2 Girls 1 Cup is just the trailer for a pornographic film called Hungry Bitches. Good to know.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
D-d-damn
I've never been into poledancing at all, but this bitch has some moves. It's rather beautiful and mesmerizing. So much so that I almost forgot she probably has sex for money.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Queen Is Back
As you might know, I used to be obsessed with Lil' Kim. While this has faded over the years, I was excited to see what her new video had to offer. Not much, but that's okay. The song is terrible, but it's good for a few laughs. The video features her Dancing With The Stars partner Derek Hough looking faggier than ever. The beard does NOT serve to butch him up, in fact he's as gay as cum on a mustache. The video is also a Donaghy Estates-like ad for what I can only assume is a horrible new alcoholic beverage called Nuvo. Oh, here it is: the world's first sparkling liqueur. Good idea, that's just what the world has been lacking. Fuck those starving AIDS orphans with cleft palates, what we need is carbonated Amaretto. Maybe Jägermeister will get an upgrade next.
Some gems in the lyrics:
- HE WANNA EXPLORE ME LIKE THE INTERNET.
- HE A THUG SO I HIT HIM ON HIS GMAIL.
Those last two are borderline genius. Congratulations, middleaged white women who write pun-laden lyrics for hip-hop artists.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Ruse the.magazine Post
From http://www.rusemag.com/Pages/Music.Life/Entries/2009/4/26_041.html:
Yes, I'm aware that on the page in the link there is an error in the last sentence. I let them know, but it looks like it will be staying.
Real Housewives Console Me When All Else Fails
By Dan Trupin
In the midst of a turbulent economic crisis, I find comfort in only one thing. This singular source of hope keeps my chin up and my outlook hopeful. It's not Suze Orman; it's not God; and it's not lottery tickets. It's the Bravo television program The Real Housewives of NewYork City, or rather, it's the muses who populate the cast.
The show has proven that no one is immune to the current economic state: not even self-obsessed, status-hungry women. We all feel the crunch in different ways. In a recent episode, cast member Jill Zarin gave an interview to BBC, because they wanted opinions on the economy from, in Jill's words, “successful people who lived in Manhattan.” I believe the translation for that is “just how oblivious are these rich Americans?”
The reporter asked Jill to describe the financial crisis because it's so hard to see it from her fabulous apartment. She responded, “it's not hard to see here. It really isn't. Especially, you know, I feel it, and all of my friends feel it.” It's true! She's changing her spending habits just like us little people. For her birthday a few episodes earlier, she opted not to get jewelry this year due to cutbacks. She responsibly spent only $16,000 on a custom handbag, and her husband got her a measly Mercedes SUV. They're practically peasants.
Jill added, “it's become more difficult and challenging to get sponsors to just write checks [for charities].” This means trouble. What happens when the one seemingly effective method of easing the guilt of living a privileged life, or perhaps silencing critics, is put in jeopardy? Not to worry, these ladies have a lifetime of rationalizations under their designer belts.
With so much negativity and gloom in the atmosphere, apparently there is still a way to make a difference. According to Jill the answer is in the small things we do for others. For instance, she opens doors for people and holds the elevator for potential passengers. The random acts of kindness she does every day will most certainly save countless lives of suicidal investment bankers and depressed housewives. I expect her to receive a Nobel prize soon or at the very least, humanitarian of the year.
Because Jill is a saint, and I could never hope to come close to her philanthropic deeds, I must settle for simply NOT engaging in harmful or negative acts. These will count not only as sacrifices that I must make, but as promoting goodwill in a sad time. I promise not to laugh hysterically when I witness someone on the street trip into a run, pretending he meant to do it. I'm going to stop intentionally smoking cigarettes next to babies. I'll try to contain all my pee in the urinal when I use public restrooms. I'll stop sabotaging my brother's TiVo because when I was eight years old he told me I came from “a defective sperm.” Lastly, I'll cancel all those pornographic magazine subscriptions I ordered to be sent to a local priest at his church. I feel better already. If we all follow Jill Zarin's sage advice and do our part to improve humanity, we'll be out of this recession in no time.
Yes, I'm aware that on the page in the link there is an error in the last sentence. I let them know, but it looks like it will be staying.
Real Housewives Console Me When All Else Fails
By Dan Trupin
In the midst of a turbulent economic crisis, I find comfort in only one thing. This singular source of hope keeps my chin up and my outlook hopeful. It's not Suze Orman; it's not God; and it's not lottery tickets. It's the Bravo television program The Real Housewives of NewYork City, or rather, it's the muses who populate the cast.
The show has proven that no one is immune to the current economic state: not even self-obsessed, status-hungry women. We all feel the crunch in different ways. In a recent episode, cast member Jill Zarin gave an interview to BBC, because they wanted opinions on the economy from, in Jill's words, “successful people who lived in Manhattan.” I believe the translation for that is “just how oblivious are these rich Americans?”
The reporter asked Jill to describe the financial crisis because it's so hard to see it from her fabulous apartment. She responded, “it's not hard to see here. It really isn't. Especially, you know, I feel it, and all of my friends feel it.” It's true! She's changing her spending habits just like us little people. For her birthday a few episodes earlier, she opted not to get jewelry this year due to cutbacks. She responsibly spent only $16,000 on a custom handbag, and her husband got her a measly Mercedes SUV. They're practically peasants.
Jill added, “it's become more difficult and challenging to get sponsors to just write checks [for charities].” This means trouble. What happens when the one seemingly effective method of easing the guilt of living a privileged life, or perhaps silencing critics, is put in jeopardy? Not to worry, these ladies have a lifetime of rationalizations under their designer belts.
With so much negativity and gloom in the atmosphere, apparently there is still a way to make a difference. According to Jill the answer is in the small things we do for others. For instance, she opens doors for people and holds the elevator for potential passengers. The random acts of kindness she does every day will most certainly save countless lives of suicidal investment bankers and depressed housewives. I expect her to receive a Nobel prize soon or at the very least, humanitarian of the year.
Because Jill is a saint, and I could never hope to come close to her philanthropic deeds, I must settle for simply NOT engaging in harmful or negative acts. These will count not only as sacrifices that I must make, but as promoting goodwill in a sad time. I promise not to laugh hysterically when I witness someone on the street trip into a run, pretending he meant to do it. I'm going to stop intentionally smoking cigarettes next to babies. I'll try to contain all my pee in the urinal when I use public restrooms. I'll stop sabotaging my brother's TiVo because when I was eight years old he told me I came from “a defective sperm.” Lastly, I'll cancel all those pornographic magazine subscriptions I ordered to be sent to a local priest at his church. I feel better already. If we all follow Jill Zarin's sage advice and do our part to improve humanity, we'll be out of this recession in no time.
Crocs = The Devil
I apologize to the two people who read this. I've recently been busy trying to become a functional member of society, and it's going. . . well. I'll be a real boy soon.
I keep getting emails from Amazon offering free shipping on Crocs. No. Do not want. Did not want when I first saw them and do not want now. Or ever. There is no offer so fantastic that could sway me. They could be made of Star Jones' excess skin, and I'd still pass them up, even though I could glean some of her DNA in the hopes that one day I could clone her, raise her as an assassin, make her hate her previous incarnation, and carry out my ultimate revenge. She knows what she did.
They're recyclable or something? If you want to buy yourself a piece of trashy pretension, go ahead, but do yourself a favor: do not wear them in public. Crocs, like pajamas and sweatpants, should be worn in the home only. Don't let them trick you with Uggs-style Crocs, or (JESUS) men's leather Crocs. They are to be a secret shame. Your filthy indulgence should be generally hidden from the world, much like your masturbatory habits. You can feel terrible after wearing them and swear you'll never do it again, but you'll soon find yourself staring at your closet where you've hidden them. "Just for the morning," you'll tell yourself. But they feel so great, it's like walking on a sea of boneless puppies. You could walk on lava and not know it. You'll wander outside in a trance-like state because you can't let this slice of heaven that is walking in Crocs go to waste in your home. You can't feel the bum's hand you crushed as you stepped down your stoop. Even the bumpy sharp terrain of the ruined but busy street outside your residence caresses your feet. You close your eyes to let the pedigasms happen, and BOOM! You're fucking dead. The driver of the truck that split open daydreaming head and ruptured all your internal organs was wearing Crocs, and he was so caught up in the rapture encasing his feet that he forgot to brake. Forget swine flu, forget nuclear war, forget gay people: Crocs are the Armageddon. They're going to kill everyone. All that will be left of this planet is the smell of brimstone and antimicrobial croslite.
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