Between this and The Completely Unnecessary Karate Kid, it seems that Will and Jada’s child-labor-based retirement plan is proceeding apace. Too bad they couldn’t figure out a way to do it without raping my auditory canals and the memory of Pat Morita.
In search of a gift for the upcoming holiday season, but not sure what your special lady (or even specialer dude) really wants? Look no further than Pearl Necklace, designed by Leah Piepgras. Here’s her site’s description:
Pearl Necklace is a seemingly amorphous cast silver shape on a chain that is actually an accurate representation of semen.
Maybe your semen, Leah. Mine looks more like this:
"It's a spooge rainbow, all the way across the sky...!"
The necklace comes in two designs, one of which is certain to match your lover’s taste in viscous pools of freshly squeezed man-extract.
I prefer the second version… it has more character. The first is immature, like a Boy Scout just rubbed one out over your loved one’s clavicle. That means it’s inappropriate for most adult women, unless she’s an algebra teacher in the Florida public school system, in which case, hey, go wild, tiger… you’re gonna need to mow a lotta lawns to pay for one of these!
Head over to Leah’s site and buy one of these puppies for a cool body-temperature $420.
(hat tip: The Secret Diaries of an Extraordinary Girl)
That’s the only conclusion I can reach after watching the first three minutes and eight seconds of this video; I had to hit pause at that point, out of fear that I would begin brutally humping my monitor. Obviously, my days as a full-time vagina-aficionado are coming to an end. I must wake from my heterosexual daydream and admit that I want to make a bowel baby in Jordan Catalano.
It’s not something I ever expected, that’s for sure. I feel confused and excited, like a sex offender in a kindergarten classroom full of midgets. But then, as the ancient Chinese folk tales tell us, there are but two things that are certain in life: change, and boners.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to un-pause the video and begin embracing the New Me with a jar of Vaseline and a firm grip…
(via: Urlesque)
So this is what we're calling "fat" these days? Let me tell you something, people... I would tear this chick up. I would motorboat her all the way across Lake Erie. I would do things to her that would make an all-seeing God blush and look away. If this is "fat", then super-size my order, baby.
I'm tellin' you, I would pinch and squeeze that ass like a little kid with a fresh bag of marshmallows. In fact, the only problem with her butt is that it would distract me from looking at her gorgeous face. My penis weeps with indecision.
(via: V Magazine & Glass Magazine & 12+ UK & Felix Lammers)
He says that is the Most Perfect Internet Video Ever. What a fucking tool. Sure, I’ll grant that it’s decent, but Most Perfect? Hells no! It’s just going through the motions, man. There’s no passion, no hunger. It’s the internet video version of Rocky if he hadn’t taken the extra time for a training montage.
Better luck next time, Danny boy. For what it’s worth, if you want to see something closer to perfect, try this:
If there’s a flaw there, I can’t find it.
I'm proud of Holly Madison. I mean, she seems to be managing her post-Hef life well enough, at least on a professional level. She's got a nice gig going in Vegas, and unlike Kendra or the Shannon Twins, has yet to appear in a poorly-shot video where some dork uses her face to babysit his liquid kids. Given the alternatives, Holly looks like a paragon of class and sophistication, which isn't easy with fake boobs.
Based on the trailers and clips we’ve seen so far, there’s every reason to believe that AMC’s TV adaptation of Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead will be awesome. Frank Darabont (director of The Shawshank Redemption) and Gale Ann Hurd (writer of The Terminator) have the perfect pedigrees to run a show about a group of survivors wandering the American countryside after the inevitable Zombie Apocalypse, and the nature of the story is perfect for a long-form series. But there’s no way the show’s actual credit sequence will be as awesome as the one above, cobbled together by fan Daniel Kanemoto from bits and pieces of Tony Moore and Charlie Adlard’s art.
Honestly, the only thing stopping Kanemoto’s animation from stealing the “best intro sequence on television” crown away from True Blood is the lack of baptisms and tits, and I’m willing to compromise on the baptisms. Step up your game, Daniel!
The Walking Dead premieres on AMC October 31st, Halloween Night.
via: I Watch Stuff
Check It Out
The Walking Dead: Compendium One
The source material for the TV series, and amazing in its own right. Every time you think a situation can’t get any more fucked up, that human beings cannot sink any deeper, and that, oh hell no, that character can’t die… it happens. Robert Kirkman tortures his creations, not with glee, but with grim resolve. It leaves you asking yourself, “What would I do?”
Unless you’re me, since my answer to that question –zombies or no zombies– is always the same: “Kick ass and start a harem.”
You’ve seen his “blow in the ear” light switch all over the intertubes. Now learn more about the maniac behind the world’s most utilitarian sex to– er, household fixture.
I hear the original concept used a vagina, but, y'know... vag farts.
This is not Chris Haines. But wouldn't it be awesome if it were?
Chris Haines is a lighting/furniture/graphic designer, and a hero. Not the kind of hero you look up to, because if you admire Chris, you’re probably a mental defective hovering at the dark edges of society. He’s definitely not the kind of hero who triumphs over adversity, since he appears to voluntarily live in Rhode Island. Nor is he the kind who rescues kittens from trees, because from what I can tell, Chris would just take the kitten, dip it in plastic, shove a 10-watt bulb up its ass, and try to use it as an Itty Bitty Book Light.
But Chris Haines is a hero all the same. He’s a graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design, and –despite all the evidence in his online portfolio– gainfully employed. In my opinion, the school should lose all accreditation, but I think his employer is to be applauded; it takes all sorts of compassion to keep someone this demented –and no doubt socially awkward– on the payroll. There must be whole pages in the Employee Handbook about not standing too close to Chris and how to best avoid eye contact, lest he decide to manufacture an iPad case out of your scrotal skin.
Chris calls this his Spring Lounge. I call that bullshit. I know a Bouncy Sex Chair when I see one. Chris: "You can't sit on it with out a big smile on your face or bursting into uncontrolled laughter." Let's just leave your penis out of this, man.
According to his resumé, “Chris Haines grew up being obsessed with redesigning everything he saw and wanting to make things function better or be more aesthetically pleasing.” Which explains why his little sister disappeared abruptly at age eight, right around the time an amazingly realistic, inexplicably heavy ceramic gnome showed up in Momma Haines’ tomato garden.
Clever lighting installation, or pieces of an unfortunate drifter who picked the wrong backyard for a shortcut? You decide.
I think we should all take this opportunity to salute Chris Haines, the master designer from Rhode Island, the state that gave us fellow artiste DJ Pauly D and fellow sociopath Stewie Griffin. Because if we don’t, he might end up using our jawbones as toilet-paper dispensers. Just sayin’.
Look at this and tell me he isn't just a clown painting or two away from John Wayne Gacy.
Here’s a link to Chris’s blog. You can also follow him on Twitter, but beware… he might follow you back.
via: Geekologie
I don’t know that Eddie Long is a hypocritical, prong-suckling boy snuggler. Accusations are not facts, until, y’know, they are. We’re not there yet, and may never be. The man may be a completely innocent hate-monger, blameless in his paranoid delusions, and not spewing brain-dead condemnations of homosexuals as a cover for his deep-seated desire to gobble some Spongy Penis Head Surprise.
But I, for one, refuse to give up hope.
Every now and then, as in this photo, Candice Swanpoel makes me think of Uma Thurman. Y'know, if Uma had never stopped being eighteen, had sprouted boobs, and was blessed with an ass that could launch a thousand ships, not to mention at least a half dozen space shuttles. On the downside, if Candice were Uma, we would have been denied part of Quentin Tarantino's directorial output, since Pulp Fiction and Kill Bill would have mostly consisted of Marcellus Wallace or Bill sitting in a room staring at her and jerking off.
