Category Archives: Random Stuff

Posts that don’t fit anywhere else. They’re square pegs in a world of round holes. Which means, I guess, that this is also where you’ll find the occasional entry about Sarah Jessica Parker.


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.


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”.)



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!)


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.

Your Dog & Your Cervix: Seriously, Just Don’t Go There

I know you're tempted. After all, he seems like a good boy. But before long, you'll see that he never calls his mother and hasn't had a job in forever. Then where will you be? Sitting alone with way too many jars of peanut butter, that's where.

In a tragic case of too much information, it has been revealed that an Irish woman paused long enough between drunken blackouts and unplanned pregnancies to live out a fantasy and have intercourse with a German Shepherd, only to die immediately afterward from an allergic reaction. It’s just like those people who die eating their first peanut, except with animal genitals.

Putting aside my journalistic objectivity for a moment, I must say that I feel awful for this poor woman. I mean, how was she supposed to know she was allergic to dog jizz? I’ve filled out lots of medical history forms at the doctor’s office, and I don’t recall anyone asking about it. Can you even get tested? Like, where they cover your back with little pinpricks, and one of them is labeled “Terrier Taffy”? Plus, even if there is a test, will insurance pay for it, and how do you bring it up with your insurance agent? I think I’d feel judged.

Speaking of awkward conversations, is it a genetic thing you can inherit? If so, isn’t there an ethical obligation for a mother to tell her daughter that she’s a carrier? You wouldn’t want her learning it on the street, or in some alley behind a kennel somewhere, right? It’s difficult to imagine the ways this would challenge affected parents. The first time your little girl brings home a stray, do you scold her, or calmly sit her down with a copy of Our Doggies, Our Selves and answer her questions? Do you write angry letters to your local TV station to protest their over-sexualization of children with their Scooby-Doo re-runs? It all seems so terribly complicated.

As far as the public health ramifications go, does this mean there are entire families of women carrying the gene for this allergy, walking around like bestiality bombs, primed to go off if they get too close to hound cock? Or worse, are all women allergic? Is this something that’s been kept from us? Because it sounds like something someone would keep quiet… the CDC maybe, or the ASPCA. Probably because they didn’t want al-Qaeda to get wind of it; I hear there are camps in the mountains of Pakistan where sleeper dogs are being trained by terrorist handlers to infiltrate our nation’s network of commie-liberal animal shelters. They’re tracking them by watching for large online orders of Milk Bones and Astroglide.

More news as it breaks.

The Link Parts Are… Wired! (featuring An Insane Dude On A Bike)

Sometimes, I look at someone achieving something like this and think, "I don't take enough chances in life." And then I think, "Yeah, but at least I've never had to dig cargo shorts out of my colon." Life is such a delicate balance, y'know?

kinky house

For Sale: Cozy Cottage (Sexual Predators Welcome)

The rough, uneven yard and soft soil is ideal for inconspicuous night-time digging.

Some say home is where the heart is. Others say home is where you hang your hat. I say home is where you bury the hearts of your victims after fashioning their skins into a collection of festive chapeaux. I guess everyone really does have something in common, if you look close enough.

With that in mind, this Grayland, WA property should tickle the fancy of just about anyone; conveniently located within walking distance of Washington State’s beautiful, rock-strewn, overcast beaches of melancholic doom, it has all the makings of a delightful vacay getaway, or a seemingly abandoned, subtly enticing flop house for succulent runaways.

Included: Locking cage, flogging bench, sex swing, and medieval stocks. Not included: Taser, zip-ties, and map to the homes of single women in the neighborhood.

Fully furnished, the cottage can immediately provide for the needs of you and your guests. whether the occasion calls for dining, conversation, or man-sized cages filled with bondage equipment. New in the area with no friends? Not a problem! The local homeless community can provide you with a pool of companions rich in life experience but poor in foot speed and reaction time. Invite someone over for a relaxing couple hours in front of your new home’s 27″ television, or make your own entertainment with a Roofie Colada, the included, sturdily-attached sex swing, and your innate lack of conscience. Before long, you’ll have more visitors than you have space under the floorboards!

Outside, you’ll find a number of other delightful features. There’s a large spot available for parking an RV, or setting up a bouncy castle to help get acquainted with the neighborhood kids. There’s also a raised, covered deck that can hold as many as fifteen children, one adult in a filthy clown costume, and a large box of wine. And I’m sure you’ll find the space under the deck perfect for storing those forgotten Schwinn and Huffy bicycles that always seem to accumulate around the house.

Feel free to instruct your imported Filipina sex slave in reading and writing, but just remember that the letters "h", "e", "l", and "p" should be taught with care.

But don’t think for a second that the excitement for the little ones stops outside! Inside, when they tire of playtime on the flogging bench or hours spent in the hand-crafted, medieval stocks, they can practice memorizing the new names you’ve given them by writing on the classroom-sized chalkboard. Nothing beats the doldrums of a rainy day in captivity at the hands of a menacing  stranger better than a little creative, educational fun!

Frankly, I think this place is a steal at the asking price of just $139,900. Just remember to always ask the local cops and FBI agents to take off their shoes when searching your residence; stains on the carpeting will absolutely kill your resale.

(Thanks for spotting this affordable chamber of horrors goes out to John, who knows where all the bodies are buried.)