Amish erotica--it's hot (courtesy of that real-wood fire)
Whilst scouring the Internet tonight in my never-ending attempt to find truth, justice, and free music downloads--during all this, a thought popped into my head. Vis: just
what would Amish porn be like? Intrigued, I began musing. Here, then, a sample bit of dialogue from an imaginary film....we'll call it
"Hester does Lancaster" starring
Camryn Manheim as Hester, the disenchanted quilt maker, and
Steve Gutenberg as Jacov, the young and handsome travelling buggy-whip salesman....
Hester: Oh, Jacov, hie thee and blow out the candle!
Jacov: Quiet, woman. Avert thy gaze as I detach my garments.
H: Jacov, Jacov, please come to me, but with your back turned.
S: Hester, desire for you consumes my head--'tis almost enough to make me
want to use a telephone. You must reach your hand here and then there and by doing so you will "raise my barn"...
~(much fumbling around in the dark)~
H: Jacov, thee, thee, churn it.
Churn my butter! Churn my butter!S: Yes, thou heathen.
H: Ooooh, I like it when'st thou callest me 'heathen'. Now call me...call me 'English' !
S: Enough talk, English: make my apple cake turn upside down!
~(more fumbling around in the dark)~
H: It is done. I am experiencing the
filth and disgust and self-loathing and nausea that is rightfully mine to feel at this time.
S: You are appropriately shamed. Now, go sew me something.
The End. A Quinn Martin production.
On second thought, this being
Amish must be no fun at all. Though the near-at-hand whips might have an offsetting benefit. Know what I mean?
Buff my scrotum if you don't agree.
Johnny, we hardly knew ye...was a flaming poofter.
I don't know what to make of this.In Robert Daller's Kennedy bio, "An Unfinished Life" (Little, Brown, & Co., 2003), I read this quote. Then, slowly, I re-read it, just to make sure. Because I don't want a lawsuit or nuttin', capice? It's British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, speaking to Kennedy hanger-on and all around boot-licker Arthur Schlesinger, circa 1962, about his (Macmillan's), er, relationship, if you can call it that, with JFK. I quote:
"It was the gay things that linked us together". Kennedy himself described being with Macmillan as like being "In the bosom of the family...
I am lucky to have a man to deal with."
These are quotes, folks, from page 415. You can look it up.
What the f*** is the f***ing world coming to? And how come this wasn't part of the Warren Commission report?
I mean, this guy's reputation
wielding the, um, Presidential Pen (as it were), precedes him. All the books talk about his insatiable
need for the pink. In the pool with his secretaries, on the floor with the maids, up against the wall with Marilyn Monroe. He even conducted live demonstrations for younger brother Ted---allegedly. Allegedly. But if true, what a
nice thing for a big brother to do, and didn't young Teddy pick up some pointers?
A thought: if Jack had only spent as much time
teaching him to drive, why, Teddy would likely be President today.
Mais encore, je perds mon foyer ici. So sorry.
To the subject at hand: all this hetero Camelot-esque presidential perversion is all around okey-dokey with me. Just jake. Swell, super. But now we're to understand that the
insatiable need for the pink included British Boy Butthole? Macmillan's Men? The Prime Minister's Privates?
I say, bugger that (and apparently, so did JFK).
So, in shock, I'm now going back through all the
other Presidential biographies I've got at home, just checking. I want to see if Ike was a cross-dresser or if Woodrow Wilson liked to get spanked or if
Calvin Coolidge was into barnyard animals (we know for a fact that
Eleanor Roosevelt liked horses--she liked big, black horses. Big ones. There she is at right, getting ready to "saddle up".
Yippe-kay-ay. ) So I'm now perusing periodicals, dirt-digging. A blogger's responsibility to his one or two readers never ends.
I shall report my findings, forthwith. Until then, as JFK would say:
"Buff my scrotum. With vig-AH"!
Stick a hook in YOUR mouth and see how YOU like it
At left, cute little old me, circa 1962, spending "quality time" fishing. Even then, my disposition was pretty much set: see how much fun I'm having? Also, and not coincidentally, notice how much fun the fish is having. I have a vague memory of this--the actual fishing part, I mean. Something about hooking with the mouth and it's wet and the thrashing about and then the pain and more flopping around and then the tears and the horror, the horror, and then ultimately, the smell.
Ya know, upon reflection: that's a lot like sex. Or at least, my memory of it --the sex, not the fishing...wait. Now I'm confused....
OK. The
specific memory I have of this marvelous day is: I wanted to go home, immediately. Because even at the age of five I had discovered what way too many toothless rednecks don't ever find out, which is that fishing blows.
Here, then, my definitive angle on angling:
- It's not a sport. Sports involve balls and scoring with said balls (another similar-to-sex reference. Uncanny, isn't it?)
- One word: mosquitos.
- Slimy, grotesque, bloody entrails. Unless you'll be wielding the scalpel on A&E's Autopsy: Case Files, cleaning and gutting the li'l buggers isn't for you. Or anyone civilized, for that matter.
- Q. Whaddya call two guys sitting around drinking beer for 5 hours? A. Alcoholics. Q. Whaddya call the same two guys sitting around drinking beer for 5 hours in a boat on a lake with rods and reels? A. Fishermen.
- Hey, idjits, you don't need to do it. You can buy the damn fish right there in the supermarket.
So, to sum up-- when it comes to Pisces, I say: "feces". And if you disagree, you can buff my scrotum.
Da Vinci Code? How about The Bob Ross Code?
The critics (those slovenly dipwads who spend all day, day after day, in dark theatres) have spoken. Verdict: another
Tinseltown Turd. Despite Audrey Tatou's cuteness quotient and Tom Hanks' box-office boffo bankability and Ian McKellen's wide-ranging thespian gifts--The
Da Vinci Code movie....sucks (wait--that's
Ian McKellen's job...that old rump-ranger). Seems director
Ron Howard blew it (hold the phone--that, too, is
Ian McKellen's job...that old weenie-washer).
I say: forget about Leonardo--let's concentrate on Bob!
Yup--I'm more of a
Bob Ross Code kinda guy. Watching his show is like taking sopors while having a simultaneous valium enema (hey--whaddya know---another "up the butt" reference. Again, that's
Ian McKellen's job, that old colon-crawler). Bob, pictured at right, is dead--but all the more reason to make the movie. After all, the Da Vinci Code is about a dead painter. Right? So:
The Bob Ross Code. Now there's a movie about a painter I could get behind (aussi alors,
Ian McKellen's job...that old turd-burglar).
Starring
Larry Fine as Bob, Jenna Jameson as Bob's love interest Natasha the hooker with a heart of gold, Carrot Top as Lem the wacky next door neighbor, and Jerry Mathers as the Beaver.
The
plot would be basic. Bob's left hidden clues in the "friendly little trees" he puts in all his paintings -- with those clues, you'll find the key that unlocks the secret of the evil dastardly QVC network plot to assassinate Thomas Kinkade. Kinkade's crime? Painting amazingly
similar looking landscapes with lots of soft light and cute little cabins next to rivers. But Bob feels for him, because he too paints amazingly
similar looking landscapes with lots of soft light but instead of cabins uses plenty of cute little trees and mountains next to the rivers.
It's simple! It's easy to follow! It's a paint-by-numbers plot from a paint-by-numbers kinda guy -- coming soon, to a theatre near you! "
In a world where some men are born to kill....where some men are born to paint...there's one fearless man who puts painting ahead of killing. A man with brushes for brains, who uses LIGHT RED OIL CINAMMON#7834 as his weapon...a man of principle. A painter. A partner. A friend. That man is.....(big music swell here)...
BOB ROSS. And he's got a code that'll unlock a mystery. The mystery of the murder of masterpiece makers. The Bob Ross Code. "
Have a good weekend, keep your pants up around
Ian McKellen, and by all means buff my scrotum.
Heather Mills McCartney can buff my scrotum
Well, I'm just
hopping mad!
So here's the
rigazza bint gold-digging inamorata pigeon woman of the town who's been making Paul McCartney's life miserable. She's leaving home, bye-bye. According to reports, she's got claims on half his $1.5 billion fortune. After 4 years of "marriage"? That's crap. Apparently she
can "buy me love".
Fact is, this tart's probably
the reason all the music he's put out has sucked since who knows how long. What was the last really good McCartney song? You have to go back at least 30 years. At least.
Mais moi, je digresse.
I'm pretending to be Paul's lawyer here, see. And I say, "M'lord, if it please the court, and even if it bloody doesn't, this....moll-trollop-shrew...
has no argument. None at all. Matter of fact, m'lord, it's our position that
she doesn't have a leg to stand on"!
Thank you, thank you. I'm here all week. Don't forget to tip your waitress.
Smells like fish
Watashi-no sushi wa totemo oishi desu! I ate about
$200 worth of sushi last night, supplemented with copious amounts of
Asahi beer. The sushi was great; so was the beer.
Post-consumption of aforementioned vittles and palliatives, comes then the waitress with expressions of concern relative to my beer intake; I told her to
bugger off and bring me another one.
You sure can boss these little Asian chicks around.
What a fool believes
Don't I feel more idiotic than normal? Sure. Why now?
It's silly: The Doobie Brothers had a song out in 1979, "
What A Fool Believes", penned by lead singer
Michael McDonald, he of the grey hair and beard at left. Everyone knows this song, right? So it's on the radio recently and I'm listening in HD--that's the new-fangled mega-shmega ultra clear delivery method, where every word, burp, fart, piano pedal squeek, etc., is astoundingly clear. With that clarity came lyrics which for years I've completely had screwed up.
This section of the song comes on:
She had a place in his life
He never made her think twice
As he rises to her apology
Anybody else would surely know
He's watching her go.
And all along I'd thought it was this:
Cheese has a place in a slice Eeeee! Never make a thing twice! Ashley rises to her pile of cheese Anybody else would surely know He's watching Urkel.
Silly me. I've been singing it that way since 1979. But no longer. Oh, and please by all means: buff my scrotum....
Here's a helpful, handy hint...and it really works!
If you often do work with an electron microscope, glue a cat whisker (the kind your house pet routinely sheds) onto the end of a wooden stick. It's the perfect tool for, say, teasing apart thinly sliced floating epon sections when microtoming.
Got that, bucko?
Immigration hoo-hah: missing the point!
With all the
yip-yap about
Jose wanting "equal rights" and
Maricon demanding fast-tracked green cards and
Flore stomping her pretty little
Latina foot about citizenship and
Sean Hannity whining about border security and on and on and on....the most important part of the debate has been obscured.
That is--tits.
I posit the following:
who cares where they come from, so long as they're all fluffy and squeezably soft? You can't tell who's what race anyway...I bet. Want proof? Check the photos below (betcha can't eat just one!). On display you'll find:
1. True-blue-wankably-wonderful-American
Denise Richards' rack;
2. Mexican go-rubber-at-the-knees-she's-so-hot
Salma Hayek's ta-tas;
3. Koreans-are-all-insane-and-will-kill-you-for-kimchi-but-good-God-
almighty-just-once before-I-die-please-please-please-I-beg-you-
Sung Hi Lee's fun bags.
BUT--not necessarily in that order. So, stare long and, um, hard, and then try to figure out who's who:
If you guessed the order as Salma-Sung Hi-Denise, you qualify as President of the Perv Patrol. Nice going, soldier.
And admit it. You'd kill to play tube steak tango with either of the specimens so crassly featured here, irrespective of their citizenship status. Right? So, for those concerned about illegal immigration, I say: exercise the cleavage caveat! Titties trump transgressions! Mind the mammary mandate! And since you can't tell whose babe's boobs are whose and if they look like this --I say, get right to the head of the welcome to the U-S-of-A line!
And while you're at it, buff my scrotum.
And another damn thing....
These slagheaps have the
cojones to make this ridiculous, unsupported, flat-out-lie claim, to wit:
"YOU CAN DO IT, WE CAN HELP!" This is absolute twaddle; I am tool-deficient and useless and terrible with building/fixing/adjusting anything up to and including lightbulb changing. OK? I'm personally offended and whatever his name is funded that Aquarium Bernie something plus Arthur Blank and anyone else who has anything to do with running that company damn it listen up:
I can't do it. And nothing you can do will help. So quit frickin' claiming that
I can and you will because I can't and you won't. Got it?
Alternatively, you can
buff my scrotum.
Whilst scouring the Internet tonight in my never-ending attempt to find truth, justice, and free music downloads--during all this, a thought popped into my head. Vis: just what would Amish porn be like? Intrigued, I began musing. Here, then, a sample bit of dialogue from an imaginary film....we'll call it "Hester does Lancaster" starring Camryn Manheim as Hester, the disenchanted quilt maker, and Steve Gutenberg as Jacov, the young and handsome travelling buggy-whip salesman....
