I Mean, It's Possible. I Just Don't Think It's Likely

Jennifer Turner says she was trying on clothes at Target last week when she looked in the mirror of the fitting room and saw the reflection of a man on a ladder peering down at her.

Turner, 26, was shocked.

"No one has ever seen me nude except for my doctor and my husband, " Turner said. "There was nowhere to hide."

Now Turner and her husband have hired a lawyer who has written a letter to Target demanding an explanation and threatening legal action.

She didn't get the name of the tall, thin, blondhaired man on the ladder, but she assumes he was a maintenance worker.

This whole incident is a Bow-Chicka-Bow-Wow and a “Is that a hammer hanging from your tool belt or are you just enjoying the view?” away from a really good porn movie.

By the way, am I the only one not buying the whole “only my plastic surgeon and my husband have seen me naked” story?

“Besides, the Actual Sentence I Assigned Him Was ‘I'm a Fucking Retard.’ Surprise! He Even Got That Wrong”

A teacher who forced a pupil to write "I am a retard" 100 times was acquitted by an Italian court on Wednesday of abuse charges.

The teacher, whose identity was withheld to protect her privacy, forced the punishment on the 12-year-old boy after he blocked a fellow pupil from going to the toilet and called him "gay" and "girly."

The parents had sought 25,000 euros ($33,580) in damages and a public prosecutor had called for a two-month prison sentence, but the court cleared the teacher, a court source said.

Said the judge, “I don't know much about this boy, but from what little I do know, I think it is safe to say, there was a pretty good chance he was going to be called a ‘retard’ at least 100 times that school day, anyway. Why punish the teacher?”

All of a Sudden, I Feel Dirty — You Know — Down There

So, what makes a Washlet better?

In a word? Water.

Water cleans you better and more thoroughly than any other way. And that includes this stuff. Think about it: When we wash our bodies, we use water. We wash our hands, our hair, our faces with water. We, humans, love water. And nothing cleans, revitalizes, and refreshes us better. When it comes to personal hygiene, paper tends to distribute the problem.

With Washlet, water just rinses it away. Washlet does its amazing work with clean, pure water — straight from your home's clean-water supply. It's a happier clean, a more hygienic clean, and a hands-free clean. Think about it: Hands liberated from their usual chores, now free for crossword puzzles, phone calls, and shadow puppets. Nice.

So how exactly does Washlet use water to do what it does?

Let's take a closer look.

Oh, let's not and say we did. There's only so much happy ass I can take.

Fucking Cocksuckers, What Do They Know?

Mingle² - Online Dating

Apparently, I'm a little too fond of "vagina."

Guilty as charged.

*thanks LeeSee and ReeNee

The Dysfunctional Family Circus

“I know we promised each other that we wouldn't let it get weird, but it got weird, didn't it? That's okay. Your money's on the dresser.”

“I'll Bring It Right Back. Yes, I'll Bring Back Your Power Sander, Too. Okay? I Knew I Could Count on You, Bro'”

“It's just so much pressure on us. Guys, you don't understand. You know, and even as little girls we're taught, you know, we have something that everybody wants. You've got to protect it. You've got to be careful. You've got to cherish it. And that's a lot of fucking pressure.

“I would like a break. Do you know what would make my life so much easier? Ladies, wouldn't you love this? Wouldn't it be wonderful if our pussies were detachable?

“Let that marinate a little bit. Just think about that. . . .

“That would be great, because then you could find out who your real girlfriends are. You know, have some real Sisterhood, some real bonding, you know.

“Call your girl late at night and go:

[in a whisper]‘Hey, I'm sorry to wake you. Mmm, mmm. I'm still out on my date. Mmm, hmm. We are having a good time. I didn't know it was going to be this much fun. [pause] Look: Do me a favor. Run by my house and grab my pussy.’”

That caught me by surprise, because I was thinking like a guy, and a guy wouldn't ask his friend to go out of his way to pick something up for him. A guy would just ask his friend if he could borrow his.

Rest in Peace, Mr. Simmons

“Now, this thing is called the ‘Thagomizer,’ after the late Thag Simmons.”

Gary Larson, creator of The Far Side, crossed over into anatomical nomenclature with a 1982 comic in which a caveman teaches a class this faux-scientific word. . . . But when fossil evidence suggested that the dinosaur used its stego-tail as a weapon, scientists co-opted the moniker. . . . These days, the word appears in reference books and museum exhibits. . . .”

Of course, in the exhibit at the Creation Museum, they have a Roman soldier using a Thagomizer, given to him by the Jewish leadership, to rip the flesh off of our lord and savior. The exhibit cites Mel Gibson as the source for the information — which explains why the soldier is heard referring to Mary as “Sugar Tits.”

Ouch! Always Remember: The Female Is the Deadlier of the Species

From the moment I met you,
I couldn't get enough.
Saw the nerdie inside you
Try to act so tough.

We were two of a kind,
Like peas in a pod,
Seemed perfect together.
But now I see,
There's one thing we cannot weather.

You're the worst sex I ever had.
It was so fucking bad.
You could never find my clit
Even if I drew a map to it.

The worst sex I ever had.
It was so goddamn bad.
But, at least, one thing is true:
I ain't never going to have bad sex again with you.

There were other problems, too.
All the little things you said.

How you had to go for cigarettes,
And left me naked in your bed.

How you wouldn't let me touch your Jew 'fro
I should have seen that warning.
Your hair to be all perfect.
'Cause you were filming in the morning.


You're the worst sex I ever had.
It was so fucking bad.
At least, when you took me from behind,
You couldn't see my face or read my mind.

The worst sex I ever had.
It was so goddamn bad.
Had to fake every single one,
And lie there like a corpse till your ass was done.

Yeah, you're a big, fat star
Everybody knows who you are.
You probably fucked every girl in this bar

POOR-LY!

But he did fuck them, so ….

"Hey, Lady, My Eyes Are Up Here."

glumbert.com - Does size matter?

For all men's worrying about their size, do women really notice? Well, we went to a popular restaurant to find out.

As it turns out, they do, but then, they lie about it, bless their ego-considerate, little hearts.

Of Course, Orson Welles Singing "Love Machine" Tops Them All

He's no Shatner, but, man, is he good.

What? You Couldn't Write a Poem about Something More Appropriate? Why? Couldn't You Find a Word that Rhymed with "Rottweiler"

The coach of the Ballard High School girls tennis team, who was profiled in last week's cover story in The Seattle Weekly, has been fired.

In the article, Aaron Silverberg is quoted on the team bus ride home from a victorious match reading aloud sensual poems he self-published.

"We're moving a different direction," said Ballard athletic director Doug Bruketta. He said there were factors other than the article that led to the dismissal of Aaron Silverberg, 50.

"It's not just that," Bruketta said.

Silverberg said he was surprised he was fired and said he got the notification in an e-mail from Bruketta.

Asked if Bruketta provided a reason for the firing, Silverberg said, "All I've heard so far is the word 'inappropriate.' "

Okay, dude, this is the poem you read. This is the poem you read to high school girls you were coaching:

Drinking you in.

Melting you under

my tongue.

Touching you the way

the sea strokes

the shoreline

every few seconds...

If you were the creative writing coach, that would be inappropriate. That you are the tennis coach, well, . . . Even I find that pervy.

Seriously, how could you think that was okay? What circumstances in your life would give you that perspective? Were you conceived during a live sex show, birthed in a brothel, reared in a S/M dungeon, nourished by a steady diet of Rimbaud and Penthouse letters? Um, sorry: That's my bio. Forget the context.

Before the parents/villagers show up with their pitchforks and torches to stave in your door and slay you, call in this order your mom, your lawyer, your union representative, because you, my friend, are in deep d'oh, here. You're going to need the Holy Trinity of Defense to get you out. Trust me on this.

Cue the Theme from The Crying Game

Internal vaginal casts are a new an exciting direction in my erotic lifecasts, where no sculptor has gone before. Featured in Forum magazine, this is a totally unique new service, using a technique I perfected to create a G-spot demonstration model for Amora, London's new erotic visitor attraction. The material and process used is harmless and painless and produces the most spectatcular casts of the vagina ever made. These intriguing and sensual shapes reveal the mysteries and inner beauty of the female body. . . . You may buy one of these limited edition casts or women may commission your ownto reveal your own personal inner beauty. In the plaster casts you get a real sense of the shape, texture and volume of the vagina and in clear resin you can see even more. Imagine a view through the inner and outer lips right deep down into the hidden mysteries within.

Apparently, the hidden mystery is that inside each vagina lies a wrinkled scrotum yearning to breathe free — the image of which has put me in a mood to sing a song from the 60s. Please join me if you know it:

Has anybody here
Seen my old friend Throbbing Erection?
Can you tell me where he's gone?

He pleased a lot of people,
But, it seems, the Good, they die young(ish).
I just looked at a sculpture of the inside of a vagina
And he was gone.

Late Show with David Letterman: Top Ten Signs Paris Hilton Has Found God*

Top Ten Signs Paris Hilton Has Found God

Top Ten

10. Instead of pretending to read newspapers, now pretending to read the Bible
9. Been exchanging text messages with Pope Benedict XVI
8. New catchphrase? "That's holy!"
7. Begins each day with a prayer to Santa
6. Spent the last 10 hours trying to turn water into cosmopolitans
5. Vowed to give up all earthly possessions that are no longer in style
4. Changed chihuahua's name from Tinkerbell to Ezekiel
3. Now, only time she gets on her knees is to pray
2. Latest sex tape sponsored by the National Council of Churches
1. Often asks herself: "Where would Jesus shop?"

*0. He's sporting a cold sore.

Win, Lose, Whatever: I'm Never Going to Stop Saying, "Barrack You"

You seem to float on to the floor,
Democratic Convention 2004.
I never wanted anybody more
Than I want you.

So I put down my Kerry sign
Knew I had to make you mine.
Smart, black, sexy, you're so fine,
'Cause I got a crush on Obama . . .

You’re into border security
Let’s break this border between you and me.
Universal health care reform, it makes me warm.
You tell the truth unlike the Right.
You can love, but you can fight.
You can Barack me tonight.
I’ve got a crush on Obama.

As I told Harold Ford, when he was running for office, brother, you've got to leave those white women alone.

In this case, by "white women," I mean, "Hilary Clinton," because, clearly, she's the only person who benefits by having this well-produced video out there. [Please wear your tin-foil helmets when you read that. Otherwise, it won't make sense.]

Come for the GAR-DAR; Stay for the Matinee Ladies

Triumph the Insult Comic Dog: Tonight is a celebration of the Great White Way. No, we don't mean Elton John's butt cheeks. We're talking about something even older and easier to get into: It's the 61st Annual Tony Awards.

Nicholson, Pitt, Jolie: These are just a few of the names of people who will not be anywhere near this place.

It's a cavalcade of nobodies, and with the competition from the final episode of the Sopranos, tonight, the Tony's ratings are expected to be so low that next year, NBC is expected to pick up up as a series. . . .

[Martha Plimpton approaches] I have no idea who you are. I can't remember from. . . . Were you in The Parent Trap?

Martha Plimpton: Wait a minute. Let me . . . . Does this help? [Turns her back to Triumph and bends over]

Triumph: [After sniffing her bottom] You're Martha Plimpton. You were in Parenthood, The Goonies, 200 Cigarettes; you did 4 episodes of ER in 1999. . . .

Okay, let's put all this speculation to rest. This is the GAY-DAR 4000. . .

Rut Row. This is not going to end well. That poor machine.

His Question Was "Will I Every Have Sex with My Wife Again?"

http://view.break.com/303369 - Watch more free videos
Shakes Magic Eight to reveal, "Doubtful. There appears to be a lot of masturbation in your future."

Out of the Mouth of Babes. . .

"If this is what higher education gets you, please leave my black ass behind."

"Okay, Madam Ovary, That's It. Now, Put the Titty on the Table, and Back Slowly Away. Okay, Let's Try This Again.

Ever since I went to France to learn french ten years ago, I changed from a cheese-hater into a cheese-lover. How could I not! Everyday for three weeks my host parents (Les Delforges de Reims) indulged me with french food, and closed the lengthy dinner session (which can last up to two hours) with a plate of various cheese, consisted of different kinds of cheese, from Camembert, Brie, swiss cheese which has holes in it, blue cheese, smelly cheese, etc. It was quite challenging, but if I want to learn about the french, I gotta eat what they eat. . . .

[I]t's undeniable that in order to love cheese you need to develop an acquired taste.

I also attempted to make cheese, which has been successful for several times. I made the easiest type of cheese, which is Paneer a.k.a. Cottage Cheese. This type of cheese is then cooked as curry or whatever indian food, and has a consistency similar to Tofu. . . .

It was pretty easy to make paneer actually. What you need is just milk and lemon juice. In short, just boil the milk, then add lemon juice, and VOILA! The milk separates into curd and whey. Gather the curd and press to make it more solid. There you have paneer. In the meantime, you can use the whey to cook rice, it actually tastes really delicious. You can find step-by-step instruction on making Paneer here, with pictures too.

My extensive experience in making Paneer compelled me to try something different, that is, making Paneer out of my own breastmilk.

No offense, but I think I'll wait for Kraft to come out with the American Breast Milk slices.

Another Public Service Announcement from Dr. Loman and the Truth Council

Outside Barbara Holland's little house in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a cold drizzle falls through a thick fog. Inside the house, it's warmer and drier and the fog isn't water vapor; it's cigarette smoke.

Smiling, she offers her visitor a choice: "You want to go outside and get pneumonia or stay in here and get lung cancer?"

She's a wisp of a woman with short white hair and a face that's weather-beaten enough to be called craggy. . . .

When a little old lady writes an ode to booze, it behooves a local reporter to drop by for a visit, bearing a bottle of wine. She breaks out a corkscrew and two wineglasses, which are quickly filled.

"Cheers!" she says. Glasses clink and she takes a sip. Then she lights up a Tareyton 100.

"Stuck up here on this mountain, I have only two hobbies," she says. She raises the cigarette: "This is one." She raises the wineglass: "This is the other."

She already wrote her ode to smoking in an earlier book, "Endangered Pleasures," . . . . That book, still in print after a dozen years, turned her into a quirky spokeswoman for an older, slower, less driven, more gregarious way of life.

"I'm in favor of a little more sociability, a little more merriment, maybe even a little more singing and dancing," she says. "Jeepers, I'm so old that I remember when we all used to sing all the time."

Really? How old are you?

"None of your [fucking] business," she says.

She's 25. How many times do we have to tell you? Don't smoke.

*He's Salma Hayek's Fiance′ and Father to Her Unborn Child

My bulbous-bellied, hormonally-horny spouse is pursuing me around the house, ramming her enormous nipples into my mouth, ravaging my genitalia ten times a week. . . .

“Blood is marching to my groin and mammary glands,” moans my wife. “My pussy’s always sopping wet because I’m in a constant state of desire.”

I suspect she’s just a heated freak, imagining things — but physicians back up her frothy analysis. In The Pregnancy Book: Month-by-Month, Everything You Need to Know From America’s Baby Experts, authors William Sears, M.D. and Martha Sears, R.N. state that “some women become aroused more easily and climax more quickly, pleasurably, and frequently … during the middle months of pregnancy, than at any other time in their lives. . . .”

Last Saturday, at our Prenatal Yoga class, I queried several other mothers-to-be about their maternal libidos: “My boobs are ripe and juicy, and my vagina is hungry,” confesses Stephanie, in her seventh month. “I walk down the street thinking about sex with every man that passes by, because they smell musty like animals — when I get home, I immediately want it doggiestyle, because it’s so comfortable.”

My wife is panting uncontrollably, her kundalini inflamed by [our Prenatal Yoga] class’s contortionist postures. Impatiently, she pulls on my belt, to hurry me home for some humping.

Ten minutes later, I’m getting naked-nookie-slurped again — this time, on the stairs. Used to be, her only erotic time-space was under the sheets when TV programs weren’t promising, but now, every second and centimeter of the planet has copulatory potential.

I would kill everyone on the Internet to be Francois-Henri Pinault* right now.

Seriously.

Everyone.

*Improper Use of the Pink Stinger Will Violate Warranty. Please Read All Intructions Before Using

Looking to enhance your personal security?

A new trend in security systems is on the horizon that will inspire the self defense/security demographic, shock the criminal community and give a new-found respect to the dismal tampon sector.

Ladies can replace that monthly period with an exclamation mark as feminine hygiene goes lethal with The Pink Stinger, a stun gun creatively disguised as a tampon...except for the buttons, prods and high voltage. This weapon of mass absorption aims to target a niche market consumer, that being the tampon wielding women who desire private and discreet security in a friendly familiar package.

So the next time Aunt Flow sneaks up on you, show that bitch who's the boss. Pop in the Pink Stinger and bitch slap that 'ho' with 50,000 volts of unmitigated Whoop Ass.

Because in this modern age, ladies, you don't have to take it any more.*

There Is No Human Suffering So Great That It Can't Be Made Sport of. The Only Exception, of Course, Being That the Suffering Not Be My Own.

Jail is a difficult place for Prisoner # 9818783. A place where "Fire Crotch" is a local correctional wine made with fermented oranges in a sweat sock, and "Tinkerbell", well "Tinkerbell" is whoever the 300lb bull dyke name Laverne wants "Tinkerbell" to be. . . .

The authentic Paris Hilton souvenir prison shirt comes in a ton of styles and colors, with a durable hand-cut print on premium brands. And because we know what table service at Hyde and a small-time coke habit costs these days, we are offering $5 off every order.

Thasshot.

Sometimes, I Miss Southern Belles. This Is Not One of Them

Just because my cousin Caroline from Nashville was voted “Best Legs” our senior year of high school doesn’t mean she walks anywhere. . . .

Our best friend Liz, a former Miss Confederacy who’s now an art restorer in Italy, had visited me in New York the year before with her Italian boyfriend, Flaviano. . . .

Liz and Flaviano have since split, after three years together. . . . “Will I ever meet someone else?” she asked me and Caroline as the three of us slid onto barstools at the Gold Rush, in Nashville, home for a week of Christmas vacation. This question was mostly directed toward me, in the hope that I would say what she wanted to hear, possibly tossing in a box of bonbons.

“Of course,” I told her.

“Hell to the no!” said Caroline. She re-crossed her legs, and a man slumped at the end of the bar suddenly seemed very much awake. “Not unless you reacquaint yourself with a hairbrush and burn those sweatpants.” She waved her left hand and its wedding ring in the air. “Jesus Christ is the most important man in my life—pass me another beer—but if there’s one thing I know, it’s boys.”

“And?” Liz sniffed.

“Sparkling conversation, sparkling eye-shadow, matching bra and panty sets, and always invite him to church.”

Before that passage could chase me to the sanctuary of the fetal position and the gentle, comforting rocking that it makes so easy, before I could fully invoke my Happy Place with the mantra of "Cool, blue ocean; cool, blue ocean. . .," I found salvation in this:

"On St. Mark’s Place, she surrendered to temptation. ‘I know that this is not something my pastor would approve of, but I am dying to get my fortune told.’ She pointed to a row of a neon signs for street-level psychics. ‘How is it possible that all these gals can see into the future?’

"‘It’s not.’ I stepped over an empty 40-ounce beer bottle. ‘Did I tell you what happened to my neighbor Brian?’

"‘He had his tarot cards read outside of Penn Station and the woman told him that he’d be dead within 18 months.’

“‘Oh no!’

“‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘His girlfriend was shaken up for about a week, until Brian tried to convince her that this was the universe’s way of letting them know there was no need to use condoms.’"

That restoreth my soul. If somewhere some guy was using a death sentence to get out of using a condom, the world — my world — was a safe place to be.

Thanks, Brian. I owe you a beer.

Whatever: I Give It Two Weeks

Dude, I hope that isn't your daughter. Ex-wife, okay. Daughter, eew.

I'm Guessing Master Sugoi Is in the Emergency Room a Lot with Unexplainable Paper Cuts on his Genitals, but as I Said, I'm Just Guessing

Good afternoon. And we are going to begin the origami vagina by Master Sugoi.

We started with a traditional piece of square paper. . . .

Fold it up, and we open the figure, so we have three running lines. We take one side and we fold to where these hips meet on the panel. . . Press it down. Fold just the tip back. Now, we bring a fold from both edges to the center as if you were forming the point to a paper airplane. This will become the clitoris.

Take the whole figure, and bend it over backwards, releasing the labia. Take the outer folds, bring them out, bringing the clitoris tip up, and bring it back. Blunt the end. (No need for a sharp object in a clitoris.) And we open the sides of the labia aaaaaaand crush.

If your figure seems to unfold as mine does here, simply force it back underneath. At the bottom, we make a simply overlap to complete the vagina.

This one is a little sloppy.

God? Is that you?

To Paraphrase the Bard, "'T Is Not So Long as a Loman, nor So Thick as a Beer Can,* but 'T Is Enough, 'T Will Serve"

In this week's issue, we talk to Hostel: Part II director and NYU alum Eli Roth about how he and Lionsgate marketed their gory sequel in the aftermath of Virginia Tech and the Captivity-billboard controversy. Surprisingly, many of Lionsgate's sharpest posters were actually shot by Tim Palen, Lionsgate marketing exec and a part-time photographer. In July, Palen will publish Guts: The Art of Marketing Horror Films, a collection of his creepiest work, including a pornographic, absolutely not-safe-for-work portrait of Roth. . . .

We spoke with Palen about the money shot:

So, um, why?
'Cause Eli would do it! He's really brave. It's called Eli Roth Has the Biggest Dick in Hollywood. It's a double-page spread in the book.

How'd this happen?
We were shooting some publicity stuff in this cheesy hotel for Hostel 2 — then I just whipped that thing out of a box! Eli just said, "Oh, my god…" But I think he likes it too.

Where'd you get it?
I had K.N.B. Effects build it for me. I said, "I want a 24-inch devil-dick for Eli Roth." They did the effects for Hostel. And Narnia.

I have never wanted to see any of the Hostel movies before. That isn't helping.


* Shout out to C.B., who, if his recent revelation is true, probably gets lots of shout outs.

Wow, 2.7ins? That's like a Training Penis

NEARLY half of all men are unhappy with the size of their willies — for no good reason, a study claims.
Researchers say there is no need to worry as 85 per cent of women ARE satisfied with their partner’s penis proportions.

The study found GIRTH matters more than length to 90 per cent of women. The 60-YEAR worldwide research — led by Dr Kevan Wylie of the Royal Hallamshire Hospital in Sheffield — analysed 12,000 willies and quizzed 50,000 adults.

The average erect penis was 5.5ins to 6.2ins long (14cm-16cm) and 4.7ins to 5.1ins (12cm-13cm) in girth.

The study defined a small penis as one less than 2.7ins (7cm) long.

I have a friend with a knack for seducing men with really small penises. (The men have small penises; she doesn't use small penises to seduce them. You got that, right?) One day, when she complaining about her luck, I suggested she place a ruler like the one above outside her bedroom door with a note attached to it that read like one of those signs you see at amusement parks: "Must Be This Long to Ride this Vagina." She thought I was joking, didn't follow my advice, and so, her Puppetry of the Penisette love life continues. The poor thing.

If you're the praying sort, when you hit your knees tonight, say a little prayer for Hannah. I know she'd do it for you.

Actually, It's Coor Light — Not Even Beer at All

More evidence that theirs is the superior society.

And before you get that stick up your ass twirling in outrage, let me make one thing perfectly clear: that's not real beer. It's made for kids. It's like beer-flavored water. So, calm down, and "Campai, bitches!"