Maureen McCormick wants me...........to leave her alone...
Tonight, I find myself in Oklahoma City, pleasuring myself to images of
Maureen McCormick. Clearly, the
number one secret sex kitten for American men who happened to be pre-teens or early-teens in the late 60's/early 70's. Pathetic? Yes, I admit so. Not just because I'm in Oklahoma City, which is sort of like Toledo without the charisma....not just that, but when it comes to the story of a lovely lady who was bringing up three very lovely girls, all of them with hair of gold, like their mother, the youngest one in curls....the oldest one, Marcia, is the one that causes
el-mega-shmega woodrow pants tightening for your humble horndog Nigel. What got me a-pumping, thinking about this Maureen: last night I saw a
stupid TV Land "award show" and the Brady Bunch received an award and Maureen was there. This chick is 51 years old now and
doesn't look a frigging single day over 30 and, *sob*, I swear to God if she was in front of me in person right now I'd force her to submit to my will and then
provide her--easily--the most disappointing 25 seconds of her life.Admit it, shlubbies (male ones, at least...and maybe a
couple of you lesbo ones, too): you
wanked and wanked and wanked to images of Marcia going berserko on ya, dintcha? I know I did. Even now, if she asked me to stand in a goddamm box of squares and look up then down then up then back then sideways, I'd do it. (
Especially if somehow I could get her on her knees, doing that very same up/down/back/sideways thing, too...heh heh heh....)
And I stumbled on this recently whilst cable station hopping, late-night-like: a few years ago,
Maureen narrated this sex year-in-review movie. Called
"Shock Video 2002: America Undercover", it's worth watching just to
hear Maureen say words like "fuck" and "cock". Jeez.
Years ago when I was doing radio I met
Barry Williams, who played
Greg Brady on the show. He was doing the weekend appearance thing that still pays him big bucks, and our station had him at our big annual "Oldies" show, signing photos in the tent outside the arena.
I asked about the goddess Maureen, and he admitted after not too much prodding that:
he banged her brains out.What an asshole.
Tagged....so here are the 5 reasons....
Apparently I'm supposed to give
5 reasons why I blog. Been "Tagged", ya see: I received this courtesy of Donald James Simpson whose blog
Donald James Simpson, Unbalanced, is absolutely tops and
required daily reading for me and recommended for all shlubbies perusing my own lame ass blog.
5 Reasons Why I Blog:- To pick up chicks. Say I'm in a bar, downing Sambuca Romana and mango juice on the rocks while shoveling tortilla chips into my gullet. I find when I do this, many women point at me from across the room. Christ knows that a 320 pound bald guy with glasses and bad teeth has got to use whatever he's got, and my ability to down snifters of 'buca, being legendary around these parts, clearly get's 'em wet where it counts. So, making my move, I'll say something to my intended victim along the lines of: "Hey, baby, would you like to buff my scrotum?" Then, when they draw back, horrified, I explain that it's just the name of my blog and maybe they'd like to accompany me back to my double-wide where we can log in to Net Zero and read it together on the dial-up? And if that fails, I then pull out the ultimate show-stopper: a pre-soaked handkerchief. "Excuse me, sugar-tits, but does this smell like chloroform to you?" Works every time.
- To exorcize my demons. I don't have many, but the two main ones are:
- I think marriage is complete, utter, total bullshit. It sucks the gigantic flaming pole of manhood.
- I truly don't believe there's such a thing as romantic love.
- To share my philosophy of life. Here it is:
- "To do is to be" -- Jean-Paul Sartre
- "To be is to do" -- Albert Camus
- "Do be do be do" -- Frank Sinatra
- To practice my touch typinf. DAMN! Typing.
- To occasionally try to somehow convey the thrill I get when I get that first peek of the brain during an autopsy. When you do what I do for a living, working in the funeral home and processing bodies, about the only thing jiggling (other than el boobios of that new girl back in casket receiving) is the brain of the deceased. And jiggling gives me...well...a knob ache.
Hope that helps, boys and girls! Have a thrilling remainder of the weekend, and now it's back to the Leinenkugels for lil ol moi, your compadre, Nigel St. John Regina Smegmatic Howle-Raines.
Oops! One other thing. Occasionally someone inquires as to my name. The deal is: last name is "Howle-Raines". The rest of it I got hit with clearly because my mother and father were complete assholes and wanted me to be laughed at the rest of my life. If you want to be my bud, you can call me "Nigel" or even "Nige". If you don't want to be my bud, you can call me whatever you'd like. Either way, bud or not, I'll address you as "magnolia candy-ass fuckhead sook."
'Kay? Just to clarify.
Face sucked. Not enough face sucking.
Well, that's two hours of my life I'd like back. The movie
Face, starring
Robert Carlyle (at left) and
Ray Winstone. Those guys are great in everything they do, but the movie blew dead hippos. And the reason:
there was no nudity. Sure, lots of violence and gore (it's a crime gang-betrayal film), but nothing, er, titillating.
Emphasis on the "tit" in titillating.
Disappointing.
Carlyle was incredible in
Trainspotting. As Begbie, the sadistic near-incomprehensible lunatic....good stuff. And Winstone was great in
Sexy Beast. There was
nudity in Trainspotting, as
Kelly Macdonald unveiled all for all to see. And I've got a
memory of mammaries in Sexy Beast, too, so you see: that's the criterial hoop these films have to jump through, if they're going to pass the Nigel sniff-test.
So: that new Harry Potter film better bloody well have some female pulchritude on display. That's all I've got to say.
Rap, translated
A diversion from this
Imus stuff, though related somewhat: here's my translation of a portion of the Notorious B.I.G track "One More Chance" from the album "Ready To Die":
Original Lyric excerpt:First I talk about how I dress and this
And diamond necklaces -- stretch Lexuses
The sex is just immaculate from the back
I get Deeper and deeper -- help ya reach the
Climax that your man can't make
Call and tell him you'll be home real lateLet's sing the breakNigel translation into English:At the onset, discussion between us centers around clothing styles, jewelry, and automobiles. Sexual congress ensues. Entering from behind, I'm able to penetrate further because of the enormous size of my organ. This provides you satisfaction heretofore unreachable with your current paramour. I suggest you phone him and let him know you'll be late returning home. And one more thing--let's sing the chorus together, shall we?
Back to Imus. It's not for nothing the
I-Man is shitting bricks. 'Cause Rutgers is in New Jersey, and the team and school has connections, see. At right, a photo of
the guy they're gonna call on to make things right if old Don doesn't see things the school's way. He's a
big Rutgers booster (witness the shirt and everything) and word is he doesn't like what he's been hearing about what's been said. And this guy and his crew have a way of making you see things....the way he wants you to see them.
Good luck, I-Man. We hardly knew ye...
Acronyms are cool
I like acronyms.
For example, "Napalm" is really an acronym. It is named for the scientists who invented it: Nedrick Adams, Pamela Allminsen and Louis Mercer.
I have a word--an acronym, I guess--that I use interchangeably with my ex-wives' names. It's derived from a phrase I use describing their ability to process received information: "can't understand normal thinking."
That is all.
Golf can buff my scrotum
The
Masters is on, and I can tell you this: I am donating two
large, perfectly formed, smelly turds to
Billy Payne, "massa" of Augusta National, who upon receipt can eat them with vim and vigor. See, the whole "I could give a shit" line doesn't do golf justice. Really, it's "I could give endless amounts of shit",
since I hate the "sport". Hence, more than one turd.
Golf really, really sucks. I know, because when I was 14, my father forced me to spend a summer caddying.
About that
caddy thing: how low on the "how far down can you go" shit list is caddying? Pretty fucking low. You rank right down there with the guy who used to
wipe King Henry VIII's fat rear end for a living. Beyond the complete and total disappearing act you're forced to perform--after all,
you're a servant, indentured for the round of 18, see, motherfucker, and straighten the fuck up and fly the fuck right--that's the deal, and if you're a class C caddy then by gum I'm only gonna pay you 5 bucks and no tip at all you stupid shit--no, not only are you to disappear, you're supposed to forget all the
racist, homophobic, misogynist, jingoistic, bragging about the girls they've got on the side etc. etc. moonbeam bullshit you hear whilst re-clodding the
goddamm course or replacing the
goddamm pin.
Besides the question of: who's got
5 hours to spare every Saturday that
wouldn't be better spent with their kids?--there's the whole
repressed homo thing going on, too: 5 hours with "the boys" and then it's off to the locker-room to stare at each other's packages...wow. There are
exceptions to the rule, of course, as in what you see at right, but
even then the twats involved are mostly ex-Sorority babes who didn't get enough of Joe-Varsity when they were in high school and so are ready to spread pins for any overweight but wealthy corporate COO so long as Mr. Middle-Age Crisis foots the bill for their
Porsche and their
plastic surgery.
Golf is bullshit and all who play it are assholes.
When in Hollywood, you can...
Nancy's diplomacy bungle--still gives me a knob ache
Here's
my girl, that
little minx, siren of
Baghdad-By-The-Bay, that hussy, parading her
mammaric largesse in front of ol' long neck Assad, showing off her well turned ankles,
teasing Bashar's bollocks with her very presence. Shameless, shameless,and I'm jealous, too. Then to make matters worse, our Nancy starts in with the
amateur diplomacy. Let's punish, shall we? I say we bend her over and
offer her a good spanking. That'll do the trick. At least it would, for me...
Early education is a GOOD thing
Awwww...wasn't I cute? That's
me, early 1958, getting stuck into it. Old habits die the hardest and that
"hanging onto the beer mug" thing has stuck with me pretty much since I exited the old dark and mysterious. The photo's a bit washed out and scraggly, but it scanned ok. *Sigh*....the memories.
Panic attack: we run out of beer
The
tavern I frequent REALLY ticked me off yesterday. Seems the beer distributor didn't provide enough kegs of the
Heileman's Old Style, goddammit, and they
ran out. Ran out. How is it,
Final Fucking Four weekend, you run out of beer? And not just any old beer, mind you, no--the premium stuff, like this Heileman's. And to top it off,
Tina the bartender with the large ta-ta tracts 'o land, me bucko, expects her
normal 90% tip (bill: $36. I pay: $60. Tina, keep the change). She looks the way she does (that's her, at right) so I have no problem paying her anything she wants. But still, dammit, don't be running out of the precious amber fluid.
And another goddamm thing. I've
made up my mind on this
Jennifer Aniston-
Angelina Jolie thing, and I've decided: I want them both, simultaneously.
Tonight, I find myself in Oklahoma City, pleasuring myself to images of Maureen McCormick. Clearly, the number one secret sex kitten for American men who happened to be pre-teens or early-teens in the late 60's/early 70's. Pathetic? Yes, I admit so. Not just because I'm in Oklahoma City, which is sort of like Toledo without the charisma....not just that, but when it comes to the story of a lovely lady who was bringing up three very lovely girls, all of them with hair of gold, like their mother, the youngest one in curls....the oldest one, Marcia, is the one that causes el-mega-shmega woodrow pants tightening for your humble horndog Nigel. 
