walken around

I'm Doug

2009-02-10T23:01:00.000-08:00

I'm Doug and I'm outta heeeear.

Email me if you want the new url.

jacksmynde at gmail dot com

HERE'S Your 25 Pieces of SILVER!

2009-02-09T21:37:00.000-08:00

I'd like to thank everyone who didn't tag me in their 25 things meme. I still don't think we're using that word correctly, but, whatever. I'd like to specify that I'm not thanking everyone who didn't tag me, because on the whole they either don't know or like me. But the, like, I don't know, five or six of you who do and do but didn't? I respect that shit. So, without further ado... it's time to start RUNNING!

1. I'm observing a month of solemn fasting and meditation with the goal of seeing more breasts. Bramadan, it's called. Look it up.
2. It's not so much that I have a distorted body image as that I have a distorted body.
3. I think that if you're a dude and you keep lotion at your desk, you should at least keep it out of sight.
4. I'm, like, the complete opposite of Hitler. I mean, Hitler thought he was doing the world a favor killing all those people. Whereas I just think I'm committing genocide.
5. I was once asked to strip professionally by Chippendale's. At a rival club.
6. I'm pretty sure I'm going to change my URL to heypeoplewworkwithyesyoupleasestopreadingmyblog.blogspot.com. Or maybe I'll go to WordPress where they take their trolls seriously.
7. I know a guy who runs competitively. Racist.
8. I want them to make a Who's Nailin' Michael Palin, 'cause he's a funny fuck.
9. Dear dudes with big scarves. If you're going to overcompensate, do it with something cool. Or go all out and grow plumage.
10. I know how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop, but no one asks or listens to me. Fucking Owl.
11. Fred Savage can lick my balls. Really well, it turns out.
12. My momma is the butt of many jokes. As is her butt.
13. I used to fear having my picture taken. Now I fear Donatella Versace's naked body having its picture taken.
14. I love a rainy night. It puts a song in this heart o' mine and it puts a smile on my face every time. Ooh, ooh.
15. I think the toothpaste industry needs to be taken down a notch or two. YOU FUCKING HEAR ME CREST? COLGATE?!?!
16. I find practice to be habit-forming.
17. I don't have the mojo of a breaded, fried potato slice, but, really, who does?
18. I think that going to prison must really change a man. You'll never see Souplantation the same way again.
19. I used to have awesome hammer pants that I'd wear with a Smiths T-shirt and an iridescent green vest under a black Bulls Starter jacket. I was so fucking awesome.
20. I'm here to stay, except for when I'm over there. When I'm over there I'm just taking a break. Or picking my nose.
21. Fatherhood to sons makes you gay. You'll never believe how excited you can be over a penis and a little man-ass.
22. I have a stalker at work, but she's really not got a natural talent for it. I really shouldn't give her advise, but I'm afraid that sucking at it will further lower her self esteem.
23. I poof.
24. I'm afraid so, Brad.
25. I have seen shit that will turn you WHITE!

So, now, go my child and do whatever the hell you want.

Ken, He's a Doll!*

2009-02-07T22:00:00.000-08:00

Instruction of any sort has a goal; to cause the student to retain main points and act. As such, the introductions, back stories, examples--they're not, nor are they what we're supposed to remember.

You and I are who we are in part due to main points that were driven home and made to stand out. Here is something I was taught and the method used, to which I have continual and sometimes unconscious flashbacks:

I'm a teenager on what should be a relaxed and sunny weekend afternoon. The common setting is, I think, that I lay on my parents bed next to my mom who is redoubling her emasculation efforts as I become a young man. I don't remember for sure what the specific arguments were or how they started. She might have been bleaching my facial hair to "save" me from having to shave. She might have been popping my zits, bruising me in the process. Or maybe I was just sharing my newly found opinion on something.

How it began was a variable, but how it progressed was a constant.

We'd disagree, argue, and fight.
Tempers would flare as opinions continued to clash.
I'd try to leave and find my space, but wasn't allowed.

When it became obvious to mom that I wasn't going to come quietly and surrender my feelings, she'd make me get a mirror. At first I asked which one or what for, but by now I knew; she meant the round mirror with the circular, tube frame.

Refusal wasn't an option for me in our house, so saved myself the struggle, lay back down and looked into the mirror.

Now look at yourself, she'd say.

And I would. There was my young face, scowling angrily back at me instead of where it meant to be pointed at.

In the eyes, she'd insist.

I knew that if she had to tie me down, I'd end up complying, so I saved the struggle and complied. I looked at the dull color around and deep into the black empty of my own angry eyes.

Ugly, she started. This is how you look when you're like this. Ugly.

But, I thought, wasn't this how I looked all the time? I'd keep staring as she'd continue her commentary where ugly, hateful, unlovable and possibly even wicked were the main terms used. I think God's opinion was even invoked on her side. All the while, I kept staring. Into my ugly eyes. At every ugly bit of my face.

And she was right.

I'd start to cry as I realized she was right.

I was ugly. There wasn't anything good in those eyes or the soul behind them. My young face was hideous. My soft, peach fuzz face was disgusting. Every hue and tone of my skin and hair barbed me to look at because the whole of me, inside and out was monstrous.

All this time my mom's watching quiet and angry. Until the tears really pour and I can't keep my head up anymore. When I cry and hyperventilate, she plays at breaking down, too. She cries and she holds me and her voice cracks when she explains.

She's sorry, she says, but that she just has to get through to me. Sometimes there's no other way for her to get through. And I agree. I need to be taught. And I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for whatever and for this and for that.

And we talk and come to some very weighted compromise. And we laugh and dry our eyes and noses for the last time and leave the room to start things off fresh and on the same page.

And I'm so glad. I'm so thankful and relieved.

I had to repeat this particular and far-reaching lesson several times. Maybe you can tell that, because although I have no reason to be, I'm most sorry that it affects my friends. Not me, still, but my friends, who get less from me than I wish I could give them.

Reverse Cowgirl Reverse Mormon

2009-02-06T09:58:00.000-08:00

"It's the quiet that helps," he said.

He'd remember this later with his nose and lips nuzzled in her neck while he loved her, not senseless, but sensationally. Feeling shot through her--toe-curling, lip-biting, nipple-exploding feeling.

Laying next to her, looking at her pretty and feminine hands, palm and backside and palm again, he knew this is where he belonged.

Could he, the harbinger of hurt, bear to stay? He had to hope he could outrun the nameless to be able to answer yes. Because he loved her dark hair and slender neck. The ever loving celebratory bounce of her every inch of unadulterated womanhood.

She shares divinely.

He may need, to be sure, but he loves so much more so and, thankfully, it's not up to him to decide if he's worth it.

But he is.

And she deserves more, even still.

Funhouse Mirrors

2009-02-04T11:29:00.000-08:00

Pavel and Pedro live on opposite ends of the world - Russia and Chile, respectively - and, while they're nearly physically indistinguishable from one another, they are, at their core, polar opposites. Convenient, huh?

They look identical, but study them and you'll see differences.

Pavel looks taller. Could be shoes, probably posture.

Pedro has a better paying job, while Pavel is more content.

Pavel has no problems meeting and connecting with people, neither as friends nor as lovers.

Both are equally satisfying in bed. Pedro tries harder. He senses his partners needs through all the languages spoken sexually. Pavel's prowess is without effort.

The main difference between them is one of communication; there are multiple ways in which Pavel and Pedro do not speak the same language--not with others, not with themselves.

Did you know about internal communication? Of course you did.

Everything Pavel takes in through his physical or mental ear is filtered through sunshine and orgasms. Nothing but positive is passed through into his body, his thought process, his life. Pavel doesn't compare himself to other people. He does his best and doesn't place unreasonable demands on himself. He leaves situations that do.

Wouldn't that be nice?

But, fuck it, most of us are Pedros stuck in Tierra del Fuego; hell on earth. We do the opposite at every turn. And there's no easy way North from where we are.

Rump, They Say

2009-02-02T19:43:00.000-08:00

My friends Cindy and Krissy have made valid points. That there might be other people in my mynde (OMS, SEE WHAT I DID THERE?!), each with wills of their own.

But they're nice people, don't worry. Not a firebug or slow jazz lover in the bunch.

How do you follow up a post about cutting, they ask me.

Why, with rigorous anal sex, of course!

No, dumbass. What do you post as a follow up to a post about cutting?

WHY, WI-

No, not one about rigorous anal sex...

Fine. Ass love haters.

Finally we agreed that I could write a dirty limerick:

There was a young man from West Sussex
Whose lust was for rig'rous anal sex
One two three for five
Nice hairdo (bee hive)
Anal sex, anal sex, anal sex

And that's when they started cutting me. And my son asked me what that thing on my shoulder was. And I said it was my pain patch.

And we alll know what happened next...

(A friend once told me this was the) Most Boring Story Ever Told

2009-01-29T13:29:00.000-08:00

"Daddy?," Kelly used to ask. "Daddy, what's that on your shoulder?"

Hmm?, Daddy would always say. Oh, that. That's just my pain patch, Kelly-belly.

"Daddy," she'd follow up. "Daddy, what's a pain patch for?"

Here's where Daddy let all the air in his lungs out through his nose by gravity. Then nothing while he looked for the words. Breathing resumed and he'd answer. I keep it there to help me feel better.

Kelly-belly never understood why Daddy needed the patch all of the time. Why Mommy never wore one.

Daddy died during Junior High. In High School, she learned what it was for. She put hers between her legs where she assumed no one would ever want to see. She was wrong about that.

Not long after, Kelly-belly married a man, John, who never wore a pain patch like that. But he wore a nicotine patch and certain eponymous sleeveless shirts. He liked to hate to call her BELLY, and he made her wear a second patch.

She prayed to nothing that her one and two year-olds wouldn't see them and ask what they were, but knew daddy would show them somehow.

Guilt made it worse.

The little girls saw the patches, of course, at bathtime and would ask the same questions, and one more: Mommy, does the patch suck pain out or blow pain on?

Mommy-belly cried. "Yes." That's about when she started wearing wristbands.

Soon she died, but made a point of writing a letter to the girls laying everything bare. She never got to know if it would help make a difference or not.

Goodnight, Sweetheart

2009-01-27T21:12:00.000-08:00

How do you feel about TV shows that have inanimate objects as characters? Like Serenity on Firefly. Cuddy's breasts on House.

I like to pretend that I'm House. There's not much further from the truth, physically. But at our core, you might well be hard pressed to tell us apart. We share the compulsive drive to do things better than anyone, to solve the things other people can't, and, ultimately, to attempt to prove logically that which can only be felt.

Also, I would break Dr. Cameron. Something about that beautiful hair and face glued onto that enormous head resting on that stick figure little girl body makes me want to stretch her out and use my tongue to paint pleasure into her every nook and cranny. Hearing her shudder through that dulcet voice would get me so hard. We'd rock some piece of furniture, then I'd give her my twisted, human essence. I'd kiss her long, fair neck more and more softly until she fell asleep with a heartfelt grin on her sweet lips.

I don't remember where I was going with that. House is on, and I get a little involved. Sorry.

Anyway, that's the only way I can tell you that all the shit is fucked up, but I'm trying to make shit-ade and be entertaining. That's fucked up, too, but it's what we do. You know you do it, too, even though we won't talk about it.

It's what we do. It's what we don't do.

So let's all just, I don't know. Keep on keepin-on? Screw? Do nothing?

Yeah. Let's do all that.

Naked.

Nowhere Fast

2009-01-27T03:21:00.000-08:00

My first memory is of being at the beach.

There's no audio.

The memory begins and I'm sitting somewhat happily just inland of where the sea foam comes to rest, digging sand and shoveling it into a plastic pail, then dumping it out. The pail has Colonel Sanders (or Colonel Sandles, as I remember saying it years later) on it. I had a sailor cap on.

The tide cautiously rises to meet me. Water reaches my leg with each set of waves inching further and the gritty saltwater cools my left leg while I play. Shortly, the water spills over my leg into the little hole I've been digging. The hole soon gets filled in with each wave. The water swells under the pail, lifting it up and away from me. I get up to grab it, but the ocean takes it in short jerks, just beyond my short reach at every feeble, chasing step.

My first feeling is fear.

Not of the ocean or of the loss, but of my parents.

I'm caught between an injunction barring me from entering the water and a fear of being punished for the loss of one of my things. I wanted to keep chasing it, but I'm paralyzed; a minute vampire at the sea's front door which I'm magically unable to enter.

It's then that my thoughts stretch away from my person and try to find my mom and dad on the beach. I tread anxiously and butterfly-stomached towards them.

My dad looks unmoved, but, from over our shoulders, I see my mom, to my surprise, consoling me. Assuring me it was okay. We could get another bucket. But I don't think we ever did.

The memory comes to a close with no romance of film flapping out of a spinning reel; no sudden shock of the now absent grain as only pure light shines on a makeshift screen. And the reality of it saddens me. Because it really happened. Because, even that young, I was so afraid beyond my years. To have so much fear must be chemically inborn or conducted by environment. But neither particularly soothes me.

And I Just Had to Laugh/I Saw the Photograph

2009-01-24T11:14:00.000-08:00

Do news headlines crack you up? World events have such a broad context (like, the WORLD, DUDE!) that you can take it any way.

Quiros takes lead in Qatar Masters
Great, another Guitar Hero clone.

World's Fastest Car Goes Electric
It's of great note that it wasn't electric before now. They've been at least partially electric since the advent of headlamps.

Police Charge Suspect with Belgian Nursery School Killings
It'd be much more newsworthy if they charged someone who wasn't a suspect.

Employers Avoid Axing Oldies but Goodies
That's good. We need music in the workplace.

Will Obama have to be Better because he's Black?
You tell me. You're the fucking news organization.

Top 10 Most Valuable US Coins Found in Pocket Change
No! HWAY! I wish I'd had that pocket. Do you think it came with the pants?

Yes. Perhaps I am a bit bipolar.

Her name was Michelle. It's not now, though.

2009-01-21T20:20:00.000-08:00

I know a woman with coffee cup eyes. The ring of quickly stirred cream fools you into thinking her palatable, but she's far too hot. Sue McDonald's hot. Slurp noisily/kill your tastebuds hot.

I used to stop by and ingest her for as long as anyone would let me. I'd listen to her smoky, throaty voice and pretend it was stroking me. Fluffing me up like a velvet tongue. A silk opera glove.

Her aperture would widen, widen, widen. Stretch to take as much of me in as her optic nerves could invert and carry to her brain. One of her wet shivering masses sucking me up and hiding me away for future reference, the way mine saved the texture of her irises (barely containing her almost painfully expanding pupils): For ammunition. For affirmation. Sometimes I got blue balls just thinking about her genuine smile.

In the end she burned me. Even at the peak of her fucking season and the height of her feminine tang, she would not dish out that much hinted at pie.

To the Woman Cyclist along the California River Bike Path who Caused Me to Crash Today:

2009-01-19T16:20:00.000-08:00

Please, for the love of god, wear a sports bra. Zip up your jersey. Wear a sweater. Just, please, put those tits away.

I know. I'm as surprised as you are to be making this request.

But I saw the man half a mile ahead of me crash and knew there was something to be cautious about. I made a note to be careful when I got there, and didn't think you were involved.

But when the bulldyke and her trophy both went out a third of a mile ahead, I knew it was you.

That's it, I thought. It's her. She's knocking people over. She's... I don't know, spitting acid or something. Never did I suspect it was your fantastic tits that were taking people down.

So I slowed and rode on. I kept my eyes on you through greyed RayBans, but my head straight ahead so as not to tip you off. Nonchalant. But, damn it, there are no sunglasses polarized against the effects of a perfect pair of puffies.

A hundred feet away, I saw it. Your cleavage. Dear, sweet baby Jebus. I lost control of my bike and my wheels more ways than one. If not for my last second reach for your melonious mams, I know for a fact I would have broken my collar bone.

Your passing was infernal adrenaline sparked speed. The crash was Matris slow motion torture.

As I lay in the gravel, bleeding with my leg pinned under me, all I could think of were your cans. They hung floppily and had slight stretch marks. Real and incredible breasts. In Los Angeles of all places.

Caution posters would only be a hazard and no bike patrol person would be safe. So, sweetie, much as it hurts every bone in my body including the one that's technically not a bone, woman, you have to cover those things up on the bike path. For the good of mankind.

Waiting for the Great Awkward Silence, Mao

2009-01-15T00:27:00.000-08:00

I've been sort of intentionally not blogging since my last post. Everyone seemed so touched by my little "old flame" memoir that I fear turning people away when I inevitably return to my usual caliber low comedy posts.

Then I realized, Hey, that's going to happen anyway.
So the pressure's off me and onto you to be polite and not point and stare at me, the retard handling your French fries at McDonald's.

You retard pointer, you.

True fact: My company has the largest underground parking lot in the world? It was a real surprise to me. My boss was pissed I didn't know. Fuck, just because I work at Underground Parking R Us...

True fact: I've been ejaculating when I shit. People tell me I should have my prostate looked at. I think I'm just going to eat more fiber and hope it lasts.

True fact: My fear of evil robot overlords is rivaled only by my fear of Krissyface reigning terror down on my ass in the form of long comment spam. So you can thank her for this shitty/semeny post.

The Day the Music was in My Soul

2009-01-09T21:52:00.000-08:00

My fourth near-sexual experience was in a record store in New York, far from home.

She was standing one end of an aisle, the Vs. I could tell it was V because of that one Van-Halen CD cover. You know, the red one with the gold, metallic VH logo? Yeah, that one. I was in the Ps. I didn’t realize until much later that we were in the alphabetic sections that corresponded to the first letter of our primary external sex organ. I almost said “primary sex organ,” but I caught myself; the mind is the primary sex organ. It’s where all the flirting and play live, where the pleasure and delight register, where the moments are etched and painted into memories whose lights and darks you’ll distort beyond reality for as long as you live.

So, I was browsing the Pixies CDs. I had Doolittle and loved it, so I wanted to get another CD, but I couldn’t decide which one. Well, I was doing that thing where you close your eyes and open them really quickly and pick the first thing you see, but Trompe le Monde kept catching my eye first (with its eyes), and I didn’t really want that one. What I wanted was Surfer Rosa or Bossa Nova, but I couldn’t decide which. So I did the only thing I could think of; I juggled them. Well, those two and the Come on Pilgrim EP. Juggling two CDs is harder and looks less impressive than juggling three.

Well, I was young and dumb and it hadn’t occurred to me that juggling CDs might draw attention to me, which I was staunchly opposed to. Maybe it was because I’d just had some coffee? Or I’d already seen her and really just wanted to get her to notice me? I don’t know. What I do know is I was wondering that same thing as I saw the blur of her lean figure come towards me. Her blur was wearing a pinkish sundress type thing with a white t-shirt under it and had, is it?, yes, a pale jeans jacket tied around her waist. Couldn’t see her shoes. Well, when the blur got more clear through the swirling topless woman on Surfer Rosa and the sexed-up retro of Bossa Nova, and I realized she was walking right at me, well, that’s when I got embarrassed and dropped the CDs.

I quickly squatted to pick up the CDs and to avoid facing up to my being such a silly guy, getting twitterpated over almost nothing. Remember, I was young enough for a late bloomer to have not yet gotten out of that pattern of playground flirtations where you spend all of your energy running from and avoiding interest and affection. So, yeah, I bend down to pick up the CDs, all of which cracked, by the way, and she, to my surprise and elation, she bends down, too. She hands me Come on Pilgrim and says in a temperate, rich and golden voice that I swear smiled at me, she says “Hello,” with an oh, my fucking god, British accent. It had bright tones and long vowels from somewhere north of Birmingham, but south of Leeds. Manchester? Sheffield? Liverpool? No, she was far too pretty to be from Liverpool. Well, she says in an at once pretty and knowing Northern drawl, “Hello. Ooh, I like American music. (beat) Do you like American music?” and that’s when I realize that, thank god, she wasn’t looking at Van-Halen – she was looking at the Violent Femmes! So, I, of course, say back, “I like all kinds of music,” slowly so that I can soak in the brightness of her medium blue eyes, the creaminess of her milky skin and the dark of her hair. “But I like American music best,” she says. And, both of us grinning and fighting a losing battle against each other’s interest, both of us say, slowly, “bay-bee.”

Her face caves to the pressure of a beautiful, genuine smile, and I hope mine did the same. She grabs me by the wrist and she runs out of the store, dragging me in tow as I watch her green, ankle high Chuck Taylors pad out in front of me towards the undisclosed location where I know I want to be. Thankfully, not far. Out the entrance, around the corner and about two thirds of the building from the front to the alley I watched her fair legs pump the way to a spot where, next to the middle of me making a fool of myself in a record store, at least, we could be alone. The nook, for lack of a better word is made out of the building’s wall jutting inwards for four feet and then back out. Sort of the reverse of those buildings that jut out to give themselves the appearance of having pillars. Well, we stop in that nook, both of us hitting our shoulders into the ugly grey, stucco wall to share what felt like a long moment where we swallowed shallowly and soaked in each other’s face before we kissed.

That’s the worst thing about kissing a beautiful girl. You don’t get to see her face.

We spent the rest of that day walking excitedly. Talking about music. Holding hands and kissing. Chasing after each other and kissing more. We may have eaten, but it was the least meaningful thing we did with our mouths that day.

I think we parted lips and ways at about 8 that night at her house.

By 9:00 I’d gone back to the Virgin Megastore to pay for those cracked Pixies CDs and pick up a Violent Femmes CD that was horrid compared to the day I’d just had.

Long Ago, Shannon Whirry

2009-01-07T00:47:00.000-08:00

He gets up early.

Everyday.

He gets up early and ventures from his 2nd floor bedroom to his 1st floor kitchen where he sits at his table and eats cereal. The milk comes from an avocado-colored refridgerator. The cereal is kept in an almond-colored cupboard. The bowl has a hand-painted orange and yellow flower at its center. He's surrounded by the heavy, free-love proof that his world was created and controlled by him and for him, but without his consent or input.

He finds himself in the basement, the -1st floor, sitting by crates of old LPs with no memory of traveling there.

No memory. That's weird, he thought.

He had no memory of it for the same reason he has no name.

He had no memory or name because I didn't give him one. Hi, I'm awake at night for no reason. Nothing to do but open Notepad and throw shit against the wall to see what sticks. I have a lot of things to say, but I don't know what they are. They want out, but they don't tell me with words. They tell me with acne and ingrown hairs. With a love of flying in planes and a penchant for bumping into things.

He decides to try to cut himself with the record needle because I'd like him to take some sickly poetic inaction against his parents. They weren't bad parents, but his mom never shaved her armpits and, worse, used crystals instead of deodorizing antiperspirant and his dad bogarted all the joints.

As the needle would sink, tug, sink, tug into and against his skin, it felt to him that the synthetic and industrial music in his soul was literally audible. I did that. It wasn't audible at all, but he heard it because I told him he did.

The room, he thought. The room smelled differently. That wasn't me, it really did have a new smell. He couldn't tell to look at it, but the needle and dust sink, tug, sinking into, tugging at his skin, were catalyzing chemical reactions and sending histamine up through his epidermis and they have a slight smell. He can smell them because he has an abnormally large number of brain cells dedicated to olfactory processing. Like a dog. And that wasn't me, either. I'm not sure what that was.

He replaces the needle arm back on the hi-fi and lowers the cover, dust undisturbed upon cursory inspection. He steps slowly up the shag carpet steps, opens the thin door at the top, tugs off the bare bulb by its dangling string and seals the room behind him. He wanders into the stale kitchen, puts the cereal box and milk into their dated-colored homes and picks up the empty bowl and hurls it, full, fifteen year-old's strength, at the wall with the ugly burnt orange walls and it's a complete surprise to me. I have no recollection of these actions. I hear the smash, yes, but I didn't see the throw. It didn't happen. I don't remember him even leaving the basement.

I look down.

In my crimson hands are... egg shells. Really thick egg shells. No. No, not egg shells; ceramic...

I've got the scarlet coated ceramic fragments of an ugly 70s bowl in my hands and stinging rivlets of..., of blood? Of blood! on my arms.

I'm not a cutter, though. I'm not.

I look down at Untitled - Notepad, and he's look-, no, he's thinking back at me.

And what he thinks is, fuck you, next time just jerk off and go to sleep.

After some Bactene and Cinemax, I comply.

(Fuck YOU, Garman!!)

2009-01-06T23:17:00.000-08:00

You're going to call me a dreamer (but I'm not the only one),

But I believe we can change the world.

WE--all seven of us--can be a force for positive change.

I believe in the power of an idea whose time has come. And that idea?

I think we should all STOP saying pajamas

And START saying PAJAYJAYs.

Now get out there and work that shit.

I? Shall return.

If You Think You Belong Enough

2009-01-03T19:56:00.000-08:00

The pressure to start this year off with a good post is too much with me, so I'm just going to be done with it.

I was thinking about posting about my gay crushes and dudes I wish I looked like. But in order to do that topic justice, I'd have to find the perfect pictures to go with it. Thing is, once I go on a jpeg safari, it's only a matter of time before I start jerking off. But for whatever reason, I don't feel like wanking.

Unless you'd like to stroke me 'til I asplode?

Didn't think so. But one of these days, one of you good people is going to be foaming at the mouth to froth me at the cock.

Anyway, then I thought about posting about how one night I stayed up and watched the new Get Smart movie all by myself and frame-by-framed certain spectacular Anne Hathaway moments and touched myself. But to do that post justice, I'd want to do more than rely on my admittedly awesome sense-memory; I'd have to pop the disc in and get lubed up and drive. But for maybe the first time ever, I'm to tired to beat off.

That is unless you're volunteering to charm my chubby snake into parting with it's cloudy, pearlescent venom?

Yeah, I had a feeling you'd say no. But I swear the day will come that you'll be gagging to grab this [clutches at crotch].

So I finally decided to post about how I wanted to make sweet love to you--you know how I do. And I started going on about all your sexy, pretty bits and the way they look and smell and taste. And then I came.

And the day will come when I ejaculate prematurely and then fall asleep next to you while you rush to the bathroom to douche out my retarded sperm. Then you'll shake up the bottle and drink it down, swallowing my semen, gargling my gang-bang ammo, chugging my man-chowder... And you know why, too. Because you're a dirty little slut and you love me.

And I love you, too.

Slut.

"And then," I said in my very charming, self-deprecating way, "I woke up from that nice, nice dream."

Glide without Guile

2008-12-31T18:46:00.000-08:00

I want to breathe warm on your shoulders, make out with your clavicles.
Shallow fingerprint tracks in your hair.

You make me smile inside.

I want to feed you and take you all day shopping for things you don't need.

Please watch me while I masturbate slow, fast, slow.
Let me come warm in your hand.

I don't think I can belong anywhere except for where you are or where you need me.
I'm better now than before there was you.

Take me away?

Those Little Things that Gay Guys Love

2008-12-30T21:41:00.000-08:00

Did I ever tell you how I work on a steamboat that meanders up and down the Ol' Miss? Yeah, well, I work on a steamboat. The other part--about the Ol' Miss--that's bullshit.

So I work on a steamboat that services an unspecified aquatic area. I work in the engine room. Which is a misnomer; there are several rooms in the engine room. It's more of an engine complex.

So I work in the engine complex and don't really get out much. Some days I'm so busy shoveling coal (yes, people still shovel coal) that I don't leave the complex to take a piss, let alone eat (Seriously, leave eat alone. WTF did eat ever do to you, bitch?).

So I'm busy and out of sight, so I'm kind of unpopular by virtue of lack of contact with people. Never mind that I'm an asshole and I hate a lot of the people who work in the cushier parts of the steamboat, and who wants to be fucking popular anyway? Not me, no, I don't even think about it and would never blog about it. But I digress.

So, the Facebook has become suddenly popular. Now, my gay Canadian friends were all on the Facebook on day 1. So I was on there like day 4, right? Well, unbeknownst unto me all the assholes on the ship joined up. I didn't know because I don't have the assholes in my personal email contacts and I don't use the Facebook on the steamboat company's time. But they do. And you know how many of them added me as friends? Exactly zero. Zero! Well, until about two weeks ago. A dude who works closely with the steamboat company--the dude who straps bdsm people to the paddle--he friends me. Well, then I see that he's friends with all the popular assholes whose opinions about me I obviously don't care about. And I was taken aback! But, seriously, whatever. Do any of THEM have a blog read by in excess of six people every day???? I. Think. NOT.

But then this psycho whore that's stalking me adds me. It's her first 24-hours on the Facebook and 50% of the stupid jerks who I wouldn't let eat my shit to keep them alive have friended her.

Well, the moral of this story is that everyone likes a tight, stupid whore vajayjay more than they like the charming coal-shoveler with the eyes and quiet intensity.

Also, people act like assholes when you go to their rooms at night and rub coal on your dick and then give them coal ties in their sleep.

Assholes.

A Pedophile Wants to Live in a Small World, After All

2008-12-29T21:42:00.001-08:00

I don't know, I guess I wasn't good enough for him anymore.

Roger. Not good enough for Roger. Roger, I guess, got tired of just molesting me and he kidnapped another kid to bugger because I was too busy. And this new kid--this johnny-come-lately, if you'll pardon the pun--this new kid thinks he can come into MY HOUSE and steal MY COCK? MY COCK and MAN-HANDS???? That is where my anti-anal fissure semen comes from you little bitch!

Except it's not so much me as it is the kid on Law & Order. So McCoy is talking to the defending Attorney about how fuck you, I'm going to sue and win because I'm a badass Irishman with a big ol' donkey dick and I could give way better kids Stockholm Syndrome than this shit. And they defending attorney says

I've got the most sympathetic defendant in the annals of law.

And I say to myself, "Heh, heh. Annals." Except I say it out loud, so my kids are up in my face with their beautiful little boy faces asking me why that's funny.

And I say how annals are like archives. But that it sounds a lot like anal, which means in the butt, which is where the kid on this show had a penis--penIs, not penUs--inserted and eventually got to like it.

Except none of that actually happened. On Law & Order. Or in my life. But it did happen to one guy.

And that guy?

Was Leonardo DiCaprio.

But Fred Savage liked to watch.

I'm Gilbert O'Sullivan, and This is My Band, Gilbert O' Sullivan

2008-12-26T19:23:00.000-08:00

Tell me the story, she says, like it'll make a difference. Now, like I don't know where you're going with it.

"When we were done, she got up and--I don't remember how--gave me the clear message that we were really done; that I was supposed to leave. It was her house.

"Wow, confusion. I thought we were lovers, but turned out I was just a disposable dick. A fuck and run. I was just made a playa against my will.

"And that hurts. Like... like Edward Scissorhands and shit. You see the beauty and love the delicate, but everything you touch gets torn apart."

I stop talking. My field of vision, it widens around her like they're dragging me off to the gallows. Like that thing Hitchcock did with the zoom and the distance that everybody does now.

I see her fleeting away, but becoming ever clearer.

Whatever made me a slut, she used it as an excuse to make me alone.

Again.

Naturally.

Shalom

2008-12-25T09:19:00.000-08:00

Well, it's xmas morn, and I'm guessing you've all got your sex bits wet. Me, too - smell my fingers! Who knows, maybe Sir Wrinkles will get more than a hand this weekend. But, if not:

In the Feed the World video, there are three women in the front. Are the Bananarama? And who's the one on the left? She's hot. And when you're gorgeous without make-up, rowr. And since we're being candid:

I bought this neat new phone and have already thrown money at it that I regret. I bought this scratch-proof, military-grade film to put on it. Well, what I didn't think about was how it feels like copping a feel in a rubber glove. When that's not your thing. So that's in the trash. To console myself:

I'm going to buy some douglas coupland novels to check into a mental hotel for a bit. And if that doesn't work:

Why can't they make action figures that look like their actresses? I don't know about you, but I need a focal point. Well:

I'm out for now. Peace, motherfuckers.

Coming Clean

2008-12-24T19:25:00.001-08:00

Okay, now that's out of the way.

During the holidays when everyone I know is with their families or loved ones or redtube, I think back to times with my family.

After she ate, mom would grab the paper and waddle over to the couch and scoot herself down to the floor, her legs open in a giant v. The spread legs was less striking than you'd expect because all she would be wearing is her panties and knee-high stockings.

Sometimes she'd eat in this spot and position. She'd tuck her bib of paper towels under her floppy tits and start eating.

That's not a joke, either. We seriously used paper towels instead of napkins. I kept that up into my adulthood not realizing that was so far out of the norm. Try doing that in front of people some time. They look at you like you're about to clean yourself with newspaper. A newspaper with piss on it. Human piss.

In any case, I sometimes wonder if I don't like more latinas because I've seen enough of them for one lifetime. I don't wonder why I don't like huge asses, though; that one's all mom.

It's No Shennanigan

2008-12-24T17:05:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay, okay.

Okay.

Now. This is not worth blogging about, I know, but I feel like I'm not going to be able to blog about my normal shit until I get it off my chest. Which is funny to me, because I normally blog about shitting on chests. But I digress.

Okay.

I had sex with Jennifer Love Hewitt this morning.

[new ending]

Answers to the big questions: yes, her boobs are real, no, your balls won't fit in her mouth, yes, there's a god.

[original ending]

I work at a law firm and occasionally celebrities visit to do whatever it is they do with their attorneys. And to fuck me. I'm that good.

What? I am! I'm not being conceited, I just care--I don't fuck anyone unless I want them to enjoy it. YOU should try it. You buncha sluts...

So, her "box" score:

Face: cute in both ecstatic and angry sex modes
Eyes: insincere until she comes
Mouth: not large enough for entry, but trying feels good
Voice: mostly tolerable. Fake O irritating, low moan quite beautiful
Orgasm, fake: not convincing, grating
Orgasm, real: quiet and intense
Dirty talk: sub-par
Ass: on the large side for the deepest anal, but with a good bounce for cowgirl and variations--you know you're getting humped
Tits: real, firm and highly sensitive to stimulation. Titfuck very mutually arousing
Pussy: total hallway; was sure I heard a train coming the other way
Clit: small even compared to her surprisingly small labia; medium sensitivity - takes some work
Asshole: like a whore married to an elephant
Feet: could use some practice tugging
Skin: clear and responsive, not to ignore
Demeanor: selfish, spoiled, likes rough
Mental stability: likelihood of being a psycho is high. Give her someone else's number

Anyway, she's pretty much middle-of-the-road as far as sex with the celebrities goes. I wouldn't drive more than thirty minutes for this trim, but if you're in the neighborhood, stop by and tap it.

Zat ees ze Only Way to Catch Roomis Zicloomis

2008-12-23T19:52:00.000-08:00

I'm... phasing.

I'm changing from one state of matter to another at times entirely beyond my control. But completely within yours.

One minute you've got me hard as a rock. The next minute you've reduced me to a puddle of emotion on the floor. And the shit you feed me has the gaseous phase covered.

Why do you have this control over me?

Because I gave it to you. So you'd let me in.

Now I'm love's bitch, eating a pb&j at the kid's table in the kitchen while everyone else is having a ball.

But I guess I wouldn't have it any other way.

Not Not Not

2008-12-21T19:55:00.000-08:00

Ted's not from the city. His upstairs neighbor is pretty. But old. She has a treadmill and heavy steps. He thinks she's a Whore. Not a slut, a whore. Getting pounded late every night. But doesn't get turned on like I do. Do you?

Parenting binds your little mindtree to a guide. Can there be a perfect 90 degree angle when there's no such thing as a line? Too straight and you may come out too straight; too straight is crooked.

Ted doesn't not know as much as he doesn't think.
He dreams of unicorns, but not like That.

Ted and I are different cars at different speeds at different stretches of road. But we both want a white picket fence with doctor C. for no reason within our control.

I'd tell him I think it's neat, but Ted doesn't like me.

A Sunday Stress Masturbation Haiku

2008-12-21T19:46:00.000-08:00

With apologies to Ty:

She's Moses to me

Keeley's Areolae say

let thy semen go!

Shhh. Don't Wake Them.

2008-12-18T21:27:00.000-08:00

I would give my right nut to be able to grow a good beard/goatee. And, for those of you keeping score at home, that would leave me with exactly zero nuts.

I can do stubble, but I just don't have the follicle density needed to pull it off. Also, I have the facial-hair kiss-of-death: no connectivity between my 'stache and my beard. The best I can do is look scruffy.

On neighbor note, does anyone want a scruffy motorboat?

Tarantino, I Love You, but You Can't Act.

2008-12-17T20:21:00.000-08:00

I keep meaning to scan this diagram my urologist gave me. He said it's not a cross-section diagram, but it looked just like a cross-section diagram. It's a diagram of my balls, flaccid dick and various come tubes.

I keep meaning to show you how he actually drew an arrow out of the urethra to illustrate for me where semen makes its exit.

I keep meaning to show you where he'll sever my vas deferens so the sperm is trapped in the vicinity of the testes, where they'll die and be disposed of. The didymus is in there somewhere, I don't remember what it does.

What I really keep meaning to show you is the backlog of sperm is. Where my retarded babies are lined up, ready and willing to fertilize some hot, ripe, ova that are just gagging for it. It takes about fifteen ejaculations to clear the pipe, he says. They don't have an appointment until May, either. They've got all the dick they can handle.

Also, I keep meaning to learn to start sentences with phrases other than "I keep meaning to."

I Hate the Term "Hot Chick"

2008-12-16T20:38:00.000-08:00

The best thing about realizing your inferiority is that you really appreciate the real stuff when you see it.

Blogwise, it's easy to take in a real writer or a true comedian and not get jealous. Much. Sure, they get more love and appreciation. More chicks. And dudes. That's what happens to talent. And, while I can seem lesser by comparison, I'm built up by association. As iron sharpens iron and all that.

From a beauty perspective, I can't compete with Cindy or Krissy or, well, anyone. Because they're hot chicks, while I'm just an order of fries with a goatee wearing a plastic, novelty vagina.

In real life it has its perks, too. Like today, as I riding up the escalator, I peeped a pretty hot chick. Tall and trendy. And who do you think she smiled at? Damn right! The guy right in front of me! And that's almost the same as if she'd looked at me herself.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Can You Remember Me Now, BITCH?!

2008-12-13T13:39:00.000-08:00

If your wife gets you or asks you to get her a Verizon Wireless phone this xmas, she may be telling you she wants a gangbang.

A girl I liked in high school--somewhat distinguishable by her liking me back--also liked gangbangs, as I recall. Her name was S4ra L4mp. She jocked me, people. Like, really. I mean JOCKED, jocked.

So, in this age of interwebs, I'd kind of been keeping my eye out for her. I finally found her on one of those high school stalker sites; she'd changed her name. Then I saw her on the Facebook. Well, I sent her a message saying, hey, did you used to be S4ra L4mp, I had a high school sweetheart named S4ra L4mp. And she says, yeah, I was S4ra L4mp, only I spelled it Sara Lamp. I don't remember your name. And does your a key work?

And I was taken aback! Hurt. Stunned. I was reeling, pining for the fjords, even. How could she not remember me? ME?

Then I remembered about the gangbangs.

(just playing s4ra, I love you)

Peeing While Sitting Down Won't Make Me Gay, Dad; You Will.

2008-12-10T21:24:00.000-08:00

One time I was snooping around in my parent's room and found my dad's black, zippered banana hammock. I remember it because I was 10 or so and thought, wow, I guess you can do worse than wearing bikini underwear.

But my dad was, as I recall, kinda hung. At least that's what I remember from being six and sitting in the hallway when my dad would wake up and take a leak with his semi. Funny coincidence that we call those big, long trucks "semis," isn't it? But I digress.

I guess that if dad was going to get his tip into my mom,a woman of four bills, he'd have to be packin' some heat. And if she's going to feel it enough to let him, he'd have to have some girth, too. I wonder on occasion if he started out that way, or if he had to will-power himself to a penetration length and feel-able girth.

I remember when I walked in on them that time. I didn't know what was going on, but I recall looking at the scene--they'd come apart--and wondering what was physically possible there, especially that would be worth getting so upset about.

But, then, I also remember masturbating to the Warner Brothers Store catalog to Brooke Theiss' legs when my mom caught me. She was in Just the Ten of Us. Brooke Theiss was, not my mom. My mom felt I was being quite brazen humping my bed to that hussy with the door open. It wasn't so much brazen as dumb--I couldn't see a way how that woman could take a flight of stairs and me not hear it. It had certainly never happened before. And she wasn't as much of a hussy as Jamie Luner, but she wasn't in the catalog, so I can't say for sure I wouldn't have been faux humping her had she been an option.

That's when she gave me The Talk. She said she used to touch herself, too. She had a very creepy hand gesture to illustrate it. That gesture sometimes haunts my dreams. I asked about dad, did he touch himself, but she said no, something happened to dad when he was a kid, so touching himself wasn't a problem. I wondered about the truthfulness of that years later when I'd find t&a on his video tapes. Or come out of my room and hear the same dialog and sounds I'd heard in my room, only unscrambled. If something left him unable to touch himself, he sure gave it the old college try.

I quit masturbating for a whole year once. I think it was the anorexia. I've since made up for both the abstinence and anorexia.

(This is for) Your Racist Friend

2008-12-09T19:29:00.000-08:00

I dreamt about a hot chick tying me down and stripping for me and stuff. But stripping well - not like the free, Puma Swede whoreshit you see on the Interwebs.

Well, she gets down to the part where she does a back bend over the M.C. Escher coffee table, twat pointed right at you, touching herself, making those sloppy figure eights over her labia. And that's when I noticed something. I use my Dream Vision to zoom in and frame-by-frame:

She had two clits.

Two!

Clits!

Here I am, a dude with a forked tongue and a fetish for optical illusions, about to get it on with a total babe who has multiples. Could it get any more perfect?

Well then Solid Gold Dancers start gettin' it on with unicorn sybians all around us while The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald plays.

And that's when I lose it. I arrive up into the air, and my semen rains onto my face like a bukkake squad of angels were above me. The hot chick starts teasing me for not being able to maintain, then she rips her mask off and is a man.

And that man?

Was Fred Savage

Coming and Going

2008-12-04T23:48:00.000-08:00

Ah, Penis Week. We Hardly knew ye.

My Penis, Day 4

Hey, you're awake.

I can't tell you how I've enjoyed our time together this week. I've enjoyed sharing my penis with you. You're the best thing it's ever had on its end.

End.

Why does it have to end? Why
can't we stay in this little sex capsule and fuck forever?

I've loved hovering my face all over you, stirring the electricity between us, tickling you in that relaxng and arousing way.

I've loved you spending me to pamper yourself. The way you take my hand and do with it what you will. The way you ride me for you; closing your eyes tight, shutting me out until it's just you and the pleasure exploding inside you.

Fucking you, sucking you, licking you, squeezing you...

The best part?

Is You.

I'm not supposed to say this.

But if our time has to end, then I have no choice.

I Love You

It's Business It's Business Time

2008-12-03T18:31:00.000-08:00

I'm so pumped. Baby, I'm going to make this Penis Week last forevah!

My Penis, Day 3

That's right. What you do to me; it's never gonna end. It's gonna-

Auhhgh

Hhhhhhhhhuh

Hooooooo.

-Oh, I'm spent.

I know. I was supposed to maintain. But, baby, when you fuck me like that? Oh, my god, when you fuck me...

My release just now--my whole soul unclenched. If I could bottle and sell you? If I could bottle and sell you, I'd probably just fuck all the opened bottles while I hold my breath and think of your anticipating face. You, biting your lip and taking quick breaths. Making your little sounds without knowing it. *Smile*

Oh. Fuck.

You didn't have to lick my spunk off your tits, darling.

And certainly not so... greedily.

I wanna squeeze the base of your breasts Hard while I... BAT your nips against my tongue. Maybe after I lick a Chinese dictionary into your pussy. And I'm talking Traditional Chinese, too, not Simplified like all the women I knew before you. Women? No, not women. Girls.

I didn't know what a woman was until there was you.

Those girls left me deflated and empty and limp. You? You leave me glorious. Glorious and stretchy-extravagant like a tabby in the sun on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

Oh, fuck me.

Hey, look at that! The commercial break's over! Now I can tongue-twiddle your clit while you while you watch Grey's Anatomy.

Is It In You?

2008-12-02T21:25:00.000-08:00

My stars, can it really be Day 2 of Penis week already?

My Penis, Day 2

It's funny to me that we refer to penises as getting hard. They don't, really. They're still soft to your touch. They still squeeze within the pressure of your willing hand. They sort of wobble their way into hungering orifices. Now, they don't really get hard.

What they get is engorged.

Engorged with hot, pumping blood. At your touch, hot, pulsing life pours in and refuses to leave. Thick, viscous plasma rushes into spongy tissue expanding it into something you want.

You engorge us with need and turn us into a blunt, throbbing instrument that doesn't know a thing but to thrust and jab into whatever you'll expose.

At least that's how I remember it. Truth be told, it's been months since I've had sex. Well, for-real sex. I've lost count at how many times I've touched myself over the same span of time. But when I'm thinking of you and stroking myself on your behalf, I remember why I have this dangling probe here, making it hard to wear pants.

It's for you.

It's a present.

See, I can give you my heart emotionally, but not physically. Now, my penis, in the other hand, is filled to the (literally) Fucking brim with blood straight from my heart, and I need it to be inside you; it's the only way you can know this indescribable feeling I have for you. I have to harpoon at your insides with it so you'll feel the electricity throughout your body screaming what I really feel for you.

What? You're laughing?

Yeah, well. Forget the whole thing.

Come on, let's hang out.

Just for drinks.

When the Master Cranks, You Dance

2008-12-01T20:43:00.000-08:00

My hero told me today that it's penis week and invited me to take part. And when he tells me to double-down? I double my ass down! So, here's my Day 1 post for penis week:

My Penis, Day 1

Here it is, penis week, at last, and I don't know how to handle it. I'm thinking I'll start out soft and useless, bring things up to their hardest tomorrow, go out with a premature bang on Wednesday, savor the afterglow on Thursday, and then ashamedly tip-toe to the kitchen on Friday to clean myself up with a paper towel.

So, here goes soft and useless.

Look at me. I'm soft. And useless. But don't you see my potential? Don't you see what could soon become? Rise, little turtlenecked Frankenstein, you think, so that I may lick on your mocha underseam.

See, the thing is that I have no "game." Game denotes artifice, and I only have, at best, fake artifice. And that doesn't count. Or DOES IT? No, it really doesn't.

All I have is honesty, personality, mental illness, a face like a gauche mobster's getaway car and a body like a Six Flags amusement park. But I'd be lying if I said that didn't generate interest. It's like how lots of women want to fuck midgets. I'm the misshapen and unknown. The locally exotic. I'm like a black man in the 50s.

So, anyway. You're pretty. I've seen a lot of women, but you're.... You're... art. I wish life had gone differently and--if you'd have me--we could be each other's. The way your eyes have rings of slightly different colors makes me want to get lost in them. Your lines are sharp here and sleek there. Your voice speaks to my soul like the music my ancestors used to dance to. You're just... so special. I know there's nothing for us, but, I've always thought you should say how you feel, for better or for worse.

If you should want to talk or anything, I'll be down two floors in the stairwell, touching myself through so-so pants (, thinking of you).

Exaudio, Comperio, Conloquor

2008-11-28T11:00:00.000-08:00

You may have noticed, but some of the so-called open minded people suck ass.

Seriously, what kind of world do we live in where all the open-minded want to read is what's for dinner and regurgitated headlines? Hello? WHERE is my hot Jewish woman bitching about healthcare? WHAT city is she spending the weekend in? WHO is she flirting with? WHEN are assholes going to stop stalking her? WHY does she have such a problem hooking up with married men when she's soooo good at it?

There are things that liberal minds want to know about, you know? Charismatic women, political and economic headlines and recipes. And how-to articles for attaining power and sex. Now, which one of those CAN'T we get on NPR? You're damn right I'm talking about my Adorable Girlfriend.

So you if you miss her as much as I do (or more, if you'd like to tell yourself that's possible), then it's time to get off your ass and blog passive-aggressively about it. Let's get that hot little thing back on the Interweb where she belongs.

The Rising Cost of Phalli is Raising the Market Value of my Penis; Get it While you Can

2008-11-26T22:08:00.000-08:00

I have only two thoughts this evening:

Mumbai. Terrorists, as you know, are major haters. Or so they CLAIM. But if that's true and they reeeeally hate the world they're taking down, why do they speak up and take credit for their actions? Could it be they really just have poor extremist, religous self-esteem? Maybe their father religion touched their religion in a special place where he shouldn't have?

Law & Order. Every female assistant DA on this show is, while to some extent beautiful, an absolute freak. Look at any one of them. From Carey Lowell--the forgotten Bond girl--to whoever the hell they have on now, every single one of them has some extreme yet somehow unquantifiable general abnormality. I may need to line them up and do a sexual battery of tests on them. Except for Elisabeth Ro(umlaut)hm. I wouldn't even let her clean off my smegma.

Hey. Serious. I'm tired, bored, horny, overwhelmed, and, frankly, I love all you people. I hope you're having fun out there.

Did You Leave Your White Calf-Height Cowboy Boots with the Fringes at Home?

2008-11-21T09:29:00.000-08:00

To the woman on her way to Starbucks:

Sweetie, that sweater dress is is tragically frumpy.

But I bet you have great taste in music.

(I don't look like much, but you'd want me SO badly if you only knew)

Enjoy your burnt sell-out coffee, herd-person.

I Just Shaved, So No Deep Throating With Those Open Sores

2008-11-15T21:36:00.000-08:00

Would any of you like to start a pool to bet what the next trendy, solidarity-inspiring middle name is going to be? Hussein was the first, now it's Milk. My money's on "no on 8."

On a related topic, have I ever told you how Facebook and MySpace sometimes make me suicidal? Yeah, well I never will, either. It's too private.

And since I'm not sharing private details, I didn't have to shit so badly today that I was sure I'd end up gay.

Which reminds me of my dad and how I used to play bits of all his unmarked vhs tapes, looking for non-scrambled T&A.

And, finally, I'd like to KILL whoever thought it was a good idea to shift softcore porn from hot people screwing along a single storyline to the current talk-amongst-yourselves sexual vignette form of the day.

MGMT Also Sucks (But Stanzas Are Back, Bitches!)

2008-11-14T20:58:00.000-08:00

I'm watching the iCarly movie with my kid and Freddie's mom just angrily said "Now eat me out!" to Spencer.

And I couldn't help but feel guilty that I had exposed the boy to that.

All because I had to go and make it happen with my mind.

But then Good Charlotte came on and I felt, oh, so much worse.

I have to learn to spend less of my powers on eroticizing kids shows and more on keeping shit music out of my house.

Clyde Bruckman's Penultimate Repose

2008-11-09T09:52:00.000-08:00

Some days it feels like everyone on Blogger's having sex but me. And I don't mean just having sex, I mean having sex with each other.

I guess it's good. Where MySpace and Craig's List are for meaningless hook-ups, Blogger's for meaningful and uber-healthy sexual relationships. I mean, woof. Lot's of ass being got, labia being licked, knobs being bobbed on...

But when I ask you to fuck me and fuck me hard and with reckless abandon, please understand that it's not for me. Well, not JUST for me. It's for all of us.

That's right. You over here, him over there, her upside down her sideways, that guy outside...

Borg. Cube. Cluster. Fuck.

The Iraquis, They've Taken To The Streets / The 51st Steak

2008-11-05T19:28:00.000-08:00

There's a lot of talk here in California about how the Prop 8, banning marriage for gay people, passed. And, you know, I'm not political, but I know and am crazy about quite a few gay people. Check out my blogroll, for cryin' out loud. So this crap about, "ooh now they have to teach gay marriage in schools," or, "ooh, this violates the sanctity of marriage," seemed like a bunch of haters hating to me.

But now it's passed, and I heard something that made me think. Now, I don't stop and really read anything well enough to remember what it said, exactly, but it was about the gays and how they wanna force their agenda on us.

Whoa.

You're going to force an agenda on me?

That doesn't sound at all comfortable. Have you ever seen an agenda? They tend to be book-shaped, and don't look like they'd be at all comfortable crammed into your body cavities.

So, I say nay.

Nay (I say)!

If you're going to force anything on me, it better be a clammy, semi-erect penis, like my daddy used to.

Why, daddy? Why couldn't you give mommy your essence once in a while? Why did I have to be the gravy boat? Too much protein hurts my kidneys, daddy, you know that.

And it was during that flashback that I realized that I didn't ever know where this post was going. All I do know is that I wanna stay up late and try not to hunt for pictures of Eva/Iga Wyral. Or slender blondes. Or bedsores. Those look really gross. Can you imagine if Kevin Spacey had one? Irt.

The Damien Meme

2008-11-03T19:45:00.000-08:00

Six, Six, Six, Krissy says. Write six random things about yourself, tag six people, dance naked around the fire and blood moat six times.

So here are my six things:

1. I'm going to have a vasectomy. I love, love, love children, but odds are mine are going to keep coming out retarded.

2. I thought Crash was lame. Contrived, convenient, precious...

3. Those Mac versus PC ads have got to go. Enough already. It's getting to be like penile enlargement SPAM; if I buy it, would you stop talking to me about it?

4. I've wanted to be British, a vampire and a superhero sidekick since I was a kid.

5. Several months ago, I started to collect Futurama action figures. I had waves one, two and all of the variants and exclusives. Then I moved cubicles. And someone stole them. Toys. Not even highly collectible toys, just a little frivolity I could have to myself and be stupidly proud of. Gone. And I'm still upset about it.

6. When I was 15 and would find catalogs to jerk off to, I would play an obsessive, tournament-style game where I could only spank to one picture per page. So I'd have to really study them, then pick one, then beat off at the intensity that would allow me to enjoy, but not get off because I had to finish the rest of the catalog. Then start whittling down to the best picture in each thematic section in the catalog, each two, etc., until I had the best few pictures in the catalog to really focus on. Then, you know, as you get close to coming, you get to kind of go crazy and wank at whatever you want to.

So, that's it for me. Screw the other sixes.

P.S. - Loved the I/O Tower

2008-10-29T20:37:00.000-07:00

Some people are into freaky sex. Like me, for example. But I'm also into geeky sex.

I'd love to gropescrew a babe while she plays Dig-Dug. Or, better yet, Discs of Tron. (Hopefully) make her lose.

To hear her come, or, you know, fake it, while Sark laughs his evil little laugh at her; succumbing to the pleasure and falling off the platform... De-res all our cares away in coin-op coitus.

This post is brought to you, in part, by Krissyface's sister.

Who's Da Poot King?

2008-10-23T19:14:00.000-07:00

This isn't going to be one of those "good" posts, okay? So abandon all hopes for comedy all ye who enter here.

No, you're at the gates of smell.

The other morning my wife was telling me how she heard me fart really loud in my sleep the night before. And then it got to her, way out in our living room, and smelled just ghastly.

We weren't even in the same state that night.

Told you this post...

r u ready fuh dis?

...would stink!

omglolandwhateverelseyouguyssaythesedays

Suck on THAT, Valdez!!

2008-10-15T09:43:00.001-07:00

I watched Phantasm last night, and what impressed me most was it's open-mindedness.

Not all 70s movies were as politically correct in referring to little people as dwarves rather than midgets, of transgendered villains, of pedophile ice-cream men or of guys with poodles.

What bothered me was seeing the flying death thingy only twice. Two flashes of ball and the thing exploded seems a little quick. Although, I guess it's a pretty realistic sexual metaphor. But, seriously, would it have sucked their effects budget dry to show it a couple more times? I swear they spent more on finish carpentry. You'd have to be a Klan member to make use of all the cupboard and closet space in that house.

But the big lesson is clearly that you need to spring for the 1.5+ horse power garbage disposals. We all say flying little evil insects bent on destruction won't happen to us, but, please. Really, it does.

We Do We Do Not

2008-10-10T19:48:00.000-07:00

How would you finish this sentence?

My Wii Fit called me obese...

And I only had my penis on the mat.

So I ate it.

And that's when I started to cry.

It likes angry sex.

Secretary Takes Dicktation

2008-10-07T17:12:00.000-07:00

As you've probably surmised, I recently took a job with Google. My job is focused on the user experience, particularly in setting search standards. For pornography. I haven't been here long, but I've come up with a few thoughts that I think will be most helpful.

First, the term "double dildo" shall never refer to two dildos. That would be "two dildos," or even "bi-dildos." Focus groups have revealed that finding a woman with a Morton Downey, Jr.'s mouthful of vibrators in her twat, while quite arousing in it's own right, is a big let down when you really wanted to see two chicks backwards hump each other and themselves at the same time.

Second, site titles don't need to include the word "slut." In the phrase "Horny Slut Is Fucked Hard," "slut," is redundant. Think of this in the same way that something can't be said to be "very unique." Non-slutty women fucked hard on camera for porn sites, well, don't exist.

Third, sex outdoors is not the same as sex in public. Stripping and touching yourself in your back yard is not in the same league as doing it while riding, say, The Matterhorn at Disneyland. Or at a baseball game. Or in the supermarket.

Finally (for now), you can improve your search results by hitting on me.

Candy? That's Sweet.

2008-10-04T16:59:00.001-07:00

Hey. I'm trying to think of intentionally bad pick-up lines.

Baby, if I were corn?
Would you shuck me?

I'd like to latch onto you
and make you old and fat
well beyond your years.

Is Hell missing a demon?
'Cause your so hot,
It's torture.

Can I buy you a drink?
'Cause you look severely dehydrated.

You must drive yourself crazy,
Being such a rabid bitch
Chasing your own hot pussy

I use Listerine like crazy.
How 'bout I lick your twat,
And rid you of some bacteria?
You filthy, dirty whore.

My friend says you're the grenade.
Please explode all over me.

Your hair smells like old people.
And you have terrible taste in shoes.
It's time to settle on me.

You eat shitty food.
How 'bout I give you a runny, green tie?

I couldn't help but notice
You don't mind eating nuts
With traces of piss.

Yet another reason to wonder why I have luck with the ladies.
(Who Looove to be referred to as "the ladies," btw)

Gingervitis

2008-10-02T19:12:00.000-07:00

Hey, I owe you an apology. I've been feeling under the weather, so I know I've been caustic and in a really foul mood. ...for the last thirty years.

And I'm not going to offer up an excuse. I own this. It's my own fault that I'm a dick. Even though you did provoke me and call me names.

Anyway, I hope we can put all this behind us and have some long-overdue makeup sex where I do all of the hard work. In your butt.

Still Burning (Please Tell Me Why)

2008-10-01T21:40:00.000-07:00

As I was walking from the soup kitchen to my recumbent bicycle, I was trying to think of something to blog about, but coming up with nothing. I decided that what I needed was some drama. Some spark. Some enemy I could rant about.

And then I found out that my image host was gone. Well, not so much gone as... unreachable.

And so I thought, well, I'll just get a new one. And then I thought, well, that would work if I had only saved the images offline somewhere.

So, here I am. Enemy of my own blog.

IN YOUR FACE, SMYNDE!!!

I'm SAILING!!

2008-09-15T21:27:00.000-07:00

People are always telling me that I need to stop seeing the sexual innuendo in everything. Actually, they say I need to stop reading sexual innuendo into everything, but they're all trying to seduce me by making me angry, so, whatever.

So after having a bad viagra/levitra/cialis cocktail this weekend (14 hours with no medical attention sought), I'm a little tired of having blood in my nether regions and have decided to turn my attention to seeing the scatological innuendo in everything. So, if you were wondering if that turned me on, no, it doesn't. Of course, my dick's pretty much a deflated punch-balloon, so it's taking a lot to turn me on. But I digress!

Gap Band, You Dropped a Bomb On Me, for example, totally about getting shat on. Talk about funky.

And that's all I've got right now. I have to get a creamy chocolate bar and some lemonade. And corn.

Don't worry, I'll get there.

{N-Word} Was Mad!

2008-09-09T21:09:00.001-07:00

Hey! Guess who shit in a sack again today?

Your mama. Why does she keep doing that?

I bought one of those stylin' black bald man hats today. You didn't know I was black did you? You bunch of racists. You make me sick.

Not sick enough to shit in a bag, but still.

Jet Li and Jackie Chan

2008-09-08T19:10:00.000-07:00

You know who took a shit in a plastic sack today?

Your mama.

And in other news you already knew, I have a condition related to Tourette's syndrome. It's kind of a shock to me. I just thought I was a dirty-minded motherfucker. I guess it can be both...

Sub MyFirstApp()

2008-09-04T20:49:00.000-07:00

Well hellooooo world!

Are we at the part of the evening where I fuck your tits (pleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyes)?

A few things:

1. Your pants are too long. They're not supposed to tuck around your ankle onto your flip-flops like that.

2. Why don't you link me? You know who you are - you're the one who's not reading this.

3. It works on you when you don't wear panties to work. But not your friend; don't let her do that. Seriously. The rest of us down here at the dock keep having to take barf breaks.

And I'm quaking with the need to apply slight suction to your pulsing, wet labia. Ladies, that goes double for you.

Meow Mix, Meow Mix, Please Deliver

2008-08-29T20:14:00.000-07:00

I knew a guy, a long time ago, who had a stroke. Afterwards, his wife would hand him his electric razor. He'd shave and hand it back--but he'd only shaved half of his face. To him--to his brain--he only had half of a face.

I'm telling you this because, sometimes, I shave just like a stroke victim.

And it can be embarrassing to walk around with only half my welcome mat and posterior lobe shorn.

32 Degrees

2008-08-19T21:29:00.000-07:00

Sometimes in my work as a mob accountant, I have to do a lot of business and research on the web. And I'll be damned, everywhere I turn, there are super-hot women on websites.

Sorry to steal your joke, but I'm not talking Playboy or Perfect 10, here. I mean, like, Cisco. CDW. Just beautiful women everywhere. Best Buy. Pottery Barn. Women who have regular, everyday beauty that somehow makes them more gorgeous because they're not the super-hot freaks of nature that supermodels are. Starbucks. 7-Eleven. Women who are at once mind-blowing and attainable. Bevmo. $.99 Store. But then, a lot of them look like trannies, too. FBI.gov. CIA.gov.

Anyway, I'm surfing for whatever it is I need at that moment, say, the actual retail price of premium imported extra-virgin olive oil, and, WOW, there's a woman I'd pay to talk to with her clothes still on.

And then they start talking to me. "Jack. Jack," they say, "you should skim a little off the top. You deserve it. You work hard. Where would they be without you? They wouldn't have any of that stolen money without you - the Feds would have it.

"Jack. Jack," they say, "you should take all the fractions of pennies and direct them to another account in your name.

"You should steal that guy's stapler so he'll burn the place down and the fake books will be lost, keeping you in the clear.

"You should kill your mom so that you can live in the main part of the house and cash her social security checks.

"You should steal your niece's identity and rack up a lot of debt so you won't be liable."

And that's when I realize that the women in the pictures on the sites are just like all the women who raised me - they just want me to steal and kill people. Except they're hot, so now I've got extra incentive to do what I already know.

Sweet.

(My Grandmother was Dutch)

2008-08-16T17:16:00.000-07:00

Hey,

I'm selling my DVDs on this site called "eBay." It's pronounced "EEEEE-bay," by the way, not "EBBB-ay."

Go buy them. I think they're the only ones for sale there.

Keep this eBay thing on the down-low, a'ight?

What Happened To Then?

2008-08-14T19:44:00.000-07:00

First, I was totally lying about that dream. It was actually, like, a week ago.

But enough about my subconscious self-hate and gay escapades, eh? Let's talk about what happened to me today:

I saw Natasha Henstridge, live, in person. She was in Brookstone, laid out and vibrating in a massage chair. And then I blacked out.

When I came to, I was in a sticky puddle of my ejaculate - I apparently performed turbo-spermatogenesis; such that it wet the immediate area around me. So I slipped and fell. Anyway, when I came to, Natasha was bent over me - her incredible breasts in my face - licking up my penis colada and moaning while she touched herself. Fuck CPR, man - THIS was a reason to live. She asked if I wanted a picture of her, but I said yes, but all I have is a camera phone and it won't do you justice. And she blushed and batted her eyes, and kissed me passionately, leaving the smell of her flawless skin all over my face. And a semi that, given the amount of ova invaders I'd just put out, should've been physically impossible.

Okay, I'm lying again. That actually happened yesterday.

Did I Ever Tell You How I Was Raised on a Submarine?

2008-08-13T20:24:00.000-07:00

I had a crazy dream last night.

I dreamed that, one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

Okay, two. Two crazy dreams.

I dreamed that for some reason I was out of the picture at home. That I was shipwrecked or worked really hard, really far away, or was cryogenically frozen or something. And, so, my wife got another man. So when I came back, we were all married for some reason. The kids and my wife were both crazy about him, so I thought, "oh well, I guess I've got to buy and extra movie ticket when we go out." Only that's not what I thought. No, I thought - every bit as casually, mind you - "I guess I've got to give him a handy now and then."

And I woke up not questioning my sexuality nearly as much as you might think.

Bruce Willis Commercial

2008-08-09T19:00:00.000-07:00

I got tagged! That never happens. Thanks Krissyface!

7 things I plan to do before I die (in the order in which they came to mind):

1. Send my kids to college
2. Own a house
3. Be svelte and wear spiffy clothes
4. Play in a band
5. Write something worth reading/performing
6. Visit the UK
7. Save money so I can leave some love in my will

7 things I can do

1. Analyze and understand quickly
2. Be funny
3. Make people feel important and understood
4. Tend goal pretty well (hockey)
5. Remember well
6. Be highly inappropriate
7. Make love/fuck

7 things I cannot do

1. Make/keep friends (esp. close ones)
2. Save money (or, hell, just not overspend)
3. Be consistent
4. Be the best at anything
5. Be appropriately detached
6. Drive a manual transmission
7. Keep a handle on who I am

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex

1. Beauty
2. Truth
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.

7 things I say most often

1. Eh? Eh, comrades?
2. Don't tell me what to do
3. Why don't you go talk to her?
4. Bitch
5. Motherfucker
6. There, I said it
7. Your mama

7 celebrity crushes

1. Anne Hathaway
2. Kate Beckinsale
3. Selma Blair
4. Scarlett Johansson
5. Heather Graham
6. Marissa Miller
7. Jennifer Garner

Reports of My Assimilation

2008-08-07T20:52:00.000-07:00

Let me put your minds at ease, Darlings; I have not crossed over to the Dark Side, nor am I in any kind of relationship with Anne Coulter. Nor do I want to be.

No, I just wanted to share some all-too literal humor about the licking of balls and sucking of dicks.

Nice that you all commented, though! Thanks! It even brought Jamie the cerebral clown out of hiding, how 'bout that? And AG got jealous! She could rock my world. And you could all fight over me in cute pajamas. Good times...

So. Has anyone sucked ay good dicks lately?

I'm waiting in line for this little Indie flick (aren't I just darling with my nonchalant Indie ways?) that you've probably never heard of called The Dark Knight. I think it features gay cowboys who've run out of pudding. But, really, don't they all? I'll let you know what I think. About lots of things, not just the flick.

My endorphins (wouldn't you like to know where I got 'em?) are wearing off before the punchline comes to me. So... Drowsy...

Hi Heather. *giggle.* Of course I want to touch them. No. Nooooo. They are NOT saggy. Let me talk to them. Lick, lick, is this thing on? Check, one, two. Check. I can't hear - open your legs some more. Check. No, I'm going to have to coax the sound out, Baby. With THESE.

And that's what your lover tends not to want to hear you say in your sleep.

Last. Post. Ever.

Biggest. Lie. Ever.

Terminally Terminal

2008-08-05T19:32:00.000-07:00

...and Ann Coulter can lick my balls.

Seriously, she can - really, really well, in fact.

They say love always wins in the end, but hate sucks a really mean dick.

4-1-2

2008-08-05T19:30:00.000-07:00

There was apparently this guy who was suspected of mailing the anthrax to people.

He killed himself.

I guess we'll never know.

You Eat Off Jeremy's Chest for Breakfast?

2008-08-04T23:17:00.000-07:00

I know you all think of me as an unflappable, happy-go-lucky saint of a man who goes about his charmed, carefree life in a charmed, carefree fashion. Well, the truth is far more sordid. I try to hide it from you, if only to spare you some of the pain I carry with me; all of the inner scars I bear with quiet dignity and grace. Well, I'm afraid that, after a really bad day, I must let my guard down briefly and use you to unload on. I'm sorry. I've tried, but I can only hold it in for so long:

Today was poo-poo, ca-ca.

I'm sorry you had to see that. But thank you for letting me get it off my chest.

Tour's Backup Band

2008-07-30T19:38:00.000-07:00

I've got something of a reputation among my friends for saying incredibly inappropriate things. Which, considering my friends are strip-mall massage-parlor whores and dock workers, is saying something. Just kidding, I don't really have more than one friend. Most of "them" think I'm an alcoholic because, well, I only see "them" to have a glass of sweet, sweet beer.

Well, I'm not an alcoholic. And, after a weekend helping my friend and his friends build an ark for the salvation of mankind, I'm happy to say that I have witnesses to the fact that I say inappropriate things all the damn time; frequently at the wrong time or where the exact wrong person/people can hear me. Like expressing my fondness for the very nice bulldyke I just met by saying I wanted to fistfight an entire gender for her at the exact moment that she rolled down the window of her old, beater Volvo station wagon with the soccer stickers on the back.

I guess I just have a condition. And regarding the people who have a problem with that, let me just say that I bet their moms were hot at 24. Dumb, sure, but totally worth fingering casually.

Even You Must Be Into You-Ooo-Ooo!

2008-07-26T00:25:00.000-07:00

How are you? It's a lovely evening, no? A quiet, peaceful evening for relaxing with family. An energetic evening for funnin' it up with friends. An evening to throw your age-of-consent brother to the cougars.

How 'bout you? What are you up to?

Me? Well, I'm feeling nostalgic, flipping through old yearbooks, realizing now, as I did then, why they use that high-gloss paper stock. Thank heaven that my memories are spunk-resistant.

But I digress.

Much as I browbeat myself internally to a bloody shell of a man, *sniff* tellmeyouloveme *sniff*, I have to admit, first, that I kind of had it goin' on back then. Which is nice. But WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T ANYBODY TELL ME THAT??? Fuck sake, put out a memo or some shit. Damn it. And, second, that, in my subtle, quietly intense, psychotic ways, I have it goin' on even now.

Which got me thinking. What if you, my good friends, and I, my... self, could meld our current awesome and developed selves with our past raw-potential selves? Can you imagine the amazing irresistibility we'd possess? We'd have no choice but to travel back in time, impregnate each other in a borg cube clusterfuck (it's okay, we're takin' it back) so that our offspring would be even more magnificent and potent when they melded their future refined selves with their younger raw, explosive selves.

Oh man, that's going to be fun. I'm 'onna do you do so good.

Unh.

And, oh, the super-soldiers we'd craft from our loins... Bloggers the likes of which the world has never seen, no, nor will see again.

Amen.

I, For One, Welcome Our New, Evil Robot Overlords

2008-07-17T21:03:00.000-07:00

Hey you sweet, sweet people,

Thanks for your concern over the last post. But don't forget it's a humor blog. Though, I could see how you might think otherwise, he said self-deprecatingly.

But, I digress. Truth is, I really did forget to take my meds.

(See what I did there? Eh? Eh, comrades?)

Before the Show, I Put Bologna in My Shoe

2008-07-16T19:34:00.000-07:00

I must have been in a bad mood today.

"Somebody didn't take their meds, today," somebody said about me. And I was taken aback!

Asshole.

For your information, I didn't forget. It so happens that I took a different dose.

So, FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK. YEW!

Torquil Campbell, Sunscreen, et al.

2008-07-13T19:07:00.000-07:00

I've been really indecisive lately.

I've drafted, published and pulled two posts somewhere on the order of six times in the last several days. Fixing this, deleting that; this is too candid, that's too cryptic... I can't even decide what I want to say.

What I will say is that your mama rides crotchless on the back of a unicorn named Led Zep, you're going to eat a giant jam sandwich in the bread of my love (with the crusts cut off!), and that I'm environmentally green, but financially uncircumcised with a strong craving for blazers with understated piping.

Also, I'd never noticed how good you look in those pants. Damn, baby!

Lard and Cigarettes for a Mr. Moyer?

2008-07-05T11:20:00.000-07:00

Take a nice deep breath, will you? Hhhhhhh. Hahhhhhh. Yep, for a change, life could be worse.

That's right, babies. I had sex. For at least the second time this year.

Delayed ejaculation? you bet.

(When That Flag's Unfurled) Be Comin' To America!

2008-07-02T20:15:00.001-07:00

Just now, while watching Law & Order, a woman walks into a room and sees her husband laying on the floor, knife wound in his chest. As she's kneeling over his lifeless, bloody body, she hears a switchblade open.

And I'm all OHMYGOD IGOTTACOVERUPMYVAGINA!!

Which surprised me. Because most of the time I'm pretty much crotch-loose and fuzzy-free.

The Hunting Practices of Merlin and Velociraptors

2008-06-27T21:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I forget that I'm not quite right.

I was at a concert the other night. I went alone, so it was just me and strangers, some of whom I talked to. Especially after a few beers. Someone asked who was opening and someone said Benji Hughes and someone asked who that was and someone said that he co-wrote the duet in Walk Hard.

So, I, naturally, said what everyone had to be thinking:

I wonder, if you kissed him, would it taste like Jenna Fischer or that other guy.

...which led to a brief but uncomfortable silence. So to redeem myself and pump some life back into the conversation, I said:

I'm Rick James, Bitch. Lick my balls!!!

...which resulted in a more pronounced and uncomfortable silence. After which six hot chicks shrugged "what the hell?" and began licking my balls.

Didn't see that one coming, did you?

Standing Here On This Frozen Lake

2008-06-24T22:00:00.000-07:00

Look, this may be the crappiest post ever, but I don't think I'll be able to post like a normal person until I get this off my chest.

Sometimes I don't mention things because I don't want people to be jealous. And then I remember that, oh, yeah, I do want people to be jealous.

Like of how much Jenny Lewis loves me.

Now, you know me. I'm a shy, mild-mannered Joe Average. Or is it average Joe? Whatever you little people call it, that's what I am. My inclination is to disbelieve or distrust any attraction women express towards me. It's what I was bred to do.

Which is why it's so hard to tell you that Jenny Lewis digs me.

Hard because I fear you won't believe me. That you won't believe the smiles, eye contact and flirting I catch from this incredibly beautiful, talented woman. I guess Jenny sees in me all of the good that won't come out.

And let the mockery begin.

Fuck George Carlin!!

2008-06-23T20:27:00.000-07:00

Just kidding.

Shoop-Shoop

2008-06-19T20:35:00.000-07:00

It's funny. I used to think you could show mathematically that someone loved you. Or that you could prove it with logic.

Boy was I wrong.

Turns out the only way you can tell is by how the person reacts to the smell of your urine. At least that's what Fred Savage told me. "It's in his piss," he said. "If you wanna know if he loves you so, it's in his piss."

====

And I said, well, Fred, what about with women? How can I tell if a woman loves me?

And he says, "Fuck if I know. I love big, hard, cactus-curve cock."

That Fred. He loves the G-spot stimulation.

Jeff Goldblum Is Watching You

2008-06-16T22:36:00.000-07:00

The other day, I saw the biggest piece of human shit I have ever seen.

I didn't even see it all. It was big -- big as your head! I can't say for sure it was even human feces; it was such a conglomeration of toilet paper and blood and corn...

I walked up to it and, thinking it was a big fluffed up crap, tried to flush it.

No go.

Hard as a rock. A fossil. A really... hard... thing.

So I call the office manager and I say, Dude, in the men's room is the biggest piece of shit I have ever seen.

And he laughs.

And I say, dude, I'm not kidding, it's like someone made a shit sculpture of Pamela Anderson's left tit and sat it in the crapper.

And he laughs.

And I say, dude, seriously - don't let the janitor come up here with a plunger; it's going to take a chainsaw. A jackhammer. Grenades.

Well, he calls in the cavalry, but when they get up there, no shit. Not so much as a skidmark. Just a guy with bad teeth picking browned hay out of his teeth.

And that man?

Was Fred Savage.

True story.

What Did He Maybe Do?

2008-06-12T21:05:00.000-07:00

I may be dead.

...and gone To HEAVEN!

I don't know if I've ever shared this with anyone but my wife, but I'm crazy about paper products. Paper towels, napkins, cups, toilet paper... But not just paper products in and of themselves. No, I mean really good paper products.

And I'm really excited because my wife recently bought us some incredible toilet tissue. It's like biting into a York Peppermint Patty. With your ass. It's like your first lay. In the ass. It's like getting gourmet shit sprung on you when you'd have been find with some freeze-dried Taster's Choice. With your ass.

And then at work they've acquired the greatest paper towels ever. EVER! These are the incredible, stretchy, quilty-feeling, super-absorbent bad mamma-jammas I've been promised for my entire life. It's no small feat that I haven't been smuggling it home. In my ass.

Anyway, there's my excitement for you. It's all like having your come and cleaning it, too.

NOW Who's Being Naive?

2008-06-07T16:33:00.000-07:00

The level of sexism in this world makes. Me. Sick.

Take whores, for example. Whores can't catch a break. They're out there every night gettin' their asses busted open, chuggin' cock for their pimp and getting screwed six ways to Sunday for drugs. And then The Man fucks them hardest of all, putting them in jail and whatnot. And no money on the dresser, either, they just get the long, beefy shaft of the law.

Meanwhile, gigolos are out there painting the town jizz-white and no one gives them any trouble. Cops don't care. Hell, I've seen cops hire them! It's... It's just so unfair. Prostitutes thrown in the slammer while all those Mexican penis-peddlers just standing out in front of the Home Depot... And trust me, nobody gives head like that unless they're a pro.

I Like Ike

2008-06-06T05:12:00.000-07:00

I'm not in a good place right now.

Florida. It's not a good place.

I hope I didn't scare you just then.

Suck It, Trebek!

2008-05-25T09:27:00.000-07:00

Hi. Remember me? I've been meaning to post, but haven't had much luck breaking away from the stress-induced pornography.

Also, none of my post ideas have been able to achieve the escape velocity necessary to escape my mind. So, to ease myself (and, frankly, yourselves - your safety is my number 1 concern. But you're hopeless, so I turn to the porn. But, I digress.) back into the game, you're being subjected to a series of postlets; the tidbits that weren't worthy of their own posts.

First, I thought about posting about the Shiksappeal I hold for the Asian woman (Chinksappeal? Jap-trap? Asiamazer?). I think it's my quiet intensity. That, and my gorgeously light almond-shaped eyes and sumo proportions.

Second, Packrat, the Facebook game that has been feeding my obsessive personality and making my pornography investments less cost-effective. And, on a related topic, how Jason is an asshole for not adding the application. Hear that Jason? You're an asshole! I ask for so little...

Then there's my new friend Krissyface, with whom I share much craziness and fantastic taste in music. And, you know, we're both really cute people with really cute kids and stuff.

I've also given up some of my sweet, sweet anonymity by joining and uploading to the Flickr. Come into my mind, said the spider to the fly...

Anyway, there you go. Sorry you have to live on my scraps, but I do enjoy watching you slurp them up so selfishly. It's hot.

Kunta. Kinte. ("I Didn't Know They Were Still Whippin'...")

2008-05-09T01:37:00.000-07:00

Gack, who I used to work with, would always go on about how unfair it was that, in America, you cant use the word cunt. And you could tell when he had wanted to use it because he'd stop and explain that horrible injustice. So, after some time (is it a while or awhile?), all I'd hear when he'd tell it is "cunt" appended to whoever he'd been talking to/about most recently. It broke down like this:

I'm a cunt.
He's a cunt.
She's a cunt.
We're a cunt.
Wouldn't you like to be a cunt, too?
Dr. Cunt.

But what bothered me was that he would switch national identity whenever it suited him. 90% of the time, he was Italian. Italians this, Italians that, Mafia this, pedophile priests that, and so on. But whenever he wanted to talk about Guinness, say the word Brilliant!, or say cunt, he was a pure-blood Scot.

Anyway, I just hate racists, which absolutely all Italians are.

Too Big For Candy Wrappers, Too Small To Compare To Angie Harmon's

2008-05-06T21:54:00.000-07:00

I was just watching a tire commercial, realizing, wow, the Michelin man doesn't have to wear a rubber. I mean, he is a rubber. Far out, huh?

And, after remembering the little guy on Alice with the hard hat and thick glasses like I often do, I thought about having a vasectomy. It's not as if there's any use for my sperm. I make beautiful kids, sure, but they're all semi-retarded (on average) with a sweetness that calls like a siren to otherwise genetically sound young women with supple, sweet areolae. And my seminal fluid is, honestly, as good of a food accoutrement as my crotch smoothie. Less protein if you happen to have sensitive kidneys.

But what I really want to say is: GAH FUCK GAHHH!!! Actually, I really just want to cry on your shoulder, but since that's practically the love that dare not speak its name, I'll have to settle for GAH FUCK GAHHH!!!

No, Honey, Show 'im The Other One

2008-05-02T02:46:00.000-07:00

Finally, the private education system is catching on. A week ago, I saw a DeVry commercial for, *wink, wink*, web design. But who do they think they could fool with the URL www.devrywebdesign69.com?

On another note, I just made a million dollars.

I joined ITT Tech's marketing team, despite the fact that the last T stands for Tech, making them IT Tech Tech (at which I was at first taken aback!) and sold them on the idea of www.itttechwebdesigntwochicksonan18inchdoubledildo.com. Market share? Through. The. Roof.

You Want Some Popcorn, Jake?

2008-04-22T00:22:00.000-07:00

Kill me, please, because I can't take it anymore. Every new Nicktoon and Cartoon Network series is shittier than the last. I love my kids, but they have yet to invent the psychotropic drug that can make me enjoy Mr. Meaty.

Now, I know that, only seeing me as you do - at my most civilized, proper and mature - you'd never guess that I still secretly like cartoons. Or that I wear Underoos. Or that I think Spongebob and Sandy are OTP. Or that in HD I swear I can see Daphne's camel toe. Well, now you know.

I think I was going somewhere with this post, but screw it. Who Framed Roger Rabbit? is on. Get the butter.

Man, We Ain't Seen SHIT!!

2008-04-16T20:01:00.000-07:00

You know how everyone hates blogging about how they haven't been blogging? Well, I've been so unable to blog, I was thinking, I could blog EXCLUSIVELY about why I haven't been blogging.

And then I thought, Naw.
and then I thought, yeeeah.

And then I thought, what if I blog about not blogging about not blogging? And here we are.

And then something else happened--

a--I became a man. I am a child no longer. I am of the non-baby sort of people now.

Because? Because? Because. I have. A. Pith. Helmet.

Ooooohhhh, yeah.
I'm the man
Who's the man?
Youdaman
I'm the man.
Awwwwww, yeeeahh
I appear to be hunting big game.
Who rocks the safari look?
You do, bby!
I do not mind looking different.
You're a damn freaky, freak-freak, baby!

So that's that.

Slanted Goes Piter

2008-04-07T19:44:00.000-07:00

I haven't written of late because I don't like attention. Unless it's because of my sexy mind. Or my sweet ass. Or my irresistible eyes. Or my slightly longer than average, salamous throbbing cock. And if you're scoffing? I'm taken aback! But I digress.

I don't like attention for my hard luck. But tonight, as I was throwing up my dinner so that I could find the loose crown I just swallowed so that I wouldn't be out $600 on top of the watch, action figure and 11x17 movie masterprints that were all stolen from me, it hit me. It dawned on me. The darkness cleared and, briefly, the light could be seen. And I knew, then and there:

I could've had a V8.

And, realistically, if I didn't have the amazing ability to hurl on demand, I could well have been mushing through my own feces. And that's if I could more easily stomach the thought of wearing a tooth that had once been swimming in shit over having to shell out a sizable wad of cash. And, man, I don't even want to know that about myself.

From Hell's Heart I Stab At Thee (With a Meat Knife)

2008-03-21T20:51:00.000-07:00

Have I ever told you about my mom, William Shatner?

Well, some other time, perhaps.

Bitches.

(I love you)

(Bitches)

I Keeled Eem

2008-03-12T21:53:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm sorry to disappoint, but those of you checking in and expecting my fortnightly poop jokes and semen tirades are, well, going to be disappointed. I really backed myself into a corner in that sentence, eh? But I digress. Today's long overdue post about whatever the hell runs through my odd mind is about shaving. And, no, not the kind that happens near vajayjay. Damn it.

Shaving. I've been shaving for more of my life than not. Which is scary. Not as scary as the realization that I've been masturbating for nearly two thirds of my life, but, still, scary. But I'm doing that thing again.

I've been shaving a long time, but I just can't seem to get the hang of it. And this is beyond the ordinary complaints of razor-burn or the dreaded I-moved-to-another-patch-of-hair-by-sliding-instead-of-lifting gashes. No, I just... I look in the mirror, I lather up, I shave, I evaluate, repeat as necessary and then clean up. But just about every damned time, I've missed an unsightly swatch of my burdensome beard. And people have to look me in the eye, seeing what a suck-ass job of shaving I do.

And when I shave too close, it hurts like hell every time I shit.

Dangeresque (Or DID I?) twang!

2008-02-28T19:48:00.000-08:00

I was in the can this morning letting my asshole do its daily dry-heaves, when I noticed something. A cute girl was staring at me. And I was taken aback. "Why?," I thought. Why is this cute girl with clear, fair skin and a large-for-her-frame ass jockin' me?

Is it my dick? Nope, it's tucked in.

Is it my man-kegels stressing the structural integrity of the toilet bowl? I don't think so for two reasons: One, you can't see or hear that I'm pissing machine gun style by holding and releasing my urine stream at, if you will, "breakneck" speeds, and, two, you don't even know if those cracks in the porcelain were already there or not.

So, why? Why are you looking at me and none of the other men with their pants around their ankles in this giant, glass-walled borg cube shit house?

You know I'm not available - I'm holding my copy of "How to Succeed in Fast Food Without Really Frying" with my wedding ring displayed prominently. Do you think you've got what it takes to disolve the bonds represented by this titanium band with your soft doe eyes and young hands?

And then I reached down for my quilted toilet paper (it'll be a cold day in hell before I put Scott Tissue near my anus), I see it.

Her purse. Next to a broken condom.

I get it. You're a slut.

You don't want me at all. You don't even want my doggie style. You just want your morning after pill.

And here you were wearing down my resistance with your heavy silken hair and tight-skinned kneecaps.

Well, then I guess it serves you right that your purse now smells like my innards.

How's my gas taste, slut?

The Rick Dees Connection

2008-02-23T12:18:00.000-08:00

I was chatting with someone in the elevator recently on my way home from the Umbrella Corporation and they mentioned something in passing about my career. And I was taken aback! I was all "Career? Eff that Ess! I work my 12 hours and go home and then only do a little more work." The nerve of some people...

And then before that I did a marathon thing and right from the start there's all these god-damned crazy people swarming past me. And I was taken aback! I was all "What the Eff Mothereffers? It's not an Effing race!" I loaded on carbs for this???

And then someone was trying to put me down. They were all like "Why the Eff do you say "Eff" like a little Cry-baby Bee who can't run with the Effing Grownups?" And I was taken aback! And I was all "Fuck you! Fuck you in the ass with one of Andre the Giant's shoes you fuck-ass little shit? F U C K Y O U ! ! !" Fuckin' prudes. Bitch owes me $8, too.

Herbie Fully Loaded!

2008-02-18T19:22:00.000-08:00

I saw No Country For Old Men today, and something bothered me.

No, it wasn't the pneumatic cattle gun.
It wasn't that Kelly MacDonald still looks underage. Or that she wasn't topless.
It wasn't even the message of hopelessness; that there's nothing to be done about the world's ever-mounting evil but to accept and make your peace with it.

What bothered me is that i think somebody didn't get a royalty check.

You Asked For It, You Got It.

2008-02-07T22:41:00.000-08:00

Have I mentioned how I can't leave HaloScan comments? Yeah. I can't leave HaloScan comments. So I do what I always do when I can't leave HaloScan comments. The first is say "can't leave HaloScan comments" a lot. The second is think. About stuff.

Like how there's no expression like "cock-block" for women. You could argue that cock-block fits women because they want the penis. But some just want to get eaten-out or fisted. And lesbians! Don't tell me you've forgotten about the lesbians?!?! Say it ain't so!

So, yeah. The femme version of cock-block. I'm having a lot of trouble thinking of one that I really like.

Hole troll?
Cooter party-pooper?
Cunt shunt?
Trapper keeper?

I'd let you know where I landed on the subject, but I can't leave HaloScan comments.

Merlin Catchphrase No. 11

2008-02-05T21:42:00.000-08:00

If you were wondering, relish has once again been named the hot dog condiment most likely to make you want to perform fellatio by a panel of chefs, street vendors, college students, b-list pornstars and the homeless.

The condiment most reminiscent of blowjobs is, clearly (or opaquely, as the case may be), mayonnaise. But while mayo conjures the sight and scent of semen, voting indicates it doesn't make anyone want to run out and suck a dick. In fact, judges indicate mayo on a brat actually decreased their desire to slurp on cock. Which may explain why it's the least seen wiener accoutrement.

The panel was split when it came to onions and peppers, however. A slight majority felt these were innocuous flavor-enhancers, the rest felt the spicier or more caustic metaphoric hard-on add-ons were the mark of closet-cases trying to curb their lust for penis.

Only homeless judges approved of ketchup on hot dogs, with the stipulation that there be no scabs or clots present. They also stated that, in the case of scabs or clots on schlong, it would cost extra to have it sucked.

When the Doctor Told Me I Didn't Have Worms Anymore

2008-01-29T10:22:00.000-08:00

I got the best compliment of my life yesterday.

I had to produce a diagram, and the guy said, "Wow, this is awesome. Someone spent a lot of time on this. This is near-engineering quality." Best. Day. Ever.

The only bad part is that I'm an engineer.

Shampoo is Better

2008-01-16T00:54:00.000-08:00

Did you watch Travino & Lopez tonight? I wet myself with excitement.

I had to. What with my two idols sharing the screen. You don't know how close this blog came to being called I Believe in Travining Lopez. The banner was going to have the name written in piss on stucco. Pissed out of a putter.

Eighteen craaaaaazy holes, motherfuckers!

Bart to Mabel

2008-01-12T19:31:00.000-08:00

Jack's having a shitty, turn-to-hard-drugs kind of day.

Not me, another guy named Jack. I'm not one of those guys who refers to himself in the third person. No, I'm more one of those story-within-a-story guys. I'm practically an honorary Bronte.

" I said to my bed-ridden patient. She, ever-aroused by more-or-less properly hyphenated phrases and nested narratives, snuck her only hand 'neath the bed sheet to sate her finger-loving labia. She'd, of course, lost her other hand by overindulging her finger-loving labia, but I digress.

" See? I don't just tell you the story. I tell you the story by telling you a story. Of me... Telling. Hell, you get it.

Anyway, I'm having a skid mark fart day and I think I'm going to turn to alcohol.

" I says to him.

He Was So Quiet; Such A Good Neighbor

2008-01-09T09:42:00.000-08:00

I don't know where I've been lately. So, you know. Don't stick me in your mouth.

I'm back from a vacation in Vegas which, for all the ugly people, was pretty rejuvenating. I try not to think of how vacation is like a boat; it makes you bleed money.

There was an incident where I thought I threw away my younger son's prized stuffed animals because I was so twitterpated by a hot maid there. Well, hot for Primm Valley. What with being in Nevada, I felt really bad not propositioning her for sex. Do you know the guilt of only being able to offer your tip in a monetary fashion?

Know I'm relaxing the only way I know how. Studying feverishly for a major exam I put off to the last minute. No, seriously, that's how I relax. Don't act shocked, you saw this coming. And you're partly responsible.