If Laura Billings was a national journalism celebrity and Matt Drudge, during his Sunday night radio show, were to take notice of her recent change in editorial style, this is what he'd say:
"Owww! Hide your eyes, get the children out of the room! The Pioneer Press has been delivered! When are they going to start delivering this thing in a plain brown wrapper! Owww!"
Her effort today marks the third column in a row Laura "Miss Demeanor" Billings has devoted to matters of the flesh. First was her fantasizing about what we on Fraters Libertas wear when we write about her (see the masthead quote for details). Next were her general musings on thong underwear, including a direct reference to her "biscuit" (Owww! It's Anders Gyllenhaal's Def Commentary Jam! Owww!).
And today, we get her thoughts on airport security. It's tantalizingly entitled "A Nude Way of Approaching Airport Security", and includes this gem:
By the time it was all over, they knew so many details of my life, I felt like I'd been asked to drop trou myself.
I have to say, I'm starting to like this. A (relatively) young, blonde chippy writing about her unmentionables over and over and over again in the pages my local newspaper. It sure beats the hell out of her writing about how she misses the Taliban rule in Afghanistan. And for raw action, it beats the hell out of the Pioneer Press's amateur dating columnist, the moribund Ruby.
It has been speculated that I am personally responsible for Laura's new raunchy style, due to my challenge to her last week (in response to her charge about our preference to write in our boxers). To quote myself:
If Laura would start knocking out prose in her frilly underthings maybe Nick Coleman wouldn't be so cranky all the time.
If I am responsible, then I'm glad. Hopefully it will give Ms. Billings additional job security when the Pioneer Press starts handing out the pink slips come September. (Just think of the metaphorical magic Laura conger up about not having a "pink slip" this Fall.) But I fear she's on the verge of pushing a good thing too far, as shown by this paragraph from today's column:
Every square inch of my pregnant belly was gone over again and again by a female screener who apologized profusely for the duration of our encounter. If it made my fellow passengers feel better knowing that I wasn't packing a bomb under my maternity top, I was happy to submit.
Weird fetishism. That's got to be her husband's influence.
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