My Kinda Shit

The other day I was thinking about how much I love a good fantasy novel. I've never read one with a focus on a homosexual character though. I just read some that included a gay character, but he was dandy, lame, and died quickly. I thought to myself that I should write tasteful fantasy fiction with gay characters. Then I stumbled across a blog yesterday that features books with gay themes. I took a risk and ordered a series of gay fantasy books to arrive Monday or so, and I'm hoping they're great. I want great fiction that just happens to be about gay characters. None of this Christopher Rice bullshit. When I was in high school and not out, I was all about reading trashy gay books, but they just don't cut it now. I expect more from a book, not just excuses for a plot that kill time between sex scenes. So in the next month or so I'll try to do some reviews of these books--if I can make it through them. There's only one book I've ever purposefully not finished. I think I might go back some day and read it, just because it bothers me.

The Better To Bang You With

brother: I can't, I'm having lunch with J**** and her grandma.


me: (hip thrusting & slapping an imaginary ass) gonna tap that old ass?


brother: no.


me: gonna run a train on that old bitch?

Coming To A Gitmo Near You

I was preparing a delicious dish for a get-together today which required that I boil about 18 eggs. When I was transferring them to a bowl to cool in the fridge, a thought occurred to me. I don't think people realize just how fucking hot those bastards are out of the pot and how long they retain heat. For some reason, this made me think of a twisted torture technique. Put a just-boiled egg up a terrorist's ass! OMG. We'd find Bin Laden in a heartbeat. Trust.

Schnockers

I'm going to have to take another time to devote to the absurdity that is MTV's Jersey Shore. Basically it's awful and amazing. Best of all, it's introduced to the world the beautiful flower that is Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi. She's a drunken mess of a slut, and obvs spends way too much time giving herself skin cancer. Bitch has gone beyond orange and is. . . shit I don't even know. Burnt sienna? She made an ass of herself the first night and drank herself sick then passed out and missed the real party. She then tried to hook up with a guy who ended up getting sick & I guess even she won't kiss a guy who just vomitted. I suppose she does have standards after all. Like two of them. She loves being the center of attention at near-empty bars performing for old alcoholics. She's all about doing back handsprings and walkovers that show off her thong. She's clearly not an attention whore. But there's something so endearing about her! Perhaps it's because she's technically a little person. Her antics would not fly coming from an amazonian skank. That wouldn't be cute. Everyone's seen how she got punched in the face in last night's episode even though MTV made a faux-moral decision at the last second not to air the punch itself. Since we hadn't all seen it 23,049 times. Then afterward, they showed a message about violence against women. They took all the fun out of it! Last week I watched her get rocked in the face by a dude in slow motion over and over, and I laughed my ass off! Taking out the actual moment of impact and seeing it in context is actually very sad. I think the guy might have meant to punch the other dude but instead mashed an already ruined face. After the moment of blackness, they cut to Snooki lying crumpled on the ground, clutching her face. She's now like a retarded puppy :( You feel sorry for her and just want to take care of her. If she shits on the rug, it's okay, it's not her fault, she's special.

Fantastic Fantastic

(Look at those gams!)

Yesterday I woke up with Beyonce's "Single Ladies" running through my mind. Yuck. I hate that song! Why did that happen? All I could hear for 10 minutes after waking was that bullshit. I thought it was a bad omen, but nothing terrible seemed to happen. I can only assume that yesterday saw the birth of the antichrist somewhere in the world. December 17, 2009. Write that shit down. Today I woke up immediately in a great mood because the cast of Glee's rendition of "Don't Stop Believing" was in my head. And guess what? It's been a great day!

Happy Birthday!

To my blog. I realized today is the one-year anniversary of starting this blog. I haven't been posting as much as I'd like to, so I'll try to be more attentive. I've compiled a sort of greatest hits list of entries below:

A Ballad About Female Genital Mutilation (the audio doesn't work anymore, but still fun)

This One Time. . .


Futuramadrama

My First And Final Face-First Foray Into Furburger

Singing In The Rain

Holy Racism, Batman!

Gambling's Bad, Mmmkay?

Die, Yuppie Cunt

Can You Say "Puta?"

Real Housewives' Alex McCord Fanfic

A Letter of Resignation from Paris Hilton's Vagina
Oooh Baby,Let Me Fix My Weave

Trancient History

Haifiveku

Star Text

Spidercorn

"Shia LaBarf"

Oops

Lazy-Smized

Let's Paint, Exercise, and Have Miscarriages

Termites

The Bends

But Was It Rape-Rape?




p.s. I had a dream last night that I decapitated Mischa Barton with a whip.

Would You Rather. . .

I just saw two pictures of a guy with long hair. In one, he has curly hair. In the other, he has straight hair. This leads me to the question of questions--which is worse? A guy who actually takes time to flat iron his crazy curly hair or a guy who perms it???

Sleeping Booty

I purchased pornographic material recently for only my second time ever. I always figured there was no point in paying when so much is freely available online. Speaking of inherent stinginess, Happy Chanukah! Anyway, the first time was a subscription to a website that featured guys doing sexual exploits while smoking. What?!? I enjoyed it at the time. It's a thing. I really only got the recent one because I discovered a "model" I became very fond of. I did my stalker thing and found Derrek Diamond's blog which led me to his Twitter account. I figured I'd get a kick out of seeing what he could possibly be twatting about. Perhaps:

-fisting: don't knock it till you've tried it

-don't blow air up my ass and tell me i'm farting

-this isn't your father's interracial gangbang

?

Unfortunately his Twitter account is locked! It's by invite only, like the way sex is supposed to be! I went ahead and requested to be a follower, and he accepted. The surprising part is that he added himself as a follower of my account. Now I find myself feeling the need to impress him with my tweets! Is this normal? I try to be funny, and I don't post 20 per day detailing my bowel movements and every waking thought. Although I bet that might be entertaining. The point is I feel suddenly pressured to dance, monkey, dance! for a guy I don't even know who makes a living wrestling naked in baby oil, having sex and performing solo with a sodomy machine. I want him to write about the REALLY interesting stuff on his blog. What is life after porn? Are you going to be a cliche and become a porn director, or do you plan to open a muffin store? Does your family know what you do for a living? If so, how did you tell them? What's the nastiest experience you've had in the industry? What's the shadiest? How did you get your start? How does your partner of almost 9 years truly feel about your career? Would you be okay with him doing porn? Were you abused in any way as a child? What's your relationship like with your parents? Is there anything sexual that you won't do with a scene partner but will only do with your life partner? These are the meaty questions! Maybe I'll try to get in contact with him for an interview. I'll have to find an angle and an actual reason to justify it. Gears are turning. . .

Flirting Fail

I winked at a cute, scruffy waiter at dinner tonight. It didn't work. Either he was straight, or he could see my balding spot. I've never felt that I excel at flirting, but sometimes it's fun to do it just for the hell of it. I once whistled at a guy across the street while going home from a gay bar in Arizona. He actually came over to talk to me, and he was really cute, if a little short. However, when he got to my side of the street, I found I didn't really have anything to say. I only whistled at him to see if it would work, never considering that it actually would. He proceeded to tell me about how he was a Mormon and was trying to fight temptation, yada yada yada, GAY SEX. Sodomy happens, get over it.

But Was It Rape-Rape?

I had another strange dream this morning. It was about rape, and it was kind of funny--stay with me here. I was in some woman's bedroom with a few other people. The woman was alternating between appearing to be Kathleen Turner and Morgan Fairchild (which was pretty fierce). Her look went as follows:

She wore a shimmering burnt orange wrap gown with gold accents and a high emperess collar: totally something Oprah would wear to the Legends Ball. Now that you've got the imagery down, I'll tell you that she was showing off her closet full of other fantastic dresses to us. She'd hold up an ensemble and let us know what it cost her.

The first--"Forty-thousand dollars."

The second--"Forty-thousand and a handjob."

The third--"Rape."

The fouth--"Rape-adjacent."