Author Archives: Roger

About Roger

Author Bio: A philosopher-king in exile, Roger has been forced by fate to wander the wilderness in pursuit of good Italian food and a sort of ring-like thingie --passed down to him by a sacred order of sexy, amoral executive assistants and stolen by this chick he met at a party, he thinks her name was "M"-something-- that is possessed of a power that can shake the very foundations of the globe. Except that globes don't have foundations, so he mostly just checks out hot chicks and cultivates a Lebowski-eqsue lifestyle.

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Richard Marx: Werelion Troubador


Marxy by *Juffs on deviantART

Let the magnitude of this moment sink in. Embrace your unease, and with it that queasy, lubricated sensation deep in your colon that cries out for a relief that must never come. Unleash your sanity so that it may rut in the yard with Chaos and on it sire a litter of beautiful abominations. You have beheld that which should not be.

For you have just realized that somewhere out there is a person who looked at a photo of Richard Marx and somehow saw a brooding, masculine, anthropomorphized lion with a mullet.

Just think about that while you’re trying to go to sleep tonight.

Good luck.

Sexy Or Racist? You Decide!

Samantha Jane Redman | Photography by Arny Freytag

I have a problem. See, despite what my therapist at Dr. Zavier’s School for Unnecessary Children told me as a kid, I’m not a completely horrible piece of putrid, sub-human waste, made ambulatory only through the machinations of a hateful God. I’m an okay person. Not good, not bad. I have never punched anyone in the boob more than once,  I never take the time to moon homeless people anymore, and if I ever give a waiter a bad tip, you can rest assured that I didn’t stiff him just because he was a big homo. Like I said, I’m okay.

This photo from an Australian Playboy photo-shoot makes me wonder, though. For example, I wonder why the guy on the right has a torso that looks like it’s angry with me, while the other one seems so aloof? Is it the nipples? Does this mean some nipples are more intimidating than others? Isn’t there a saying about nipples being gateways to the soul? If not, should I trademark it as a slogan and launch a chain of strip-mall piercing salons called NipCrafters? It’s like the questions go on forever. But abrasive aboriginal abdomens aside, there is one issue that rises above them all.

Can anyone see a non-racist way to get a boner over this photo?

Now, I’m not asking if the photo itself is racist, nor if the photographer or models were racists. We can’t know, and besides, who cares? None of that has anything to do with me, and things that have nothing to do with me have been proven in laboratory tests to be 100% less interesting than everything else in the universe. Also, I’m not talking about simply admiring the photo on an aesthetic level; it’s hardly unpleasant to the eye and seems competently crafted, after all.

But to get it up, to beat off to it? A white, American male like me? It feels weird. And not the good weird, like Nic Cage in Raising Arizona. It’s more like Nic Cage in real life, with a side of Mel Gibson. The image seems too loaded, at least in my cultural context.

Is it just me?

Mayra Leal hiding behind a pillar with a gun

Mayra Leal Watch 2011: El Gallo & Solus

She keeps her built-in cellphone charger under her skirt this time, but Machete‘s unheralded MVP is back to deliver all the drug-addicted prostitution action you can handle. (If you’re me, that’s a lot. FYI.)

I figured it was time to check in on my favorite nude assassin/murderous home-wrecker, and I’ve discovered that the delightful Mayra Leal is in a new miniseries entitled El Gallo. If my Spanish is holding up, I believe “El Gallo” either refers to a large cat or a beloved purveyor of fine boxed wines.

(Please note that my Spanish teacher was one S. Gonzales, the fastest stereotype in all Meh-hee-coh.)

If there were ever any question about me watching this thing, it was answered when the trailer informed me that I could expect ACTION, COMEDY, VIOLENCE, FANTASY, ROMANCE, and LUST. I mean, those are like the six essential food groups of being awesome! The only way they could possibly improve on the formula would be with a monkey in a track suit and a space ninja. Bonus points were deducted for featuring a character named Charro who doesn’t have giant ’70s Love Boat boobs, but I will beneficently restore said points as a reward for that guy Pepe, whose insanely evil grin looks like a latino Joker taking a covert shit in the passenger seat of the Batmobile.

Next I found the trailer for her upcoming movie, Solus, which I think is a kind of mash-up of City of Angels, Requiem For A Dream, and something that would co-star Shannon Tweed if this were 1993. It’s also educational, since I had no idea that hookers strung out on heroin look anything like Mayra… clearly ladies, it’s time to skip the GTL and start chasing that dragon! Yes, there may be the occasional back alley panty-ripping, and you may get spit on by some guy with a goatee, but a handsome man (who I strongly suspect is an angel in the service of an angry God) will take  your scantily-clad silhouette in his arms and carry you off somewhere less rapey.

I concede it’s a rather roundabout approach to love and personal fulfillment, but at least you’ll be skinny! And isn’t that what really counts?

In other Mayra-centric news: a fight scene in another of her new flicks has her training in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, a deadly martial art accidentally developed by 14th century Incas after exposure to a time-traveling Chuck Norris during one of Bill & Ted’s Decidedly Less Excellent Adventures. (Machu Picchu? That thing was totally a strip mall before Keanu Reeves burned down The Gap.)

So if you were thinking about pissing her off, I’d suggest you give the Deadly Hands of Leal Fu a pass and go hassle one of the Teen Moms. Those bitches can’t fight for shit.

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Steve Jobs May Be A Pervert (Also, Leggings Are Not Pants)

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I’m assuming that Job #1 for all Apple Store employees is collecting the webcam footage they record and forwarding it to a massive bunker under Steve’s house. There, a team of naked Colombians spend their time jogging on treadmills to charge his MacBook’s batteries, while a group of video editors painstakingly sort the footage into two categories: “Chicks Whose Mothers Have Failed Them” and “Fat People Leaving Sbarro Stains On The iMacs”. I hear he jerks it to the former, and whips himself with a USB cable while watching the latter.

For the record, my source for this story was the homeless unicorn who lives in a box behind Cold Stone Creamery, where he works part-time ejaculating rainbow sprinkles into a bucket. So, y’know… it’s pretty much guaranteed to be true. (For certain values of “guaranteed” and “true”.)

 

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Frost & Pegg: The Only Thing That Makes Me Even Consider Going To A Seth Rogen Movie In 2011

I love how the folks behind Paul are dangling this bit of genre-comedy raw meat in front of movie fans… they know that for most people, their film amounts to “there’s a CG alien voiced by that guy who was kinda amusing in Knocked Up and Pineapple Express but who stopped being funny back before we knew what a Situation was, and it’s directed by that guy who made that movie that everyone thought was The Funniest Thing Ever until we all saw The Hangover and thought, ‘oh, fuck you Michael Cera’.”

Seriously, at this point, I’d rather watch a movie starring Joe Rogan, or the corpse of Paul Hogan. Or even Hulk Hogan! Or… think about it… a movie where the handyman from NewsRadio, Crocodile Dundee’s skeletonized remains, and the Hulkster fight to the death in an arena filled with Nazi ninja vikings from a far off land called Irrelevancy. I want to see that. Not in a movie. For real.

So they toss this out to remind people that Nick Frost and Simon Pegg are a fantastic pair of actors and writers, and no matter how soul-searingly awful the trailer makes the movie look, there’s a fair chance that somewhere within the bowels of this Frankenstein’s Monster of comedic sensibilities lurks something worthy of its Shaun of the Dead/Hot Fuzz pedigree.

You’ll have to pardon me, though, if I don’t get my hopes up.

(I never get them up. They like to sleep late during the week. Then they come-to, reeking of booze and covered in glitter they picked up off some whore, and it’s all ‘why didn’t you get me up, you know I have work,’ and I’m like, ‘the office called, said you haven’t been there all week,’ and then things just escalate until I’ve finally had enough of the lies and I shoot ‘em in the throat. That’s right: my hopes died, and I killed them! I fucking did it! Is that what you wanted to hear?! Get out of my house! Get out!)

shedontlikefirefly

She Don’t Like Firefly (But She DOES Put Out)

Okay, I’m as big a geek as the next dude. I like video games, I jerk off to cartoons, and ever since I was but a wee lad, I’ve dreamed of glazing Princess Leia’s buns. Hell, I even go through pon farr, which has landed me on several watch-lists and scares the shit out of the neighborhood cats.

But I’m not a big enough dork to pass on a hottie in thigh-highs and a fuck-me pout. In fact, if she were hanging around, I wouldn’t even wear pants… I’d just keep a Conan-style loincloth handy for when the pizza guy comes to the door or I need something to wipe my dick on.

(Y’know, for when her hair is already too sticky.)

I certainly wouldn’t upset the sexy applecart over a cancelled TV show whose biggest star was the black cop on Barney Miller. A show that crossed Oregon Trail with Battlestar Galactica, featuring a hot-ass space-prostitute and a captain who was like a gay John Wayne. The one where My Bodyguard decides to stress his dramatic muscles and play a big, dumb guy with a bad attitude. The one with the psychic ballerina assassin and the horny female engineer who spent more time designing motorized dildos than actually fixing the spaceship. The one with the married couple who amounted to a shotgun-toting dominatrix and her unleashed slave-boy.

In other words, the greatest show in the history of forever. Doesn’t matter. It all comes down to one thing.

Vagina > Joss Whedon. Truth.

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Miss Arkansas: A Disturbing, Slightly Arousing Closer Look

Alyse Eady: baby girl is so ripped, you'd think she's from Whitechapel.

As an Arkansan myself, it was interesting to discover both that Alyse Eady –Miss Arkansas– was first runner-up in Miss America 2011 the other night, and that she is crazy-hot. Emphasis on “crazy”, based upon the talent portion of the competition:

But wait… what makes this truly great isn’t that she thought it was a good idea to wager what amounts to her life’s work on fucking puppets. Nope. What takes her performance over the top and into the realm of the ineffably awesome is that she does it… a lot. Like, constantly. From what I can tell, whether you’re handing out bedazzled crowns or just need someone to show up for the grand opening of a fucking grocery store, this crazy bitch is gonna be there, both fists firmly ensconced in the felt-covered assholes of the Cookie Monster’s hillbilly cousins, ready to whip out a signature dance routine that combines the soul-numbing tedium of tap with the full-on retard charms of line-dancing.

I am in awe. I mean, holy shit. It’s as if she’s a sexy emissary from the far-flung future, sent back in time to show us what it will be like when humans evolve beyond shame. In an interview, she said this about taking up ventriloquism:

When I was 9 years old I saw a ventriloquist perform and just fell in love with it!  I checked out books from the public library to learn more about it.  My mom even purchased a book about Vonda Van Dyke, Miss America 1965, who was the first ventriloquist to appear on the Miss America stage.

So we’re clear, that’s like Chris Farley falling in love with SNL as a kid, reading everything he could about John Belushi, and then intentionally growing up to kill himself with Twinkies and cocaine, just like his hero. Dream big, kids!

Oh, and as a side-note, for those with an interest in off-season television shows where people spend three months every summer sleeping and comparing farts for your amusement, please note Alyse competed against (and defeated) Big Brother 12‘s Britney Haynes in the Miss Teen Arkansas pageant a few years back. Given how hot and funny Britney was –and how truly awful ventriloquism is– I can only assume Britney lost because her talent was setting crippled Lithuanian children on fire or something. There’s really no other explanation.

Yes, sadly, this is the sluttiest photo I could find of Britney Haynes.

Well, except this one.

...and maybe this one.

home made fleshlight

Roll-Your-Own Fleshlight, Lose-Your-Own Dignity (NSFW)

Are you lonely? Sexually frustrated? Has life let you down? Are you at the point where you can see yourself fucking a Pringles can full of cleaning supplies? If so, then here’s a photographic walkthrough for constructing your own disembodied vagina. With just a few minutes of effort and the complete eradication of every last molecule of pride, you too can be humping away at something that looks like a boxer’s left ear wrapped in a condom.

Or you could just buy a Fleshlight, which offers a number of significant advantages over the DIY approach to doing yourself:

  1. No embarrassing questions from the housekeeper about why you’ve named her sponges “Lola” and “Trixie”.
  2. Slightly decreased chance that you’ll experience unwanted erections at work when the janitor walks by.
  3. Jaundice isn’t a good look for genitals.
  4. Psychologically speaking, it’s only a short stroll from screwing a homemade cleanser-cooter in your kitchen to raping Elmo in the toy aisle at Walmart.
  5. Bareback, baby!

Plus, Fleshlights are molded from the cockpits of porn stars:

Tori Black: one of those classic, too-pretty-for-porn girls who go ahead and do porn anyway. It's like if Stephen Hawking said "fuck it" and went to work as a high school physics teacher. Only with more anal.

Jenna Haze demonstrates what it would be like if she had an albino conjoined twin that was made entirely of pussy and asshole. Kinda like my dad.

I adore Teagan Pressley, but I don't care for her tat sleeve. I mean, she's quite lovely and adorable, until that one time you glance down and it looks like you're getting a hand-job from Dave Navarro. No one but Perry Farrell wants that.

In case you didn't get enough of Riley Steele in Piranha 3D, now you can take her Fleshlight down to the lake and pretend you found some bits the fish didn't want. You sick fucker.

(Hat tip to John, who has to make his custom fuck-puppets out of old sofa cushions and a 55 gallon drum.)