Carolina Stop: In turgid response to California’s opening up to gay marriage, North Carolina State Senator Jim Forrester (R; duh) has proposed a Carolinian ban on any unions involving anything but a man and a woman (or child-bride!). “I’m not homophobic,” says Forrester. “I just hate fags.” (Okay, that part was said off the record.) Please to keep in mind that all acts of sodomy are still illegal in the northern hemisphere of Carolina, punishable by up to 10 years in prison, and/or a discretionary fine. It takes them awhile to get around to new things. For instance, NC is now importing all the northern mall-designers they can find, as they set about New Jersifying the southeast with malls and roundabouts. Next up on the agenda: thumb-growing.
To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Craig Newmark: Craig’s doctorate-y now. Dig.
Things Learned After a Night of Watching Keith Olbermann, Chris Matthews, and Norah O’Donnell with the Exit-Polls: Obama’s supporters are largely the effete white elite and the black working-class (and Al-Qaeda!) who hate, well, America. Clinton’s supporters are angry white racist women who hate men and black people. And McCain’s supporters are hawks, neo-cons, and evangelicals who hate gay people and aborted fetuses. Yeah, we’re fucked. Can I take my tits and go home?
And Speaking of Tits: The greatest headline EVER. Or this month, anyway.
On Second Thought: THIS is the greatest headline EVER this month.
“All literary men are Red Sox fans”: And finally, it was Warren Zevon who famously said, while dying mesothelioma’s slow and ingracious death, “enjoy every sandwich.” But let us amend those words, just this once, for our venerable Last Lion of the Senate: Enjoy every Red Sox game, Senator. And the sandwiches.
May 21st, 2008 Posted by The Snarling Misanthrope | Media Mayhem | no comments
This Week’s Picks
Fuck The Pope.
“The Church would have you believe that abstinence should be sufficient.”
Good Boy
“Despite my outward appearance, I still felt sexy as hell knowing what was underneath those misleading garments.”
May Masturbation Challenge: Progress Report day 10
“At the Dee & Apollo household, it’s early on Day 10 of the May Masturbation Challenge. ”
Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
The US Constitution Erotic Coloring Book
Editor’s Choice
UK Criminal Justice Bill Clause 63 - but what is “extreme”? - A Beginners Guide
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
MORE>>
May 21st, 2008 Posted by The Snarling Misanthrope | Sugasm | no comments
Some days you wake up and are ready already to take on the world. And then other days you just wake up and want to fuck with a capital F, like old-school NFLers, back when they still played like the Darwin-Dawkins Hydra intended, before they adopted helmets, like savages in the abecedarian mud of Grave Bodily Injury.
Enter the Sport-Fuck. And make no mistake: this is a sport. There are rules, but none of them apply. In ESPN-like highlight blurb-speak, it’s a lot like dodgeball, in that there’s a lot of moving about, much of it random; and in the end, people get hit. Boo-yah. Everything else is will and chance. The only point is that you Fuck. Hard.
And the Fuck itself is all about grudge-Fucking, sans the part about grudges. Each combatant must put-up; holed-up and dolled-up like American Gladiators, ready to dole-up: either you put-up or STFU. And there isn’t a whole lot of talking during the During parts. There is an absence of love-making: there will be no look-into-my-eyes-and-cry of the shared shudder-shudder; no flip of the hair and a stutter of smash-mouthed I-Love-Yous getting drowned out by the rosé or the solemn hum and hymnal of the thermostat pledging its autumnal air that hangs more like the heavy-bottomed end of summer. This is a contact sport; there will be no hand-holding. MORE>>
May 20th, 2008 Posted by The Snarling Misanthrope | Fun New Sexual Trends | no comments
Getting Over the (Dry) Hump: As if trying to one-up the hilarity-through-creepiness of Motherboy, the “Well, Did You Evah!” evangelicals of Colorado Springs just threw their ninth annual Father-Daughter Purity Ball. And hoo boy, what a time it was: “The culture says you’re free to sleep with as many people as you want to,” said Khrystian Wilson, 20, one of the Wilsons’ seven children, including five girls. “What does that get you but complete chaos?” Answer: complete chaos, and oral sex.
But the best quote of the evening came neither from the girls nor their daddies, but from Neela Banjeree of the New York Times: “the girls at the ball twirled for hours with their game but stiff fathers.”
Phasers on Cornhole: George Takei, beloved by millions as the venerable Mr. Sulu from the original Star Trek, is planning to marry his longtime first mate of the USS Excelsior, thanks to Starfleet’s overdue decision to overturn the Federation’s ban on gay marriage. What would the Klingons say? Probably something to do with honor and blood and eating lots of worms and stuff.
As an aside, we used to have a friend (yes, it’s true) who, many years ago, was dating, as comic Dana Gould so eloquently put it, “a carefree nymphomaniac who really likes Star Trek,” to the extent that there were two things she insisted on in the bedroom: wearing her Nurse Chapel outfit, and getting subsequently ass-fucked to her heart’s content. “Phasers on cornhole!” was our rallying cry to him whenever he’d sojourn home, as he for some reason loathed anal sex.
May 20th, 2008 Posted by The Snarling Misanthrope | Media Mayhem | no comments
Kittyfish
n.
1. a game played by cats and humans, wherein the human holds out a long pole with a long string dangling from it; at the end of the string may be a toy or other object; the cat attempts to catch the string and kill it (cats kill string), without getting the string tangled in their claws, whereupon the person holding the pole can ‘fish’ the cat in: Lulu played a robust round of Kittyfish, but almost got fished in at the end.
2. a slow-burn game of sexual seduction whereupon the agitator (usually male) seduces the Kitty (usually female) through a provocative series of come-ons, innuendo, and other taunts, resulting in the female being “fished in”: We chatted on IM last night; I kittyfished her with a promise of all-night clit-licking – we’re meeting tomorrow.
kittyfished, kittyfishing, kittyfishes
v. intr.
1. to catch or try to catch a woman (or kitty)
2. to grope one’s way through an IM
v. tr.
1. to catch or try to catch a woman (or kitty)
2. to catch or try to catch a woman (or kitty) in: I kittyfished Craigslist night; nothing doing.
May 20th, 2008 Posted by The Snarling Misanthrope | The Sexicon | one comment
If you’re a sadist-cum-tyrant like me (and you know that you are; you’re just too much of a pussy to admit it), then you are also a snob. I myself am a snob of no less than 73 distinct and fractious malefactions. One of the finer points of my dicklike dirk is my over-annunciated loathing for Music That Sucks, especially when it comes to people identifying themselves by their Music That Sucks.
It is not a good idea to advertise yourself online by your musical tastes. No one wants to read the following in a personal ad: “I like knitting, roller-blading, Ethiopian cuisine, and Korn. Go me.” Not even Jonathan Davis wants to read that. Seriously. Once you’re that rich, you learn what embarrassment through fandom is.
It is hard to love when fighting the good fight against Music That Sucks, and all its black-seeded hounds: that which is Trendy, Trend-Spotty, and possibly Trend-Worthy. It is hard to love because invariably you will find that the lost soul whom you think you can love is her/himself in love with one or more of these musically undead terrors of the Wicked One. MORE>>
May 19th, 2008 Posted by The Snarling Misanthrope | Asides | one comment
Junkball: The New York Yankees are either baseball’s most sexually progressive (not to mention provocative) team, or they’ve just given you one more reason to loathe them – steroid users in gold thongs! Noted steroid user and all-around meathead Jason Giambi, weighing in at a robust, yet nut-shrunken 235lbs whilst hitting a sub-Mendoza .191, takes to wearing a golden thong from time to time, in order to help him break out of a hitting slump. Which he’s been mired in for, oh, the better part of four years now. Even better: he shares it with his teammates in times of need, such as perennial man-hottie Derek Jeter, and Johnny (Look Ma – it’s Jesus!) Damon. We kind of see the golden thong like a sorting hat, sending the honest players to Jessica Biel (Jeter), and the HGH-sniffers to the Azkabanian hallows of Senate Sub-Committee Land. Because Mike Piazza would never have worn a golden thong. Probably.
Too Much Man-Junk and Even teh Internets Will Break: Traveling businesspeople – looking to cast a wide net of man-junk on Craigslist? Looking to increase your, ahem, exposure? Now you can, with only a few flicks of a finger, thanks to Craigslist Auto Posting Tool. And the word Tool never seemed to apropos.
Um, That’s Not a Latte; That’s More of a Flat White: Grab ‘N’ Go Espresso in Washington state has a fine new wrinkle (or anti-wrinkle, as it were) to sell more java – baristas in bikinis and pasties! Yes, frou-frou coffee isn’t just for doe-eyed artsy-type boys anymore. Now the Hooters crowd is discovering the joys of a well-steamed latte in lieu of Buffalo wings! It’s the future baby – and it’s really, really bad for you.
The Original Internet Romance Goes Silver: back when dinosaurs, REO Speedwagon, and Pong still roamed the earth, there was CompuServ. There was Chris Dunn and Pam Jensen, who met via proto-chat via 1982. And then they got married. We’d like to get snarky about this one, but we kind of look at them as the Neil Young and Chrissie Hynde of the internet love-set. Keep on rocking in the e-world, kids.
May 19th, 2008 Posted by The Snarling Misanthrope | Media Mayhem, Niche Cliché Pastiche, Success Stories | no comments
Ladies, it’s soon to be pool season and that can mean only one thing; it is time for self loathing fitness tips brought you to courtesy of some personal-training, fat fear mongering, can’t-get-off-the-treadmill-long-enough-to-get-her-legs-in-the-air, gymtard. The articles are all the same, conjuring images of an empty mind and soulless body, clutching a magnetic poetry kit of poor body image, self-defeating, stereotypical, falsely informative diet-y bullshit, which the ‘author’ scatters into the air as so much confetti and then reassembles in column form on the front of (usually her) mental refrigerator.
I stumbled upon a gem of an article that I’ll not reference or link to; flip open an issue of Cosmo, Marie Claire, Elle, Tiger Beat, (don’t want to exclude early onset eating disorders!) and quite possibly Auto Trader, and you’ll find a like article. As often happens when faced with blatant fat phobic, female proffered misogyny: Lindsay writes letters..
Dear Ms. Gymtard:
Just two points of disagreement and then I shall leave you to skitter off to your next spinning class:
You wrote, “Now is the time of year when you may be looking into the mirror and wondering how in the world you are going to put on a bathing suit”.
Just between you and me…
My last mirror gazing was thanks to the rabid, extreme seX games, endurance-style, sport-fucking maniac behind me who had a hand full of my hair and forced my face toward the glass. Oddly, how I would look in a bathing suit didn’t cross my mind. Please refrain from projecting your self worth issues onto the female public at large.
Then, “I know this looks like a ton of stuff to do, but don’t worry.”
It’s not only ‘a ton of stuff!’, but also , the entire premise of your article is designed to make sure that women do worry and do so in a cash frenzied way crafted specifically to fatten your fitness training profit margin. We don’t need it, really we don’t. Every magazine, poster, ad campaign and the entirety of the MSM have it covered. The next time you base jump from the ledge of reason, fancying yourself as helping, but rather sounding the fat dog-whistle, please stop. You are not helping. That is all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I could use another look in the mirror.
May 19th, 2008 Posted by Lindsay Lewis | Media Mayhem | no comments
And another backbreaking week of dry-humping the furniture has come to a merciful close. That’s right - it’s Friday. And it’s time for a Spank Rap.
I throw down like the Titanic.
I’m manic.
I don’t get depressive,
obsessive,
or passive-aggressive.
I just get toppy.
I like my seconds sloppy.
I’m a bad man who uses soap
and I read very well for my age.
My comprehension skills are dope.
I won’t tie you up with rope.
I’ll do it with a riddle in a skillet.
I’m-a spill it.
I’m a supergenius.
I know some Venus
in the biblical sense.
Respect my penis and perfect tense.
And I’ll respect your lady-parts
as long as they’re not keeping mine in suspense.
Now throw your hands up in the air.
(Unless they’re bound - in which case, I completely understand and respect your lifestyle decision.)
I like to roll and rock-a.
I’m down with Chewbacca
but don’t be so hasty.
Not in the biblical sense.
But when I was little
My moms made me some Wookiee-ookies,
And damn, were they tasty.
I sing like Tom Waits.
I gots the shakes.
I got a paddle like a goalie’s mitt
and my tongue is sharp like Steve Tuttle’s skates.
I’m a sick geek.
I don’t count sheep.
I make ’em into ball-gags and corsets
while I sleep.
I’m what the Carthegenians would call a sadist.
I’m on your DRADIS.
I got the latest
in 21st century mental elephantry.
It’s elementary, dig.
Lemme hear you safeword.
I’m down with The Goonies,
Rumi,
Toshiro Mifune,
and uni-lateralism.
I’m all about the schism
and a healthy dose of onanism.
I’m puttin’ on the Ritz like Peter Boyle.
I’m givin’ ya fits
while I foil ya.
I’m-a spoil ya
like the milk of human kindness
left under the broil-a.
I’m the long lean snake in the soil.
And according to Hoyle,
my ass is more like Joey Ramone
than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
I’ve read Garcia Marquez,
the maps of Cortez,
and Italo Calvino.
I shot a man in Reno.
Well, I didn’t.
But I gave a homeless dom a dolla.
Come on now.
Holla.
Without you,
I’m like a hundred Oscar the Grouches.
I want to get you on my couches.
Give you the oohs and the ouches.
Get my spank on.
Get my Thomas Pynch-on.
Yeah.
Lemme hear you safeword.
May 16th, 2008 Posted by The Snarling Misanthrope | End of Day Musings | no comments
