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Miley Cyrus shares a sultry Instagram photo of herself that appears to be promoting her upcoming performance at Woodstock's 50th anniversary this summer in New York. Miley Cyrus stripped down for her latest social media post. On Tuesday, the "Nothing Breaks Like a Heart" singer went on Instagram to share a sultry photo of herself, leaving little to the imagination. In the picture, the year-old is seen posing completely nude, wearing only a floppy hat as she lounges on an outdoor chaise with the desert landscape behind her. The pop star's plus million Instagram followers also got a look at Cyrus' dreamcatcher inkwork on her ribcage and a few small tattoos above her elbow. Lets go summer ," she wrote with a bunch of rainbow emojis. Cyrus' barely-there pic appears to be promoting her upcoming performance at Woodstock's 50th anniversary this summer in New York.

The Widest Unstretched Mouth Francisco Domingos Joaquin from Angola has a mouth measuring almost seven inches wid e. That's big enough to fit a Coke can sideways in his grill.

You have to see it to believe it:. RELATED: This Woman Drank Her Own Breast Milk to Survive in the Wilderness. The Largest Natural Breasts If most bras look like areola holders to you, you'll be happy to know that your boobs are probably pretty petite compared to Annie Hawkins-Turner's inch bust. Apparently, Annie's tatas started growing when she was about 9 years old, according to Guinness World Records.

By the time she was in third grade, she was wearing a bra made for adult women. The Longest Female Legs Svetlana Pankratova from Russia has legs measuring 51 inches that's 4. While it's probably pretty awesome to have legs the size of a 7 year old, that's a lot of shaving. Just sayin'. The Longest Nose on a Living Person The nose that measures 3. We wonder if this large schnoz comes with a superior sense of smell. RELATED: This Artist Uses Period Blood in Her Work-See the Stunning Images.

The Stretchiest Skin A rare condition called Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome helped Garry Turner from the U. become famous for his skin-which stretches 6.

The disorder affects his skin's collagen, which is responsible for elasticity, making his skin loose and crazy stretchy.

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Check it out for yourself:. The Hairiest Teenager Five years ago, Supatra Sasuphan from Thailand landed a spot in the record book for her fuzzy skin. Though it probably isn't easy dealing with all of that hair, Supatra tells the Guinness World Records that she doesn't feel any different than anyone else and has a ton of friends at school. You go, girl! The Longest Fingernails on a Female's Pair of Hands This might make you want to throw up a little: Christine Walton's record-setting nails are a combined length of 23 feet and 11 inches long.

She hasn't cut them sinceaccording to the Guinness World Records. Watch this video about previous nail record holders and how they live their lives with crazy long claws:. RELATED: Grey's Anatomy's Most WTF Medical Cases-Analyzed and Ranked. The Widest Female Tongue The tongue measuring 2. He ran into a dark office where I found him hiding under the desk.

Hey, this is pretty cool, I thought. When you've got dirt on them, all the condescending good-ol'-boy stuff goes out the window. An SMU booster threatened to have my legs broken-and I was delighted. That's something he'd say to anyone, I realized. While all this was going on, I began helping out with Dallas Cowboys sidebar articles and weekend coverage of the Rangers.

I helped cover the team for the Associated Press. And I was entering the peak of a seven-year stint as the masked wrestling columnist Betty Ann Stout-Fort Worth's equivalent of Joe Bob Briggs-whose unofficial duties included opening appliance stores, riding elephants when the circus came to town, and acting as rodeo Grand Marshal on the backs of large, hoofed animals.

Oh sure, little stuff happened, like the time one of the Oakland A's made a big point of standing next to me naked in the middle of the clubhouse or one of the Los Angeles Raiders chucked a set of shoulder pads at my butt. Then there was the occasion Rangers manager Doug Rader spat corn on me after I asked a dumb question.

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Of course, Rader would have spat corn at anybody. By then, I had become accustomed to the nudity and byplay of the locker room.

I've always considered the real hurdle of all this to be players' perception of me, not suppressing my thoughts. Before a team got used to me, there might be some giggling each time someone made a smart remark or cursed loud enough to get you kicked out of the Watauga Dairy Queen.

The players didn't know I'd grown up with games or that my best friends had usually been crude guys or that I could open a beer bottle with my incisors or that I liked to fish as much as they did. They didn't know, and it made me feel awkward that they didn't know that this stuff really didn't bother me outside of the fact that I felt obligated to respond with a remark, which took away from my ability to do my job.

I was nervous the first time I entered the Rangers locker room, about seven years ago. Not about naked bodies or about crude remarks but about how they would think I felt-and how I intended to respond with confidence, no matter what happened. So I stepped down the tunnel from the dugout to the clubhouse and peered around the open door. Because of my vantage point, it appeared I would have to walk through the shower, through the four wet, naked men, to get to the actual locker-room area.

I retreated back behind the door before anyone could see me. God, I can't believe someone didn't warn me, I thought. And what if someone saw me in this state of trepidation? It was critical no one smelled fear or I'd lose respect from the get-go. Maybe I didn't belong here. Maybe I'd never fit in.

Maybe I should write news or features because I'll never have the fortitude it takes to stay on your toes with one-liners and be tough enough to handle this. Maybe McDonald's was hiring. But I had a deadline. I had to go in. I wasn't afraid of naked men. I was afraid of the unknown. A few feet in, I realized a hall ran in front of the showers. You take a right turn before you have to walk straight into the naked men and the soap. The first Ranger I interviewed was drying his stomach with a towel.

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Before I could utter a word, he said, "Wait, let me rub it, it will get hard. That seemed like such a dumb thing to say. I mean, I know how penises work. And I know how smartass remarks work, too. The latter are supposed to be more humorous than the former, though adulthood has taught me different. I'll always remember that no one else laughed, for whatever reason, and that made me feel good.

Nudity rarely bothered me, but I prefer never to see Nolan Ryan in anything but Ranger white or bluejeans. I have no idea why, except that Nolan Ryan and my daddy are my heroes, and I just have no need of seeing either one of their white heinies. Aboutthere was a college football convention in Dallas. There were reporters all around the lobby of the downtown Hyatt, waiting for coaches to arrive after a golf game. I was leaning against a post, waiting for Grant Teaff, holding a notepad.

That's when a security guard came up to me to ask why I was there. I told him. He told me I had to leave unless I was staying at the hotel. He could not allow me to bother the guests. I explained again that I was a sportswriter waiting for Grant Teaff and pointed out other reporters, all men, around the lobby.

He said I was loitering. I refused to leave. He said he would have me thrown out physically.

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Mortified, I pondered my attire a baggy smock top and pants. We both approached the front desk, where the clerk sided with the guard, saying I could remain for 10 more minutes, but only if I stayed out of the central lobby and remained "mobile.

Each time I stopped pacing, the clerk and guard started toward me.

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I'd had enough. Once I stopped and they looked up, so I started spinning around in circles.

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That did it; now they were ready to call the police. I went home and called my sports editor. He got an apology from the Hyatt; I got suspected of prostitution while waiting in a hotel lobby for Grant Teaff.

AboutI got crossways with the sports editor. I ended up covering minor events full time, even doing the dreaded office score-taking work again. At the same time, my marriage began taking ugly, unspeakable turns.

I began to wonder, what had I done with the last seven years of my life? Had all that I'd put up with just been for nothing? When the coveted Rangers beat came open, I was passed over.

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My dream of covering professional baseball seemed further away than ever. And I didn't want to go back to putting up full-time with condescending high school and college coaches and jerks guarding locker room doors. I began experiencing panic attacks and became practically addicted to the antianxiety drug Xanax, buying it from bartenders and acquaintances when my prescriptions ran dry.

My face broke out. And I gained 40 pounds. Good God, all I had wanted to do was cover sports. The bouncing, wide-eyed ball girl who wanted to write about baseball more than anything was gone, abandoned in increments on football fields, at locker room doors, in editors' offices, and on barstools.

I had become a sweating mass of raw nerve endings. I felt like a cancer victim who was finally ready to give up the fight because it meant giving up the pain and humiliation. They gave me all the weird stories. They knew I could write even the most boring stuff into something of interest.

But I learned to do news as well.

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I wrote about civil rights issues and roamed through abandoned warehouses alone in search of skinheads. Yet all the time I was still dreaming up stories to get me to the ball park. A feature on the woman who washes the Rangers' clothes was not out of the question.

A three-part series on Ruth Ryan, spouse of Nolan, turned into a delightful three-week chore that included stops at the Ryans' ranch in Alvin and the stadium. I had started wandering longingly over to the sports department, just to talk about baseball. More than two years ago, I told the sports editor I wanted to return to sports. And I wanted to cover the Rangers someday. I concluded my sports hiatus last year with a stint on a special projects news team, collaborating with another reporter on a series about Fort Worth's high infant-mortality rate.

We won some awards, and I gained some confidence and perspective. When you've interviewed a year-old mother whose daughter was stillborn for lack of prenatal care, how tough can it be to talk to a young pitcher who's lost to the Angels for lack of run support? It was time to go back to the dream. I asked for-and received-a transfer back to sports. In my three years away, I'd shed a husband, a house, a lot of weight, and a collection of unhealthy habits.

I began bicycling and training for a marathon. Fueled by my own version of a life-affirming experience, I felt as though I was taking back 10 years of my life. I was ready once again to be the greatest sportswriter who ever lived.

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I was in the visiting clubhouse waiting to interview one of the Oakland A's this year when one of the players called, "Here, pussy"-as though he were calling a cat. But of course, he hadn't lost Fluffy; he'd found a woman in his locker room. It doesn't make me angry anymore; it just seems silly and absurd.

But some paranoia lingers. Sometimes I'm kind of quiet in a group interview, and I have this feeling other reporters will think it's because I'm a dumb ol' girl. I'm a general assignment sports reporter now, which means I do whatever they ask of me. My aim as a writer is to make the people I cover seem human to the readers.

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You can't do this without asking about their dogs and their mom and what bugs them even worse than dropping the soap in the shower. It seems logical to me. I mean, we know a guy is probably happy to be a number-one draft choice, but what makes him real is how he is like or unlike us.

It's the way we measure all people, the Homo sapiens equivalent of sniffing butts by the fire hydrant. But I don't think it seems very logical to some of the other reporters. Sometimes I will request an interview at someone's house, and my peers act as though it's weird. But how can you really profile a guy if you haven't seen his coffee table or the junk stuck to his fridge?

Sometimes before the game when everyone is milling about, I go sit around the corner in equipment manager Joe Macko's office and visit for a while just so I don't wear out my welcome in the room o' nakedness.

Some nights I walk out the back door where all the wives are waiting, and they stare at me strangely, as though they think I'm the woman Cosmo warned them about or something.

After a long game, while standing in the middle of the clubhouse waiting for someone to appear, I sometimes gaze off in one direction, the way you stare when you're bored and become transfixed on an object until your eyes cross and you snap back into the reality of car payments and cellulite.

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I was doing that one recent day when a wet, naked body walked into my trance. It might as well have been a water cooler. I had to remind myself that I should probably look away. That's another thing that has changed. I really want to be as unobtrusive as possible, so I will turn away from someone who is dressing or, if I have the time, wait until he has put his shorts on before I approach.

I've been around long enough now that if they see me turn away, they probably know it isn't because I'm scared or intimidated. I like to think I've earned a little respect. The Mavericks pose an entirely different set of problems.

I'd actually never been in an NBA locker room until last winter. Then, just as I walked in the door, it struck me that I was five feet, three inches tall-about the height of an NBA crotch. Point guards became my instant favorites for those early post-shower interviews. It is one thing not to look at your notepad, but another not to be able to look straight ahead without a big clothesline of boy parts.

James Donaldson was the very tallest, and I almost always waited until he had some small piece of fabric on before I walked back there.

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If necessity of deadlines or getting to someone before another reporter called for it, sure, I'd talk to Oral Roberts's foot Jesus naked, no matter where the crotch fell. The Mavericks were a delight to be around even when pissed off. The Rangers treat me like anyone else who wanders in.

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Oh sure, they may actually think I'm an idiot. But there's a strange sort of comfort in feeling that if they think I'm an idiot, it's probably not because I'm a woman but because I'm just acting like an idiot. The most puzzled responses to my job come from the friends and acquaintances in my personal life. Kids at the tanning salon want to know if I date the players. Friends at Bible study ask if the players are mean to me. And then there's the guy-almost any guy in any bar in town-who subjects me to a sports-trivia quiz during the usual getting-acquainted foreplay.

Leaking testosterone and reeking of beer, a Jethro Bodin-esque character sidles up and asks what I do. So do you know about sports? I falter, and he complains, "Hey, I thought you said you knew sports. Lately I've just started saying I'm a secretary at Wolfe's Nursery. But unfortunately, in north Arlington, this seems to be an enviable attribute on a par with big Dallas hair and coaching shorts as after-five wear. And of course, women everywhere want to know about that great walled fortress of wet boy flesh, the locker room.

We're sitting around the salon one day making bets on when the rest of the country will catch on that Ross Perot is a weasel when someone says he finished ahead of Bush and Clinton in another poll. Cindy, who is dabbing brown goop on my roots, figures this is like when the seniors get all reactionary and vote in the ugliest girl for homecoming queen, and it just might happen on a bigger scale. Donna doesn't like politics, so she asks what it is I do for the paper again.

Donna doesn't like newspapers either. Donna is a good argument for euthanasia. The immediate response is curiosity: Do I get to go in the locker room?

And you won't believe this, and I swear it's true: the immediate response of three women who don't even like sports outside of bungee jumping at Baja is, "You've seen Ro Blackman naked? I'm sure he's been naked in the room where I was at some time. But the point is that you don't even think much about people being naked after a while, and unless you have some peculiar reason for remembering, you don't know who you have seen naked because they all kind of waltz in and out of the shower naked, just one wet butt covered with soap film after another.

I tried to explain that it is probably a lot like being a male gynecologist: the daily procession of personal parts becomes so routine that it ceases to be of anything but professional interest. Yet I wonder. When men gather at bars and golf courses and any of the other traditional salt licks for male bonding, do they ask the gynecologist what Mrs. Holcombe's hooters look like? Do they want to know if it's hard for him to keep his professionalism with his hand inserted in some babe's bodily cavity-and whether it's scary?

I try to explain, which is difficult because Donna and I are on different sexual wavelengths. But then Donna likes the men she meets at Baja. If I did ever fall hopelessly head over heels for one of these men, it would not be because I had noticed a pterodactyl-size penis, but for the same reasons I'd fall for anyone else.

Like many people, Donna, who should have been named Brittany, just can't accept this. Actually, I tell them, one of the most peculiar side effects of my job is that it seems to run off men in personal relationships.

Oh sure, at first they think it's pretty cool that you're the only person at a party who can remember Neil Lomax's name or that you can name all the Rangers managers in 18 seconds-with a shot in your mouth. But that's while they are still trying to maneuver you quickly into bed. During this phase of courtship, most men would be reassuring Lassie that her role as a dog star doesn't matter that they just like her nice, shiny coat. For most of the guys who hang around for more than three dates, my job suddenly becomes a problem.

Apparently a guy has to be awfully secure not to be intimidated by my frequent trips into locker rooms as though I'm doing comparative shopping or by my knowing a good bit about sports. I can't tell you the bizarre arguments I've had with a few of these creeps who keep suggesting I become a teacher. Or go back to feature writing. Or maybe into public relations. One even said, "You know you don't have to do this work," in a tone that sounded like Sting telling Roxanne she didn't have to put on the red light.

The dirty little secret I've discovered is how little men know about sports, since this is what men are supposed to know more about than women. Most of the men I've dated certainly don't know about the social fraying of America or why it might be at all amusing that a guy named Fujimori is in charge of Peru, so you'd certainly hope they knew some inane facts about NFL rushers. All most know how to do is bitch about the Cowboys and Mavericks and Rangers-about their a record, b salaries, c coach or manager-and praise the "kick-butt" barbecue they make before watching 18 hours of football on Sundays.

That's before they tell me I don't have any business in the locker room. I have assimilated to a large degree but probably never will completely.

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I can't understand the idiots who call the sports department and want to talk to a man on the phone instead of me-or some guy who goes out of his way to spit Niblets on me. But I can understand the athletes being naturally uncertain what to make of women, of me. Many of the women they're around-other than the reasonably stable ones like their wives and mothers-are groupies. I understand that uniforms-unless they say, "Eb, your man who wears the star" on the lapel-are a great aphrodisiac in contemporary culture.

I admit, some days even the UPS guy looks awful good. Yet anyone who gets self-worth through random sex with a professional athlete is not exactly MENSA material. So you've got all these big-haired babes who think the electoral college is a beauty school, ready to hoist their miniskirts for the first athlete who comes along.

And then you've got this woman who comes in to interview them, maybe with big hair and a short skirt too, depending on the humidity and what's off at the cleaners that day.

So why are they going to think the reporter is any different at first? Logic says they might not. So I remain cautious, probably overly cautious, about appearances.

For instance, there are things I might say to a friend or even a casual coworker that I wouldn't think a thing about, but I stop short of saying such things to the players. Like the other night when I was interviewing Kenny Rogers after the game, and I just happened to notice he had really healthy-looking hair.

The hamster in my mental Wonderwheel never seems to stop running, so my mind keeps a lot of thoughts going at once.

So while I'm asking him about his family's strawberry farm, I'm wondering if eggs have given him this nice, shiny coat or if he uses his wife's conditioner, and if so, what is it? I almost said matter-of-factly, "You know, Kenny, you've got a fine head of hair.

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He might not understand that I meant its thickness and shine were enviable. There are a lot of times I want to compliment a player or make a personal observation, just because it's my nature, but my nature has to change for a moment because I don't want anyone to get the wrong impression about my intentions.

If I ever dread talking to players now, it is not because I feel that I don't belong there.

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It is because it doesn't seem that any reporter should be there. One of the most sickening feelings I get is when I have to go interview some pitcher who's been shelled or some guy who is struggling at the free throw line or a coach who is on the verge of not being a coach. I hate to invade their pain and their anger and sometimes even their happiness.

What does it really matter if the rest of the world knows? I think about what it would be like to have them asking me every day, "Well, how about that really thrown-together graph there at the top?

Can the slump be permanent? No less than two or three times a home stand, the feeling hits again-almost always as I walk down that tunnel from the upper deck that spits you out in back of home plate.

It's just before batting practice, about p. The TCBY people are pouring half gallons of yogurt stuff into the soft-serve machines; a guy is sweeping up peanuts in three-quarter time. I think how cool it is to watch a stadium yawn to life. Last night's trash still blows, even though people are sweeping all over the place. It reminds me of a debutante waking up in last night's party dress, reeking of beer.

About two yards down, I see legs behind the batting cage. Someone has come out early for batting practice. In a few more feet, the torsos appear and the warm breeze melts around my face. Near the field, I can see it is Al Newman and somebody. Always Al Newman, and he's always smiling because he's kind of happy to be here too. The grass spreads out in the shape of a precious gem, and there are fans here and there who have come to see batting practice just because it's relaxing. Then it hits me: My job means I get to be around this game and write about it.

And it's OK to spit your sunflower seed hulls on the floor. I head down the steps, past the seats where I couldn't even afford to sit when I was a kid, open heaven's gate, and walk onto the field. Sometimes I take a seat in the dugout, where a few of the guys are filtering in, grabbing bats and bubble gum. For a minute, before I start to work, I smell the bubble gum in the breeze and look at the kids leaning over the dugout and the boys of summer in it.

And every once in a while I think about slatted billboards and a daddy's arms. The other night, there were two girls in the clubhouse after the game. They were reporters and looked young enough to remind me of my old days-except they weren't wearing white flats. No one did or said anything off-color. But there were a few giggles.

And a few guys maybe flounced around a little more just for brief amusement.

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Quite normal, nothing harmful. I noted being in the middle of the room when a player came out of the shower, spotted me, and turned around and went back in. A few minutes later he came back out wearing a towel. By now I wouldn't really notice if he'd worn a towel or hadn't. But it struck me that something had changed: that my presence was no longer cause for flouncing; that I'd somehow earned this strange sign of courtesy and respect. I didn't give it a whole lot of thought as I went into the office that day.

I sat at some random desk to look busy for a while, which is what sportswriters do every week or three. I immediately got a call from Gayle Reaves, a founder of the Association for Women Journalists. Gayle had heard the Fort Worth Star-Telegram higher-ups had had a meeting that morning regarding my continued-or discontinued-employment. It was supposed to be about the fact that I had some negative things to say about my early work environment. I told her I hadn't heard about it, but would let her know, assuring her I would be the last to know if I had been fired.

I had offered the story first to my sports editor, Mike Perry standard newspaper policy.

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Mike called me into his office and told me he was now "into it" for passing on the piece. Apparently this happened at the morning budget meeting where "My Life in the Locker Room" was discussed at great length. He sure wished he'd taken it, he said in hindsight.

But the reality was, a newspaper did not have space for the words or freedom on the finer nuances of body-part language. It's also tricky when you give one writer a piece that showcases him or her in very many words and photos.

OK, so now it was home to take a run and try to clear my head of concerns about just what might be waiting for me at the ballpark.

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I was a common sight in and around the Rangers digs in those days, so it was no longer like I was some rookie, afraid to speak my mind. I got home, took a run and cleaned up and dressed for the ballpark, grabbed my go bag with computer, lipstick, notepads, pens, hairbrush, Altoids, and antacids and headed down I to see what flak awaited me. After all, the story had just hit newsstands and restaurants and bars and grocery stores in the dead of the previous night.

Places in Arlington might not get it until mid-afternoon. And surely the Observer's reader demographics did not include most ballplayers and some stadium employees.

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Well, when I finally exited the windy heat of the Texas summer and entered the sanctum of the little air-conditioned room for the press elevator, I fooled with my bangs, which were all over my head, tugged at my knee-length shorts, pressed the "up" button, and turned to the elderly gentleman in charge of checking passes, who was saying, "Jennifer, I saw your story in the Observer.

Oh, Lord.



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