Cock Of Love Bus

Yes, it's that time again. The slutty ladies on the Rock of Love Bus have inspired me to share their antics. They all head to my hometown of Champaign, Illinois, but none of the episode really takes place their. Bret takes his buxom brood to an ice arena to square off against the University of Illinois women's hockey club. Emphasis on the S in Illinois, because that's how Bret ignorantly rolls. The arena is in Danville, Illinois, about 40 miles away. And the strip club he takes them to is also not in Champaign.

During the hockey challenge, one of the skanks, Melissa, falls and thinks she popped an implant. Later that night, the cameras caught her talking on a cell phone she's not supposed to have. Presumably she's speaking to her boyfriend/fiance/whatever and she's talking all sorts of shit about Bret's hair extensions and how old he looks. She says that she doesn't even like him as a person. Ha. The next morning she saw a doctor and found out her boob is leaking, and she tore tendons in her arm. Boo hoo. Then when Bret confronts her about the phone call, she straight up denies it all, saying she never even called anyone. If six bitches are telling you some other bitch did this and that, who are you going to believe? The six, right? Which is kind of scary, because it's generally true in situations like that the group is telling the truth and the individual is bullshitting. BUT a group could come together and decide whatever they want and accuse an individual. Sucky. Like the Salem witchcraft trial or those evil children against poor Michael Jackson.

That one bitch needs to stop talking. You know, that one. She takes every opportunity to say "I'm a retired model." Is that supposed to be impressive? You know what it means, honey? It means you USED to be pretty, but now you're too busted for people to want to look at you. You're not doing yourself any favors by constantly reminding people that at one point, long ago you were attractive. So was Cloris Leachman.

The alleged porn star Brittaney cause some shit this week. While she was out on the date with Bret, the other girls in her bus smelled something like piss emanating from her bunk. They investigated and found food stashed under her blankets. Not only that, but in Brittaney's stuff they found all the dirty socks the girls had just worn for the ice skating challenge. WTF, mate? I'm wondering what her deal is. Is she so hard up for money that she needs to steal socks? Does she have a foot fetish (holy shit, note to self: foot fetish post to come later)? Is she planning to sell them on Ebay? They showed her in a confessional interview defending her actions. She said she asked the people at the ice rink who provided the socks if she could have them "and they very much said yes." She seems like some day she's going to go bunnyboiler on some dude's unfortch ass.



At elimination, token black girl Natasha is wearing a pink bustier and I swear her areolae are showing without an image blurring. Yes, that is a proper pluralization of areola. Pronounced "air-ee-oh-lee," bitches. In the end, Sockstealer got the boot. Bret said he paid a lot of good money for the best European hair extensions. At least he can joke about it, because on my life his shit ain't real. It's acrylic like WHOA.

I Just Prefer To Win

I was thinking this morning about how I get super competitive for things that should be insignificant. In particular, any form of a game in which I am pitted against others. Monopoly never really counted because it was so boring that we always quit before anyone loses all his money. My in-town cousins, my brother, and I loved to play Pictionary. The teams were always me and Terese vs. Charlie and Peter. My team won 99% of the time, and we had fun doing it. Because we were so good, our enemies constantly tried to cheat, and though we mostly caught them, it still made us extremely angry. This quality transferred to years later when I would occasionally play with housemates in Chicago. Damn. Markers were thrown, chairs were kicked, blood was spilled. Those games got rough. When I win, I'm not unusually happy. It's because I retain this fucked up mentality from childhood that if I'm performing as I should, it should be perfect, and I punish myself for any fuckups. I lived with a girl who also got rather competitive over Pictionary. We were both the best players, so our friends usually kept us on separate teams. Though this was most fair, it ensured stupendous fights and days of seething silence.

Videogames seem to bring out the worst in people. My brother and I played games like Street Fighter II when we were little, and we constantly threw the controllers and yelled at each other. I always chose the agile little female characters. Then the best 2d fighting game EVER came out (Marvel Vs. Capcom 2) and I could choose three bitches with which to wail on my brother. Now we play Halo 3; and though it's a little better, and we try to laugh it off, there's some pissiness from time to time. I remember the Nintendo 64. We used to play 007: Goldeneye, Super Smash Brothers, and Mario Kart 64. They caused massive fights. At university my friends and I would play Mario Party on the Gamecube after nights of partying, and it was mostly fun, but there times when tension was palpable. Now when I catch myself getting worked up, I remind myself that I play videogames to have fun. The problem is I still think it's most fun when I obliterate another player and teabag the corpse.

Real Life Donkey Punch

I was just watching a movie the other day about the accidental death of a girl from a DP. This is like the real version! "American on trial in 'sex game' death." At least the girl who got DPed in the movie was having consentual sex and died right away. This poor girl got a painful love poke, or love slice. That skeezy Italian dude probably boned the neck wound.

http://www.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/europe/01/16/italy.student.kercher.trial/index.html

From Alessio VinciCNN Rome Bureau Chief



ROME, Italy (CNN) -- An American woman and her Italian former boyfriend went on trial in Perugia Friday in the 2007 killing of a British exchange student, with reporters crowding the courtroom as proceedings began.




The cases of Amanda Knox, 21, and 24-year-old Raffaele Sollecito are expected to take months.
They are charged with murder and sexual assault in the November 2007 slaying of Knox's roommate, Meredith Kercher, who died in what prosecutors called a "drug-fueled sex game" with the couple and a third person, Rude Guede.
Guede was convicted of murder in October and sentenced to 30 years in prison. He is expected to be one of about 100 witnesses in the case.
Kercher was found dead in her bed, half-naked, with a knife wound to her neck. In court papers, prosecutors state that Sollecito held Kercher by her wrists while Knox poked at her with a knife and Guede sexually assaulted her.
Prosecutors say they have physical evidence placing the defendants at the scene, and that they gave investigators confusing and contradictory statements about their whereabouts the night Kercher died.
Knox first said she was at the house she shared with Kercher, then changed her story, according to court records.
Sollecito, meanwhile, said he was never at the house, but was at his apartment, watching a movie on his computer with Knox. Later, he told investigators he did not remember whether Knox was with him the entire night.
Defense lawyers are expecteed to argue that the physical evidence was tainted by sloppy police work.
The case will be heard by a panel of eight judges. The trial has drawn more than 140 journalists from 86 news outlets to the courthouse in Perugia, a university town about 185 km (115 miles) north of Rome.
The presiding judge in the case, Giancarlo Massei, barred cameras from the courtroom Friday morning after initial proceedings and said he could completely close portions of the trial dealing with the most graphic sexual assault allegations.
Kercher's family requested the trial be held entirely before closed doors, an option Italian law allows in cases dealing with sexual assault. Prosecutors argued that the case should be kept open, but not televised.
The number of reporters forced court officials to seat some of them at the defense table at the start of the case.
Massei said he would allow a closed-circuit television feed into the court's press room to let reporters who couldn't get a seat watch proceedings -- a feed that would be cut if the case is closed.

Like A Writing Desk

This used to be a friend's desktop image for her computer:



Amazingly she's still alive!

Lancelot

Out of nowhere today I started thinking about this guy I used to know. We went to college together, and we hung out a few times. He was this skinny little blond guy, and none of my really close friends knew him. If I had taken the time to ask around about him before doing anything, I would have found out how disliked and lame he was. He had longish hair, with a ridiculous almost pageboy-like cut. I didn't find out until everything was over with him that everyone called him Lancelot behind his back. He was extremely arrogant. I should have known better than to trust a gay male with a "Viva! Bush" sign in his window. We were never officially an item, but he got all pissy when I told him I kissed someone else. He demanded that we have sex right then and there, and I really don't like being bullied. So we stopped talking. Then I heard all about how all the gays on campus despised him, and I really wished I had been apprised of the situation going into it. Then I started hearing that he told people we stopped hanging out because I suggested we have a threesome with his ex. The truth was Lancelot was the one who proposed the threesome which I flatout refused. I wasn't very happy when I heard that. He showed up to a party that my house was hosting, and my friends and I didn't take it too kindly. I was so mad that he was lying to people about what happened, so I decided I needed to do something. Something mean. Something embarrassing. My best friend said he was down to back me up, so I told him to follow my lead. Lancelot was out in the courtyard sitting at a garishly painted picnic table surrounded by his minions. I sat down next to him pretending to be really drunk and sloshed a little of my nearly full beer on his jeans. He immediately stood up in alarm and after a moment, poured the rest of his beer on my pants. There was about one shot's worth of beer that hit my tacky pleather pants, so it just rolled right off. At this point I smiled because I felt he had given me the opening to overreact like an asshole. I poured my entire drink over his head making sure to get his prized hair soaked. My bff did the same with his drink about two seconds later, and Lancelot could do nothing but stare, slack jawed.

p.s. I went to the doctor today, and my doc laughed because apparently my chart says that I'm African American. Sweet!

Word

There was an incident a few weeks ago that prompted an email from our office manager to the work list having to do with the use of work email. There was a little blurb at the end about how internet usage at work should be kept to a minimum and that it can all be logged. I have to laugh when I imagine what they might find if they checked mine. It would be nothing more scandalous than Google image searches for "jockstrap" and "Joe Jonas."

. . . For Men

I'm convinced my hair is starting to get thinner at the "vertex" of my head. I use quotes because I did the research and ultimately ordered a three month supply of Rogaine foam. It arrived today, yipee! I figure I might as well try it. If it works I'll just use it until I can snare a man I'm confident will stay with me forever and then just let myself go. It it doesn't, then oh well, Joel McHale's got a mad bald spot growing on his head, and I still find him extremely sexy.

Tyra Would Be Proud

I drew this awhile ago:

My Friends Are Shitmagnets Too

This happened to my friend Milo not too long ago.
Milo went to a party with a friend of his, and it was comprised mostly of people he didn't really know. Within two minutes of arriving, some random drunkety-drunk guy, let's call him Failboy, started hitting on Milo. Failboy suggested they go "smoke a cigarette," and by cigarette he probably meant COCK. Once outside and properly cancered, Failboy's hands are all over Milo, and Milo doesn't really know what to do, but figures a little harmless petting is fine. Of course, Failboy wants to do a lot more than some quality 8th grade-style groping, so he suggests that they go for a walk. Failboy practically accosts Milo and pulls him not into an alley or anything classy like that, but a stairwell to a random apartment building, right off the sidewalk. There's kissing and whatnot briefly until Failboy pulls down his own pants and starts jerking his failmeat. Now Milo is a little startled and confused, and they're both standing several steps up from the ground. Failboy then bends over, facing down the stairs and says, "Fuck me! You wanna fuck me?" Rather taken aback, Milo says, "Um, I don't really have any equipment with me." Right about then is when Failboy started vomiting like crazy. Milo's holding him and trying to help, and between barfs, Failboy says, "I'm so sorry. . . I still want you to fuck me." This dude is a piece of work. Milo starts trying to clean himself up because now there's vom on the side of his pants. Failboy takes this opportunity to fail more and NO-ARM-FACEPLANT into the sidewalk from four steps up. Oh yes, there will be blood. Now Milo can finally convince Mr. Trainwreck that it's time to go back to the party, and they clearly have been gone WAY too long to just have a smoke break. I was a little surprised to hear that Failboy didn't say something like, "no it's cool, just use the vomit and blood as lube." My friend shows up to the party with barfpants and a bloody-faced, stinky, diarrhea-mouth Failboy. Everyone's like, "what the fuck happened?" and Milo gives them a censored version of the truth, but the two girls he actually knew kind of saw through it. The thing is, they acted like Failboy does this on the daily, and they knew there was more to the story, but didn't press it. They must have known they didn't really want to hear that their friend threw up and broke his face while propositioning a guy he doesn't even know for unprotected sex. However the girls did need some plausible story because they needed to tell Failboy's BOYFRIEND how he got all fucked up.

A few days later, Milo got a Facebook friend request from Failboy that included a message saying that he didn't remember some stuff that happened and left his phone number so they could talk about it. Milo neither accepted the request nor responded.

Public Transportation

Gotta love it.