What do you do, when you, a married, muddleheaded, mild-mannered, child porn-snifting, self-loathing ne’er-do-well, just really, really need a few robust kicks to your jimmies? Why, you pick up underage girls online, politely get them to blow you, and then assume the position: on the floor, splayed on all stubby fours (with a towel underneath you to catch any drip-off; the British do tend to be overly considerate), hold back the twig, and take a few stiff ones in the berries. A bit of panting, recollection; nary a trace of self-reflection, save the wag-wag of the stumplike, mottled thing bobbling and bad-jobbing it between your fish-belly legs. And again, with the kicking, and the “Oh, my danglies!”
Oh. And then your pedophilic ass gets arrested and put on trial. It must suck to be the only pedophile on your block who has to call the cops because the kids won’t stop pestering you for sex.
Related, in a kicking-only sense: Cuntbusting!
Well, it’s not as sexy as a proxy-fight, but it’ll have to do: the man-boobed titans of online transaction are at it again – Craigslist (in the peace-symboled trunks, representing Sexual Transaction) countersued eBay (in the red shooting star trunks, representing the Transacting of Everything Else) on Tuesday, claiming eBay broke antitrust laws without respecting safewords or leaving roses on the table. Apparently it has something to do with the introduction of a third (and possibly virtual) partner, some slut named Kijiji, who, according to eBay, has a much nicer ass. Meanwhile, Craig is sullen and depressed, eating tubs of Rainforest Crunch, and only coming out of his poshly-bungalowed bunker to toss off the odd commencement address, stating that he’s too tired to save the world anymore. Can you do it? (Don’t despair, Craig. Your hairy, non-lactating nipple of human weirdness will always be first in the breast pocket of our hearts.)
As for the sexy: in other ‘Who Knows Your Shit, Baby’ news, financial shock-guru and widely-assumed V lizard Carl Icahn is planning another of his shareholder coup d’etats, this time the object of his obsession being Yahoo (which wants you to know that it doesn’t spy on you quite as much as Google does, but, all the same, they’ll be happy to send you up the Yangtze river if you’re a Chinese dissident, or gunk up your junk with adware and spyware, or double-dip your card for their ass-wipe personals service). Yahoo’s loggerheaded fringe is unhappy with the company in the wake of their bungled negotiations with Microsoft, as well as its continued spiral into irrelevance; Icahn is a railroad tycoon in railsplitter’s clothing (assuming that railsplitters have gold cuff-links). This should be fun.
(The action takes place in a slightly-alternate universe, where a grown-up Augustus Gloop is the junior Republican senator from Louisiana: a staunch, if not hard-line family values moralist who entertains a penchant for non-marital, non-procreative coitus of by-the-hour nomenclature. Nomenclature, of course, for whores, denotes an obfuscated code of name-changing and namelessness.)
1. Whereupon Senator Gloop, eluding a shrieking horde of photogs and newspaper writers, clambers into The Museum of Artists and Conspirators, coming face to face with the inscription past the door:
Illegitimus non carborundum est!
Unless it’s a bitch or a whore. Or a Senator with a golden ticket to La Factorie Hardcore. “Life,” he tells us, “is an everlasting gobstopper of god-given gob-droppings.”
(cue Bat-segue music)
back at the mise-en-place of Are Too Much
and Are, Too - Not!
otherwise known as the Mall of Near-Misses
(the museum got tired of losing money and renamed its halls malls)
here is where our nightly Fata Morgana hangs
not like a Mudd or Seurat
but a Surrat
dangling from the five knots like a neo-impressionistic Sunday afternoon
never rejiggered from the 24-hour news cycle sweep-n’-swoon
save an extra stipple of Babylon-Whore Red
on the prim-faced girl to the right:
she’s staring not at the boats on the water
or the mermaid-whore with the daisy festoon
but into the four-poster bed of the sun.
2. Whereupon Senator Gloop, reminiscing about his indiscretions, suddenly finds himself transmogrified into the painting Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, where its principals become his constituency
“This is America. It’s Sunday in the Park with George.”
And then, of course, it’s later in the scene - the picture’s not between the lines but between the mien of dots and jots and Rorschach blots - and a curse from the couple always a shot away from the picnicked shades of Yellow 36:
ah, shit - we’re in a fuck of a fix
we’ve got the kids this weekend
and they know who’s turning tricks
with all their questions and quotations
and superfetations with needles blood-drawn
that baby’s gone, baby - gone
you can’t pawn off what’s already been pawned
it’s like a fucked-up fable
where the fucking-up is ivy
and the kids are fiber-optic cable
and the vines have got entwined
between the timid and untidy
Senator Gloop’s out of town, you see,
and he’s making movies with a grown-up Veruca
she still calls him Daddy
even though he’s the one with the diaper rashed-ass
you can pawn it if you pwn it
it’s all about the cash
and your sixth sense of smut
sometimes you feel like a nut
if you are willing and are able
and are auto-immune
and if there’s enough salt in the stores to salvage your wounds.
But not so much with the kids. They’re kicking dogs and clicking on to a more urban setting (fuck Seurat): here come the combat-pimped SUVs of Liberty City and the Pepper-me-up-‘til-I-puke-Kids), singing:
“You’re a Pepper”
and, “He’s a Pepper”
and, “We’re all Peppers”
and, “She’s a demimondaine! Ooh la la! Daddy said so!”
And if you look real close, you can see her walking through the trees with Senator TV (not to be confused with Senator TB, whose time came not at all too soon); her bags filled with capsaicin and condoms. But that’s okay - don’t sweat the small stuff, like diaper-rash or dick-span or that diamond-in-the-muff. You can’t believe everything you read in Hustler. Cortez was a killer, yeah, but that was only her working name - her call-sign. And she was called often, between calls for import and impeachment. Sure, she fucked up the exit plan, but don’t get your war-profiteering in a bunch - she was just a flash in the pan. Don’t believe it? Don’t kid yourself. We all got milked; you can catch the clean-up on C-Span and See-It-All Online. And milk kills the burning
3. Whereupon Senator Gloop, cornered and covered in chocolate, is dragged kicking and screaming not through a Senate Sub-Committee, but through the Press Junket:
When excursus has given way to eulogy
when the apoplexy of yellow journalism
or yellow-bellied paternalism is reduced
by force or simmer
to a slimy, pious falsetto of denial
(cue Bat-fight music and strap in for denouement)
“Here he comes. Here he comes.”
And cue Senator Gloop!
as he does his Cajun kabuki dance of regret, about as subtle as a head of garlic floating in facedown-suck on the chocolate river
And cue sweet wife Violet!
as she snaps her gum not in silence but with a blueberry eye toward the reelection campaign
And behind the green door a pas de deux of hush-hush acquittal and ‘How do you do?’, brought to you and us and them and we by Big Pharma and the letter B: “Brandy Britton? Yeah, I know her. She was a Playmate, I think. October ‘82? Oh, right, Shannon Tweed. I admit it; I forgot: I did not serve.” And, “It’s hard to have a good time, when the time’s already bought, and a good time means trying not to get caught.” And, “If it weren’t for the Aughts,” and, “Of all the fucking nerve…” And, “It’s a shame it turned out like it did, but that piece of ass was so damned ripe…”
And one more thing was overheard:
“Hey…I think there’s something stuck in the pipe.”
mySQL, my song.
1. Palfrey Described ‘Exit Strategy’
One million newspaper writers, scrabbling about like glans-engorged cockroaches with orgastic glee as the next deadline approaches, 65-WPMing a penumbra of jism-in-the-eye headlines,
and the soothsucking confines
of World Gone Mad ™.
What’s in it for me?
This is the Them part:
typeface Made in China, assuming you don’t mind the blackface of the “fuck-me-baby” minstrel stop-and start at your local Washington Post-Its, Wall Street nocturnal emissions (EPA-sanctioned), and “Hit Me Baby” playing life eternal at the local Wal-Mart.
Because it isn’t enough to
catch an eye, to
grab an eye, to
soothe its shape:
it must be seized, plucked, beheld and befucked, made to recant itself (write it a hundred times)and jizzed-upon until it stings.
Tears are no solvent but a photo op. Can you hold that sob a minute while I fix my light? You can cry all your want to, baby, that’s your indefatigable right. But just remember, I can’t shoot you in the dark. Just ask Bob Capa, he tried and tried and tried. And here’s what he told the soldiers who lay dying on the beach:
“this isn’t art, baby; it’s genocide.”
2. How Would You Make a Murder Look Like a Suicide?
One million sex bloggers (and you are even if you aren’t), lust at full-stop photo op, at the intersection of self-image and a sartorialesque social outrage, with high-hemlines and low-cut Vs; everything glistening like waxed and wetted cherries for an Elle shoot off the coast of Toledo Belize – fashions of the domain-savvy and disenfranchised – the rest waiting to be re-surgered later in the select-a-boob dungeons of Photoshop post-op.
With great WordPress plugins come great responsibility.
What’s in it for them?
This is the We part:
We the ePeople, the multifangled, interconnected tongues of the blog-snog set, nagging night and day at the swing-and-sway of our palaeotype with talk about peeling away the onion skin of the sexual truth, to expose, reveal, sniff out every dish with our one good eye-tooth. But onions carry the stink of themselves in their antioxidant oils, and it is a stink that is hard to rid oneself of. Far better a thing then to memoir,
to shoddily reminisce,
to Livejournal only the perky bits,
to celebritize oneself on the occasional sandbagged soapboxes of
“me so sexy,”
“by divine right,”
“O yeah, no evil shall escape my site”
Gimme some face(Book). I need my (my)Space.
But sometimes you have to pluck the hairs from the bare unawares of your areolas, or come to grips with a tiny prick a thousand times more fickle than a payola DJ with a jones for schoolgirl bubblegum and handjobs under the console.
We’re all Moondogs here.
And in the end we put the onions down and select the discount-brand can of onion powder.
“And…a-one. A-two. A-one-two – “
3. Hookers Deborah Jeane Palfrey and Brandy Britton Died By Suicide
One million entrepreneurs, slashdotting not to rent but to pwn every dot com glory hole and co-oped moan, with words the equivalent of upskirts and the shortchange of cash for an instant-cache of Girls Who Squirt in the eye of every beholder. Is the hard-drive on fire, or is it just an insulin crash? Or is it the other way around?
This is the Us part.
It’s not that you’re not doing it, or that you’re not doing it right:
Jesus died for your sex, so it’s only fair that the whores go next.
Throw ‘em off the edge like fuckin’ buffalo. It’s checks and balances, baby;
don’t make it so complex.
Because in the same breath as you call the Madam a pimp
while soft-stroking yourself to her tear-dimpled suicide address,
your eye gets hooked on the on the
Next. Big. Thing.
Yeah – suck right up – another feature, another titillating tittle-tattle, this one an exclusive; well, exclusive to you so long as you aren’t looking for it anywhere else, but at least this one was rewritten by the home team. About how another entrepreneur, a rival muckraker and tit-wagger, let slip the name of a celebrity’s underage star-child in the latest
They come at you,
rocked-out with their cocks out and
blitzed out with their tits out,
and It and We.
And, “he’s a pimp and that’s okay.”
And, “you’re a wimp if you can’t take it – no way, Jose!”
“And she’s a whore and there’s the door”
and – don’t let it hit you where Net Neutrality split you
down the digitally enhanced arches of our collective
Because it’s a fact of life that every asshole gets fucked in the end.
I guess I already answered the question:
What’s in it for you?
Yes, dear reader (citation needed), it’s primary day again. Today’s electorally-challenged states – North Carolina and Indiana. But quite frankly, we think Indiana is fucking boring. So we’re going to concentrate the barbed-wire tips of our penises (Ellie is wearing her finest strap-on, a mother-of-pearl shaft with a gargoyle head at the end) upon the scorched earth of Tobacco Road. The state that gave us Jesse Helms, Nascar, Andy Griffith, and pulled pork barbecue, the northern hemisphere of the Carolinas also boasts being First in Flight. Which, with no disrespect to the Wright Brothers, can be easily taken as a suggestion.
And so, with further ado, we present a small sampling of the constituency of North Carolina, via Craigslist, on the precipice of actually having their primary matter. Sort of. Apres jump. MORE>>
Who do you hate more: the madam, or the whore?
Certainly not the children, whom we safeguard from everything with an eerie, pan-sexualistic fixation, be it profanity on television, sex in video games, or sex of any sort taking place nearly anywhere. Like in Sacramento – where, thanks to a 7-7 deadlock from the Sacramento Library Board, pornography will continue to be unfiltered in the public library’s computers, leaving them ineligible for federal funding.
“But what about the children?” bemoan the handily super-religious, who have taken to this story with their usual pietistic, fetishistic zeal, as if they’d suddenly been bitten by a radioactive messiah. And they take to their own computers, web-publishing a self-imposed incunabula of stories with headlines like “Sacramento Libraries Still Operating Like Porn Parlors“. (And no, we’re not going to link to them. Jesus, Inc. can get its hits from someone else.) Because hyperbole is the first and sharpest cat’s paw of the trenchantly voodoo-agendaed.
And let us be sure about it. These pinched-nose fetishists aren’t living under the earth in reinforced steel bunkers like fallout survivors, or ant-built catacombs like cuddly-faced Pixar pitchmen. Well, not most of them, anyway. These are the people – you know, the We the People. These are the counterparts, the Bizarro-World Googlegängers, of you and of me. These are the same people, who, under cover of Levitical darkness, will felicitously solicit, patronize and demonize YouTube, RedTube, eFukt, and the local gentleman’s club. And sometimes, the soliciting, patronizing, and demonizations go a little further down the block, all the way to their neighborhood Miz Julias, encouraging a bizarre meeting of supply side/trickle down economics and “do as I say, not as I do.”
Look. The kids are going to get their porn. Fuck, they’re probably making their own already. When they’re not busy playing Grand Theft Auto or laying a feinted covenant unto a litany of no-lay pledges, that is.
So who do you hate more: the madam, or the whore?
Certainly not the men, always conveniently lurking at the periphery of the subject – the Senatorial john; the repressed, obsessed, prix-fixe pressed, and morally dispossessed – assuming they haven’t already started their own polygamist, pederastic religions, lubing up the moral flexibility of their flocks not with Kool-Aid but Anal Eaze.
And certainly not the face in the mirror – objectification is always closer to the wheel than it appears. You know the drill, figuratively and literally: “a maiden before and a martyr behind”. Mailer may have been a stunning douchenozzle, but he got that one right.
So what does Mother Nature’s warning system do? Where does it go to? Does it just go away with the moral-anal bleaching?
And speaking of bleaching – what about Deborah Jeane Palfrey? Do we get to take the stick of white-out to our rubbernecking and shame, along with her Junetime prison term and lipsticked covenant of whored-out memoirs? Why not, right? At least until we catch someone else in the acquittal of sex. Or worse, selling it.
We can conjure up a little sympathy for the whore. That’s the easy part. After all, she is but a minor devil – desperate and stupid and recklessly young. We can forgive those sins. Because the by-the-hour métier of her devilry is conducted by a more cunning devil. Like an old whore, tired of whoring on and for someone else’s dime, who decided to do it her own way. You never give it away – that’s the American way. Trickle it down; and if it’s golden, it’s gold. And yet she still got caught letting it all hang out. Washington, and the rest of us by proxy, had already hung her out to dry, on the Post-printed lipstick vine of Sodom. And apparently she got the message. Loud and clear.
So just who are we protecting, and from what? I’m pretty sure it’s not the whore; and it’s certainly not the madam. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter much who you hate more. Because as Deborah Jeane Palfrey said, as if giving away the punchline to a joke that no one had the heart to tell: “It’s my understanding that there really was no investigation.”
Maybe we should start at the library.
BREAKING NEWS: Jane Austen was the Paris Hilton of her day; Colin Firth hears news and maintains stiff upper lip.
So it turns out that Jane liked to flirt and have a few drinks. And she had hangovers. No word yet on upskirt shots, but our fingers are crossed. (Though we’re not really sure that a Victorian-era upskirt shot would reveal anything other than…more skirts?)
The dirt on the Craigslist vs. eBay feud is out. And man, is it…fucking stupid. So, like, eBay launched their own classifieds site, Kijiji, ‘kay? And Craigslist, like totally threw the fuck down! I mean, he threw a big-boy hissy fit, and then he kissed another stockholder (OMG!), and then tried to break up with eBay. Right in front me and Ellie’s lockers, too! I hear that Craig asked for his class ring back, even! Can you believe that??? Totes OMG!
And finally: there has been a mildly fuck-tarded trend for quite a while in the marketing of candles and fragrances to unhappily married people who aren’t having sex – mixing ‘his’ and ‘hers’ to create an ‘Our’ scent (it is a way to sell more shit that people don’t need). Well, our good friends at KY have taken it a step further. Yours+Mine, a matching neon blue-purple set of tubes filled with his-n’ hers’ goo, which is “designed specifically to increase intimacy and communication between couples.” Like, “ow! My clit is burning!” “I love you, too!”
“The man uses a blue lubricant containing a substance that is “invigorating.” The woman uses a purple lubricant providing a sensation that is “thrilling.” And when the two mix? A new sensation “ignites” between the two of them.”
Ellie: have you used any of those tingling sorts of things? It isn’t good times as best I can tell. Maybe I’m just too sensitive.
TSM: no. that’s what the girl is there for.
But in the long run, we suppose it’s cheaper than that other time-tested marriage-saver: making babies!
Ladies – afraid your new internet beau is not the architect/Jedi/fashion photographer/professional video gamer/law abiding citizen that he claims to be? Fear no more! With the launch of Easy ID, you don’t have to worry anymore – just plug his name into the search field (assuming he gave you his real name), and you’ll know all even before your web-cam speed-date is over! When love meets the Patriot Act, you can never be unsatisfied.
Have you ever wondered how the dominant-submissive relationship model works with mice? Okay, us neither. But in an attempt to explain away why so many human submissives are so prone to depression, anger, and self-loathing, the fine folks at the Ariel University Center of Samaria, Israel, have opened up a veritable Skinner box (not quite as sexy as Pandora’s, but it will have to do) of cross-mating mice. Don’t worry; all the mice have safe words – “cheese!”
From the As If It Couldn’t Get Any More Obnoxious file: now you can do your online date-trolling on your iPhone!
And finally, guys looking for multi-orgasmic, potential-squirter women would do well to look for dummies. Because apparently the smart girls just can’t sex it up. Then again, the study is German.
Hulking mutant John “Bradshaw” Layfield helps enact our latent homosexual ‘let’s-play-fight!’ fantasies each week on WWE television as part of the promenade of glistening HGHed-up queenies in tight vinyl Speedos who pretend to punch each other in the head. But now he wants to help the little guy – he’s hawking his own “sexual enhancement” potion, Mamajuana, which contains neither Cialis nor anabolic steroids. “We’re going after guys who want to take it, not need to take it,” he said. Well put.
And speaking of those guys “who want to take it”, there’s something else they’re going to have to learn to take, if they live in Florida. State legislators are moving to neuter the trucks and trailer hitches of their constituents. In related news, the saying “balls-out” moved quietly back into its cold-storage tackle box as a euphemism. And in developing news, Florida today sunk another inch closer to obsoletism.
Political chair-sniffing: Australian for ewwwwww.
Canadian strippers see jobs outsourced to internet; vow to buy webcams.
And finally, if you’ve recently had a lukewarm orgasm, or didn’t have one at all, look at its label: it probably said Made in China. And if it was an earth-shattering, mind-altering orgasm, well…thank your Mexican friends. Thank you, NAFTA, for last night!
It is a bit of an understatement to suggest that this is not the best time to be an American soldier. You know the story: two wars, both ill-conceived and managed with nary a shred of competence; rampant foreclosures on the homefront, many falling upon the families of the soldiers abroad. And a profound refusal of the Senate to upgrade the articles of the GI Bill, as the military is afraid of treating their soldiers too fairly. Because, you know, happy soldiers might be less inclined to dodge roadside bombs and kill things.
And then there is the coup de grace, the proverbial money shot which the religious right (in the you-can’t-too visage of Donald E. Wildmon) and their senatorial adherents have tossed off across the collective nose of the military’s men and women with greater incivility and eye-stinging fluidity than the hardest of hardcore S&M porn. Specifically in the glory loophole-closing of the Military Honor and Decency Act, which, according to its anal-retentive architect, Rep. Paul E. Broun, would disallow the sale of any materials deemed pornographic or obscene on military installations.
The offending materials? Playboy and Penthouse.
A pork-barreled paucity of decency awaits after the jump. MORE>>