The Best of BitComet

I was browsing available videos for download, and I couldn't help but notice the massive amount of pornography. There were some great titles, so I really wanted to share them:



Anal Lesbian Sweethearts

All Out Anal 2

Massive Asses 3

Anal Domination

Private British MILFs

Rio's Anal Revenge

Wet Lips

21st Sextury Clit Club

Anal Sex 4 Dummys (sic)

Ballbusting British Bitches Football Practice (might not be porn)

Naughty America-Bookworm Bitches

Lesbian Foot Worship

Triple Creampie Fantasies

Strap Attack 6

Lactating - Milking Mature Saggy Tits

Fucked Up Handjobs 3

Cum On My Hairy Pussy 6

Tittylicious

9 Friends Clusterfuck

Big Ass Anal Heaven 9

Asshole Fever

Giant Black Greeze Butts

That Teen's Got A Bushy Pussy

Straight Boys Who Drink Semen

Swallow My Cum Bitch

The Cum Artist 2

Teenage Anal Princess

Anal Rehab

Bubble Bursting Butts 2 - Creampie Sex

Big Titty Christmas

Rock Of Loathe

Since I'm really into masochism, I checked out the third installment of the Rock of Love series. Yikes. This time around, the skanks are all traveling with Bret on his tour. He promises that if he doesn't find love this time, he's giving up. I assume that doesn't include more shows however.

Here's a quick breakdown of the sluts. I may have missed one or two, they mostly blended together into a blonde, booby mess.

Brittaney: "pornstar." Getting paid to be fucked on film doesn't make you a star--it makes you a prostitute. She serenades Bret with her goblin voice. One of the other girls said "if I was a director, I'da yelled CUT right away." Well, if I were a director, I'd have yelled CUNT right away.

Melissa: blonde. sutpid. boobs. NEXT

Nikki: [pictured above] the shining star. She has tits up to her chin and a plastic face. She said Bret is gorgeous. Maybe she needs eye implants too? Get this, she's a DJ and a graffiti artist. Her spinning name is DJ Lady Tribe [rolls eyes]. She doesn't do graffiti anymore because she got six months in jail for it. To deter her from climbing over walls and doing other stunts to tag walls, etc., she got size KKK breast implants. Her rationale is that she can no longer do all physical feats necessary because she might pop a boob. She's also a rapper. She busted out lyrics written on the backs of papers whose headlines read "genital herpes" and "gonorrhea." Red flag, Bret. Red flag. You know a bitch got those at the free clinic. Girls who think they're pretty get so damn lazy. The think they can always rely on looks without having to resort to trickery, manipulation, and deceit. Take a lesson from Lacey on the old Rock of Love. She was busted and knew she had to be resourceful and conniving. You won't always have your looks, but you can always be a tricky bitch. And you can't just keep getting surgery. Demi Moore looks good for about five minutes between all the months of procedures and operations she has to recover from. In the end, she'll just end up looking like Jocelyn Wildenstein. Trust.

(did she get a head enlargement?!?! What the fuck is wrong with it??)

Ashley: blonde. big tits. Snoozerella

Heather: When snapping her photo, Bret told her to be natural and beautiful like she is. Okay, one of those things she has never been, and the other she hasn't been for YEARS.

Megan: blonde. boobs. She really did refer to herself as an "animal traineress." Well good. Maybe she can tame that bogus weave monster on Bret's head.

Constandina: *sigh* She said she was from the foothills of the Appalachian mountains. Read: INBRED. She says she's a very spiritual person. Please allow me to steal a line from Daniel Tosh: "I'm not honest, but you're interesting!" She claims to have a masters degree in storytelling and wants a PhD in mythology and folklore. Is that shit real? She's getting these from online schools that aren't real, right? Bitch has a masters degree in BULLSHIT.

Natasha: Or, Token Black Girl: That's a man. Aspiring madam. I'm so glad women aren't afraid to go for their dreams these days. I have a feeling I'm going to like her, but I also have a feeling she might get the boot for being violent. We'll see. Not crazy about her eye makeup. Looks like her makeup artist is Michael J. Fox.

Marci: blah blah blah, she made the mistake of thinking she's attractive enough to ignore cultivating a personality.

Stephanie: blonde. boobs. looks like Jessica Simpson. She's an LPN, so she can't be entirely stupid. She has a cripdaddy (that would be crippled daddy) who's married to a 26-year-old.

Kelsey: from Utah. She has Milo Ventimiglia strokemouth.

Maria: she's 40, a retired model. blah blah blah

Marcia: at first glance, she's crickets galore, but there's more to come. She the resident fatty.

Mindy: flapjack titties. No need for further description.

Farrah: blonde. boobs. I'm sensing a theme here. Ladies, listen up. Being blonde, having a fake tan, and huge fake boobs doesn't automatically make you pretty!

Brittanya: nice name. She has cheek piercings in her dimples. Not cute.

Beverly: snoozerly

SaMANtha: When her hair is down, she has mad MOM hair. She has motion sickness. Good idea to be on a show taking place on a bus. That's like a person with a phobia of cock (phalluphobia?) agreeing to be the receptive partner in the world's biggest gangbang.

Taya: Penthouse pet. Whatever. Bret wears more makeup than her.

Gia: lesbian. shows her rack and makes out with Bret right away.

They all get drunk, yada yada. Marcia pours a beer on Ashley, Gia and Farrah dyke out for a while. At some point, someone says "Beverly is a dude. And I don't think Bret wants to date a dude. Seriously." Well his makeup, hair, and clothing tell a different story. The skanks go on stage at a Bret concert then go drink at a bar. Bret shows up with a bad case of dick-sucking-voice. Then Gia and Nikki are involved in something so gross, it can't even be shown on television blurred. All I know is it involved drinking out of a pussy. TWATSHOT! Heather bites it on the stairs on her way out. Full on assplant, dramatic exit fail.

The next morning, the girls assemble in front of the bus, and Nikki hobbles up to them with mad sex-walk looking like she got all her holes flooded all night long. Marcia drinks a bottle of tequila, vomits, then proceeds to make out with Bret. The "blondetourage" has a group kiss with him, and when all you can see is the backs of their heads with nasty barbie hair with dark roots and crabs crawling everywhere, they all look the same.

Marcia throws chips in Ashley's face, Ashley pours a beer on her. Then it's ON. Marcia doesn't fuck around and decides she just gotta choke a bitch out. So she does. Bret lets her stay, which is probably his only good decision in the entire episode. And why is Ashley so upset? I'm sure her face has been covered with much more vile things than chips. Marcia says she was upset about the beer, but not because it got her all wet: "you do not waste alcohol like that. That is not cool." What? Is there a shortage of it where she's from in Brazil? I imagine parents in this country guilting their kids when they don't finish their liquor like "there are thirsty children in Brazil who don't even have alcohol!"

Nikki shows up to elimination in a Vampirella swimsuit, drunk as fuck. She's trying to do sexy poses, but she keeps knocking into the sluts around her. The smoldering bedroom eyes, or rather, roofie eyes as they look, seem to say "do me in the butt. I'll be passed out anyway, I won't even know." Unfortunately, even the occular promise of anal intercourse isn't enough to save her from getting chopped. She also has "F-U-C-K Y-O-U" written across her knuckles. This is one classy broad. They should really say "F-U-C-K M-E." Nikki really needs her own show. the premise could be something like Who Wants to Fuck a Tranny Mess? My girl Marcia is saved. Ashley is going to be pissed. Yes! Reality TV show murder is imminent!

Bret says to the remaining girls waiting to get passes "without a doubt all of you has individual personalities." There is seriously nothing to compliment them on. He was like "you're all definitely. . . um. . . breathing."

To come on the Rock of Love Bus:
boobs will be jiggled
diseases will be spread
babies will be made
falcons will be punched

Below are Token Black Girl and Mom Hair (with hair up):

And Now A Message From My Brother

His account of a good deed on his birthday:



“No good deed goes unpunished”
-Some pessimistic asshole

I was reading that great book by Maddox given to by my brother when I noticed it was 3:15am. I decided to do what any other good birthday boy would do, have a cigar. As I was smoking in the dead of night I heard a noise approaching from the north, on Heath Ave. I did some stealthy maneuvers and spied on an extremely intoxicated man that was yelling at the wind, the cold or an imaginary person. Mixed phrases I caught: “cold” “I didn’t do anything” etcetera, etcetera. I saw a taxi come from the west, but I was too slow to move out of my perch, flag him down and tell him that a stumbling drunk was trying to get home in negative eighteen, CELSIUS. I went inside and got ready for bed. It wasn’t guilt, it was just that I didn’t want to hassle the community with another dead person froze on the sidewalks. Then God butted in. You have to understand, God and I have an understanding with each other. Generally we just stay out of each other’s way, and when we pass, exchange pleasantries and such. It’s a tumultuous but amicable relationship.

God: Hey, Charlie, something wrong?
Charlie: No, just tryin to sleep man.
God: Don’t lie dude, I know.
Charlie: You’re gonna save him right?
God: I dunno, right now I’m talking to you, so at this moment, no. If you make up your mind maybe I could get out of here and do something.
Charlie: Damnit, that’s not fair, you’re putting this on me!
God: What’s fair anyways? Oh, hold on I got a call. Hunter, wasssupp!? Oh yeah, The Duke’s outta hell for a day?! Yah man I’ll be right there, I’m dealing with an indecisive asshole, shouldn’t be much longer.
Charlie: DICK!
God: To me-Sssshhh still on the phone. To Hunter S. Thompsen- ok, ok I’ll be. . . . . .
Charlie: Hey, tell Hunter he’s a fucking loser for shooting himself.
God: To me: My boy here says you’re a loser for shooting yourself. Listening, Uh-huh, yeah ok, right, got it. To me, he says “Go fuck yourself, you Nixon-loving commie-nazi. He’s doesn’t have to be justified to a piece of shit, two-bit, blue writer like you.”
Charlie: Touché, Dr. Gonzo, Touché
God: To Hunter: Okay, be right there. Pe-Ace. God to me: here one last thing, “Do it, you won’t do it” bye Charlie, warm the car first.

(It wasn’t guilt, it was just that I didn’t want to hassle the community with another dead person)

With a puff of smoke that smelled almost, but not quite, somewhat like pot. So with a warmed car and another cigar in mouth I was on my way South on Heath looking for a troubled soul. I found him near Clearview Rd. At first I thought this poor pilgrim was an old man with a white goatee. I stopped the car and asked him if he needed a ride. His intoxication was more than obvious upclose. As it turned out it was not a white goatee at all but snot had frozen in his mustache and flowed down to his chin where it made an inch-long stalactite of mucus ice. I actually checked his hands when he introduced himself. They were cold but not too bad, red and not black. So, no frostbite. He had a heavy pea-coat, a red and black striped wool hat and a fake orange flower lei. Jack, as he was called, told me he was trying to get home by himself for he was ejected from the Low Step for various misbehaviors and gotten angry and decided to walk home. He lived on Francis Street, which I did not know where it was (my inadequacies as an Firetruck Driver suddenly came back) But when he said near Arby’s and a bowling alley, I thought South North street because there is an Arby’s and a bowling alley near each other. Jack was adamant about living off of Heath, this baffled me because South Heath ended quickly without a Francis Street, but he couldn’t mean the other Arby’s roughly 3 miles the other direction, could he? I called 411, which was very unhelpful. They told me that I could not get street addresses like that from them and told me that I should have called *611. That number was a customer service for my cellie, I could add another phone to my plan but that would have to wait till later. Jack was able to pull it together and get his phone to act as a GPS locator and give us directions. It was the most high-tech piece of equipment in my car ever! Jack made some dry heaving noises but mostly repeated a few phrases “I didn’t hurt no one, they kicked me out for nothin!” “I don’t want to hurt anyone” “I was grabbin asses!” “COLD” He was able to tell me that he called a hook up, she told him he was crazy and that he was going to die in the cold. That must have been the ranting I heard when he went by. I didn’t want to explain that God conned me into going to get him so, I told him I was driving around on my birthday smoking a cigar and happened upon him, fortuitously. So for the rest of the drive I entertained Jack with a lie about how I hooked up the previous night with a Korean girl that does tae-kwon-do and how we played rough. He loved the story. Laughter physiologically warms you. So, after a while I delivered Jack to his gated community. I took his number but also told him to call me to make sure he was inside and ok. I received no call, so I texted him. He sent me one back “Yeah m so cold” Jack’s gonna be fine. Thanks to me for deciding to do the right thing.
After he left I noticed the snot-ice goatee had thawed off his face and was on the seat next to me. I threw it out the window, no sense in keeping souvenirs of memories like these. My good deeds were punished by having to throw a snotcicle out the car. I was so tired that I didn’t put a glove on before doing this, so my germ phobia is decreased.

UPDATE: Jack just texted me, 2pm the next day.
Jack: “Hey. We txtd last night and I’m don’t know this is.” I texted him back that I found him walking around and gave him a ride. I also added that I mapquested his walk from the Low Step to Clearview, yeah 3 miles in the ice. The following text he sent me said what I did was “top-shelf.” I’ve never heard a drinking reference be used on a person. Awesome. I decided to have a lil fun and texted him back “any time and the head was pretty good too for being half frozen.”

For the Paris Hilton in Your Life

Is your pusspuss stretched out? Is it sick and tired of having so many visitors? Do babies just fall right out of your vajayjay? When guys bone you, do they tell you it's like sticking their dick in a bowl of oatmeal? Worry no more! This is the miracle product for you!

I got to work this morning and found that my boss had done a lot of cleaning of the random crap we have lying around. Among this crap, I noticed this box:



Here's a close-up of the text:



While it's not entirely inappropriate to have in our office, it's not every day one sees such a gem.

Yes, that's right! "Training weights" as in your vag is going to participate in the Iron Man triathlon. Like it really needs to bulk up in preparation. I HAD to inspect, so I threw on a pair of gloves. The small box was accompanied by several larger packages that I found were kegel kits. This small box must be the floor model so to speak. Each kit also comes with a VHS tape to show you how to use the cones. What cones, you say? These cones:


I put a pen cap down to give you an idea of the size, CSI forensic-style. I couldn't find a ruler. Each cone has a plastic string attached, I assume to ensure it doesn't get lost forever in the black hole that is your loose meat wallet.


(imagine viewing it closed from the top)

The individual weights really are each a different weight! So you can work your way up to the hardcore levels. Go for the gold! Get your personal best. Once you've mastered the hardest level, I suggest attaching other things to the end of the string and lifting objects of varying weights: cutlery, blocks of cheese, precious moments curios, puppies, the neighbor's child. Go for it! Your goal should be to be able to squeeze off the penis of any intruder. It will render rape whistles unnecessary. This will be *rape surprise*! Twat of steel.

Cream, No Sugar

Brace yourselves, this one is fiercely vulgar.

It happened around 10 years ago when I was a sophomore in high school. I was absent one day we had a math test, so I had to make it up the following Monday. My teacher put me in the math hallway's spare room, where I could take the test in private while they went over the answers in the classroom. The room was large and used for storage of books, extra desks, and as a coffee break room for all the math teachers.

I zipped through the exam quickly, and I didn't want to return to class. But there was still nothing else to do where I was. Being the randy teenager I was, it seemed like a fair idea to masturbate. That's normal, right? I was going at it, and right before I'm going to finish, it occurs to me that I had nothing with which to clean up.

I looked around; and I guess I could have shot into a textbook (wouldn't that be a nasty surprise?), but I was in a hurry, and they were too far away. But the coffee maker was within reach. And it had a full pot. So it was decided. It was fucked up and wrong, and if I could go back, I wouldn't have done it. But it does kind of make for a funny story.

It sank by the way.

The Shitty, Or: Whitney Port Has Dumpface

For real. Her emotive capabilities are limited to faces she probably makes whilst pooing. Hence, DUMPFACE. Let's start with the upper left and work around counterclockwise, hm?

1) omg i can't believe that much fecal matter came out of me. whats does fecal mean?

2)so thats where my cellphone was!

3)ew is that corn and blood?

4)mmmm gimme a spoon



I wanted to avoid droves of drunken mofos on this NYE, so I decided to punish myself in another way by watching the premiere episodes of The City. Some thoughts:

Whitney = twat. still boring, but more entertaining than LC. has manhands
Olivia = cunt
Erin = idiot. still not really sure who she is
Jay = douchebag. looks like if Adrian Grenier and Joe Jonas had a lovechild
Adam = douchenozzle. probably in love with Jay
Alex = toolbox. looks like if Pete Doherty got his grill worked on and stayed sober for a few days

Mostly, the girls appear to be sex robots whose creator forgot to program them. And Jay. . . seriously? When he first spoke, I thought he was deaf. Then maybe Australian, then confirmed Australian. Apparently "bob's your uncle" means "there you have it." I love when people with foreign accents imitate Americans. They always sound so cracker-ass-cracker-honky-whitebread-peckerwood.

Dear Olivia,
So I see you think very highly of yourself, being a "social" and everything. I just wanted to remind you that the only reason anyone knows who you are is that you auditioned to play the part of a Stepford Skank's frienemy on a nearly-scripted reality show. You're such a social, and you got your first pair of Manolo Blahniks at age 18? I'm calling shenanigans on you, bitch.
p.s. Stop trying to make "social" happen. It's NOT going to happen.
xoxo,
Schad

Diane von Fürstenberg's birthday was actually today. She's 62 but looks infinity years old. Quite undead. Methinks she feeds on the souls of babies.

I loved Olivia's reaction when Jay showed up at her dinner party. She was P-I-S-E-D. Pised?

I enjoyed Alex's confrontation with Jay at that club. It's a little difficult to appear intimidating in a loud club when you have to speak right into someone's ear, making it look like they're about to have an intense make-out sesh.

And Whitney: "I don't know who to trust." Really? What gives you that impression? The fact that these fame-hungry whores are paid to be your friends or was it all the producers and story editors whispering into everyone's ears?

In summation, Whitney Port can go eat a bowl of dicks. Bob's Your uncle.

Futuramadrama

Let me tell you part of my plan for the future. It includes several disgustingly wealthy men dying in mysterious manners and leaving me all their money. I plan on being absolutely shocked when they keep dying, one after another. The following section is an excerpt from my future autobiography:

First there was Jerome. He made his fortune designing a revolutionary system of penile function for female-to-male transsexuals. He showered me with lavish gifts; and ironically, on the day his will was finalized, he passed away from an acute allergic reaction to peanuts. I blame Cook. Who leaves peanut oil next to the lube anyway? After him, I became involved with Eli. He was a great man who lobbied for and subsequently succeeded in reinstating the legality of hunting whales for ambergris. I practically bathed in it every night during our two short years together. I had no idea he was into auto-erotic asphyxiation until I found his corpse hanging from the ceiling with his swollen, purple dick out. Then there was Heff. He was so old by that time that he had no idea I was a man. He was blind, stroked out, and going senile. Our relationship consisted mostly of me giving him his afternoon viagra, manual stimulation, and drowsing off while he recalled the good old days. I had to wear a bra and heels for a few years of my life, but it was worth it. For him I mean. Worth it because. . . he was. . . so sweet. One day when I was away at the spa, he mistakenly took an entire bottle of viagra thinking it was his blood pressure medication. It broke his heart--literally.

After them, my friend Jay and I will move into a giant estate together. He will have had at least an equal number of men in his life, also dying and leaving him wealthy. We're going to get old in style. And by "in style," I mean doing whatever the fuck we want. Our staff will be comprised of attractive young men. My personal ones will be immigrants, mainly from Russia, who feel they have no choice but to work for me because they're in the country illegally. And I promise to get them legitimized for their service, and threaten them with deportation when they fuck up. Actually I think I'm going to need at least one burly, middle-aged woman in a classic maid uniform, maybe Zoila from Flipping Out. Jay and I will play the Blame Game. The point is to shit and piss somewhere in the house, blame the other, and convince Zoila it was the other nasty fucker she works for. I'll bribe her with promises of an educational fund for her grandbabies if she keeps Jay's "accidents" quiet. This will ensure whispers among the rest of the staff of how filthy Jay is. And we'll laugh all the while. And when we don't want to blame each other, we'll "accidentally" get our colostomy and catheter bags caught on furniture so they explode everywhere. I'm thinking perhaps every two years or so, we'll have Black Friday. We'll fire EVERYONE except Zoila, just to see those poor foreigners hearts and dreams break. We'll have already held interviews and hired replacements without telling anyone so they can show up at a moment's notice.

We think we might affix sex toys to the tips off our canes. That way, there are even more demeaning possibilities for when we sexually harass all the boys on the daily. I suppose we'll have pets, but we'll for sure have some dudes with buttplugs in that have wagging rubber tails. And when Barbara Walters rolls in to interview us, the "doggies" will be sniffing ALL up in her ancient, wizened crotch.

We're going to befriend Condoleezza Rice, gain her confidence, and call her Aunt Tom behind her back. Then one day when she least expects it, we'll push her down the stairs backwards. We'll keep Britney Spears in a cage and make her dance for her meals. The corpse of Janice Dickinson will haunt our basement.

Soooo, can anyone hook me up with Heff?

I'm Shallow

I got a shirt one night for Hanukkah. I opened the package, looked at the shirt, and thought, "ew, no thanks." I tossed it aside. The next day I took another look at it. I noticed that it was in fact Custo Barcelona, so I thought, "cute shirt."

What?

A friend of mine has a black body pillow. His ex-girlfriend calls it Barack Obama because it's black. I added that it's extra appropriate because both are white on the inside.

No Excuses

I got home to make lunch, and what do I spy on CNN but an interview with Kyle Maynard. He's a 22-year-old guy with congenital amputation. He was born with no elbows or knees (or of course the limb portions distal thereof). He was a wrestler. He can lift 400 pounds with his nubs. He's now a motivational speaker and lives in a van down by the river. Okay, well maybe not that last part. But he is HOT. Apparently he's modeled for A&F. I wonder if he'd be down with stumping someone? What is it with me and people with handicapabilities? I LOVE them, that's what! The only thing is people like him are fucking it up for the rest of us. Thanks, jackass, now I look like some lazy asshole with a chip on his shoulder.

I just imagined what a lazy asshole would look like. . . literally. Like it can't even be bothered to constrict and retain dookey. It's just like, "eh, fuck it. I quit." I think that's what happens when we age and need to wear diapers again. I look forward to that time, but that's a separate post altogether.