Anne Hathaway and the Greatest Premiere of All

Before I saw a bootlegged copy of The Dark Knight Rises this summer, I had never seen an Anne Hathaway film. And in all honesty, seeing her in a tight leather body suit was one of the few things about that goddamn stupid Batman movie that didn't annoy the shit out of me. If I was armed and had to wait hours for a midnight screening of that dreck, I'd have probably started blasting at stuff twenty minutes in, too. There may not be much I admire about James Holmes, but I'm not going to quibble with his film criticism.

Just because I've never financially supported her career shouldn't be taken to mean that I don't dig Hathaway in a big, bad way. Because I do. There's just something about her that make my powerful loins boil, churn and yearn to be free.

She has a banging little body that she isn't shy about showing off and a really cute face. Some folks might think it's a flaw, but I love the fact that she has a huge mouth and applies lipstick in a way that makes me think of the Joker. That's not kinky, is it?

There's this porn star named Stoya who looks a lot like Anne (second link NSFW,) but she was thoroughly ruined by Marylin Manson, which disturbs me endlessly. So when I find myself celebrating her cinematic oeuvre with only one hand free, I like to pretend that it's Ms. Hathaway taking comically large men in her dumper. If you ever wondered how versatile a gentleman I am, wonder no more!

I'm rambling again, aren't I? Sadly, that happens sometimes.

Not only have I not read Les Miserables or seen the musical, I don't even know what it's about. I'm told it's about something French, but I'm of the unshakable opinion that everything I need to know about France is in Last Tango in Paris.

That being the case, I made the conscious decision to ignore everything about Les Miserables until the film died and went straight to hell. When Hugh Jackman was on 60 Minutes this past Sunday, I fell asleep in protest. Sure, there have been more demonstrative protests throughout history, but mine was just as effective, in it's own way.

Well, ignoring the dopey francophile spectacle may have been unwise on my part. Thankfully, the Goddamned Liberal Media was there to pick up what I missed.

Actress Anne Hathaway gave fans and photographers an eyeful on Monday after accidentally flashing her genitals as she arrived at the New York premiere of Les Miserables.

The newlywed was climbing out of her chauffeured car outside Manhattan's Ziegfeld Theatre when the slit in her gothic black dress revealed she had chosen to attend the screening without underwear.

As you know, I'm not a religious man. But there are things that are drilled into you as a child that you just can't shake, which is why even atheists scream "Oh God" when we're fucking. Anyhow, since before I could even walk, my parents wouldn't stop warning me that panties were a tool of Satan, and that no woman that wore them was a woman I should be with.

And you know what? They weren't wrong! In the research that I've compiled since the first grade, I've definitively concluded that the best women all go commando. That's just the natural order of things, and may the circle of life be unbroken.

Of course, Anne suggests that she's mortified by this, but not really.

Actress Anne Hathaway was "devastated" when she suffered a wardrobe malfunction and accidentally exposed her genitals at the New York premiere of her latest movie Les Miserables on Monday.

That's one way of looking at it, I suppose. But I'm internationally famous for being a "glass half-full" guy. So I just look at it as her having two premieres for the price of one. One for her movie and one for her cute little cooter! More people should look on the bright side of life, like I do.

Anne Hathaway, in doing just that, along with quite properly eschewing unmentionables, proves that she's the perfect woman!

She told Sischy, "I was getting out of the car and my dress was so tight that I didn't realize it until I saw all the photographers' flashes. It was devastating. They saw everything. I might as well have lifted up my skirt for them."

Despite her upset, editors at New York Post gossip column Page Six report that Hathaway later laughed off the incident after discovering the explicit photos had gone viral on the Internet, adding, "And I just thought, 'OK, where's the comedy?' It has hit. It has landed. A bomb has gone off. I think what I am going to do is whatever my next appearance is... I'm going to step out of the car in a blanket. You've got to laugh at it."

That's the spirit! And don't worry, Anne. You can always lift your skirt for the paparazzo at the opening of your next movie that I probably won't see!

Actually, that brings up a serious concern. The nature of show business is such that you always have top your last performance. And I'm not such a miserable bastard that I'd refuse aid to a damsel in obvious distress. As a Caring Person, I'm all about helping!

That's why I'm suggesting that Anne Hathaway arrive at her next premiere completely naked on a pogo stick.

Now that the idea's out there in the ether, I just hope that Lindsay Lohan doesn't steal it.


UPDATED: So Anne was apparently on the Today show this morning to briefly discuss our entirely reasonable preoccupation with her crotch. Unfortunately, all we learned is that Matt Lauer is a remarkably shitty journalist.

Visit NBCNews.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

How could Lauer let her get away with nonsense like this?

“It was obviously an unfortunate incident. I think — it kind of made me sad on two accounts. One, I was very sad that we live in an age when someone takes a picture of another person in a vulnerable moment and rather than delete it and do the decent thing, sells it. And I’m sorry that we live in a culture that commodifies sexuality of unwilling participants. Which brings us back to Les Mis because that is what my character is. She is someone forced to sell sex… So, yeah, let’s get back to Les Mis.”

Obviously, I should have conducted the interview because there's no way that I'd let a moronic statement like stand without a follow-up. I would start with this;

Me as Matt Lauer: Yeah, the commodification of sexuality is pretty sad. Hey, haven't you been in something like 15 movies and broken your funbags out in something like 12 of them?

Anne:  That's ... that's different. That's art and this is little more than my personal exploitation for a voyeuristic culture, and ..."

Me as Matt Lauer: Of course. Art! How could I forget?

Lemme get this straight, Sugar Tits, you went commando in high-cut dress knowing that you'd be getting out of an SUV in front of hundreds of photographers. Didn't you sunconsciously know that no one wants to see a flick about a singing French whore unless they got to check out the .. merchandise first?

Anne: I don't think that's appropriate. The audience understands the art!

Me as Matt Lauer: Of course they do. That's why Michael Bay is rich. Did your mother drink when she was pregnant?

Anne Hathaway pussy pic loving stolen from What Would Tyler Durden Do

Scientifically Proven: Porn Stars are Better Than You Are!

I believe in the power of science to resolve almost all of life's little controversies. It really is rather remarkable and tends to confirm things that I already believe, anyway. Like anyone else, I'm given to putting more weight to things that confirm my existing biases. And if you assert that you don't do that, you're probably proving that you do.

The only difference between me and most of humanity is that I generally don't believe crazy or unprovable things, hence my aversion to religion. If you ever wondered what made me so friggin' sexy, now you know. Of course, I also have enormous genitals and the tongue of an anteater, but I don't like talking about that very much. I'm pretty shy, when you get right down to it.

For the better part of my life, I've been arguing on behalf of porn stars. One instance of this stands out more than others.

I used to work with a really cute girl who had a cousin visiting from Italy. Not only was the cousin super-hot and had among the most bangin' bodies I've ever seen, she didn't speak a word of English! If you have a penis, or love someone that does, you know that's pretty hard to beat.

So I did what I usually do when confronted with such beauty; I talked about my love of porn for upwards of an hour. It wasn't as difficult as you would think, since my co-worker was translating.

The cousin disagreed with me when I said that not only were porn stars not damaged as humans, they were actually better than everybody else, and that as we evolve as a species, we'll probably be more like them, rather than less.

"They're sluts! Whores!" came the translation.

Of course, this wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all.

"No," I replied as forcefully as I could without getting violent. "They are beautiful women! No, fuck that. They're angels - secular saints, even -  doing the work of the Lord! They're out there on a bed, doing the hard work of taking all that cock so you don't have to! Just as Jesus died for your sins, they fuck for mine and I won't tolerate this kind of superstitious blasphemy!"

For whatever reason, this wasn't translated and the rest of the evening was sort of awkward. But I still knew that I had made my point in way that everyone understood.

That was a decade ago, but as it usually does, science has again proven me right!

A new study has put to bed the perception that female porn stars have low self-esteem and are less psychologically healthy compared with other women.

The study, which was published in the Journal of Sex Research, said it found no evidence to support the "damaged goods hypothesis" that actresses involved in the porn industry come from desperate backgrounds. Rather, the researchers found the women have higher self-esteem, a better quality of life and body image, and are more positive, with greater levels of spirituality.

The study was conducted by researchers at Pennsylvania's Shippensburg University, Texas Woman’s University and the Adult Industry Medical Healthcare Foundation 

See? I fucking told you so!

It just stands to reason that if you're getting paid tons of money to be seen naked and fucking that you would "have higher self-esteem, a better quality of life and body image, and are more positive." I can't see how any rational person could argue to the contrary, but shitheads argue all many of silly things.

And "spirituality" is something that I think that science should steer as clear from as possible, but this isn't my study, now is it?

The way I see it, you judge how spiritual someone is by how demonstrative they are. By almost any measure, the most spiritual folks are southern black Baptists, who scream, sing and call out to both Jesus and God with little or no prompting. They also tend to have the coolest music, but that isn't really relevant here.

When do white Evangelicals cry out to Jesus? When the snake bites them, at which point, it's usually too late.

I've watched any number of the great and good Bree Olson's fine fuck films (before Charlie Sheen ruined it for the rest of us) and found that she cried out to God and Jesus with some frequency and forcefulness. Now it might be that having your rectum impaled with a huge honker does that, but it's equally possible that the Artist Formerly Known as Rachel Marie Oberlin is just closer to Him than the rest of us.

Having said that, I know that a giant wang will make a girl cry out to her Deity but, as I said before, I'm sorta shy.

But what about the negative stereotypes of the women that that smoking hot Italian girl dismissively referred to as "sluts" and "whores" a decade ago? Aren't they impoverished junkies with "Daddy complexes" and famous penchant for self-destruction?

Not really, as it happens.

"Some descriptions of actresses in pornography have included attributes such as drug addiction, homelessness, poverty, desperation and being victims of sexual abuse," the report said. "Some have made extreme assertions, such as claiming that all women in pornography were sexually abused as children.

"Stereotypes of those involved in adult entertainment have been used to support or condemn the industry and to justify political views on pornography, although the actual characteristics of actresses are unknown because no study on this group of women has been conducted."

Long story short, we don't know if the shit-talking of these Golden Creatures is true because nobody has ever bothered to study it in a meaningful way. Is it true in some cases? Almost certainly. The anecdotal evidence bears that out.

What we don't know is whether it's just as true of any other sample of professional females. For all anyone knows, women in accounting or architecture could be equally (or more) likely to have been sexually victimized or prone to substance abuse.

The fact of the matter is that we just don't know. Absent demonstrable harm, it is the duty of every good capitalist to support and sustain the power of the market. And I'm nothing if not a good capitalist.

Not only is that good economics, it's just good science, people!

In Further Praise of Rihanna

I had an interesting argument with a friend of mine of Facebook the other day. I've known this woman for nearly thirty years and I've learned a lot from her.

During the 1988 presidential campaign, Michael Dukakis was some 17 points ahead of Vice President Bush. Then, as now, Bush was personal hero of mine and I was growing worried. My friend consoled me with what remains the most prescient political analysis I've ever heard.

"Don't worry," she said. "Bush will win."

I was more than a little mystified by this. No one had come back from a 17-point deficit in my lifetime at that point. I wanted her to be right. Shit, I needed her to be right. But I needed to know why she thought  the way she did.

"Really, " asked I. "Why do think so? I mean, the polls are bad ..."

"Don't worry," she interrupted. "Dukakis is married to a Jew. And her name is Kitty."

Uh oh, I thought. We're going down a road that can get ugly quick. Thankfully, my friend is Jewish and these were her thoughts, not mine. The last thing I needed in high school was being branded an anti-Semite. I was having a hard enough time getting laid back then.

I decided to let her finish.

"Kitty is a terrible name for a Jew," she continued. "The American people will never put a Jew named Kitty in the White House."

And you know what? She was right! At least I thought she was until Joe Lieberman ran for president. Say what you will about the man's politics and policies, but Hadassah Lieberman is maybe the most amazingly Jewish name imaginable. Just try to top that, I dare you!

Needless to say, I've put a lot of stock in her opinions ever since. She sees the blind spots that people like me all too often miss.

Anyhow, she (and no, I'm not going to use her name because she isn't a blogger and likely doesn't want to be associated with psychotic drivel like this) opined on Rihanna this past Sunday. I'm guessing because she was on Saturday Night Live the night before.

The conversation went as follows;

Am I the only one that doesn't see the appeal of Rhianna?

As you might imagine, there was no way I could let that stand. I'm not just a heterosexual male, I'm a champion of my gender and orientation. Maybe, at the risk of sounding immodest, the greatest champion of all. After all, I have a blog.

And there is literally no end to Rihanna's appeal. She's physically perfect in ways that only people who believe in childish notions, like the existence of a loving god, can truly understand. I don't believe in god, and certainly not a loving one, but I can't escape the cold reality that Rihanna was put here by a Higher Power to torture me through my awesome loins. I also feel the same way about Kerry Washington and Rosario Dawson.

Anyone who's seen her naked (link NSFW) knows that. That's just good science, people! Look at her, with the nipple rings and the total absence of public hair! And looka that ass! (also NSFW)

I had to disabuse my friend of this nonsense once and for all. As you might expect, I wasted no time in doing so. I'm not the greatest champion of heterosexual men for nothing, you know!

You're wrong. She's the hottest thing on earth and an outstanding excuse for ridding the world of Chris Brown!

There's probably no higher calling for mankind than ending the physical existence of Chris Brown. Moreover, it's an achievable mission in way that, say, ending the Iranian nuclear program isn't. While we'll likely be forced to live with atomic mullahs (which, by the way, is going to be my next band's name,) Brown can be dispatched to the hereafter with very little effort. One drone attack should do it.

Look, I'm not going to say that Rihanna was right to get all pissy about Chris' booty calls. That's just contrary to way nature works. Until we get beyond our childish and wrong polygamy laws, there are always going to be things that a man simply has to do, and nine out of every ten of those things are going to be strange pussy. We're biologically programmed that way, and the only way to stop us to ensure that we're always exhausted!

Having said that, there is no justification to beating the crap out of a girl who looks like that. I'm amazed that the judge in People v. Brown could look at Rihanna on the witness stand, then look at the police photos of what was done to her and still sentence him to community service. At a bare minimum, crucifixion should've been on the table. Were I on the bench, he would've been eaten alive by fucking lions.


My friend of several decades still persisted in continuing the argument, even though aesthetics, common sense, justice and science itself were working against her.

Yes she's pretty. Yes, she's kind of sexy (in a no boobs kind of way). But her music SUCKS.

Once again, I couldn't leave the topic alone. I'm not considered the Clarence Darrow of poontang for nothing. And for the sake of my argument, we'll forget that Darrow actually lost the Scopes Monkey Trial.

She sings? All I know is that I'd give anything to hold her like a bowling ball. And, although smallish, her knockers are beautifully shaped and will age extraordinarily. I'm a long-view breed of cat, I guess.

I was maybe too crude by half in presenting my case. I can only say that it was fairly early on a Sunday when this ugliness was brought to my door.

Of course no woman should be compared to a bowling ball. Only the worst losers (and probably serial killers) bowl. I should've said that I would do anything to be the Edgar Bergen to Rihanna's Charlie McCarthy, which implies something of a partnership. But, as my spiritual mentor, the great Dr. Reverend keeps asking, what would I make her say?

That my friends, is for me to know and you to find out, ideally from the purchase of the sex tape!

I should also point out that I was being a cutie-pie when I said that I didn't know Rihanna sings. Of course I do. As a matter of fact, I try to get every woman who meets my acquaintance to not just listen to "S&M" but to live its message. You probably haven't lived until you do.



I've written about this before, but that song is truly prophetic and has an important message for women of all ages that shouldn't be ignored!

"Being submissive in the bedroom is really fun," she says. "You get to be a little lady, to have somebody be macho and in charge of your shit. That's fun to me...I like to be spanked. Being tied up is fun. I like to keep it spontaneous. Sometimes whips and chains can be overly planned – you gotta stop, get the whip from the drawer downstairs. I'd rather have him use his hands."

Don't just take it from me, ladies. Rihanna has sold 85 million records; more than R.E.M, Van Helen, The Doors, Beyonce and Nirvana. So what she says has to be important, especially when what she's saying is that you need to be tied down and taken, ideally anally. That's just the numbers talking, but I'm not so arrogant as to disagree. Capitalism is never wrong, folks. Anyone who reads this blog regularly knows that.

If I were the only one who felt this way about Rihanna, I'd keep my mouth shut. But I'm not. Even homosexualist instructional manuals like GQ and Esquire have been forced to admit this cosmic truth, naming her the Greatest Woman of Our Time! Given their druthers, they'd probably name the Green Lantern guy that, but the Truth was just too strong.

Rihanna isn't just an important woman, she might be the most important woman of our time!

Why Capitalism is Best of All

There's no end to the people who bitch about capitalism. Sure, they're leftie academic assholes mostly, but not exclusively. Hipster jerkoffs and associated fuckheads have also gotten into the game.

It's stunning how little these people know about history, even including the history of their own political movements. Generation Xers and everyone younger should look at their parents, the godawful fucking Boomers, who remain history's greatest monsters.

If you look at your parents and aunts and uncles, there's a better than even chance that at least half of them were hippies. These days? None of them are. In fact, around 1973, they busied themselves going to graduate school, becoming investment bankers, buy homes with two car garages and shitting out little cocksuckers like you. And not only is that what your family did, so did Jerry Rubin.

The fact is capitalism won. The Stalinist Chinese and Godless Vietnamese are hyper-capitalist, while North America and Europe have essentially returned to the Gilded Age. Not only has capitalism triumphed, it managed to defeat a century's worth of constraints on it through globalization and deregulation.

It's even better than that. Capitalism's victory is so overwhelming that it has relieved pretty much everyone of the need to know anything at all about economics. That's true of both the political left and right.

Republicans and Tea Partiers, along with their misfit cadres on the Internet and in the media will tell you that "Marxism is on the march!"

Really? Where? All statements like that tell me is that no one knows what Marxism actually is anymore. I haven't heard anyone anywhere advocating that the workers take control of the means of production in at least a generation. And you know what? Neither have you. Fidel Castro and whichever Kim is currently run North Korea know that to be nonsense. The only people who believe that are Glenn Beck, a few McCarthyite Revolutionary War reenactors deep in the asshole of South Carolina, idiot bloggers and a GOP that has managed to somehow embrace both cynicism and ignorance.

There's nothing funnier to me than an assload of hillbillies cheering some scumbag lobbyist who declares that "Government sucks! And here to prove it are Representative Michele Bachmann, Senator Jim DiMint and Governor Sarah Palin!"

Not only is Barack Obama to the right of all but a very few elected officeholders in the democratic world, he's largely to the right of the GOP of the Reagan era.

The left is just as bad, if not actually worse. Democratic socialism has largely turned out to be neither and the leaders of liberal political parties; such as (but not limited to) Bill Clinton, Barack Obama, Tony Blair, Gordon Brown, Jean Chretien, Paul Martin and Michael Ignatieff have repudiated everything their followers used to believe in while their followers celebrated them for winning because of it.

Here's a neat fact. Both the individual health care mandate and cap and trade were revolutionary Republican ideas in the early 1990s that the left came to embrace as the right drifted off into a fantasy world of counter intuitive economic nonsense, religious superstition, foreign adventurism that is alien to historical conservatism and rape-based politics.

In modern electoral politics, there really isn't a left anymore. In large part that's why Tea Party shitheads keep waving the bloody shirt of Saul Alinsky, ... who died in 1972. Were it not for the fact that he would have made Earl Butz so uncomfortable, Barack Obama would have fit in Gerald Ford's Cabinet.

You know what the left has got? Occupy Wall Street: a leaderless and idealess motley crew of unwashed assholes who are against something, but aren't quite sure what. And until they figure it out, they'll shit on a police car. The only people who think Occupy Wall Street is worth anything are idiot celebrities and washed-out, cynical political hacks who govern to the right, but need to sell badly written books from time to time.

If these unwashed fuckheads think that they're going to change a corrupt and oligarchical banking construct by laying around a fucking park until the cops club then about the head and shoulders, all the corrupt and oligarchical banking system need do is wait until those retards choke on their own fucking tongues, which is inevitable!

Occupy is the political version of a 35 year old broad who thinks she's a witch and can only cum by cutting herself. And no reasonable person is ever going to buy into that fucking nonsense. Comparing Occupy to the Tea Party is little more than a demonstration of how stupid some people are. The Teapers are organized and, no matter how retarded their message is, at least they have one. And it took a lot of money to get that many people to dress that oddly in one place at one time.

Even the most perverted version of capitalism is going to snap the necks of those worthless fucks, each and every time.

You know why? Capitalism has something that Occupy is never going to have. Kate Upton's tits.

If there's one thing I've learned from life, it's that cute blonde girls with their huge jugs hanging out always win! And I'm far more partial to brunettes. But facts is facts!


The pictures in this post are from Miss Upton's advertising campaign for Skullcandy headphones. The only thing I've ever heard about the product is that is that it's a worthess piece of plastic shit. But I'm willing to buy three of them on the off chance that one of her fantastic udders falls out during the next commercial. Six, if we find out if she's completely shaved like all the best women are.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter how much pain and suffering that subprime mortgages and an utterly deregulated derivatives market has demonstrably caused. If you attach a cute young blonde with giant, exposed milkbags to either, nine out of ten Americans will jump on the bandwagon all over again.

Don't believe me? Go to an Occupy encampment next spring and count the Skullcandy headphones.




Pictures and video lovingly stolen from Popoholic

The Story of My Life

On the Conventions, Part Two: Starfucking and Hypocrisy

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Kate Upton is better than you are

So once I finished my ObamaCare victory lap last night, I realized something important. I've spent far too long now writing about trivial things, such as the ongoing bankruptcy of the United States, how awful and moronic Canadian politics is getting, and how foreigners enjoy killing one another a great deal. 


Yes, the entire point of this blog is that the human spirit is suicidally stupid, but often times this depresses even me. More importantly, those things can't be very much fun for you to read. While I understand that my Armageddon fetish gets you all damp in the panties, I think it needs to be doled out in smaller doses. 

I realized that I have needs, godfuckit! And this blog hasn't been fulfilling them for far too long. I haven't been writing about life's truly important things, which obviously revolve around my penis and its strange and wonderful appetites. I understand that life isn't exclusively about depraved orgies and interesting new women within whom I'd like to implant myself, but I'll argue to my dying breath that it should be!

About a month ago, I went out with your friend and mine, the great and good Doctor Reverend. As I do my level best to avoid any social activity that doesn't involve copious amounts of alcohol, we found ourselves at a liquor store. A really nice one in Leaside.

The cashier that served us was tiny, brunette and awfully cute. Upon seeing her, I felt the familiar churning in my loins that tells me that I'm falling in love. I recognized the sensation immediately, seeing that it overtakes me about 37 times a day. Some people think this is shallow, but I would posit that they don't know what love is. If you're a regular reader of mine, you know better than to argue with me about such things. This is the kind of country wisdom that I've been bringing you for nearly a decade now.

We returned to the good Doctor's car, freshly supplied with our precious amber liquids, and I began musing about the cute LCBO girl. I pointed out that my love for her was such that I could devote my life to holding her like a puppet.

Being a doctor of divnity, so ordained by some mail-order ministry in Bakersfield, my great friend asks the truly important existential questions, and that day was no exception. He turned to me and asked "What would you make her say?"

I was haunted by the question, as you might well expect. I don't consider myself a spiritual man, which is why I need Herr Doktor as a constant presence in my life.

Then I saw the famous "Cat Daddy" video and it changed me.



The Cat Daddy video actually hypnotized me into being a better man, which is surprising, in that I always considered hypnosis to be utter bullshit and probably satanic. I found what the Quakers call "peace at the center." It was the closest to God that I've ever felt.

As my powerful prick, Christ-like in its love for everybody, quivered and throbbed in my drawers and my balls churned with Truth, I accepted a fundamental reality - that there is no doubt as to what I would make Kate Upton say. What exactly that is, I'm not going to share. Some things should stay private, after all. Isn't that what love is all about, sharing things that will never be shared with another?

This Truth has been spewing from my loins with greater frequency and in thicker volume than it ever had before, no small accomplishment, given my freakish and gluttonous carnal appetite. Several of my fuck-buddies have noticed this, too. How could they not, what with their being practically waterlogged with My Truth every time our paths cross?

The Truth is a powerful, powerful thing, to stay nothing of sticky. It has been known to hurt, especially when it gets in your eyes.

Whether I want her to or not, Kate Upton keeps dragging the Truth out of me. Upwards of a dozen times a day now. A lesser man probably wouldn't survive it. I come from sturdy stock, and I do try to stay hydrated.

Kate is 19 years old and completely shaved, just like all women should be. And it's no surprise that she's from St. Joseph, Michigan, famously the home of the American Society of Agricultural and Biological Engineers. There are only two credible explanations for being that perfect: biological engineering or being sent from the fucking future.

 


I've always known that really pretty, huge-titted, hard-nippled girls that like putting things in their mouths are superior to every other kind, but I never really knew it. I've never been one to proselytize, but Kate Upton has changed me in fundamental ways. I might very well start screaming her message to passers-by on street corners everywhere. I would have done it in an Elmo suit, but rampant, psychotic anti-Semitism has ruined that outfit for everybody.

I'm her ideal messenger. Having stuffed myself with toxic shit for some thirty years and to be still standing convinces me that I'm very probably immortal.

And to think that it all started with a girl at the Leaside LCBO. It makes me look at the provincial civil service in a whole new light.



Kate Upton .gif lovingly stolen from What Would Tyler Durden Do. The wet-t-shirt shot was ruthlesslt taken from Drunken Stepfather, who should be considered NSFW unless you work in a whorehouse. Or a morgue. 

Dana Loesch Wants to Pee on People

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It Hath Arrived! Thoughts on Lindsay Lohan and Playboy

I'm of the considered opinion that everybody should have a friend like Elisson. The man is an outstanding blogger, single-handedly popularized the 100 word story and is a world renowned expert on all things cheese-related. In a world almost entirely without heroes, Elisson stands alone .. except when he's holding up my own personal Jesus, Velociman. I'm honoured and pleased that Elisson has ever bothered to read my nonsense, let alone say the extraordinarily nice things about it in public that he has.

Having said that, there are things that can tear even the closest friendships asunder. Like when Elisson commented that  Lindsay Lohan's titties looked "awfully saggy." I was enraged for months, almost to the point of violence. But I came to understand that the whole point of friendship is overlooking the things that divide you, like how metaphysically wrong your friends may be about certain things.

Look, the rap on LiLo for years has been that she has big fake udders. Not that I give a shit. I think that implants age better than the real thing, and the science is with me on that.. But if a lady chooses to get implants, she should endeavour to get them with just the right amount of sag, lest she wind up looking like a fucking cartoon.That's just common sense, people.

But what if her ginormous jugs are, as I suspect, real? The fact that a 25 year old starlet looks like a 42 year old MILF (albeit the hottest one this side of Julia Ann) says something important to me, specifically that she knows how to live! I learned while still in the crib that old women who look young are never to be trusted, but that young women who look old before their time should always be treasured for the ability to please a man. Verily, they know it all, teenagers. They've lived in ways that most of you never will.

Most of you by now understand that I feel a special kinship with La Lohan. With our shared love of vodka, cocaine and vehicular mishaps that can easily be blamed on a black kid, how can I not? That's just the way love works, as any well-adjusted adult will tell you. I know that Paula Abdul used to sing about opposites attracting, but how well did her marriage to Emilio Fucking Estevez work out, huh? And because Lindsay and I are medically incapable of being each other's liver donor, that's enough to make us perfect together! I really have thought this through, folks. She's the Nancy Reagan to my Ronnie, the Nancy Spungen to my ... Oh, I guess I should re-think that one, huh? If memory serves, that love story didn't end particularly well.

That being said, I wasn't as excited as you probably thought I would be about Lindsay appearing in next month's issue of Playboy. Don't get me wrong, the prospect of seeing her naked always makes my testicles rattle like Jerome Green's maracas on those great Bo Diddley records, but Playboy is just the wrong forum for it.

After all, who in the fuck does Playboy, anymore? I actually do read Playboy for the articles, which is a terrible thing to say about pornography! A titty mag should never be a literary journal, and that's exactly what Playboy has always aspired to be.

To remain relevant, I posit that Lindsay needs to be edgy in something other than a criminal justice-related way. And Playboy just hasn't been edgy since the early 1970s. That's why I always thought that she would be far better off appearing in her altogethers in a magazine like Black Tail. Fans of irony everywhere would love her for it.

As absolutely everyone on earth expected it would, Lindsay's spread (so to speak) has leaked online. I'd post the pictures myself but two things get in the way of my doing so. First, I can't post nudity because far too many of you crazy bastards read this dopey blog at work. I'm just not funny enough for anyone to lose their job over it. Second, I understand that Playboy is highly litigious and I've had quite enough of twisted old cunts threatening to sue me over utter fucking nonsense for the time being. It's rather exhausting.

But I'd be remiss if I didn't offer my thoughts on the pictorial, wouldn't I?

A number of blogs have insulted LiLo over her apparent lack of areola of any kind. I on the other hand find it novel and really quite endearing. There's a lot to said for tiny nipples on huge knockers, and if you need a giant bullseye on a titty to know where your teeth are supposed to go, you probably need to mature as a lover. And most of the bloggers who make that criticism are probably too far advanced in their faggotry to convince otherwise, anyhow.

As is true with areolas, pasty-skinned, redheads shouldn't have public hair. I'm pretty sure that's in the Bible. Probably in Leviticus. But you won't know if Lohan does from the Playboy pictures, which is a goddamned shame. When you know more about a given girl's twat from paparazzi pictures of her getting out of a car than you do from Playboy, that tells you everything you need to know about the sorry state of modern mainstream pornography. No friggin' wonder the Hefner family wants to take the company private again. The stock must be fucking worthless. And if it isn't, it should be!

Forget about Miss Lindsay's intimate grooming habits for a second. La Lohan is said to have been paid a million dollars for these pictures. And it's not like her career trajectory is going up these days. She's about where Robert Downey, Jr. was a decade ago, uninsurable and under the constant threat of immediate incarceration. For a million dollars, we should all be able to visually inspect her for cervical cancer! This is a dire economy and modesty is just not acceptable marketing. Who doesn't know that?

I'm always amazed that what a gorgeous ass Lindsay has. So fixated are we on her majestic mammaries that we too often overlook what the other side of her has to offer. It's tragic that's it just sitting there, ignored, when it should be desired, bitten, licked and fucked endlessly. And a dynamic little dumper it is. If nothing else, the Playboy shoot does give it some attention, albeit far from enough.

I also know from some experience that pasty-skinned natural redheaded girls have the prettiest assholes that you're ever going to see in your entire life. They're just the pinkest little things in all of creation. But don't go to Playboy to learn this. No, those useless pricks just had to go waste a perfectly good teachable moment that could have brought humanity a little closer together. Take it from me, if you've never seen a redhead's rectum, I implore you to so at the earliest opportunity. You'll thank me for it. They're tasty, too!

The Lohan pictures are about as good as you would expect them to be. She's a remarkably well-built girl, especially when you consider her now legendary extracurricular activities. My only problem is that Playboy didn't fully exploit her current financial woes to give us the full-airport-cavity-search that we truly deserve. As celebrity exploitation, they're wonderful. But as pornography, they're a huge disappointment. I jerk off to hotter things than this twice before dawn every day. I just can't lie to you.

For these pictures to be considered truly epic, they would have had to have been shot by Paul Little. Sure, we can all do without the urine and vomit that ultimately sent the erstwhile Mr. Hardcore to the federal pokey, but the shots would have at least been interesting. The man really could wield a specula like no other.

Of course that shouldn't be taken to mean that I don't have a giant erection looking at Lindsay Lohan naked. Because I do.

Am I sharing too much?

Because she is a girl

I work in downtown Toronto. There are any number of hipster idiots and yuppie cocksuckers there. Frankly, it's a minor miracle that I haven't killed myself like I should've when I was three yet. The sight of such people repulses me in ways that almost equals how I repulse myself.
Thankfully, it's really summertime and Toronto's zillions of hot chicks are scantily clad. That makes me forget how I lust for my own death, if only for a moment. Except of course when it doesn't.

Anyhow, there's this PR-charity-giant pain in the ass campaign here in the city called Because I am a Girl.You've likely seen their ads on the subway. If you haven't, you're probably a better person for it.

Because I am a Girl strives to educate us all on the importance of teaching girls to read and not mutilating their genitals and stuff. Oddly enough, their method of education  involves gathering in packs on the sidewalk and annoying the fuck out of everyone that crosses their path. Far be it from me to tell a charity how to conduct their business, but it seems self-evident that if you want to stop, say, the genital mutilation of girls, it might be the better part of wisdom to not have girls fucking with everybody's lunch hour. People who work for a living are generally under lots of stress. Just sayin'.

I spend a good deal of my day staring out the window. I find that it helps me properly strew in my own hate. As I age, I find that my contempt has been entirely too focused, and I've ignored far too many other things that are deserving of my loathing, such as the things that happen right outside of my window.

The Because I am a Girl folks had been in front of the giant Yuppie Fucking Mountaineering Outlet across the street for a couple of weeks now, unintentionally making a pretty solid case for violence against women.  They wave dramatically at passers-by and try to engage in the fake-cheeriness and most people ignore them. But they Don't Stop. They call after the people who just ignored them as they continue on their merry way.

Keep in my mind that no one's more against female genital mutilation and illiteracy more than I am, and I started reconsidering my opinions after a few days of watching this. And because Jesus exists only to kick me in the balls, it was only a matter of time before they showed up directly outside my window.

There was a dramatically gay Chinese guy, a morbidly obese butch dyke and Her, an Indian girl with a body so banging that it reaffirmed that Jesus exists only to kick me in the balls. She was tiny, but seemingly couldn't move at all without her shapely titties jiggling. And she had a beautiful, nay, a magnificent ass that spoke to me in a secret language that only I could I understand. Seeing it was a profoundly spiritual experience. I actually wept a little inside, in the forlorn hope that I could be a better man.

And you know what? I was! It was almost magical. Sure, I still despise virtually everything about being me, and I only got more miserable as the day continued. But there was something different about it. Something I couldn't immediately identify.

Hours later, on the subway, I found myself between a super cute Indian girl who works for the Hospital for Sick Kids with a dramatically plunging neckline on her dress that barely concealed the biggest jugs I've ever seen on such a tiny woman, and someone who looked suspiciously like Raymi's mom, who tents my trousers like few other MILFs. Verily, she has it going on. Ordinarily, such a combination would have me spewing my goo in ways that could potentially derail the train. It's happened before and, God help us all, it could happen again.

But today was no ordinary day. Oh, no. All I could think about was that Indian chick from Because I am a Girl. Sure, I mostly thought about how I would sodomize her and stuff, but I thought about doing it very tenderly.

And that, I think, is how you know when it's love.

Lindsay Lohan and perspective

You may have noticed that I haven't written much since the May 2 federal election here in Canada. I meant to. Really, I did. I was having more fun with the blog (and getting more hits) than I had in a long time during the campaign.

Of course, I'm a celebrated student of the Deeply Strange and the 41st Canadian federal election was Deeply Strange in ways that we'll tell our grandkids about someday. I actually wrote a few pieces about the campaign that I'm proud of, and that almost never happens. I figured that I'd come off the election with a continuing burst of wonderfulness that would carry me through at least a few months.

Instead? Meh. I find myself overwhelmed with ennui, the striking inability to give a shit about anything. I've looked at my writing, such as it is, with a total sense of apathy. Don't get me wrong, there's no shortage of interesting topics out there. Ordinarily, I long for news cycles like those we've enjoyed over the last three weeks. I just can'r bring myself to write about any of it in an entertaining or interesting way. Everything I've put up has been forced and it shows.

But the Dawn might be breaking through the Dark Night of My Soul. The sun is, as I should have suspected it would be, Lindsay Lohan. I'm pretty sure that girl is a Saint, or at least should be. Even her continuing trials before the demented, vile and repulsive California justice system are unequal to her ability to bring a little extra bounce, both to my step and in my pants. I just don't know where I, and my writing, would be without her.

Case in point: she was doing a photo shoot in Miami this weekend and, free at last from the corrupt clutches of the Los Angeles District Attorney's Office, she opened her robe to reveal her majestic mammaries, almost as if to let them luxuriate in the sweet, sweet air of Freedom. I Imagine the salty sea air caressed, soothed and liberated her tiny pink nipples just as those tiny pink nipples did my Inner Child.

Every child feels safest when sucking on a magnificent teat, knowing that's where the Milk of Life flows from and that doesn't change in adulthood. The Inner Child must be sustained, and Lindsay's unbelievable udders sustain mine.

Life and Freedom, my friends. Those are the things that matter. And sometimes Lindsay Lohan is the only person who can remind me of that.


Picture ruthlessly ripped off from What Would Tyler Durden Do

Who is Kat Dennings and why am I devoting my life to her?

How Do I love thee, Kat? Let me count the
ways. Two! That was wasy!

I had just turned eleven when John Hinkley Junior shot President Reagan in front of the Washington Hilton. John Lennon had been killed a few months earlier, so I grasped the concept of someone firing a few bullets into the trunk of someone I liked, but the events surrounding the attempted assassination confused me as the days passed and more information became public.

We very quickly learned that Hinckley wanted to bag a commander-in-chief so as to impress actress Jodie Foster, who was then a student at Yale University. As it happens, Hinckley had been communicating his sadly unrequited love to Foster for several months and generally creeping her the fuck out.

And that's where my confusion began. Sure, I liked Taxi Driver as much as the next guy, and I had already known love and loss more than you would expect of someone of my youth. Plus, I was already in sexual hyperdrive. My eye was already drawn to women of every description and the boiling in my balls that haunts me even today had been a constant concern for several years. By the time of the Reagan shooting, my right hand was approximately twice the size of my left and my grip was already so strong that I could snap a 2X4 between my fingers. At eleven years old I was as well versed in l'amour and uncontrollable sexual desire as any three men four times my senior and was already doing push-ups with my tongue. What can I tell you? It's a gift.

But Jodie Foster? I guess she's cute in a mousy kind of way, but hardly worthy of assassinating a sitting president over. There had only been forty of them at that point, and not a romantic resource to be wasted lightly. Had Hinckley taken at a shot at Reagan over, say, Raquel Welch, I would have understood him completely. That he did for Miss Foster - who no man worth his sexual salt would shoot even a former White House chief of staff over - convinced me beyond any doubt that he was profoundly sick and determined to give sexually frustrated losers everywhere a bad name. The state was right to put him away. It simply couldn't have happened any other way.

I hadn't heard of Kat Dennings until a few months ago, when a series of her naked pictures leaken online. Because the concept of a loving god is laughable to anyone with even a modicum of common sense, her legal team harassed, badgered and cajoled any website that published the pictures into complete submission. I saved copies of them and everything, but they're very difficult to find online. Her shysters are nothing if not thorough. You know who else was thorough? Hitler. I'm not saying that you necessarily have to go to law school to be a genocidal fuerher, just that it doesn't hurt.

I still haven't seen a movie that she's been in or even heard her voice, but I'm increasingly convinced that Kat is perfect in all the ways that truly matter. Lindsay Lohan will always have a special place in my soul - and God knows that I love any woman who manages to look and sound forty by the time she's 24 - but Kat Dennings might just be better.

There's just something about a smoky brunette with sultry eyes, pouting lips and gigantic fucking titties that touches me in a profoundly spiritual way. While I've always walked through life with disturbingly large and swollen genitals, Kat Dennings makes them feel as though they have a renewed purpose. The constant aching between my legs is distracting, to be sure, but just knowing that it's caused by her makes me feel alive in ways that had eluded me of late. Constantly writing about Canadian politics for five weeks has a way of deadening a man's soul, as Paul Wells can probably tell you.

Verily, those giant knockers can change a man in ways that he probably didn't possible. I'd be deeply and profoundly disturbed by the emotions running through me if I didn't already feel this way 37 different times a day for over four decades. But these are professional tricks, performed by a professional and not intended for home use.

The moral of this little essay is that John Hinckley needs around-the-clock professional supervision because his poor taste in women make him unpredictable to himself and others around him.

And yes, I'm devoting my life to Kat Dennings and her majestic mammaries. But I'm not so deeply smitten that I would pay nearly twenty bucks to see her in Thor, which looks like the ultimate lemonparty.