Thanks ReeNee. Now, I Know when I See a Gang of Shorties, I Need to Call for Back Up

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Created by OnePlusYou - Online Dating

Unfortunately, thanks to No Child Left Behind, the average class size for pre-schoolers is higher than that, so, sadly, I can't take an entire class of them by myself. They would get me in the end. But, at least, I'd go down knowing there would be 50 very unhappy parents in the Kiss and Go lane that day, and knowing that, would make me smile.

Of course, if the school system provided me with a teaching assistant, I'd be the cock of the kindergarten walk.

Do you stay up nights wondering if your deaky has become too freaky? Are you worried that somewhere along the line you strayed into scary-uncle perv country—where they carve pumpkins to look like Jon Benet Ramsey and fuck them? After counting the levels, are you convinced your total Wrong should cause heads to shake in dismay? Think you've crossed the “The Tribe has spoken: We're going to have to put you down” line? Well, unless you wrote the following letter, the line is still far off on the horizon for you. Your deaky? Not so freaky:

(from Dan Savages Love Letter of the Day)

Since I was 15 or so I’ve filled the tub up with nice warm water and took a dump in the bath water. I found (and still do) that the nice warm water loosens up my muscles and allows me to really clean myself out. It’s not uncommon for me to do this for over an hour. I don’t beat off while I’m in there, or do anything sexual with it. Generally, once I’m done I clean out the tub and wash my hands/body.

Is this a normal thing associated with scat or what? I have a boyfriend of 4 years, who has a pretty good idea that I do this, although we’ve never really talked about it. However, I don’t think he realizes the extent that I do this. I don’t want him involved in the act, and I would never want to see or touch his. In fact, in the cases where I do see it/smell it (being a gay male it’s bound to turn up occasionally) I’m turned off and disgusted by the smell. We’ve bought a house together, and will be moving in together in the next two months. Once we’re together I’m afraid he’ll figure it out. So I really think I need to tell him before he moves in.

The only problem is I have no idea why I do this, or why I can’t stop doing it. I feel like I need to give him some reason why, sexual or not, that I do this. Have you ever heard of anything like this? Is this scat, or is it just a gross habit that is not sexual in any way?

I’m curious to hear your insight.

Dude, you are a total freak.

You don't have a sister, do you?

“Whew, They Weren't Lying When They Told Me about Seattle. There Ain't Nothing Up Here but Rain and White People”

Chris Rock was in Seattle last night testing out some new material. Man, can that guy talk—two solid hours of Com-mow-dee. It was like sitting beside your really funny, drunk uncle at a picnic. Good times, good times.

Here's some of the stuff that comes to mind:

On McCain,

“McCain spent 5 years as a prisoner of war in Viet-Nam, and we're suppose to consider that a good reason to vote for him for president. I don't know. I respect his service and all, but to be honest with you, I don't want to vote for the guy who got shot down and captured for president. I want to vote for the guy who got shot down and escaped. Can we get him on the ballot?”

On Obama,

“Damn. Barack Obama! That's got to be the blackest name since Dikembe Mutombo. I'm forty years old, and I've been black for all of them. I've never met anyone named Barack or Obama.

“I don't believe they'll ever let him be president, but if they do, they won't let him do it without making him go through some shit. I mean, they already made him give up his pastor, the man who performed his wedding ceremony and christened his children. And for what? Because he said he hated white people? What 75-year-old black man doesn't? Find me one.

“You know, Michelle is next. Because they ain't going to let no sister be First Lady. Sisters are too strong. They can't accept a passive role in anything. Once Obama's elected, Michelle is going to take over: ‘I'm making Kiki secretary of the defense. You know she can fight, Barack. You saw her at our wedding.’ They're going to make the brother find him a white girl.”

On Education,

You know what the worst part of dropping out of school in the 10th grade was? The waste of time. Think about it: me and the guy who dropped out of school in the 2nd grade are qualified for the same jobs—except he's got 8 more years of work experience.

On Britney Spears,

“How bad of a celebrity momma do you have to be to lose your kids? I saw Britney's kids. There wasn't a mark on 'em. No bruises. No cigarette marks. They were well fed. What the fuck did she do?

“That must be a white kids thing, because they don't take black kids away. They leave them motherfuckers alone. I mean, Bobby Brown and Whitney got to keep their kids. Shit, O.J. got to keep his kids and he killed their momma.

“And O.J. had the nerve to show up on television talking about how hard it is to be a single father. Well, it ain't like she ain't returning your calls. She's dead. You killed her, motherfucker.”

On black men's obsession over white women,

“Black men love white women—and the fatter the better. There are brothers out there who will kick Jessica Simpson down a flight of stairs if she gets between them and Rosie O'Donnell.

“It's getting so bad, white women don't even need scales anymore. They can tell how fat they are by how many brothers hit on them in the club: ‘Damn, five n––rs hit on me last night. I've got to get to the gym.’”

Actually, it was funnier than that.

I laughed, I cried, I hit on several white women. It was a life-changing experience.

U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

Jake Deitchler of the U.S. (in red) fights Armen Vardanyan of Ukraine during their 66 kg men's Greco-Roman wrestling repêchage round 2 match at the Beijing 2008 Olympic Games.


“Repêchage,” for those of you who don't know, is French for “Chin-rimming with a reach-around,” and although usually in wrestling, the guy on the bottom is the loser, in this case, as you can tell by the look on Jake's face, there are no losers in the repêchage round of the tournament.

Eventually, Armen—whose chin-rimming, clearly, leaves something to be desired (the “fix” might have been in on this one)—did go on to win the match. Jake, for his efforts, got an Olympic-quality reach-around and a trip to China.

What did you do on your summer vacation?

“I'd Like a Perv Latte, Please.” Damn: They Never Get My Order Right

A man dressed in woman’s underwear and exposing himself drove up to a Parkland espresso stand three times before one of the baristas threw a cup of boiling water at him, said the Pierce County Sheriff’s Office.

Jamae Feddock, a bikini clad barista at Java Girls, said she first thought the man dressed in women’s underwear and exposing himself was a sick joke, until the man came back several times. The first time, though, she thought it was funny.

Then he came back a second time.

“He has underwear over his face, he's wearing hot pink panties now and the underwear that he was wearing is over his face and there's a little peephole so he can see, because, you know, safety first.” Feddock said.

Feddock and another barista were working around 5 a.m. last Thursday when the incident happened. They tried to get a look at the man’s license plate, but that too was covered up with women’s underwear (no peephole).

When the man came back a third time one of the baristas took a cup of scolding hot water and doused him with it.

“Kylie opened the door and threw boiling hot water on his face and his chest and he said, ‘Ooooh yeah,’” Feddock said.


Of course, he did. This is Washington state. Had she thrown an espresso shot on him, he would have shot his load—which would have provided them with some DNA evidence.

Live and learn, ladies. Live and learn.

Where Is Your Food Pyramid God Now?

I thought I would detail the whole In-N-Out 100x100 story.

It started innocently enough with a Halloween weekend in Vegas (2004). What started as a drunken, silly weekend…became quite legendary.

Throughout the weekend, Andy kept on saying: “We should go get a 100x100 at In-N-Out”. Over…and over…and over again. Until we finally broke. So on Halloween night, we went to go chowdown. …

They said the biggest order they had before this was the 24x24. …

I need to stop right here. Please take a CAREFUL look the picture on the right (click the link). There is a common misperception that the 100x100 has a hundred buns. No, that's not true. It's one set of buns and ONE HUNDRED meat patties and ONE HUNDRED pieces of sweaty-oily cheese in between the buns. Clearly, the worst part of this experience wasn't the meat…it was the sweaty cheese.


Dude, seriously, how could you leave behind the sweaty cheese? The sweaty cheese is the best part.

Feel free to disagree, but don't disagree until you've read—and witnessed through the many Kodak moments captured and posted—the Telling of the 100X100 Tale, yourself.

What to Buy for the Man Who Has Everything or, Possibly, Just Me

Talk about equality. If women can buy a pearl G-string, then why can’t men? The creators of the original pearl G-string have now come out with the masculine version. The reason? They want women to buy it “to share an unforgettable experience with their partner in a new way.”

The $60 thong has the pearl strand leading from the back to the front lace pouch. It’s available in black, white and periwinkle - yes, periwinkle blue. Any takers?


If it comes in “periwinkle blue,” the answer is a resounding hell-to-the-yeah!

By the way, thong-model dude, I understand you're probably European and beholden to a totally different ass aesthetic than we Americans, but, seriously, if you're going to sell the idea of men in thongs—I mean, really sell it—you're going to have to do something about that sad clown of a ass you've got dragging back there. Blast some squats, donkey kick some ankle weights, run some stairs, get implants. Whatever it takes, do it, but put the maximus back in that glueteus®.** No man your age—you're under ninety, right?—should be flapping cheeks that flaccid and deflated. You should have bubbles popping out back there, not bags of ashes. Honestly—and I write this from a place of love (no hater, I)—your cheeks aren't capable of selling thongs right now. Enemas, yes; Depends, maybe; thongs, no. Get thee to a gym.

**Another health-related message from the Truth* Network and the Loman Glute Centers of America: “Ass Candy in Just Minutes a Day”

They're Going to Get McCain (or Clinton) Elected One Way or Another

It was July 7 when Barack Obama, his staff, and reporters boarded a Midwest Airlines flight for a quick trip from Chicago to Charlotte, North Carolina for a speech. Shortly after takeoff, the pilot of the MD-80 plane began having trouble leveling the aircraft.

First Officer: During the climb out of Chicago and during the en route phase we detected a little bit of a controlability issue in terms of our ability to control the aircraft. …

At the time, the FAA and Midwest Airlines said there was no emergency, but the audio tapes released by the FAA Thursday tell a different story.

Pilot: At this time, we'd like to declare this an emergency, and also have CFR (Crash, Fire, Rescue) standing by in St. Louis.

Tower: I will show that and would you… Do you have a preference on runways? Would you like Runway 3-0 Right or Runway 3-0 Left?

Pilot: Well, which one is the longest? …

Through it all, the candidate remained calm

Obama: Dude, I totally shit myself.

As a military brat, I grew up around gobbledegook and double speak, so I just chuckled when I heard the pilot say, “we detected a little bit of a controlability issue in terms of our ability to control the aircraft.” I love it when military guys come up with new words and phrases to hide fuck ups and errors—“controlability issue,” indeed.

My love aside, in emergencies, gentlemen, stick with the classics, as in “Houston, we have a problem.” “Houston, we have a problem” cuts through the crap. “Houston, we have a problem” tells everyone you need CFR. “Houston, we have a problem” gets you immediately to “Would you like Runway 3-0 Right or Runway 3-0 Left?” which is, after all, where you need to be when you're discussing a controlability issue with the tower.

By the way, nothing says to the FAA and investigators that this is an emergency like “Well, which one is the longest?” “Well, which one is the longest?” is code for “Which one is less explode-y?” It's another another way of saying “Tell my wife I loved her. That stripper in Reno meant nothing. Kiss my kids good-bye for me.”

And That's Why They Have a Get Out of Ghetto Free Pass, Good Anywhere in the Continental U.S.

This was posted on another blog to show what an inveterate flirt Craig Ferguson is. After watching it, I decided to post it here for another reason entirely—because it demonstrates why black people have a common bond with the Scots:

Craig Ferguson: You know once my father was in the back garden. It was a sunny day, and he was sitting in the back garden. He was, like, sitting in a deck chair. And he said, “Aye, son …” I went out to see him. I wasn't living there at the time. I went out to see him. He said, “Lovely day, isn't it, son?”

I went, “Yeah, it's very nice, dad.”

He went, “Do you know the best thing about it?”

I said, “No, I don't.”

“I've just listened to the weather report, and it's f––g raining in England.” [laughs heartily] …

Irrelevant Starlet: Do you not like… You don't like British?

Craig Ferguson: What, the English? They're okay—apart from the 300 years of colonial oppression.

And that's why we love 'em. Like us—and unlike white Americans—the Scots just can't let shit go. They can laugh about the oppression, sure. Who can't? Let it go? Well, that's un-bloody-likely, now, isn't it? Black people appreciate that on levels most people cannot understand.

It's the foundation of a love that pales the love between mother and child by comparison. It's almost divine, really.

I Mean, I Got the Guy to Pay for Shipping

Autographed Copy of Plato's Republic

Date: 2008-07-09, 11:00AM CDT


1st edition of The Republic signed by its author. There is of course a reasonable amount of wear and tear, (light highlighting and underlining, dog-eared pages, back cover missing, etc.), but it is in overall good condition considering its age.

First come first serve


Jebus, there's a sucker born every minute.

I Got an A, though, in Pimp Slapping. So if You Ever Owe Me, You'd Better Have My Money when I See You

Hello! Are you a female, high school dropout between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five? Are you tired of doors being slammed in your face when you apply for a job? Are you tired of lying around in bed all day with nothing to do? Well, you never need get up again because in six short weeks I can train you to be a high-paying 'ho'.

That's right. It's a known fact that a good 'ho' can make up to fifteen hundred dollars a week.

Just think: fifteen hundred dollars a week without even leaving the comforts of your own bedroom. Sounds too good to be true?

Just send for my new book entitled I Wanna be a Ho and if in six short weeks, you're not confident that you can make big money as a 'ho' working for me, just send the book back for a full refund. It's as simple as that.

“Be Somebody, be a 'Ho'!”

I graduated the Velvet Jones School of Technology's I Wanna Be a Pimp program with a master's degree in female exploitation, spankings, and dishwasher repair, but I never had much of a career afterward.

My heart was never in it. I practically failed my How to Stomp a 'Ho' so the Bitch Knows You Mean Bid-ness seminar, and my advisor's comments at the end of my internship were discouraging. (Apparently, there's no room in pimp society for Bottoms.) A few weeks into my first job, I let a better pimp take my bitches and my territory, and I moved on, off to graduate school in political philosophy with my wages of sin.

Sometimes, yeah, I do miss the money. And the Escalade. And the trannies. (Trannies is good people.) But I think I did the right thing.

Think Globally, Submit Locally

The Dominatrix Decathlon
– MIKE DAMASCUS –

After months of speculation, and ongoing international protest, the Chinese Olympic Commissioner made official confirmation last week that the Dominatrix Decathlon will not be part of the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing. “It’s a sad day in the S&M community,” snapped Mistress Chandra of the Iron Shackles. “If I can lure them into a windowless room, I’ll ball-gag, hogtie, and paddle the entire Olympic Committee senseless.” As the controversy spins out of control and as the denizens of pain and submission stalk world capitals in search of submissive scapegoats, let’s pause and pay homage to the games known as Dominatrix Decathlon, spotlighting each of the ten events and calling out highlights from past competitions.

100-Liter Golden Shower
Since the 1984 Los Angeles games, where the field was widened to allow each dominatrix up to twelve submissives, points have generally been awarded to the Mistress who most quickly and thoroughly douses her unworthy slaves with urine pumped fresh from the spectator’s restrooms. But artistic merit points for improvisational touches, such as Mistress Cordoba’s use of coordinated gargling in the ’92 Barcelona games, are not unheard of.

The Long Hump
A painstakingly technical event, the Long Hump features the dominatrix whipping, paddling, or otherwise cajoling her sniveling submissive into humping a blowup doll the greatest distance along a traditional long-jump sandpit. Bottoms will be bruised and knees scraped, but seeing that perfect combination of pelvic thrust and inflatable bounce is a voyeuristic thrill not to be missed.

The Dildo Put
Not for the squeamish, the Dildo Put is a simple matter of a regulation “Screaming Mombo” one-meter dildo and a prone and lubed submissive. After the infamous “double-clutch” controversy during the ’88 Seoul games, in which half a dozen submissives were hospitalized with a variety of punctured organs, measures have been taken to prevent further injury. But as Mistress Natasha admitted in a candid interview with Strict Punishment, “Those measures were largely bullshit cooked up to pacify those that needed pacification.”

1500-Meter Equine Race
“Nothing gets me hot like a bridle and riding crop,” admits Mistress Cassandra. “And nothing indicates extreme devotion of a submissive more than to be saddled, mounted, horsewhipped, and worked with spurs for 1500 meters.” A favorite with the networks, comparable only to the Super Bowl in terms of international audience, this event is a rousing conclusion to the Dominatrix Decathlon. Notable for its long history of surprise treachery the 1500-Meter Equine Race is a guaranteed theatre of blood. “I got spurs, studded wristbands, and a whip,” explains Madam Tequila, “someone pulls ahead of me, what do you think’s gonna happen?”


I tried to be an Olympian submissive but the jealousy of others, rampant steroid use, and, you know, politics conspired to end my dream. That's cool. I'm over it.

But if Seattle's own, Mistress Matisse doesn't take the gold, there's going to be trouble.

The World Just Ran Out of Love Gravy

I'm going to make love to you woman,

Gonna lay you down by the fire

And caress your womanly body.

Make you moooooan and perspire.

Gonna get those juices flowing.

We're making love gravy, love gravy, love, love, love, love, love, love GRAY-VAY!

Isaac Hayes
Leo

August 20, 1942-August 10, 2008

Rest in Peace

Another Diamond Mined from the Pages of McSweeney's

CORRECTIONS TO LAST

MONTH'S LETTERS TO

PENTHOUSE FORUM.

BY DAVID COPPER

- - - -

In the letter “Laying Late-Night Cable,” it was misstated that “Shelly became immediately aroused at the sight of my rock-hard member straining to be free from my jeans.” In truth, Shelly's initial demeanor would be best described as visibly uncomfortable and leery. She did not achieve a state of arousal until learning—after several awkward drinks—that performing fellatio would result in a free month of HBO and Starz.

- - - -

In the letter “Three-Way Freeway,” it was implied that “Diana” begged for the opportunity to participate in sexual relations with her roommate and her roommate's boyfriend after accidentally walking in on their “sweaty, all-night lovemaking session.” In actual fact, “Diana” was not aware of her participation in the “love sandwich” until she regained consciousness later that evening.

- - - -

In the letter “And Wifey Makes Three,” the letter writer stated: “My wife was eager to engage in a threesome with me and our incredibly hot 19-year-old babysitter.” The sentence should read: “My wife was disgusted, repulsed, and, in every imaginable way, opposed to the thought of engaging in a threesome with me and our incredibly hot 19-year-old babysitter.” Nor did the wife “wildly undulate” while seated on the face of the babysitter, or “moan in unending pleasure” as she watched her “superstud” of a husband give the babysitter “a good seeing-to.” The letter writer also doesn't fight crime on the weekends from the confines of a secret underground lair.

- - - -

I wondered why they never published the letters I sent them in college. Whoda'thunk they'd have fact-checkers?

Live and learn.

So Dainty, in Fact, that I Raise My Little Finger to Fart

Diaroogle helps you find quality public toilets from your mobile phone. ∼

It's for the discerning, on-the-go defecator who is brave enough to use a public bathroom, but still demands a hygienic and private bathroom experience. It is also a community authored database of New York toilets.

Good luck to you,

The Diaroogle Team

I have the Hercules of sphincters working the velvet rope of my backdoor playhouse—Shout out: “Dude, keep on doing what you do”—so I'm rarely in a situation where I have to defecate on-the-go. In those situations—illness, food poisoning, recent, poorly lubed DRE with Dr. Pig-Knuckles—I am at the mercy of the excreting public and their toilet habits, and the next time I am, I'll be grateful for a service like Diaroogle.

Under normal circumstances, though, it's not a big concern of mine. Don't take this for snootiness, but the occasion is rare—rare, indeed—when the reflection of my anal moonflower is cast upon the calm, cool waters of a public bowl. What can I tell you? I'm dainty.

And the Award for Best STD in a Supporting Role Goes to …

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

I couldn't tell if it was really Paris, but then, the director cut to a close-up. After seeing the failed attempt to cover up the herpetic chancre on her bottom lip with makeup, I decided it was, either, Paris or a celebrity double really into her work.

Whichever, “Paris” does a good job.

What? You Never Heard of Rosalind?

Stephen Price, a reporter from the Tallahassee Democrat, tells Keith Olbermann about being kicked out of a John McCain event. Price was told only national press were allowed — but none of the other local reporters weren't asked to leave. “The fact that I'm black was the only obvious reason,” Price concludes.


Damn. Brothers can't even ride in the back of the Straight Talk Express. Tsk, tsk: Rosalind Parks—journalist and younger sister to Rosa—is rolling in her grave.

And, Yes, that Creepy, Mustachioed Registered Sex Offender Is in All of the PSAs

Planned Parenthood has posted some new public service announcements on its web site that are giving the Family Research Council fits. That should be expected. The Family Research Council is basically a Christian Right tea party, chockablock with Bertha-better-than-you's obsessed with the idea that someone somewhere is having more fun with genitals and toys than they will ever have with scripture and bibles. And that obsession has put them in a mind for some cock blocking.

So let's play a game. Watch this video and count the things that will give the average Family Research Council member the vapors so severely that they shart themselves in outrage and piety.

The winner will get a $100 gift certificate to Seattle's-own Babeland.*

* This prize has already been claimed**

** There was never any prize. Duh. Please see masthead disclaimer about actual truth varying.

How Are They Going to Market to Teenage Boys without the Use of Boobs. I Can't Wait to Find Out

Thomas Nelson, the largest publisher of Bibles in the English language, has targeted its new magazine-format Bibles to specific readers — to adolescent girls, for starters, with later versions fashioned for teenage boys, young women and men. Within three months of publication, Revolve, the complete New Testament for teenage girls, became the nation's best selling Bible.

An enhanced version, Revolve 2, could easily be mistaken for an issue of Vogue. With a trio of lovely, smiling girls on its cover, it runs more than 400 pages, weighs just more than a pound and a half and retails for $16.99. It incorporates the entire New Testament in the conversational New Century version.

The purpose of the publication is to make the word of God relevant to young people — hopefully without pandering to them — to keep the New Testament new and to make the venerable “Good News” of the Gospel up-to-date good news for young Americans. …

Advice columns focus on dealing with self-image, sex and parents. To the question of what qualities a girl should seek in a boy, editors answer: “Your guy needs to love God more than he loves you. That's the only way he can understand how to love you the right way.” The blunt response to “How far can you go sexually before you are no longer pure?” is “How much dog poop stirred into your cookie batter does it take to ruin the whole batter?”


“I'm really into skat,” the inquiring pure mind is said to have replied. “So your answer is more confusing than helpful. But go on. I'm listening.”

I Noticed Even She Would Not Lick the Duvet.

Um, I hope Extended Stay Motels has maid service, or this girl is in for a long night. Licking everything in sight doesn’t seem like the best way to ensure cleanliness. Isn’t that why they have the white-glove test?

It's grotesque, yet I cannot look away.

But I Don't Really Expect That Much

You may think you've seen it all, but you're still open to any new experiences and encounters that come your way. In fact, you're open to just about anything at all. To you, taboo is just another word for Count me in! That's not to say you have no discretion. Your standard of living is very high and you expect a lot from your friends and lovers. (Especially from your lovers.)

And before you ask, no, I don't have a trapeze above my bed, and, before you ask the natural follow up to that, yes, you can bring your own.