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.

Katy Perry from Russel Brand's Twitter

Katy Perry Has Not Been Kidnapped. Or So They Say.

IN THIS PHOTO: Singer-songwriter Katy Perry, looking more disheartened than a single mother who just woke up on Christmas morning to the news that her son has given her daughter a bladder infection.

I know the official story is that Russell Brand posted this photo to Twitter, and then quickly deleted it. But what if it’s bigger than that? Looks to me like she’s been taken hostage. Seriously, she could only look more like a kidnap victim if she were holding today’s newspaper in her teeth.

After what happened last summer between BP and the U.S., could this be part of some broader escalation of tensions, where an insane British fop kidnaps our nation’s single biggest source of deep-water cleavage? Is he going to demand continued drilling rights, or will he settle for exclusive motor-boating privileges?

Jesus, foreign relations can be intense!

Isn't she lovely, isn't she wonderful...

Christina Aguiler-oh-my-god-it’s-eating-her-pants!

PICTURED: Christina Aguilera indulging in a daring fashion experiment, coupling ironic camo gear with a pair of Lycra Beaver Cleavers, and topping it all off with shades that look like she stole them from an 85 year-old glaucoma patient. (Grandma be comin' for you, bitch.)

Every picture tells a story… especially the one where hotel security footage captures you snorting coke off the naked scalp of a midget prostitute halfway through her second round of chemo. Some pictures convey too much for a single story, though. And this is one such picture. This is a photo with which Homer could have sailed a thousand tales. Granted, 998 of them would have been about yeast infections, but the point stands.

PROTIP: Always remember to feed the Kraken before releasing it.

For example: everyone knows that in 1959, DuPont scientist Joseph Shivers accidentally discovered the formula for spandex while masturbating with a rubber band under an apple tree. What most never realized, however, is that DuPont has been steadily and quietly introducing flavor additives to the formula over the years, resulting in occasional instances of pudendal mastication, as Xtina so capably demonstrates here.

So what flavors do vaginas most enjoy? My guesses: chocolate, strawberry, and cock sweat. Or in the case of Julianne Hough, pussy.

(via Hollywoodtuna)

Pictured: Julianne Hough laughs light-heartedly as she shows off her favorite holiday gift, a fully-articulated, homosexual action figure made entirely of money and spray-tan juice.

Julianne Hough Laughs Through The Shame

Pictured: Julianne Hough laughs light-heartedly as she shows off her favorite holiday gift: a fully-articulated, fully-closeted, 1/3 scale action figure made entirely of money and spray-tan juice.

Jesus, what does that bedroom scene look like? In my mind’s eye, I envision some perverted Tim Burton nightmare where a rich hobbit with a grudge against Brian Dunkleman is running circles around a naked ballerina in a cowboy hat. What I enhear in my mind’s ear is this:

RS: “Baby, can I get a little tonight?”

JH: “I’m having my period.”

RS: “Ew. And irrelevant for my purposes.”

JH: “Fine, I’ll get the lube. But I’m not wearing the hair shirt tonight.”

RS: “You totally have to. It’s James Franco night!”

JH: “When do we get to have ‘fuck the sexy dancer’ night?”

RS: “As soon as you bring home your brother.”

Aaaaand… scene. Here’s a video you’ll watch with the volume turned down:

Hulk Figure Gets Some Action! (NSFW)

Pictured: the seldom-seen --but always impressive-- Gamma-Powered Reverse Motorboat.

“Hey there, baby!”

“Hey, giant naked lady.”

“What’s your name, little man?”

“I am Hulk! Hulk is strongest one there is!”

“Oooo, I just bet you are! You wanna have a good time?”

“Hulk smash! Hulk likes to smash!”

“That works for me, honey. You can smash with me all night long!”

“Hulk is confused. Purple pants getting tighter. Hulk feels… dirty. And Hulk likes it.”

“Get your sexy green ass over here, Hulkie…!”

“Wait, doesn’t Hulk need to wear protection…?”

“For where you’re going, you’d need a mining helmet and wetsuit.”

“Hulk is scared now.”

via: obsexxed

Moon Bloodgood Is Pretty, Kristin Kreuk Is Distracting, and Other Discoveries

Moon Bloodgood in Maxim. Also her entry in the Completely Superfluous Sleeves competition on Project Runway.

I normally hate research. First, because it always involves learning things, and I have a policy against that. In fact I haven’t learned anything new since 1994. (That’s the year Kurt Cobain taught me that no matter how big a bitch she is, man, there’s always a way out.) Second, I hate it because searching for info on a hot chick is such a pain in the ass… there’s so much spam in the results that I start wondering if someone should send Wilford Brimley over to Google headquarters to screen the servers for diabetes.

But I didn’t mind the research so much this time. Things got off to a good start when I was able to type in “Moon Bloodgood” and get back some very specific hits. Not really a shock I suppose, since that’s right up there with “Hymen McSwarthy” and “Homeopathic Van Ampersand” on the list of name searches that should kick back exactly what I’m looking for or nothing at all. As with my boss’s daughter’s recent visit to the OB/GYN, there should be no false positives.

(I wasn’t truly worried about those test results by the way… I have a system. Every time I bang a chick, just before pulling out, I give her an extra little cockpunch. This both confuses my sperm  –”Why is daddy hitting mommy?”– and serves as a signature finishing move. When you double-tap a chick’s cervix, she knows she’s been done by a pro. Or someone with a stuttering penis. Which I really wish was a thing.)

As it turns out, that opening salvo of good fortune wasn’t a fluke. Next, I found this delightful interview Ms. Bloodgood did on G4′s Attack of the Show, where she reveals that Billy Bob Thornton –a man known primarily for loving “French fried pertaters” and being so sexually and professionally unremarkable that Angelina Jolie married him just to piss off her dad– is nonetheless a narcissistic fucktard whose idea of seducing women is giving them copies of movies he’s starred in and taking them down to his basement rape cage home music studio to “record their voices.”

A couple clicks later, IMDB informed me that her first film role was in Win A Date With Tad Hamilton!, where I suspect the terms of her contract required that she always carry a fire extinguisher at all times, just is case the red-hot sexual chemistry of Kate Bosworth and Topher Grace were to ignite the set. Those skinny, awkwardly attractive kids could set a stage alight faster than a roadie for Great White.

(While we’re vaguely on the subject of people with weird names, what kind of assholes are Topher Grace’s parents, anyway? Naming your kid “Christopher” and then calling him “Topher” is like meeting Hall & Oates and just getting your photo snapped with Oates… you’ve taken something shitty, divided by two, and then kept the even shittier, weird-looking half.)

In another interview, I discovered that during their mutual firearms training, Moon turned out to be a better shot than her Street Fighter: Legend of Chun-Li co-star Chris Pine. Unfortunately, after I finished laughing at Pine’s emasculated shame, all my good luck went out the window. It’s at that point that I remembered that Kristin Kreuk was also in SF:LoC, which in turn led me to watching an endless loop of the attached Smallville clip, and well, long story short… this post is only half-done, I’m out of socks and Kleenex, and the back of the dog’s neck is sticky.

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So if you don’t mind, check out these photos of Moon while I try to figure out how many Beggin’ Strips it takes to say “I’m sorry.”

Pantsless girl in blue takes a photo of her own ass in a dressing room

Stimulus Package: Hot Chicks With Cameras Are Destroying The Economy

I do not know who this is, but whoever she is, she deserves an award for being that person. A throbbing, veiny award.

Throughout the recent election cycle, we heard a lot of debate about unemployment, tax cuts, and masturbating witches. Know what no one bothered to bring up? The shrinking marketplace for perverts with cameras.

Seriously, Taylor... Halloween is over, you can take it down a notch. Or take it up a few notches, and Charlie Sheen will lock you in a bathroom. Either way is good with me.

As little as twenty years ago, if you wanted a grainy, out-of-focus photo of a half-naked girl you didn’t know, you had to work for it. There was the planning, the equipment, the stakeouts at Forever 21, the bribes for mall security, the photography lessons at the Learning Annex that earned you both an Honorable Mention and your first restraining order… in short, it was a tough, rewarding job for men born with a rare mix of intense determination, copious free time, and erectile dysfunction. Being a real creep in those days called for hardy souls who approached the quest for solitary sexual gratification with all the professionalism of Taylor Momsen at a convention for Teen Zombie Prostitutes.

But now? Tch. The combination of mobile phone cameras and floor-length mirror technology has completely distorted the entire business. Chicks everywhere are defying tradition, cutting out the middle-man, and creating their own content.

And that content is itself a mixed bag. Sure, we’re seeing better poses, more smiles, and fewer ass-zits than in the old days, but something fundamental has been lost. Where’s the magic of those truly candid shots of yore, where a slightly chubby chick in panties a size too small indelicately picks a wad of nylon out of her butt? Where is the spontaneity of half-shaved legs and random tampon strings? Today’s stuff just isn’t the same:

This is Tonya Nerilie, @tonyaax3 on Twitter. And I love her. Not in the cheap, tawdry way I've loved other women and the occasional slow-moving sheep; this is real. We're like Romeo & Juliet, if Juliet rocked a perfect bikini and Romeo got fired from Taco Bell for getting high and eating all the chalupas.

Consider yourself warned, America: keep an eye on the beautiful women. While you were fretting over illegal immigration, another group of bronze-skinned, hard-working people who speak a foreign language (What the fuck’s a “Manolo Blahnik”? Does it come with cilantro?) was out there, taking our jobs. And unlike Mexicans, you can’t just build a wall around them to control their movements… the judge in my case was very clear about that.

Taylor Swift charity bullying kids

Taylor Swift Meets An Awesome Kid, Forgets Her Pants

My thoughts here are many:

  • Taylor may want to rethink the micro-mini the next time she’s meeting her crotch-height fans. And am I the only one who looks at this photo and is immediately struck by a vision of flowers bursting from her vagina on demand?1 Y’know, like a Tijuana ping-pong-ball show, only with unicorns and rainbows.
  • How awesome is young Tanner Rothel here? You know this moment is going in his permanent spank-bank, right? Ten bucks says he’s gonna have a thing for giant, skinny, blond chicks for the rest of his life; at least once in his teens, his mom is gonna spend a few confusing hours trying to figure out why she found a blond wig stapled to a broom handle in the back of his closet.
  • It blows my mind that anyone would want to bully Tanner. That’s bullshit, man. Do you know how many hours I’ve spent in front of the mirror, trying to perfect my Billy Idol sneer? Thanks to Cystic Hyrgroma, Tanner has that shit down. If this were 1985, I’d be ready to declare him a god. In fact, fuck it… Tanner’s a god, like Zeus or Ted Nugent. I’ve decided. You hear that, punk kid fuckwits of 2010? Don’t let me find out you’ve been screwing with my boy Tanner. Don’t mess with his lunch, don’t push him around, and don’t you dare attempt to mock him. As his first and best disciple, I will hunt you down and give you the Swirly To End All Swirlies. Because as My Bodyguard taught me at your age, the only appropriate response to a bully is an even bigger bully.
  1. I now anticipate a reply to her epic post-coital John Mayer song entitled Your Body Is A Botanical Garden.

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?

Candice Swanepoel (8)

Candice Swanepoel Takes Me On A Naked Jungle Adventure (NSFW)

One look at a nude Candice Swanepoel, and I’m instantly transported; it’s like she’s a York Peppermint Pattie1, only instead of whisking me away to a frozen, lonely mountaintop, I’m dropped into a humid, Amazonian fuckscape of sensual mystery and malaria nipples. Unfortunately, Russell James’ photography goes the delicately out-of-focus and grainy route, leaving me feeling less a manly, loincloth-shredding, Tarzanian sex beast, and more a lonely, pantsless guy hiding in a tree 100 yards away with a telephoto lens and a moist sock.

Which means he’s captured my essence, really. Way to go, Russell.


(via: Hot Celebs)

  1. Please note that –all comparisons of Candy to candy aside– the author recommends against actually biting Ms. Swanepoel without prior, written consent. With that said, I have reason to believe she tastes like happy.