable and place a pillow or rolled-up towel beneath your neck. When you are ready, repeat the manual inspection. (Remember that it is my fingers, not yours, that are dancing across your naked breasts. And is that my hot breath on your neck, too? Alas, it is only the cat, Mr. Socks. But it could have been me, if not for the pungent odor of Fancy Feast. Let us speak no more of this.) As before, feel for anything out of the ordinary.

And just like that, it is done. That was not so bad, was it? Certainly not as bad as Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever. Seriously, what an unbelievable piece of mierda that was. Please accept my apologies for it.

If, after the examination, you have any concerns, bring them to the attention of your doctor without delay. Do not be alarmed if you find something—most lumps and other irregularities turn out to be false alarms—but it is better to be safe than sorry. And of course, safe is so very, very sexy.

Now you know how to do breast self-examination. And this simple procedure, together with clinical breast examinations for women over twenty and screening mammograms for women over fifty, can significantly improve your chances of detecting breast cancer early, when treatment is most likely to be successful. That makes me, Antonio Banderas, very happy.

And now, we make the love.

— Fiction —

Presidential Personal Ads

— Fiction —

My Up-to-the-Minute Election Coverage

This is Will Layman, and welcome to my coverage of the crucial [insert name of random state here] Democratic primary.

Today’s voting in [random state, but probably not New Jersey, about which, frankly, who gives a rat’s ass?] could determine who becomes the next president. It certainly should play a virtually decisive role in choosing this year’s Democratic nominee after this tight and hard-fought race.

If [this state—probably tiny and maybe not a state at all, like, how crazy would it be if Guam chose the next president? Go, Guam!] tilts to Obama by a margin of more than five points, it will be all but inevitable that the senator will still be unable to lock up the nomination without a heaping dose of hard-to-predict Super Delegates, which will actually mean that nothing much has changed. But it will certainly feel like things have changed, and that will be news. For weeks.

The Obama advantage, of course, could be neutralized if [Guam or maybe … American Samoa? Or, I don’t know, what about one of those islands where we blow up nuclear stuff as a test—do they vote there?] were to support Senator Clinton by more than 9.4 percentage points, in which case we fully expect that Bill Clinton will immediately get in front of a TV camera and accuse your grandmother of betrayal, all while he jabs pins into a voodoo doll that looks exactly like your grandma down to the slightly broken glasses she wears every day even though the repair would be cheap as all get-out.

This result of the must-win primary will cause the Super Delegates to fall more likely for the Illinois senator. That is if and until the Reverend Jeremiah Wright gives another speech, in which case Senator Obama should definitely not become the president because someone else thinks that American has a history of racism. If the Reverend Wright does not give a speech but merely sneezes, this is certain to indicate that the reverend and senator both blow their noses with the stars and stripes, waving proudly, which flag properly should be pinned to Obama’s lapel. Election over. The Northern Mariana Islands made all the difference.

So, stay tuned to my election coverage. By the time tonight’s game-changing returns are counted, there is very little doubt that somehow something will possibly be clearer involving the election or at least that someone somewhere will say that something might be clearer soon. Ish.

I will be using this cool electoral vote map to speculate about what would happen if Senator Clinton miraculously managed to get everyone from Florida and Michigan to move to the Midway Atoll National Wildlife Refuge, to register there as Democrats, and then to resist the magnetic attraction of the Arcade Fire concert that has been organized by Senator Obama’s intensely involved local Midway organizers. I will ask my crack “political team” whether the presence of a second “L” in the name “Hillary” has been a deal-breaker for leaning-left activists, and they will point out that the Nafta issue really didn’t matter because, just a short moment ago, the Reverend Jeremiah Wright shaved off his moustache, and that is ominous indeed.

Our coverage will begin after these brief attack ads.

— Fiction —

On a Deadline, The New Yorker's "Goings On About Town" Restaurant Reviewer Hits His Local McDonald's

Some ground is destined to be fertile. Those in the know recall the expanse of asphalt between Le Cinéma Multiplex and the interstate exchange as an after-hours meeting place and de facto watering hole for the North Face and Fall Out Boy set, a place of frantically rocking S.U.V.s and broken condoms. Now it seems a restaurant has decided to try its luck in a vacant lot where so many before have gotten lucky. Faux-retro neon glitters into the night a beckoning for Scottish fare—McDonald’s.

Hungry diners are lured to McDonald’s (mk-don-aulds) by kitsch interlocking double arches, suggesting a fusion of the Gateway Arch and the interior of the Arc de Triomph. Appetites are whetted with intrigue—what will we find within? The titular suggestion of haggis, or an experimental French/Midwestern blend? One soon observes, however, that the McDonald’s menu is all over the map (perhaps too much so), offering a selection of American, Tex-Mex, Italian, and Asian cuisines, all served deli-style in an egalitarian order-at-the-counter process.

A little research (and a 10-spot slid into the palm of a confused, paper-hatted teenage girl, who points to a wall-mounted proclamation) reveals an eatery struggling to escape the long shadow of its founder. Décor is clown-based. One recent night found a couple fretting over frites served a bit soggy, and a sauce on a processed-pork sandwich that was overly aggressive, with smoky and woodsy undertones. Service can be spotty. A request to substitute Époisses or Brie de Meaux for the American singles on my double cheeseburger (a bargain at $1.09) was met with a cold stare from my opposite behind the Formica counter, a young man with a blank name-tag hanging askew who muttered something that was at least a homonym for “asshole.”

We are spared an overly peppy bartender (we are, in fact, spared alcohol altogether) in favor of an honor-system drink-dispensing wall (cluttered with drink lids during one recent post-theatre rush). Unscrupulous diners will be tempted to sample every flavor, from the citrus bite of Mountain Dew to the oddly over-syruped Diet Sprite. One may need a sweet soda to counter the lightly marinated bite of the grilled-chicken sandwich — the same teriyaki-leaning glaze that everybody seems to be doing this year. I am assured the salads here are not-to-be-missed, though I am not a salad person per se.

One fascinating feature of the cutlery here is the ability to order abovementioned salads in a device resembling a plastic Champagne flute. This is for the ingenious method of serving diners while still in their cars. No roller-blading, tray-dropping, carhop knockoff here, McDonald’s has installed a special window, cut right into the wall of the building, to expedite delivery to passing motorists. The open kitchen (watch the chefs perform!) brings a continental mentality to a decidedly American innovation. Too bad the invention is somewhat wasted on fare, frankly, that can be found many other places.

McDonald’s is open for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, $.99–5.49. Desserts are extra (skip the apple pie and go for a Blizzard). Combos available prix fixe.