Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Fuck your moms
My feelings about kids (specifically, that they suck and should be destroyed) have long been publicly known. Therefore, it shouldn't surprise anyone that the plethora of ads using motherhood as a qualifying selling point for crappy scams do nothing but piss me off. If you've ever used Facebook, or gone on the internet at all, you've seen these ads touting weight loss and tooth-whitening secrets discovered BY A MOM.
These mom ads are even worse than those old ads bragging that Airborne was discovered "BY A TEACHER!" I don't see what makes a person versed solely in herding unruly second graders and instructing them in complicated topics such as cursive and subtraction remotely qualified to develop products sold as antimicrobial drugs. Certainly it would make more sense to say Airborne was discovered by a virologist, but I suppose they probably couldn't get a virologist to go along with that marketing scheme. Speaking as a virologist (and one who even used to work on the common cold), I would never be so disingenuous as to suggest I discovered vitamin C, which is basically what Airborne is. Furthermore, I would consider it professionally irresponsible to claim that taking vitamin C will somehow act as a magical shield that will allow you to fly surrounded by sick, sneezing people and remain impervious to any kind of respiratory pathogens.
That said, at least a teacher inventing an infuriatingly overpriced vitamin C supplement is still better than hearing that A SINGLE MOM (!!!) invented some kind of fabulous breakthrough in tooth-whitening or weight loss by accident. Granted, there are many women who are mothers as well as competent scientists. If you are talking about Dr. Carol Greider, who was awarded this year's Nobel prize in medicine and physiology and who also has a couple kids, then I might believe that she came up with such a novel discovery. However, the notion that motherhood alone is somehow so superior to rational scientific research that random single moms discover bullshit in ten minutes of their spare time is ludicrous and offensive. If child-bearing is qualification enough to make a person a credible inventor of fabulous new technologies, then any of the following people may as well have accidentally tripped and fallen on the ultimate secret to tooth-whitening:
Yeah, I'm sure Kendra or Britney are likely to stumble upon a cure for AIDS now that they've joined the ranks of intellectual elite by ejecting progeny from their wombs. I'm sure that when Stephenie Meyer isn't encouraging teenage girls to devote themselves unquestioningly to chaste, sparkling Mormon vampires, she dabbles in developing a unified field theory of physics. And that when Courtney Love isn't overwhelming Twitter with incoherent ranting, she's whipping up a time machine. That's plausible...because that's what happens when, despite your intellect or your maternal skills, you squeeze out a rugrat to annoy me with. Your vagina gets used as a human egress, and you become an instant genius.
Yeah, I'm sure Kendra or Britney are likely to stumble upon a cure for AIDS now that they've joined the ranks of intellectual elite by ejecting progeny from their wombs. I'm sure that when Stephenie Meyer isn't encouraging teenage girls to devote themselves unquestioningly to chaste, sparkling Mormon vampires, she dabbles in developing a unified field theory of physics. And that when Courtney Love isn't overwhelming Twitter with incoherent ranting, she's whipping up a time machine. That's plausible...because that's what happens when, despite your intellect or your maternal skills, you squeeze out a rugrat to annoy me with. Your vagina gets used as a human egress, and you become an instant genius.
What's even better is that, per countless other sidebar and pop-up ads, I've been informed that Obama would like to enhance our nation's inventive capacity by sending MOMS TO SCHOOL. After all, if being a mother alone is sufficient for being an innovator on par with Thomas Edison, then imagine how Obama's post-partum educational mandate will produce a veritable technology boom. Bitches are going to be discovering cold fusion and establishing the existence of the hypothesized Higgs boson in between making peanut butter sandwiches and turning on Spongebob Squarepants. Even worse, childless underachieving losers like myself will probably be out of work.
And it's just as well, because I'm obviously NOT qualified to make fabulous discoveries anyway. For example, I always thought moms were women with children. It turns out they were Jesus-esque, hirsute, barechested, male indigents this whole time:
Labels: destroy all children, gross, ranting, scathing indictments
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Now I know what to get my mom for Christmas
Looking for something special to get your favorite Rammstein fan this Christmas, but can't find anything they don't already have? Well, look no further. Rammstein is selling limited edition box sets of their new album, Liebe Ist Für Alle Da (which I'm pretty sure means "Our Band Sucks" in German) that comes complete with a six-pack of dildos, handcuffs, and some lube.
Now, while I normally make it a policy not to look a gift dildo in the mouth, I don't think I would really welcome this present. The fact that these dildos are packed with a Rammstein CD is a big turnoff, since that basically seems like it screams "loser." I suspect that most of the people who rushed out and bought this have no reason to use handcuffs or dildoes on anyone, much less six at a time. In fact, I bet the main demographic targeted by this item are sad, lonely shut-ins with little to do besides cash unemployment checks who rant incoherently on the internet, and have no experience with sex toys other than posing for self-portraits with them. I can't imagine that anyone I'd be fucking would get remotely excited that I was offering them a choice of custom Rammstein dildoes, especially since these fake weiners are supposed to represent each member of the band. So not only are you pulling a dildo out of a custom Rammstein case, you can imagine that you are actually banging one of the guys in Rammstein. Danke, but I'll pass.
For those of you who have not heard of Rammstein before, they Germany's answer to Ministry. They do a lot of shouting (which is doubly frightening because it's in German), they wear a lot of ridiculous outfits, and, despite their tendency to write songs with titles like "Pussy," they always take a lot of really homoerotic pictures.
Yeah, these dudes look like a bunch of major pussyhounds to me. Regardless of their lyrical content, I do NOT believe for a second that their expertise in the dildo department has anything to do with their alleged love of vagina. Therefore, if you are looking for the perfect gift for your favorite angry closeted loser, you can thank Rammstein for this option. Seriously, nothing screams "I need to get a fucking life" than this box of weiners.
Yeah, these dudes look like a bunch of major pussyhounds to me. Regardless of their lyrical content, I do NOT believe for a second that their expertise in the dildo department has anything to do with their alleged love of vagina. Therefore, if you are looking for the perfect gift for your favorite angry closeted loser, you can thank Rammstein for this option. Seriously, nothing screams "I need to get a fucking life" than this box of weiners.
Labels: gross, ridiculous absurdity, sehr gut, weiners
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Boo-cock-ay
Yesterday I was at work being awesome when I checked my Gmail and saw that LL Cool Jew had an urgent matter for my attention.
LL Cool Jew: did you get my text?
Razzy: no my phone's been off all morning!
Razzy: meetings, viruses, etc.
Razzy: let me check
LL Cool Jew: k thanks
I checked my phone to see the following text message from LL Cool Jew: "What is bukkake and how do you pronounce?"
Razzy: lol
Razzy: bukkake is pronounced "boo-cock-ee"
Razzy: or "boo-cock-ay"
Razzy: which is probably the more correct japanese pronunciation
LL Cool Jew: k
Razzy: it is the specific genre of porn--or the act in general--of ejaculating all over a girl
LL Cool Jew: k that makes sense
Razzy: in classic bukkake, it's usually multiple men acting as the bukkake-ers
Razzy: but sometimes it's misused to just describe a garden variety facial from one dude although that isn't really "bukkake" if you want to be a purist about it
Razzy: of course this all originated in japan
Razzy: why, did bigbagel ask if you'd be into it or something?
Razzy: and ps--it's fucking typical that I know all this minutiae about the true definition of bukkake
LL Cool Jew: i knew you would be the right person to ask
As it turns out, LL Cool Jew has not decided to spice up her marriage by inclusion of bukkake. She noticed mention of bukkake in the context of some snarky jokes on Dlisted and got curious. However, she wisely recognized that whatever bukkake was, it was probably best not to have a search for its Wikipedia page turn up on her work computer browser history. So she went to the next best thing to the "perv" section of Wikipedia: yours truly. JerseyGirl must have told her what an informative resource I was when I explained to her how ass to mouth differs from a conventional rim job.
This is not to say that I have ever been bukkaked. I wouldn't rule it out, because I've been known to do stuff that's not even particularly appealing to me just to tell the story later, but I don't really see the appeal, in spite of my pronounced semen fetish. I mean, I like dudes to get creative when blowing their loads and I am a champion swallower, but I also like to get off in the course of eliciting said climax. In fact, I insist upon it. Squatting uncomfortably and watching a host of dudes jerk is not going to make me have an orgasm, so I'll pass on taking a ride on the bukkake express.
I'm not really sure how I'd find myself in a situation where there were multiple dudes with whom I'd even consider the prospect. I know plenty of horny dudes, but I can't imagine calling them up and saying something like, "So, I've been interested in getting bukkaked...got plans this Friday night?" Nor can I even imagine getting wasted with a bunch of dudes and somehow thinking that would be a great afterparty. The closest I've ever come to that was one time when a dude I was banging came over with his best friend, and said best friend asked if I'd be willing to let the run a train on me. I declined immediately (although not because I'm a prude who would never consider taking two guys in immediate succession but because the best friend was fat). Since I've not had a similar offer since, I can't imagine this scenario is going to be frequent enough to consider going the extra mile and getting bukkaked instead of gangbanged. I also would never in a million years find a bukkake crew from Craigslist, because I can only imagine the types of winners trolling that shitshow for random people to jizz on. That's not an option due to sheer public health considerations alone.
I am now curious to know if bukkake ever occurs outside of porn or other branches of the sex industry. I'm sure there are people who have bukkake parties out there, but is this something that's even remotely common? Please leave any information you might have on the topic on the comment pages. Inquiring perverts would like to know.
Labels: gross, LL Cool Jew, perversion, porn, sex, sluts
Thursday, February 12, 2009
This is why I always remember to take my pill on time
It's pretty safe to say that "octomommy" Nadya Suleman is the antithesis of me. This crazy bitch lives with her mom, is unemployed, has over 50 grand in debt, receives food stamps and collects disability benefits for three of her kids (although according to her, that doesn't count as welfare), and is a single mother with an addiction to the IVF clinic. Seriously, this bitch put fourteen fucking test tube babies on the California taxpayers' tab because she was lonely as a child or something. Being saddled with one brat I couldn't afford, much less FOURTEEN of them, and subsisting as a parasite of the state/online mendicant is not my idea of a great way to spend my life.
Apart from the fact that I hate children and being stuck at home with a small army of them rather than doing some type of interesting, meaningful job is an accurate description of my personal hell, there is another reason why I would never want to be start procreating aggressively.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!! Seriously, being eight months pregnant with octuplets is just as bad as I could imagine, if not worse. Homegirl looks like the main egg-laying bitch from the movie Aliens. I mean that shit is like some kind of Lovecraftian horror that will drive anyone who interacts with it completely batshit insane. And speaking of batshit insane, I'm going to have nightmares for weeks about those stretch marks alone. Pregnancy with one kid is bad enough on a bitch's figure, but after seeing what having EIGHT buns in the oven looks like, I'm ready to rip out my entire reproductive tract and sew up my vagina for good measure just on the off chance that something like this might happen to me. I could pretty much write off ever having sex again with anyone remotely attractive (at least not without getting them really, REALLY drunk and in a really dark room) if my body was ravaged like this. Nadya's not going to be ready for bikini season for a while...or hopefully ever. This is just not okay.
Labels: crazies, destroy all children, gross, oh the horror
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I hate VD
While I've never suffered from a venereal disease, I think it's hardly a coincidence that these pestilent conditions go by the same initials as Valentine's Day. I HATE Valentine's Day, primarily because it is a holiday dedicated to things I despise. It's like when the executives at Hallmark or whoever decided that Valentine's Day was a holiday worth celebrating, they spent hours brainstorming customs that are designed to piss me off. From the romantic comedies to the obligatory gift-giving to the lame-ass decorations, Valentine's Day is a clusterfuck of loathsome abhorrence.
For starters, Valentine's Day isn't even a real holiday. This bullshit was made up to encourage consumer spending, and I don't see anything romantic or passionate about that. Nothing is more annoying than seeing an endless stream of commercials featuring ugly bitches getting all worked up because they got an even uglier tennis bracelet from Zales. Watching some scrawny ho squealing about how "he went to Jared" and paid $199.99 for some tacky heart-shaped necklace does not fill me with a lust for low-budget diamond-and-fug-ass-14-karat-yellow-gold jewelry. This certainly does not make me feel romantic. Homicidal, maybe, but not romantic.
It's also not just the jewelry that's low-quality. Valentine's-themed stuff is always crap. Those heart-shaped boxes of candy always have really shitty chocolate. You can just tell that whoever is in charge of that at See's uses the cheapest grade chocolate fit for human consumption. They also never tell you which chocolate is which, and you have to find out the hard way: by accidentally eating a bunch of nauseatingly repellant buttercreams that taint your mouth with their cloying grossness. Those sampler boxes also go heavy on the chocolate-covered cherries, presumably because cherries are red, and because they are also fucking disgusting. There is nothing worse than biting into a chocolate that you think is going to be something good like caramel or hazelnut and getting an unexpected and VERY unwelcome blast of maraschino repulsion. I'd rather my love interest give me a Hershey bar and call it a day rather than that box of mystery nastiness. Or even better, to hell with the chocolate. Give me some scotch.
I would try to escape from the bullshit of V-Day by going to the movies. Unfortunately, none of the movies in the theater during Valentine's season contain what I consider the three essential elements of cinematic excellence (murder, explosions, and fucking). Instead, the multiplexes are full of date movie/chick flick bullshit like He's Just Not That Into You. God, even typing the title of that movie pisses me off. Never has a movie title so thoroughly captured the spirit of what I presume is two hours documenting the madcap adventures of a bunch of desperate bitches going on lame dates with ugly guys like my archnemesis Justin Long the Mac dude. I don't really know what the movie is even about, but the ads make me think it's a supposed "comedy" about desperate bitches whining about how they don't have a man. And I would rather be gangbanged by an army of morbidly obese, unshowered Steelers fans while listening to Coldplay than sit through Bride Wars, New in Town, or Confessions of a Shopaholic. Come Valentine's Day, theaters abound with films featuring shrews like Kate Hudson, Katherine Heigl, and Jennifer Aniston, and there is truly no escape from the pervasive reality of this horrible holiday.
I even hate the damn iconography of Valentine's Day. To me, a flying baby with archery skills is the stuff of nightmares, not romance or cuteness. The idea that I might be walking along, minding my own business, and be shot at by an infant with a poison arrow that turns me into a lovesick, monogamous, probably undersexed loser is nothing short of absolutely terrifying. I'll stick with just getting blasted in the face with random jizz than blasted by Cupid's plague of irksome, simpering love, thank you very much.
You might think, "Oh, HA! Razzy's a bitter single woman who hates Valentine's Day because she isn't in a relationship." That hypothesis would be incorrect. I hated Valentine's Day even when I had a boyfriend, because it meant I'd have to go out and buy some bullshit to give him. Not that I minded giving my boyfriend gifts, but Valentine's presents for men are a pain in the ass to select, especially if they already have a nice watch. You aren't really supposed to buy a dude a shirt or some other practical, unsentimental gift for V-Day, especially when you know the dude is getting you jewelry. I used to agonize for hours about this, and spent most of my time cursing Valentine's Day for the added stress. Relationship or not, Valentine's Day manages to spread the bullshit around.
I realized that I've written a lengthy rant about Valentine's Day every February since this illustrious blog's inception. In 2006, I wrote about "the fiscal anal rape" I suffered at the hands of Sprint on the holiday of love. In 2007, I protested the obligatory self-pity party that unattached bitches are supposed to throw. In 2008, I douchebagged the entire holiday. In fact, the only positive mention of Valentine's Day I could find on my website was an amused narrative concerning one of my friends advising me that she employed my anal sex tips last year to commemorate the theme of romance and passion. I think that from now on, my Valentine's tradition is going to be complaining about how much I hate this fucking holiday. Happy I Hate Valentine's Day, everyone!
Labels: gross, movies, oh the horror, ranting, Razzification
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Fake vagina poll
A few days ago, this dude I went to grade school and high school contacted me on Facebook asking how I was. I replied tersely that I was very busy with my thesis writing and postdoc interviewing but I'd otherwise been doing fine over the last ten years. Apparently he was aware of this as he had perused my blog on occasion. Specifically, he had perused the several posts I've written concerning one Ms. Chasey Lain and her tragic and precipitous descent into hideous plastic surgery and crack (and/or maybe meth) addiction. He added that he used to jerk off to her movies in college and enjoyed that experience so much that he actually purchased a Chasey Lain replica rubber vagina to bang. He was now disappointed that Chasey is but a loathsome, Gollum-esque shadow of the utterly fucktastic porn star she once was.
This entire email gave me pause, as I was a little startled to learn this bit of information about this guy. I remembered this guy as one of those extremely quiet types who would either grow up to be a software tycoon or a serial killer. In our decade of being classmates, we maybe exchanged twenty words TOTAL. I actually don't know anything about this dude except that my brother was friends with his little brother back when they were nine, but now I know how he masturbates. I was a little shocked, not just because this is an odd and slightly creepy piece of information to hear from someone you barely knew during childhood, but because he actually admitted to owning and using one of those fake vaginas.
I have always been puzzled by those fake porn star vaginas. I am by no means a prude, nor am I opposed to using masturbation accessories. I could go on for hours about essential features of a quality vibrator the way some dudes talk about cars or motorcycles. However, I just don't understand those fake porn star vaginas.
I get that dudes want to experience banging their favorite porn stars. I also get that in lieu of actually banging one's favorite porn star, masturbation is a solid substitute for that activity. However, I just don't understand how sticking your dick into this this is the equivalent to banging young, pre-crack/meth, pre-Restalyne fish lips Chasey Lain:
I just cannot believe that two AA batteries can accurate simulate fucking a porn star. In my experience with vibrators, two AA batteries are good for about 30 seconds before they start to crap out, and if I for some inexplicable reason wanted that sort of brevity, there are plenty of loser one-pump chumps in my little black book I can call. If two AA batteries can't cut it for a tiny portable bullet vibe, they sure as hell aren't going to duplicate the experience of porking Chasey Lain.
Also, these just aren't very sexy sex toys. Granted, not all sex toys have to be in and of themselves sexy. I have this two-sided dildo thing which, every time I've attempted to break it out for one of my special girlfriends, just makes me laugh because it's hot pink, gigantic, and flops all over the place like some sort of ridiculous gigantic piece of half-cooked pasta. I actually don't think I've used it on any girl apart from playfully flogging her with it as a joke. My strap-on, however, is definitely not designed to be seen and admired so much as it is for banging some broad cross-eyed. Likewise, a vibrator is often form over function. Women don't fantasize about having rabbits eat them out or doing it with a body massager from The Sharper Image. Some vibrators are more stylishly designed than others, but when it comes right down to it they are tools. Fake porn star pussies are designed to be fantasy objects in and of themselves, so that guys can pretend they are actually nailing Chasey Lain or whoever else. I don't know about dudes, but when I fantasize, I don't do so about someone's disembodied torso and genitalia.
Furthermore, I have always figured that these things get seriously gross after just one use. I bet that any sexiness derived from the knowledge that you're fucking a "Cyberskin" exact replica of Chasey Lain's orifices wears off the second you have to scrub the dried-up dick cheese out of their inner recesses. And "TRY ME, BUY ME?" As if the prospect of cleaning post-masturbatory smegma out of a fake porn star pussy wasn't revolting enough, you can actually wind up with someone's literal sloppy seconds. What fucking genius at the Terminator pussy factory marketing department thought the concept of a public testing hole on a fake porn star cooze would be a good idea? Although it's a disgusting sales concept, in fairness, sticking your dick into a dank, dirty passageway that's hosted countless other anonymous, herpetic weiners isn't all that different from actually engaging in sexual congress with the extremely weathered and amphetamine addled Ms. Lain at present.
I have always wondered who in the hell uses these things, and now I have heard from one solitary person that they actually plunked down the ducats to elaborately masturbate into a stank pelvic rubber semen collector. However, since every porn star in the world seems to sell these, someone must be buying them. In fact, Chasey Lain actually has FOUR different models of fake twat on the market, which appear pretty similar in terms of looks and features but retail for anywhere from around $30 to well over $100. Obviously there's a market.
Thus, out of scientific curiosity concerning the practical and economic aspects of Chasey Lain (and/or Your Favorite Porn Star) fake genital molds, I'm doing a little survey on the comment page. How many of you fellas (or girls, although I really can't imagine any practical reason for a woman to use such a product) have actually fucked a fake porn star vagina? How many of you have actually purchased one? And most importantly, how is this product "easy to clean" as the online sex emporiums tout? I am genuinely mystified both that this actually appeals to anyone, much less enough people to warrant an entire industry, so any clarification would be most appreciated. Holler at me, pervs.
Labels: correspondence, gross, oh the horror, perversion, porn
Friday, December 12, 2008
This is why I don't eat fast food
I guess some chicks were fired from a KFC in California because one night when they were closing up, they thought it would be nice to unwind after a hard day at the fryer with a relaxing bubble bath. So like any resourceful pieces of trailer trash, they filled up the industrial dishwashing sink, stripped down to their Wal-Mart unmentionables, and hopped in. And just to make their friends all jelly, they took pictures of their spa day and posted them on MySpace. 
Not only did they impress their friends, they impressed the local media, who promptly featured the girls prominently on the nightly news. KFC fired them and claims it's going to retrain all their employees about how to properly sanitize equipment, but the damage is done. Granted, I haven't eaten KFC since I was in grade school because–with the notable exception of the divine ambrosia known as Taco Time–I think most fast food is shitty food prepared in a shitty way by shitty people. Now I am validated in my beliefs, as KFC is apparently staffed by flabby-armed teenagers who for some inexplicable reason would WANT to bathe in a dishwashing sink at a fast food place. I know a bath just doesn't feel as relaxing if there isn't random chicken bones, mashed potato smegma, and other Original Recipe detritus floating around in it, but somehow I manage to get by in the tub with just some bath salts and a beer (to drink, not bathe in, which would be a waste of beer and thus a mortal sin). Maybe my skin would be softer if I emerged from my ablutions with a thin sheen of rancid trans-fat from the Popcorn Chicken fryer, but I'm willing to stick with my Palmer's if only because smelling like lotion is considerably better than smelling like something off a dollar menu. In any event, I suspect my abstinence from KFC will continue for another several decades to come.
Labels: fat fucks, gross, oh the horror
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
This is your porn star on drugs
Awhile back, I posted about some videos that porn producer and notorious asshole Donny Long uploaded to YouTube starring the once-great and now extremely cracked out porn star Chasey Lain. Sadly, I have been up to my tits in bullshit lab work, and haven't had the time to follow up on what Chasey has been doing since she threatened to have her mafioso boyfriend kill Donny Long for not letting her bang the male talent with a tampon in (and EW, gross). Chasey drove off in her Rolls Royce, crack pipe ablaze, and I thought that might be the last of her. I was saddened, because what a tragic end to such a luminous career in sucking dick on camera for cash.
Thank goodness my Razzyphiles are picking up my slack. Today I received an e-mail with the subject line "Chasey Lain–from bad to worse!" from PackMan, a Razzyphile who has been diligently following this story in my stead (which, I should add, I really appreciate because nobody is more depressed about my lack of bloggery lately than myself, and I need all the help I can get). Attached were two photographs proving that even when you think someone has hit bottom, there's always a little further that they can fall. It also proves that I can scream "WHY, CHASEY, WHY?!" a little louder than I did when I saw her trying to negotiate the going rate for hardcore stills in fluent tweaker gibberish.
This right here is exactly why you shouldn't do drugs, especially those generally bought and sold in crystalline form. Chasey looks like what would result if one of the "Faces of Meth" procreated with something from a George A. Romero movie. She looks like she's more interested in eating brain than giving it, and trust that's not something I want to rub one off to. Chasey looked pretty beat before, but now she looks like the human equivalent of the residue that accumulates on the bottom of a crack pipe. I imagine she smells like a combination of anhydrous ammonia and a Porta-Potty on the last day of Burning Man that has been filled with an endless stream of unbathed, tripping-balls drunken hippies while sweltering in the hot desert sun for three days. Sister needs to be on "Intervention" AND "Extreme Makeover," not cavorting around industry functions with male talent that seemingly can't wait to escape her necrotic clutches before some of her coochie cooties get on his Pacers jersey.
Even more disturbing than Chasey's cadaveric appearance is the fact that she's apparently executing some kind of twisted revenge scheme posing here with Donny Long's personal archnemesis, ChristianXXX. ChristianXXX did a few gay titles in the past, and this has led to a vicious feud in which Donny Long has accused him of being a "tranny fucker" and discouraged other women from working for him due to "safety concerns" (because only gay dudes have STDs, right, Donny, you homophobe?). ChristianXXX has responded by attempting to fight him in a parking lot (Donny Long ran away) and authoring the world's most soporific porn blog about his workout routine and what he likes to order at Chili's. I've never had any problem with ChristianXXX myself because I don't really pay much attention to the male talent in porn unless the dude is gross (in which case I have to actively try to not look at him), and ChristianXXX seems generally well-groomed and unintrusive. However, he may have just jumped into gross-out territory with this ill-advised unholy anti-Donny Long alliance, if the above photos suggest that he did a scene with the decrepit remnants of what was once one of the hottest pieces of ass in the entire adult world. That's really too bad, because the other day I saw a clip of Christian banging Eva Angelina and it was pretty hot. Now I can't even watch it again, because the second his bald, Mr. Clean-looking ass shows up I'm going to conjure up images of Chasey's ghoulish visage. I don't even think the hotness that is Eva Angelina will be able to quell my compulsive and violent urge to vomit all over my computer screen, and that's saying a lot, because she's pretty hot.
And speaking of compulsive, violent urges, I have to stop now due to uncontrollable shuddering.
Labels: correspondence, drugs, gross, oh the horror, porn, Razzyphiles, sluts, tragedy
Friday, September 12, 2008
This is why internet dating is for losers
I have a firm and unimpeachable policy against internet dating. Partly this is because after acquiring a zillion unsolicited rejects from Friendster a few years back, I realized that the majority of people trolling for dates online are hideous degenerates I wouldn't want to stand next to on the subway, much less meet under romantic pretexts. Validating this is my now-passé MySpace account, the inbox of which is regularly filled with tempting solicitations like these:
Uh, "muah" to you too. Consider that a kiss OFF. Why, indeed.
Is that a hint, Justin? You want me to Yahoo messenger you? Sorry, but apart from my oft-referenced beauty, I am not sure how much I'd have to chat about with a fella whose handle is "Sweeetdicwilly." Usually because guys who imply they answer to a name like that usually have a dic/willy that is anything but "sweeet."
Well, that's a nice sentiment. I cute and good looking. I also, unfortunately for this dude, have an annoying habit of expecting my correspondents to use punctuation. I am indeed a "very chill cool person" but I'm somewhat of an intellectual elitist in the sense that I expect my paramours to have mastered the basics of second grade grammar.
This is in reference to the picture of me straddling a male stripper's face. I'd like to remind Fat Joe here that the gentleman in that photograph was paid to do that. Although I can't see what Joe looks like from the neck down, I am willing to wager that he doesn't quite have the physique of Brad the Butterface Stripper and thus can't get into that line of work. Keep wishing, Joe.
Well, I don't get 200 e-mails like that a day, but I have banged a few lawyers here and there. In fact, it would probably benefit my cause to bang a lawyer with some expertise in online free speech and defamation law, given some of my history with crazy dickheads and the civil court system. However, given that this message completely failed to persuade me to MySpace him back, I can't imagine that this guy would do much to persuade a judge or jury on my behalf in court. Not to mention I've never met a fuckworthy guy of any profession who essentially begged me to return his social networking message. PASS.
I'm the sexiest woman on all of MySpace? Even sexier than Tila Tequila? NO WAY! Too bad that given that overcompensating muscly topless photo of George, I'm willing to bet that he has THE smallest penis on this whole damn site! Wow!!!
Ah, yes, you've got to love the guys trying to fix up a threesome on MySpace. They're the ones who figure that dropping a few keywords like "naughty" and "curious" are a surefire method to get any bisexual chick into their pants. And even though this guy looks like a bizarre amalgam of a fisherman from "Deadliest Catch" and a contestant on "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," I just can't be persuaded to go "play with" anyone who doesn't know that "a lot" is TWO WORDS. Besides, like I'm going to the Bronx. I broke up with a guy once because he moved to the Bronx. Well, that, and he had weird nipples, didn't know how to use a condom, and said "cummed" instead of "came" (which REALLY bothered me for some reason), but the dealbreaker was the ride to the end of the D train I'd have to take to see him. Fuck that.
Apparently not. But that's probably because I don't e-flirt with small children.
Well, thank God. I am glad that my looking good in all of my pictures is something to laugh out loud about.
Uh, "muah" to you too. Consider that a kiss OFF. Why, indeed.
Is that a hint, Justin? You want me to Yahoo messenger you? Sorry, but apart from my oft-referenced beauty, I am not sure how much I'd have to chat about with a fella whose handle is "Sweeetdicwilly." Usually because guys who imply they answer to a name like that usually have a dic/willy that is anything but "sweeet."
Well, that's a nice sentiment. I cute and good looking. I also, unfortunately for this dude, have an annoying habit of expecting my correspondents to use punctuation. I am indeed a "very chill cool person" but I'm somewhat of an intellectual elitist in the sense that I expect my paramours to have mastered the basics of second grade grammar.
This is in reference to the picture of me straddling a male stripper's face. I'd like to remind Fat Joe here that the gentleman in that photograph was paid to do that. Although I can't see what Joe looks like from the neck down, I am willing to wager that he doesn't quite have the physique of Brad the Butterface Stripper and thus can't get into that line of work. Keep wishing, Joe.
Well, I don't get 200 e-mails like that a day, but I have banged a few lawyers here and there. In fact, it would probably benefit my cause to bang a lawyer with some expertise in online free speech and defamation law, given some of my history with crazy dickheads and the civil court system. However, given that this message completely failed to persuade me to MySpace him back, I can't imagine that this guy would do much to persuade a judge or jury on my behalf in court. Not to mention I've never met a fuckworthy guy of any profession who essentially begged me to return his social networking message. PASS.
I'm the sexiest woman on all of MySpace? Even sexier than Tila Tequila? NO WAY! Too bad that given that overcompensating muscly topless photo of George, I'm willing to bet that he has THE smallest penis on this whole damn site! Wow!!!
Ah, yes, you've got to love the guys trying to fix up a threesome on MySpace. They're the ones who figure that dropping a few keywords like "naughty" and "curious" are a surefire method to get any bisexual chick into their pants. And even though this guy looks like a bizarre amalgam of a fisherman from "Deadliest Catch" and a contestant on "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," I just can't be persuaded to go "play with" anyone who doesn't know that "a lot" is TWO WORDS. Besides, like I'm going to the Bronx. I broke up with a guy once because he moved to the Bronx. Well, that, and he had weird nipples, didn't know how to use a condom, and said "cummed" instead of "came" (which REALLY bothered me for some reason), but the dealbreaker was the ride to the end of the D train I'd have to take to see him. Fuck that.
Apparently not. But that's probably because I don't e-flirt with small children.
Well, thank God. I am glad that my looking good in all of my pictures is something to laugh out loud about.
Man, if I had a dollar for every time someone on MySpace saluted me with "hey sexy," I'd be a very rich woman. Clearly all the Razzy Haters who like to tell me that I'm fat, old, or ugly haven't been spending enough time perusing my MySpace profile.
Anyway, between the random propositioning on MySpace and the rejects of yore from Friendster, I pretty much decided that if this is the kind of dating scene that materializes without even trying, I can't even imagine the kind of freaks that are on actual dating sites. This supposition has been verified by every friend I know who has tried online dating. Sure, a few of my friends have met the occasional awesome person this way, but they had to kiss a LOT of proverbial frogs first. I've heard all sorts of stories. One of my friends met someone who was actually a porn producer recruiting new talent. Another friend met someone who claimed that he "didn't like fun." My lesbian apprentice Twathopper has made one disastrous crazy bitch acquaintance after another thanks to her forays into online dating. In fact, the only time she met a chick who WASN'T crazy, they became platonic friends and I ended up banging her. Otherwise, Twathopper has racked up a resumé full of lunatics, but this didn't stop her from going online with a fresh sense of hope that maybe–just MAYBE–this time she might meet a nice, normal girl who was down to watch some female singer/songwriters performing live indie folk music and not cause her too much trouble.
Unfortunately, she didn't get past signing in to Match.com before being repelled by the twats on there. She first found this profile, and I think it identifies the exact problem with online dating: a complete lack of touch with reality on the part of the people engaged in this activity.
Yes, how can I make myself look attractive for all the lonely single lesbians on Match.com? I KNOW! I'll style myself like I just walked off a box of Massengill and give myself the most obnoxiously pretentious screen name possible. Nothing turns on the ladies more than a recently douched "artsysociologis" who has conquered that not-so-fresh feeling.
Once again, I firmly espouse my strong "internet dating is for losers" stance. If you want to get laid, just suck it up like a normal, socially functional human being and go get drunk at a bar!
Labels: gross, lezbollah, MySpace, oh the horror, real-life rejects, sluts
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
The Matt Leinart of morbidly obese stank-ass dogs
I've been so busy laboring over Labor Day weekend that I've been missing lots of important news. I did manage to hear about Sarah Palin, but somehow I missed the fact that Chad Johnson legally changed his last name to Ocho Cinco! Such an oversight is inexcusable, so I resolved last night to catch up on much of the news I missed.
Another piece of news I missed thanks to my overworked state is the fact that Matt Leinart lost out on the starting job in Arizona to Kurt Warner. KURT FUCKING WARNER! I have a lengthy history of scoffing derisively at Kurt Warner, beginning in 2002 when I wasted my first round Fantasy draft pick on him, only to have him break his pinky and spend the rest of the season on the bench seeking solace in Jesus and pouting. I'm not sure what better says "first-round bust" than Kurt Warner's Chunky Soup-cursed, aged, Bible-thumping, power lesbian-controlled self is beating Leinart out for the number one slot in trading camp. Consequently, there are a few articles about boo-hoo, it's hard for young quarterbacks to adjust to playing at the professional level, and don't call Matt Leinart a first-round bust QUITE yet.
Even former Seahawk Trent Dilfer shows up in an article to make excuses for Leinart's lackluster performance so far, noting that he could never have won a Super Bowl with the Baltimore Ravens if he had listened to those critics. He omits the fact that his team ran roughshod in that Super Bowl thanks to total defensive domination that would have shut the Giants out if they hadn't gotten lucky on a kickoff return. The bulk of the Ravens' scoring in that game came from Jamal Lewis running the ball, long-yardage Matt Stover field goals, returned interceptions, and a stellar kickoff return to answer the Giants' sole return TD. Trent Dilfer won the Super Bowl by bringing the same mediocre offense he had been known for all season, so if I were Matt Leinart, I would encourage Trent Dilfer to cease and desist with the comparisons. The last time I checked, Ray Lewis, Tony Siragusa, and Sam Adams were not playing for the Cardinals, so unlike Dilfer, Leinart can't even pretend at greatness on the back of a more talented defense.
I've been calling Matt Leinart a first-round bust since he first blazed into the NFL, because at the very least I suspect Paris Hilton's crabs can wreak some serious havoc with a player's game, even if he is a product of the NFL-friendly USC system. Nonetheless, professional and amateur pundits alike have been defending Leinart as the future of the Arizona Cardinals. I can only hope that's true, because it's partly thanks to the Cards' perennial ineptitude that the mighty Seahawks have taken five straight division titles. The Cards' consistent ass-sucking has made the NFC West into the notoriously pathetic shitshow it is today, and any future in which Leinart is allowed to continue with his lack of offensive production is one I can eagerly anticipate. The Seahawks may have one of the hottest defenses in the NFL right now, but I'd be deluding myself if I made similar claims about their offense right now. We have no wide receivers, an unproven rookie tight end, a kicker controversy (which until now I had never fathomed would even exist), and an untested two-back (or three, depending on what happens with T.J. Duckett) running game that I'm frankly awfully nervous about. Nonetheless, our patchy offense is going to STILL destroy Arizona, because they can always be counted on to suck that bad. Thanks to Trent Dilfer comparing Leinart's weak arm strength to Joe Montana and Steve Young, there are still a lot of people who will doggedly expect Leinart to be a Hall of Fame quarterback someday, and this all but guarantees Arizona will be in the trash heap of the NFC for years to come. I disagree, and rather than a berth in the Hall of Fame, I expect Leinart will be known by the three I's: interceptions, injuries, and infections from Paris Hilton's herpetic cooze. The Cardinals have no hope. I look forward to this bright and cheerful future.
In all this contemplating Matt Leinart's already unremarkable career, however, I realized that he reminds me of something. At first, I couldn't think of what it is, but I knew it wasn't my jeep, my sound, my car, or my bank account (okay, maybe the bank account, since it's EMPTY). Then it hit me: Matt Leinart reminds me of my nefarious pug Chingy!
This similarity isn't because they really look alike, but essentially they are kindred spirits. Chingy! and Matt Leinart are both disgusting assholes. They both think they are hot shit, despite the fact that facts demonstrate otherwise. They are both useless in terms of making any meaningful contributions to their teams. They both stink, and I've never smelled Matt Leinart, but I have smelled eau de men's locker room, and I think it's a safe assumption that when he doesn't smell like sweaty jock straps, he submerges himself in Drakkar. Frankly, even if he smells like fresh baked cinnamon rolls all the time, his stats warrant the use of the term "stinks" so it all applies. They are both encouraged in their arrogance by fawning admirers who rave about how cute and wonderful and underrated they are and make excuses on their behalf. In fact, when they behave badly (by, say, eating homeless guy shit, vomiting up used tampons, ejaculating on my living room floor, or partying in a hot tub full of Arizona skanks instead of rehabbing one's shoulder), their admirers excuse and venerate it. If the aforementioned floor ejaculation incident hadn't motivated me to get Chingy! neutered, I'm certain that like Leinart he'd be fathering bastard Pug mixes all over my neighborhood.
I think I could go on all day about this, but unfortunately I now have to take Matt Leinart for a stroll around the park, where most likely he'll eat decomposing rodent, injure himself, or disdainfully wander off, forcing me to scale a hill or break into a construction site to retrieve him.
CHONGAY CHONG, Matt Leinart!
Labels: assholes, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, NFL football, retard rage
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Daniel Henry Plant
Name: Daniel Henry Plant
DOB: ???
Occupation: bullshit excuse-employing pedophile
Hometown: the delightful (except by "delightful," I mean "redneck timber industry shithole") log-processing Oregon border town of Longview, Washington
Current residence: Clallam Bay Corrections Facility, Clallam Bay, Washington
Douchebaggery: HotLawyer was going about his daily business of reading Washington State Appellate Court decisions, found this gem, and requested a good old-fashioned douchebagging of the appellant. This appeal was made by one Mr. Daniel Henry Plant, a drunken creep who didn't agree with the jury of his peers that convicted him of first-degree child molestation. His appeal was denied, and to save you the trouble of deciphering the legalese about the case law for the basis of the appeal's failure, I will quickly translate: motherfucker used the most bullshit excuses of all time for trying to fingerbang a six-year-old.
According to the decision, Mr. Plant showed up at his friend's house after killing a few too many wine coolers. The friend agreed to let his wasted ass stay over, and invited him to climb into bed with her and her six-year-old daughter. Instead of quietly passing out in front of a movie, he started trying to convince the friend to fuck him and kept feeling up the little girl. Though the friend kept refusing what I'm sure were incredibly tempting offers of sexual congress, Mr. Plant didn't get the hint. He exposed himself and then, when it became apparent the friend wasn't interested in banging some dude with her daughter in bed with her, he turned his attention to the kid. The mother was alerted that something was up when her daughter told Plant "don't" in a serious manner, and threw back the covers. At that point, Plant withdrew his grabby hands guiltily from the girl's crotch, and the mother threw him out. The daughter then told her mother he'd been diddling her.
The girl explained that he touched her "pee" and that it was both unwelcome and painful. To add an extra shuddering jolt of revulsion, the police chick who investigated the case noticed that all his fingernails were sharpened to a point. As a sexually active adult with a thoroughly broken-in vagina, I can attest that long nails–much less ones intentionally honed into raptor-like talons–cause sufficient ouchiness to render digital action completely miserable and unpleasant. I can only imagine how this must have felt for an innocent six-year-old who had already suffered the misfortune of being molested by one of her brothers. In his defense, Plant first said he confused the kid with her mother, who in his mind was begging to have sex with his Blue Hawaiian-sodden self. When the investigator didn't believe that story, he said that he was just "testing" the kid to see if she had been molested...by molesting her. He told the investigator he was "just being professional," because certainly molesting children is used by law enforcement officials and child psychologists as an excellent litmus test for determining whether or not a child has already been sexually violated by a creepy kid-touching degenerate asshole. He then claimed that, while admittedly a poorly conceived plan to provide some sort of sick counseling to the girl, his judgment was impaired because he was drunk. He also claimed that his defense attorney didn't bring this up at trial, and thus had a legitimate appeal against his conviction.
I've done many ill-conceived things while under the influence. Granted, I can't recall a time when I was drunk on Bartles and Jaymes, but I've still done some pretty crazy and sometimes regrettable things. Nonetheless, I've never committed any kind of sexual assault, much less child molestation, no matter how drunk I got. I certainly never attempted to perform some type of perverted genital examination on the grounds of some mysterious "professional" interest. I call bullshit, and so did the appellate judges. They summarily rejected his appeal and sent him to experience the joys of keenly honed objects poking at his orifices in a Washington state prison. Except from what I understand about penitentiary life, sharpened toothbrush handles are more common than manicures, and the Clallam Bay commissary doesn't stock any fruit-flavored hooch to take the edge off.
I take my hat off to the appeals court for telling Daniel Plant's stank pedophile ass to take his shankings (in whatever form) like a man. Wine coolers, no matter how loathsome a beverage for anyone (much less a man) to be intoxicated on, are not magical juice that give a person a sudden desire to play doctor with a six-year-old. Blaming the eminent Misters Bartles and Jaymes for his own inherent nastiness is unfair and hardly grounds for an appeal. Send that bitch to prison, stick his name on the local Megan's Law list, and leave the Seagram's out of it!
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, gross, HotLawyer, kewlness, sexual assault
Thursday, July 31, 2008
How the mighty have fallen
Chasey Lain is a famous porn star from the 1990s. Even people who aren't total pervs like me and follow the smut industry to the point of reading porn blogs may have heard of Chasey Lain, because the Bloodhound Gang (of "you and me, baby, ain't nothin' but mammals so let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel" fame) had a song entitled "The Ballad of Chasey Lain." As you might imagine, that was an incredibly romantic love song featuring lines like "show 'em them titties", "as your biggest fan, I must demand that you let me eat your ass", "you've had a lotta dick, Chasey, but you ain't had mine," and "would you fuck me for blow?"
Well, it turns out that Chasey probably would. In fact, if a would-be paramour was fresh out of powder cocaine, she'd probably fuck the lucky guy for crack. Or meth. Or spray glue. While ten years ago, Chasey was a pretty hot piece of ass and plied her cinematic craft to make numerous rubworthy masterpieces (and some pretty boring couples-oriented boy-girl scenes too–and even though that link is to some seriously snoreworthy porn, mind clicking it at work). She was a Vivid contract girl and undoubtedly inspired a respectable amount of fan masturbation.
Unfortunately, the years have not been kind to Chasey, and she DOES NOT look like that anymore. In the past, there have been all sorts of rumors going on about her. She's been reported as dead several times, was involved with a boyfriend's murder, and has supposed links to the Russian mob. While thanks to her porn fortune or her rumored ties to organized crime, she drives a $250,000 Rolls Royce, recent evidence surfaced indicating that she has also picked up a raging drug habit and a bad case of busted crackwhore in the looks department.
The other week, Chasey went to shoot a scene with Donny Long, who is a dickhead director and producer notorious for shooting his mouth off to the adult industry blogs about people he hates. Most recently, he's been catching a lot of flack for getting into a feud with male talent ChristianXXX, and calling him a "tranny-fucker" and a big flaming 'mo. ChristianXXX is pissed because even though he did a few gay titles early in his career, he thinks (probably correctly) that Donny Long is hurting his industry reputation by telling young actresses that he'll give them AIDS and they shouldn't work with (ie: be anally reamed by) him. ChristianXXX has responded in the respectable way one would expect a porn star of his sophistication and elegance to: by saying that Donny Long literally stinks and whining about it on his blog. Because the porn "press" has nothing better to do than cover every bit of backstabbing trash talk, you can read all about their petty squabbles by searching either of their names on any given porn news site. It's all very mature, which is why I follow it. I'm hoping to pick up some pointers on professionalism from these classy guys.
Anyway, Donny Long was supposed to shoot a scene with Chasey Lain, and needless to say, she showed up acting like a full-on raging tweaker mess. Unfortunately for her, Donny Long just discovered YouTube, and shared the whole debacle with the world. Chasey shows up, dicks around, makes a zillion completely incoherent arguments about wanting "a handwritten contract" stipulating more money to shoot hardcore stills as well as video, claims she's going to wear a tampon throughout (GROSS), and eventually threatens to send her hit man boyfriend after Donny Long. At that point, Long fires her ("get your meth out of my studio, you fucking crack whore") and follows her out of his studio, where he captures her supposedly lighting up her crack pipe in the backseat. The videos are sort of long, but nonetheless worth watching, particularly if you're in a crappy mood and wondering if there's any way your life could get worse. Your life could be much, much worse. You could be Chasey Lain.
Labels: drugs, gross, oh the horror, porn, sluts, tragedy
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Alexandra Wells and Alyssa Waldrop
DOB: 1986-1990
Occupation: the oldest profession
Hometown: ???
Current residence: a jail cell in Lake Ozark, Missouri
Douchebaggery: The lovely ladies pictured above are both in the family way, and were undoubtedly stressing a little about how to pay the bills once they had another mouth to feed around the house (or possibly, the sleazy no-tell motel room in which they reside). Therefore, with no marketable skills save using buttfuckmissouri.craigslist.org and taking dick, they resorted to a seemingly natural line of work: prostitution.
This in itself isn't all that unusual. What is unusual about them is that their ring consisted entirely of pregnant women, and this was a selling point. While on one hand, I congratulate the ladies on their business acumen for targeting a probably untapped niche market, on the other, I say a big "ew, GROSS!" for catering to a fetish I've never understood. It's probably not a very enlightened thing to say, but I feel like pregnant women are kind of nasty. They have a lot of gas and stretch marks, and they're always pigging out, and I worry that their twats might be...I don't know, weird. When mice get knocked up, they develop a big mucus plug in there, and I'm pretty sure that human mammals do too. SICK!
It also seems like sex with a heavily pregnant chick would be really challenging. You certainly are limited in terms of positions, and I'd be worried about screwing something up. Like, what if you were doing the chick doggystyle and things got crazy and the baby got squished into whatever surface you were doing it on (in this case, a jizz-spattered by-the-hour bed)? I don't know if that can happen, but it seems like you could really fuck up a third trimester fetus by trying some of the positions I assume are part of any decent working girl's repertoire. It seems like you could also really fuck up a dude trying some more adventurous positions. For example, the kind of middle-aged, overweight, out-of-shape dude in a ratty Chiefs sweatshirt that I presume patronizes a heavily pregs rural Missourian hooker could throw his back out if he tried to execute the wheelbarrow and thus support all that weight with his lumbar spine. These hookers were courting danger as well as my symptoms of nausea.
Overall, I'm glad these bitches have ceased mining the internets for pervs interested in pregnant dick. I'm sure their babies will thank them for getting arrested at some point, since they probably are going to have difficult enough childhoods without having to worry about getting a perinatal herpes infection on the way out of their skank moms' high-traffic twats. Eight month pregnant hoes are something that does not need to be on the open pussy market. Justice is served like these bitches' customers won't be.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, gross, oh the horror, sex
Monday, July 28, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Shigeo Tokuda
DOB: 1933?
Occupation: porn star
Hometown: Tokyo, Japan
Current residence: Tokyo, Japan
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Every time I watch something Japanese, I'm sort of mystified and confused by a lot of what goes on. Probably there's a lot lost in translation, but generally I find Japanese shit strange and befuddling to my American sensibilities. Take suicide, for example. Plenty of people commit suicide around the world, but the Japanese have the market cornered on bizarre movie suicides for no apparent reason. If you watch almost any Japanese movie, from Godzilla v. Mothra all the way to Battle Royale, people are killing themselves right and left just because. In Battle Royale, there is literally one couple who kills themselves because they won't be able to continue their junior high relationship together on account of everyone involved in the titular Battle Royale having to kill each other...and NOT because they've been fitted with an explosive collar around their necks and forced to murder their tween peers.
In some cases, this cultural misunderstanding works well. "MXC: Most Xtreme Challenge" is a fun way to pass time on Spike TV when nothing else is on, and I have adored the original Japanese "Iron Chef" since I first witnessed Chaiman Kaga presiding over the Abalone Battle in Kitchen Stadium years ago. I may have no idea what "skwe-san" means, but I know that if the commentators don't use it to discuss the delicate and impressive manner in which an Iron Chef or his challenger is making swallow's nest and eel ice cream, hell will break loose (actually, the offender would probably just commit suicide). The elements of Japanese culture I don't get often intrigue and amuse me, and many Americans have followed suit. We've thus developed inferior versions of these shows for ourselves, since we seem to share the Japanese people's taste for crazy game shows, campy cooking competitions, karaoke, and pale long-haired ghosts who crawl out of consumer electronics.
That incorporation of classically Japanese entertainment into American culture has also occurred in the world of pornography. My high school boyfriend would always say he was watching "anime," and I'd come over to find him watching some hentai shit where a large-eyed cartoon princess was being fucked in every orifice including ears and nostrils by some kind of grotesque robot praying mantis alien creature with twelve cocks and a giant set of mecha-crab claws. I'm sure that there are at least twenty million other high school boys sitting around whacking it to the same ridiculous cartoons. Although I find it pretty boring and somewhat gross, the sheer volume of various bukkake scenes on the internet indicate that this Japanese brand of porn has also made the leap into an international commodity. For a nation of people who supposedly are always too busy working to have sex, the Japanese love themselves some nasty porn to the point where they've invented new disgusting genres.
Upon learning of new developments in this arena, though, I pray that unlike bukkake and animated alien rape, the new cutting edge trend in Japanese porn will stay on its own side of the Pacific. Apparently the Japanese jerk-off consumers these days are all into GERIATRIC PORN. It's not that I have a problem with sex with older men. I've fucked my share of dudes in their mid-to-late thirties, and there have been more than a few guys in their forties or fifties I've fantasized about. In fact, I'd even consider fucking guys older than that (named John McCain). What I do not really want to do, however, is rub one off to guys who spent their youth trying to rout our forces on Guadalcanal and elsewhere in the Pacific theatre. Enter Shigeo Tokuda, the 74-year-old star of such films as Maniac Training of Lolitas, Grandparents Getting Down, and Forbidden Elderly Care. A recent article by TIME magazine describes Shigeo's niche as portraying "a tactful elderly gentlemen who instructs women of different ages in the erotic arts."
Just because I doubt I would appreciate his art, however, doesn't mean I can't show some love for Shigeo. The man is apparently a porn superstar in Japan, to the point where his very name has in itself become a brand. He keeps his real name a closely guarded secret, because in the TIME article he says his wife and daughter are unaware that he is the Peter North of Japanese pepaw porn. A slightly more recent piece by CNN suggests that his wife and daughter have found out and are supportive, but don't want to know the details. I suppose that when your elderly spouse and father is featured on over 350 porn box covers, at some point, you're bound to see one and call an emergency family meeting. I can understand why I probably wouldn't want to know the details of my dad's second career as a male retiree porn star, since I don't want to see clips of a film entitled Never Too Old to Bone regardless. However, just because I'm not interested in masturbating to his (gross) art doesn't mean I can't salute Shigeo Tokuda, who claims he's going to be in the business until he's 80 or older and attributes his "glowing complexion" to his love of his part-time job. Vince Voyeur and T.T. Boy wish they had that kind of staying power.
Just because I doubt I would appreciate his art, however, doesn't mean I can't show some love for Shigeo. The man is apparently a porn superstar in Japan, to the point where his very name has in itself become a brand. He keeps his real name a closely guarded secret, because in the TIME article he says his wife and daughter are unaware that he is the Peter North of Japanese pepaw porn. A slightly more recent piece by CNN suggests that his wife and daughter have found out and are supportive, but don't want to know the details. I suppose that when your elderly spouse and father is featured on over 350 porn box covers, at some point, you're bound to see one and call an emergency family meeting. I can understand why I probably wouldn't want to know the details of my dad's second career as a male retiree porn star, since I don't want to see clips of a film entitled Never Too Old to Bone regardless. However, just because I'm not interested in masturbating to his (gross) art doesn't mean I can't salute Shigeo Tokuda, who claims he's going to be in the business until he's 80 or older and attributes his "glowing complexion" to his love of his part-time job. Vince Voyeur and T.T. Boy wish they had that kind of staying power.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, gross, oh the horror, porn, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, sex
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Talk ridiculously to me
The other day, I was Gchatting with Twathopper and she was telling me some of the more offensive things her ex-paramour Superlez pulled during their brief stint dating. Apparently, although Superlez didn't seem very interested in having real-life sex, she loved phone sex. Granted, this was the lamest phone sex ever, since she spent 99% of it telling Twathopper how cute she was and what she liked about her. In the brief times they actually managed some light physical coupling, Superlez apparently also liked to dirty talk. One time she started bossing Twathopper around about her "cunt," and while the C-bomb doesn't really bother me, it's not one of Twathopper's favorite words and she had to argue with Superlez about whether or not it turned her on. Another time, Superlez pulled one of the grossest, most off-putting instances of dirty talk I've ever heard. Whilst hovering over Twathopper, she said, "Feed me!"
"Uh...what?" Twathopper didn't know what she was talking about.
"Feed me!" repeated Superlez, who then began suckling on Twathopper's tits like some sort of demented baby from hell. This was such a huge turn-off that Twathopper–in spite of being hard-up for lezzie sex–stopped their hooking up in its tracks, because in her words "I'm not into baby fantasies and shit" as having "a grown woman suck on my tits like a fucking infant" was off-putting to say the least. As she put it, "equating the adult act of sex with children" is "not hot at all," and I couldn't agree more. For one thing, I hate kids, and for another...if there's one thing that doesn't go together it's HOT SEX and IMITATING CHILDREN. Another one of my friends was dating this guy a while back, and he used to baby talk all the time. It was mildly disturbing enough that he would routinely say things like "I wuv wu, sweetie-weetie" and stuff like that in front of her friends at bars and restaurants. In the bedroom he was even worse. He would say stuff to her like "Baby, will wu sucky wucky my cocky wocky?" When she told me about this, I thought that if any dude ever said something like that to me, my first response would be, "EW! Oh my GOD, NO! Never again!"
When it comes to dirty talk, there's a fine line between hot and creepy that clearly some people cross with flying leaps. I have certainly engaged in my fair share of dirty talk, but luckily I've never had anyone try to baby talk me in bed. I have, however, on many occasions had some sexy talk turn really fucking funny quickly. Obviously, I'm the kind of person who gets turned on by humor and laughing, so this isn't a problem except in the realm of phone sex. I am terrible at phone sex because I get about two lines deep and start cracking up. In the past I've tried a few times and haven't gotten farther than "...and then I pull your giant, hard cock out of your pants..." before I dissolve into giggles like the totally mature, sophisticated lady that I am. I'm a lot better at dirty talk when I'm actually getting it on, but even then I sometimes can't control myself if something surprisingly hilarious comes out.
For example, the guy who told me that I performed fellatio with a great deal of "flair" made me snicker on his dick, which could have turned into a very bad situation with my gag reflex had I been deep throating rather than doing some between-swallowing head work at that particular moment. I could not control the full belly-laugh that happened when this dude (who I apparently lured back to my web of sin and depavity with my incredibly seductive rendition of the Scorpions' "Wind of Change") blowing his load all over my ass shouted "DRAAAAIIINAGE!" Luckily he had a good sense of humor and wasn't put off by my clutching my side laughing at his money shot move. I've had some other instances of pretty hilarious dirty talk, as well. One of my former booty calls would always start fucking me and demand, "TELL ME ABOUT MY COCK!" I'd then proceed to come up with all sorts of outlandish stuff, like comparing his dick to a Johnsonville brat, telling him to buck like a raging stallion, and complimenting his ability to drill me like a Texas oil rig. Another dude I was dating would always ask me to "play with his chest," which was code for giving him vicious titty twisters. Seemingly pinching his nipples encouraged him to say incredibly ridiculous stuff along the lines of "I'm going to split you in half with my big black snake, girl" and "I'm fucking you so deep my dick's going to come out the top of your head." And yet another dude who was apparently really into artistic ejaculation techniques asked if I wanted some jewelry before giving me a pearl necklace. And yet another Mr. Right Now who I dated for a few months back in Seattle told me that my pussy tasted like the duck sauce Chinese restaurants give you to dip egg rolls in (I disagree...I think my pussy–like most pussy–tastes like a milder version of salt and vinegar potato chips).
I'm somewhat amazed, however, that I seem to have way more stories about this than most of my friends. This is in large part due to the fact that I'm the most open about my sluttery, and I seem to attract ridiculous sexual partners more than my friends. This makes sense, because I'll be the first to admit that I'm pretty ridiculous myself. I asked JerseyGirl, who has done enough silly drunk things to last a lifetime, and the best she could think of was that her boyfriend sometimes says how hot she is "in an 'i'mgonnablowmyloadanyminute' kind of way." I also asked this lovely girl I'll call Tits because she has the hottest natural rack I've ever seen in my life. Tits always has to leave everything early so she can fuck her boyfriend, and while she admitted to trying to convince her boyfriend to let her peg him (he declined), she couldn't think of anything funny that happened with her man. Since she then had to go fuck her boyfriend, I told her to get some dirty talk going on and report back. I have yet to be debriefed. At least FalloniusMonk proved to me that she shares my ability to attract the crazy dirty talk. One time, she was hooking up with some dude who "in the same breath" explained that he was a descendant of Mark Antony and wondered if they could still work together IF THEY WERE MARRIED! Because of their semi-work relationship and his obvious craziness, she elected to never hire him for freelance work again. Another time, "a crazy dyke" asked her if she liked fighter jets in the middle of sex. Sadly, FalloniusMonk did not indicate her love for F-16s by popping in "Highway to the Danger Zone" for the rest of their tryst. Then again, nobody ever accused Kenny Loggins of writing effective lesbian sex jams. Still another time, she fucked some girl in a church parking lot, and the girl asked if she thought Jesus was watching. Well, in Catholic school they taught me that Jesus is basically everywhere, so probably...but I can't imagine he'd be doing anything besides wanking it hard to some hot backseat girl-on-girl in the church parking lot. FalloniusMonk I'm sure came up with some similar don't-worry-about-Jesus-worry-about-lesbian-sex sentiment since she's a pro ho at closing the deal with the ladies, or as she puts it, "Can this just happen? Instead of the Katy Perry horseshit? This isn't about chapstick, it's about pussy!"
Anyway, while it's fun to hit the sheets and do a little dirty talk, in my experience it's actually seldom as dirty as it is either hilarious or creepy. I'm sure some of y'all have stories of your own, and I invite you to share. I suspect that there's a lot more silliness (or possibly creepiness) with the sexiness than sexiness alone. Share, bitches!
Labels: FalloniusMonk, gross, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, lezbollah, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sex, Twathopper
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Watch the eyes
In a week or so, I'm going to be attending an event (read: bachelorette party) where there will most likely be a professional male entertainer who specializes in taking off his clothes. LL Cool Jew told me the other day that she had never seen a male stripper before, and I reminded her that she had once before at Senior Banquet, a Smith event in which the graduating seniors get the underclassWOmen of Jordan House drunk and "will" them crap they want to part with.
"At my Senior Banquet at Smith! Remember? I know you were there...I willed you my Dr. Dre poster!"
"Uh, I remember going to your Senior Banquet. I don't remember a stripper there."
"Dude, the Jordan underclassbitches totally hired one for us! He came in dressed as a cop and then proceeded to wag his smiley-face banana hammock in all our faces!"
"I still don't remember that," LL Cool Jew said.
"Yes! And then, do you remember that shitty bar in Leeds or wherever called The Office? Well, the stripper came there with us afterward, and then Martindale brought him back to Jordan and fucked him!"
"How do I not remember that?" LL Cool Jew wondered.
I then took it upon myself to explain to LL Cool Jew what it's like witnessing a male stripper in action: BORING. Male strippers never take it all off. While LL Cool Jew pointed out that many female strippers keep their bottoms on too, they at least have tits. I could care less about some pretty boy guido's muscle definition. Sure, I might say, "He's got a hot body," but after about 30 seconds of lame gyrating I'm going to get bored without seeing some weiner. I mentioned that LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, in which we had that bitch in the private party room at Scores literally drowning in lady strippers, was going to go down in history as being WAY better in the nudity department than this upcoming shindig because male strippers are by definition sort of boring.
Anyway, I did a little research about male strippers, and I concluded that some of them may actually take it all off. For a moment, I felt cheered up. However, then I went to see what was going on in the world of internets celebrity gossip, and came upon a disturbing anecdotal tale. I'm now a little nervous after hearing this story courtesy of Michael K. at Dlisted:
So, my friend was at some bachelorette party and of course they had some guido stripper shaking his junk for all of them. Guido stripper went from girl to girl and practically dick slapped them. The next day, my friend's eye was all swollen and nasty. She went to the doctor and guess what was in that bitch's eye? A fucking dead crab.
So, my friend was at some bachelorette party and of course they had some guido stripper shaking his junk for all of them. Guido stripper went from girl to girl and practically dick slapped them. The next day, my friend's eye was all swollen and nasty. She went to the doctor and guess what was in that bitch's eye? A fucking dead crab.
This just validates my view that male strippers are far more loathsome than their female counterparts. I have enough trouble with guys and my eyes as it is. One time a dude shot his load on my face and hit me in the eye, and it felt like my contact got soaked in liquid fire. You wouldn't think that shit would sting so bad, but then again, semen is at a pretty alkaline pH to counteract the acidic environment of the vagina and maximize sperm survival, so I guess it can really fuck up a pH neutral mucosal surface like the eye. On that occasion, the guy noticed me clutching my hands over my eyes and saying "Holy FUCK, ow!", and was like, "What's the matter, baby?" Then I was all, "Nice shooting, asshole! Annie Fucking Oakley you are not! No more facials for you." As semen was bad enough, I have absolutely no desire to be picking the exoskeletons of pubic lice out of my tender, contact-wearing baby blues, so if this dude plans to dick slap me, he better brush up on his physical defense skills, because there will be no weiners in my face. In my mouth, vadge, or ass, maybe, but NOT IN MY FACE!
Labels: assholes, epidemic geekery, gross, holy fucking matrimony, nudity, oh the horror, sexual assault, weiners
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