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!
I miss the arrivals gate.
It’s an arcane icon in this era of checkpoints, carry-on restrictions, and the ubiquitous snaking lines of Shoeless Joes slouching towards screening; but a compelling one nonetheless. An arcady overfilled with clichéd characters: the ugly American tourist, the barking businessman, the saffron-wearing religioso of the moment, and of course the omnipresent hordes of carnal provocateurs. The stuff that hard-cock hyperboles are made of: concourse bars, cheap hotels, and a supersonic getaway to a far-off, distant time zone. Before casual encounters went Craig-wise, any motivated Miss Lonelyheart could have her pick of the deep freeze, kill two birds with one stone while awaiting a missed connections to Des Moines and all points mundane.
But with the new sheriff in town, we’ve started flying the fuck-free skies. No more quick-change girl Fridays pressing against the velvet cords, car keys in hand. No more pre-flight nearly-coital interludes in secluded corners. No more quick-dash, 100-meter sprints from a cinematic liplock to the final boarding call. Nothing says ‘cut-the-schmaltz’ like an AK-47, a tap on the shoulder, and the injunction to ‘Move along, please.’ Yes, it’s safe to say that the honeymoon is over and the romance is gone. MORE>>
PART II: Hey, Ladies!
In part one of this Open Letter, we outlined the circumstances that may bring a normally lucid, forward-thinking (okay, we’re reaching) human of any sexual persuasion to the seemingly Salmonella typhimurium-drenched buffet table of Craigslist. Craigslist is indeed like a restaurant that narrowly tap-dances its way out of Health Board-mandated shutdown every few months, and only because the inspector really loves those fucking spring rolls.
Today, in part two, we address the women of Craigslist. Avec torque.
Ladies. Women. O, curves-endowed soul-searchers of the night. Uncle. We get it. Seriously. We get it already. You like tall non-smokers with Master’s degrees. Who love dogs, fondue, and cuddling. And you don’t want to see pictures of man-junk. Furthermore, it is said that you hate the drama. Fan-tastic. Got anything else to share? Mystery is alluring, dear reader (citation needed), but vagueness for its own sake is simply not going to win you any points in the great poon-up or post-off. Posts that put forth little more than “I like dogs and yoga LOL”, followed with a challenge for the menfolk (those hapless, witless wretches who will be first-responders to your lovelorn distress call) to be original, be witty, be clever, are doomed to horrible, flaming failure.
PART I: The Situation.
Boys and girls, pimps and hos, gather ’round the fan for a sec. It’s time for a little come-to-Jesus on the subject of date-trolling your friendly neighborhood Craigslist. Because it ain’t pretty, folks. You have stumbled, bumbled, and fumbled your way through ill-conceived form letters, capped-up hissy fits, demands of blowjobs and roses, and every spam-artist from NOLA to Nigeria.
This is what Craigslist is here for. Easily attained, NSA sex; used furniture; the occasional zombie sighting; and ultimately a refuge for the nerdy, BBW-sturdy, and sex-over-30 crowds. You prayed, you wept, you toiled and sweat, you wished upon a star domain and woke up to your wildest dreams. You are why Jesus turned a stack of moldy old Robert Heinlein novels into the internet.
So let us set things right. Let us lay down a few ground rules. A gauntlet, if you will, of style and sense. MORE>>
From the Telegraph UK:
“A female fish which hasn’t had full sex for at least 70,000 years is baffling scientists…In fact there aren’t any male Molly fish and the female relies on a dalliance with males of other species. This triggers her reproductive cycle but she doesn’t seem to use any of the sperm passed by her partner. And when her young are born they inherit only her genes and nothing from the male.”
This is like the worst-case nightmare of every aquatic male Craigslister. Their official response?
After the jump. MORE>>