“Forget the three little pigs hiding from the big bad wolf. These six little pigs have found a new friend in a maternal French bulldog named Baby. The Lehnitz animal sanctuary outside Berlin said Baby took straight to the wild boar piglets when they were brought in Saturday, three days old and shivering from cold. Sanctuary worker Norbert Damm said Wednesday that, as soon as the furry striped piglets were brought in, Baby ran over and started snuggling them and keeping them warm, even though they’re almost her size.” Why yes, there ARE photos.

by Awl Sponsors

This edition of Outfit Builder is sponsored by Levi’s®.

Let’s face it — when February rolls around, we’ll take any excuse we can for a 3-day weekend. That’s why this year, we’re planning to jet out of town for a long weekend to enjoy picnics, adventures — and some much-needed rest and relaxation.

Of course, even an upcoming weekend of relaxation calls for the perfect outfit. We’ve pulled a few of our favorite pieces from Levi’s (how very All-American of us!) to create a star-studded President’s Day ensemble you’re sure to love:

Grab your suitcase and kick off your packing with a khaki and brown Bubble Crew Sweater for those crisp afternoon walks, then layer in a Basketweave Scarf when the evening turns chilly. Plan to keep the look classic with 511 Skinny Jeans in a dark wash — and don’t forget a Messenger Bag to carry your weekend traveling gear in style.

So now that we’ve created a dream outfit, it’s time to decide where to take that weekend getaway to! Whether you plan to head to Montauk or the Hampton’s, enjoy your mini-vacation in classic Levi’s® fashion: All-American style!

“In Serbia alone, around 330,000 have seen the film. Of that figure, the majority are, in my opinion, homophobic. Despite this, the feedback has been almost entirely positive. A friend of mine told me that his teenage son came back home in a bad mood after seeing ‘Parada.’ The teenager said he thought the film was shit because after seeing it he can no longer hate gays. I made the film for such people.”

Why are cellphones getting bigger? Because they are replacement cocks.

by Emma Garman

A series dedicated to explaining Britain’s manufactured celebrities to an American audience.

Heartbreaking confession time: I was born with a rare condition, of unknown etiology, that causes my skin to break out in hives whenever I see grown women dressed as fairy princesses and throwing around phrases like “my special day” and “beach-themed centerpiece.” Nevertheless, in my dedication to delivering scoops no matter how intrepid the investigation — in this instance, perusing TLC message boards and IMing with a make-up artist named Flavio — I’ve obtained cast-iron confirmation that no bride is permitted to grace any wedding show (“Say Yes To The Dress,” “Bridezilla” et al) without contractually committing to intone, on command and with the utmost dreamy, moist-eyed reverence, “I feel like a PRINCESS!” And thus the J-Lo sponsored, blood diamond-supporting Wedding Industrial Complex flourishes in the face of dire threats, namely the global economic crisis and that adorable little girl whose proto-feminist rant against the gendered marketing of princess toys went mad viral.

Yet the myth that every American female longs to be a princess cannot survive by reality TV alone. The occasional British Royal Wedding, like last year’s espousal of Prince Willy and Commoner Kate, also feeds the fantasy, especially since a Windsor Wedding inevitably means a totalitarian state-style media blanketing of 24/7 speculation about who will design the dress, with the odd discussion of royal beheadings thrown in to lighten the mood. And the very ordinariness of Kate, who happens to be the first regular pleb to marry a future British King since 1660, constitutes an even greater boost to the WIC, because if one humble civilian can be elevated from her lowly station to princessdom, then it’s only fair that everyone else should get a chance, if only for just one day. But how did plain old Catherine Elizabeth Middleton get to be Her Royal Highness Princess William, Duchess of Cambridge, Countess of Strathearn, Baroness Carrickfergus? Aspirants to a life of crown wearing, of waving at the little people, of conducting stultifying conversations with racist nonagenarian in-laws, of having one’s embarrassing indiscretions taped by the security services: listen and learn.

Our fairytale must begin by paying tribute to the woman whose lauded Mama Rose-level ambition saved Prince William from his expected, ghastly fate: marrying either a hearty English aristo named Moffy or a minor European royal with whom he shares at least one mutant gene. Kate’s mother Carole Middleton (née Goldsmith), a self-made businesswoman and native Londoner, is said to have inherited her mighty drive from her own mother. A carpenter’s daughter born in rural County Durham, the late Dorothy Goldsmith was a formidable figure whose airs and graces earned her the nickname Lady Dorothy. “She wanted to be the top brick in the chimney,” reminisces a relative. “You got the feeling that she thought she was too good for the rest of us.”

So when, as a young woman, Carole began working as a flight attendant for British Airways, her mother was by all accounts delighted by the rich husband-bagging potential the job promised. The fellow BA employee with whom Carole did strike up a romance, a dispatcher named Michael Middleton, wasn’t necessarily rolling in it but he was fairly well to do: his paternal grandmother came from one of Leeds’ richest merchant families and he could trace his lineage back to seventeenth century Parliamentarian Sir Thomas Fairfax — as could William’s mother Diana, making William and Kate fifteenth cousins.

Of course Diana, God rest her insane narcissistic soul, was actual nobility, the daughter of a Viscount and an Hon. Still, given the unrelenting PR disaster that was Diana and Charles’ marriage, you might think that William’s choice of an ordinary, sensible girl would have gone down well in royal circles. But that would be to massively underestimate the ancient British relish for policing class divisions: when Kate was established as William’s serious girlfriend, whispers abounded — i.e. were assiduously uncovered by the press — that Carole Middleton, whose forebears were coal miners and laborers and who herself ran a company selling party favors, was far too common to be the mother of a future Queen.

It was Non-U enough that Carole was once a “trolley dolly,” hence the charming tendency of William’s hooray friends, who mostly wouldn’t know an honest day’s work if it leapt out of their Crack Baby cocktails and punched their chinless faces, to mutter “doors to manual” when Kate appeared. But possibly the most damning evidence of Carole’s frightful lack of breeding emerged when she was first introduced to the Queen, only to allegedly utter the phrase — and there’s just no way to sugarcoat it, so do forgive me — “Pleased to meet you.” Despite the undisputed gravity of this faux pas, opinion was troublingly divided as to the appropriate greeting: the Telegraph, for example, reckoned “How do you do” was the “accepted” form of address, while other scholars of snobbery argued for a simple “Hello ma’am.” (But far be from me to intensify anxiety about what to say when meeting Liz: please be advised that you can’t go wrong by sidestepping the whole debate and growling, Ray Winstone-ishly, “Aw-ight, Yer Maj?”)

Monumental linguistic blunders, shameful career history, and let’s not even weary ourselves with the whole chewing gum in public fiasco — suffice it to say, during Kate and William’s seven-year courtship, Carole was cast in the role of major liability to her daughter’s Royal Wedding dreams, a 21st-century Mrs. Bennet to Kate’s blameless Elizabeth. “The only thing counting against Kate is her mother,” opined a Daily Express-quoted “royal observer” — a credential that presumably encompasses senior Palace courtiers and keen readers of Hello magazine — in 2009. “The father is terrific. The Queen approves of him and he is liked; the mother has big question marks. She is very pushy, rather twee and incredibly middle class.”

Carole’s legendary pushiness gets the credit/blame for bringing the young couple together in the first place. When 18-year-old Kate — who’d harbored a crush on William for years, say her boarding-school friends — was choosing a college, Carole was supposedly of the mind that there was only one option: St. Andrews in Scotland, where per an official announcement William would be attending. According to biographer Christopher Andersen, it was during her gap year between high school and university that Kate “finally caved in to her mother’s incessant demands” and agreed to enroll at St. Andrews. Carole even suggested, claims Andersen, that “there would be ways to get even closer to the prince” via housing choices.

(When Kate’s younger sister Pippa went to Edinburgh University, she made mama proud by getting a flat with “two such nice boys” — George Percy, an earl who’s the eldest son of the Duke of Northumberland, and Lord Ted Innes-Ker, the second son of the Duke of Roxburghe. Eventually, Kate and Pippa would become known as the Wisteria Sisters, because they’re “decorative, terribly fragrant, and have a ferocious ability to climb.” Speaking of which, rumor has it that on New Year’s Eve, Pippa decided it was time things turned romantic with George and his $400M fortune.)

Whether by deliberate maneuvering or mere coincidence, Kate and William arrived at St. Andrews and moved into the same halls of residence (the school has eleven), quickly becoming good friends and eventually lovers. A Royal decree had forced the press to leave William alone for his college years, so the couple managed to enjoy a relatively low-key relationship, even moving in together as “housemates” with two friends. But in 2004, when they were seen kissing on a skiing vacation in Switzerland, those die-hard sentimentalists at the Sun decided that telling the world about the young prince’s first love trumped a silly old embargo, and ran a touching front-page headline: “FINALLY…WILLS GETS A GIRL.”

Funnily enough, the media feeding frenzy that ensued didn’t exactly ease the path of true love, and in 2007, a couple of years after he and Kate graduated from St. Andrews, William broke things off. Reportedly, the Royal Family had conveyed that in light of the tabloids’ “Waity Katie” label, as well as the Palace’s powerlessness to make any official provision for Kate’s protection from the voracious press unless she and William were engaged, he had to make a decision one way or another.

Kate, never one to sit around and mope, embarked on an impressive campaign involving getting papped with shiny hair and a beaming smile, dirty dancing at nightclubs with other eligible toffs, and generally giving a master class on How to Show Him What a Huge Mistake He’s Made. The clincher was Kate’s new membership of an all-girl rowing crew, The Sisterhood, run by diplomat’s daughter and high-class orgy organizer Emma Sayle. A tanned, serene Kate was photographed on tiller duty dressed in a tight white tank top, wind streaming through her hair, sunlight glinting on her toned arms as she steered the boat along the Thames, and on that ubiquitously published image did the bloodline of the monarchy pivot. Which is to say: it worked like a charm.

Alas, we must reconcile ourselves to the likelihood that the spirited-bordering-on-scandalizing side of Kate witnessed during those brief weeks may never enliven the tabloids again. What makes her so very suitable as a royal bride — hopelessly middle-class mother notwithstanding — is also what makes her supremely dull as a public figure: her faultlessly good behavior. As you can well imagine, biographers and journalists have scoured all four corners of the globe in search of something — anything! — juicy from her past, and come up empty handed. She was a well-liked and sporty pupil at her expensive co-ed boarding school, where she never got in any trouble and certainly didn’t lose her virginity. In Italy during her gap year, she indulged in the odd glass of wine, but that was where she drew the line. “She was never interested in getting really drunk or letting herself lose control,” recalls a friend. “While others were doing drugs around her, she wouldn’t be judgmental — in fact she was quite interested in what they did to you. It was simply that she did not want to try them. I never saw her smoke either.” And needless to say, she’s awfully nice to the help. “She is a delightful girl,” one of William’s bodyguards told Christopher Andersen. “Very down-to-earth, very considerate. She says hello and treats you like a person, never acting like you’re not there.”

Oh, for the days when Diana was feuding with Elton John and dabbling in the occult, or Fergie was getting her toes sucked by her financial advisor. The only entertaining controversy in Kate’s background is her Uncle Gary, a thrice-married property developer who made his fortune in computers. Carole’s younger brother by ten years, Gary Goldsmith owns a notorious party pad on Ibiza, La Maison de Bang Bang, where Kate and William have enjoyed hospitality and where, in 2009, the News of the World dispatched two reporters posing as businessmen. Blithely unaware that he was being recorded, the extroverted forty-something — whose tattoos include such admirably brazen shibboleths as “Nouveau Riche” and “Spend And God Will Send” — chopped out lines of coke, generously offered a personal referral to his pimp (“there are loads of Brazilian girls here”) and bragged about joining the royal family, even though an engagement was yet to be announced.

Regrettably but unsurprisingly, we don’t often hear about Uncle Gary these days, but perhaps it’s not too much to hope that he’s been taken under the wing of Prince Andrew. Gary and Air Miles Andy are bound to have loads in common, and I like to fondly imagine them hanging out at naked pool parties with Andy’s bestie Jeffrey Epstein, chatting about illegal sexual procurement and swapping stock tips.

Kate’s preternatural decorum and reliability was no doubt a central consideration in calculating the betting odds on when and if the royal couple will divorce, with most bookmakers heartwarmingly confident that they’ll make it to their 10th anniversary, should you fancy a wager. Meanwhile, the odds offered on Kate becoming a mother in 2012 are fluctuating depending on various seismographically-weighted factors: has she recently been photographed with a hand vaguely over her stomach? Spotted drinking a non-alcoholic beverage? Did the precise curvation of her evening gown’s waist seam hint at anything other than size-zero slenderness? Or has a doctor of uncertain repute who does not treat the Duchess diagnosed her weight as below the optimum for fertility? And without wishing to get too confoundingly sciencey, has a “body language expert” pronounced that the precise gait of Kate’s stride might possibly indicate a bout of nausea? Finally, and arguably most vitally, what say the visions of Diana’s favorite psychics?

Obviously, whether to have a baby, even a royal heir whose lifestyle choices from cell-splitting stage will be internationally newsworthy, is a very personal decision on which your upstanding columnist wouldn’t dream of passing comment, unlike legions of her more uncouth colleagues. That said, Kate might like to bear in mind that she’s been placed in the deeply ignominious position of sharing second place with Jennifer Lopez and Demi Moore as 2011’s most frequent cover star of In Touch Weekly, with the “stars” of MTV’s “Teen Mom” at number one — a situation that none of us, least of Kate herself, will wish to see repeated.

The arrival of a blue-blooded sproglet or not, our Duchess can at least comfort herself with the knowledge that “Kate” is predicted to be this year’s most used word in the media (last year’s was “occupy”), thanks to her role as ambassador of the Olympic Games and her ever-burgeoning status as a global style icon. Retail analysts believe that Kate has boosted the UK fashion industry by £1BN as droves of women buy everything she’s seen in: the Burberry trench coat she wore on a visit to Northern Ireland sold out worldwide in 12 hours despite its $1000 price tag, while the beige body-con dress she wore to meet the Obamas in May ended up selling on eBay for more than quadruple its original price, and has now been knocked off by Banana Republic. (The Kate Sheath can be yours for just $130, hideous sapphire and diamond ring that’s probably cursed not included.)

Of all the stresses and responsibilities inherent in her royal role — the foreign diplomacy, the patronage of carefully-selected charities, the intense pursuit of the paparazzi, the traipsing around in wellington boots shooting innocent creatures for sport — it is the importance placed on Kate’s fashion choices that looms largest. Last week, when she attended an event at the National Portrait Gallery wearing an outfit by Jesire, a defunct fashion label, journalists and style bloggers went into convulsions. “We’ve googled, we’ve eBayed, we’ve phoned former PRs and ex-stockists of the brand, but this particular piece is turning out to be a total and utter mystery,” wrote Grazia’s Hannah Almassi. “Where and when did the Duchess get it? How much did it cost? Has it been sitting in her wardrobe for yonks or did she recently buy it from her favourite second-hand store?”

Pressing questions indeed, but even if they’re never satisfactorily answered, Kate’s public will somehow have to pick up the pieces of their lives and carry on. Knowing Kate, she’ll be filled with remorse for not considering the emotional and financial ramifications of wearing a garment not immediately available for purchase, and firmly resolved never to commit such an error again. The same goes for wearing the same dress twice, which she did last summer to widespread consternation, prompting noted constitutional pundit Kelly Osbourne to tear her off a strip, and rightly so. For let us be quite clear: Kate is not simply getting dressed, she is shaping history. Along with at some point popping out an heir and a spare — maybe when Alice Temperley has some new maternity dresses out? — being mercilessly judged on every single sartorial detail is her duty to country and commonwealth, and may God grant her the strength to carry it out with dignity.

Previously: Ryan Giggs, Amy Childs, Jordan and Boris Johnson.

Emma Garman no longer lives in her native UK, but she still watches lots of its TV. She’s also on Twitter.

Is this the world’s tiniest chameleon? Sure, why the hell not.

The real question is: What can you take out of streetwear? Girls are all wearing miniskirts and leggings and leather jackets. We’ve already seen all of this. Streetwear never taught me anything. Consider this: Yves Saint Laurent was one of the first designers to revisit vintage. If you read his biography, you’ll see it. He used to go to London to the first secondhand markets and find clothes from the 30s. That’s how he invented the tuxedo. He bought a man’s smoking jacket and put it on one of his muses. That’s how most of his innovations began. Today you can do that type of research, but it’s hard to create a story like that, because too many have already been told about almost everything.

— This interview with YSL’s designer Stefano Pilati is absolutely amazing. (“When people enter our store they imagine cashmeres, silk cravats, shirts in crepe de chine, crocodile shoes. Obviously, we make them, but it’s like hitting myself in the balls.”) Also contains the phrase “when I found myself in an elevator with Kathryn Bigelow and Richard Gere riding up to Mick Jagger’s flat.” HEAVEN.

SPIRIT BEAR!!!

by Mike Dang

This series is brought to you by TurboTax Federal Free Edition.

Pictured: New York mag columnist and movie enthusiast Will Leitch on deck, 1992.

Hey Will, thanks for taking the time to talk to me.

Sorry, I’m late. I’m on baby duty right now, but I duct-taped his mouth, so we should be okay.

Oh!

I’m just kidding!

Whew! So people used to collect baseball cards, and you were one of those people. Can you tell me about your first memories of baseball, and how you got into it?

Yeah, so my dad struggled with getting me into playing baseball for a long time. And by a long time I mean until I was about seven. But for some reason it felt like a long time! I was that kid who would always run to the wrong base. I remember playing tee ball, and I actually hit the the ball once, and then I just walked back to the dugout because I was so used to striking out anyway. This was tee ball, which is hard to strike out in! My dad was really frustrated by that.

What changed?

Dad had just about given up on me, but I was really into math. So Dad, in one last ditch effort, told me that baseball had a lot of statistics in it. He took me to a Cardinals game and I saw Ozzie Smith play and learned about batting averages. I then basically became addicted to baseball forever.

So with baseball cards, I wasn’t very interested in what was on the front of the card. It allowed me to get a sense of what a person looked like, but I didn’t really care about that. What I really cared about was what was on the back, because it had all the statistics. I used to set up little tournaments between the cards, and compared them using the stats on the back to see who would win. I had Jeff Lahti — who now I believe is the father of Tiger Wood’s current girlfriend, which makes me feel incredibly old — but Jeff Lahti was a pitcher for the Cardinals, and he pitched four games without giving up an earned run, so he won every one of my tournaments. I ended up taking him out of my games.

You were a nerd!

It was really nerdy! I mean, these were little games I would play by myself and with my baseball cards. And since I needed more competitors, I kept buying more cards. Some people would collect full sets, and I would get those for Christmas from relatives who didn’t know me very well. That wasn’t what I wanted. I liked to get the baseball cards from the pack, and I threw the gum out because I really just wanted to play with the cards.

I didn’t collect to collect. I never really knew the players I had when I opened a pack of cards. The only team I knew I had all the players for were the Cardinals, because they were my favorite team. For me, it was all data and stats, and how I could use them to play them in my tournaments.

Did you ever trade any of your cards with your friends?

I had other friends who were into baseball cards, but they always had them behind wrapping. There was a whole industry around that for a while — like you could go to the mall and there would be a store that would sell things just for your baseball cards. I always found it strange that my friends would put their cards behind glass. It’s the whole Toy Story idea: Why have a toy if you have to keep them in a box the whole time?

For how long did you collect cards, and why did you stop?

I was basically doing this from 1982 to 1988, and ended up having a rather massive amount of them. I didn’t put them in a folder or anything, because they were things I played with. Three quarters of my room became filled with baseball cards, and people would come by and say to my dad, “Oh wow, those baseball cards must be worth a lot of money!” This is around the mid-’80s when the collectible cards market was about to explode. There were these books that would say that a card was worth something like six cents, and my dad would say, “That just might pay for your college someday!” But we really hated that. We liked the idea initially — that all this junk I had in my room was somehow worth a lot of money. But then I would be playing this tournament game with my cards in my room and people would say to me, “Hey, what are you doing with those? They’re not going to be mint if you play with them!” My dad’s an electrician. We’re not investors or business people, and certainly we cared about money because we needed to survive, but the idea of having this thing that I kinda loved be turned into something that was more like an investment opportunity struck us both as a little distasteful.

I was 12 or 13 and was getting into girls a little bit, and I started to care a little bit less about these cards. I still loved baseball, but the cards weren’t as big a deal to me anymore, and they took over my entire closet because there were so many of them. My mom told me I needed to do something with them, and asked if my dad and I would think about selling them. And we were like, “We don’t want to sell them!” We had this discussion about how selling them felt weird. This is something we never intended to make money off of. So we decided that the best thing that we could do was burn them.

That just sounds so amazing to me that you did that.

I grew up in rural Mattoon, Illinois, where we actually burned our trash. It sounds very ritualistic, like, “We then put the cards in a bonfire, and set them ablaze!” But we just burned our trash. We lived out in the country and had a barrel in the backyard where we would take our trash, so I took them all out and put them in this barrel and I set them on fire. It was the best chore a 13-year-old boy could possibly have, like, “Take this bag of stuff and set it on fire!” Mattoon wasn’t very environmentally conscious. I’ve actually seen styrofoam burn.

Do you remember any of the valuable cards you had that burned in that fire?

The one card that my dad says he wished we had back was Ozzie Smith’s rookie card from when he played for the Padres. But for me, seeing Ozzie Smith in a different uniform other than the Cardinals seemed like an abomination. It was so strange! Like if your dad dressed up as your mom, or your mom dressed up as your dad. That card was one that I sort of hated, but in retrospect is now a very valuable card because he’s now a Hall-of-Famer. I also had special cards from the 1984 Olympics, which had people like Mark McGwire and Will Clark, and, from my understanding, are pretty valuable right now. I vividly remember the Olympics cards because I had no use for them. They had no stats — just some story about where the guy was from.

You didn’t save a single card?

I didn’t. I know my dad still has cards from when he was a kid. I think he has a Stan Musial very early card that’s in a safety deposit box. We didn’t go through my cards to pick one we wanted to save. We just got rid of them all.

I’m sure if my dad was in a different profession, was more consumed by wealth, or frankly had ever invested a dime into something at the point in his life, we might have had a different conversation. We talked about how it felt like we didn’t earn any of the money we would get from the cards. And we felt very strongly that you’re supposed to earn money, not just get it. This was something that we did for fun. It would have been like if we tried to sell one of my trophies that I got from my Little League team. To be honest, these days, Dad regrets it more than I do. At the time, he didn’t realize how expensive college would be. But I still take it as a badge of courage. It’s something I’m really proud that I did. I think that he is too, but it helps that the baseball card market collapsed. The market got flooded because there was too much collecting going on, and now none of those cards are worth nearly as much as did maybe 10 or 15 years ago. There was also something really unseemly about having to stand in front of a man in a shop — this was before eBay remember — and have him ask, “Oh did you use this card?” Like, I would be at fault for actually having fun with these cards.

Did you ever think that rather than burning the cards, you could have saved them and passed them on to your kid one day?

No. Frankly, for my kid, by the time that he’s into baseball, the idea that baseball cards ever existed will seem like a very silly thing. One of the reasons I collected baseball cards was because I didn’t get to watch every baseball game because they weren’t all on television. I live in Brooklyn now, and I never miss a Cardinals game. I have access to every Cardinals game, and every Florida Marlins game, and every Toronto Blue Jays game. One of the reasons I collected cards was because it connected me to the game that I couldn’t on a daily basis. If I had access to the Cardinals when I was a kid like the kids do today, I would have never collected baseball cards. If the Internet had existed, I would have been online all day looking at stats, and would have been one of the founding members of Baseball Prospectus. Collecting baseball cards would have been this thing I thought only little kids did.

But now, you can get connected by watching baseball games every day. And my kid will, whether he likes it or not! Even if I still had the cards, it wouldn’t occur to me to give them to him. He’ll probably be the same way when I was as a kid hearing my parents say things like, “Mickey Mantle was a true baseball champion, not like these guys today!” And I’ll probably be saying that to him about Albert Pujols and other players. I think it’s a generational thing. Like the cards that my dad has are probably his favorite players from when he was growing up, and even as a baseball fan I’m like, “Well you lived during a time when black players couldn’t play! And there was no off-season training regimen! Your game is behind me!” He’ll have a new generation of guys to follow.

Mike Dang collected rocks as a kid.

Sponsored posts are purely editorial content that we are pleased to have presented by a participating sponsor; advertisers do not produce the content.

When I was in college, a guy I knew had a really bad day when, at the behest of two platonic girl friends, he drew a picture of where he thought the clitoris was located in relationship to the vagina. He drew it at the bottom. And the girls told everybody. First of all, I swear that I am not the guy in this story. Secondly, too bad Maybach Music Group singer Masspike Miles wasn’t around back when we were in college, because he has apparently invented a device designed explicitly to locate hard-to-find features of the female anatomy. I would quote the lyrics to this song, which are actually far more embarrassing than not knowing where the clitoris is when you’re in college. But I will just let you listen for yourself. Wait for the chorus, it’s worth it. (Then, by all means, stop listening immediately. Although the beat is nice and luxurious and the video shows pretty pictures of Thailand.) Oh, warning: there is a brief appearance of a naked woman’s nipple around the 2:00 mark.