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.
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. ↩
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.
College Girl’s PowerPoint “Fuck List” Goes Viral – Jezebel
Call me crazy, but I like a girl with standards. I also like girls who get blackout drunk and fuck strangers on alcoholic autopilot. It’s nice when you can find both those qualities in one package. What’s less nice? When the package comes with free gonorrhea.
WTF iPad App Of The Week: Poo Log HD – Cult of Mac
Where has an app like this been all my life? A tool to track my stool? A log for my logs? Do you know how many bar bets I could have won over the years if only I’d had reliable documentation of my bowel movements?
How to get Apple to do a non-warranty repair [Tip] – TiPb
Wow. That is way easier than my method of letting Steve Jobs teabag me while I wear a Bill Gates mask and sing I’m A Little Teapot. (A little secret? He likes falsetto. And a cheerful tongue.)
Hotel’s Curvature Causes ‘Deathray’ Effect – Geekologie
Way to go, Vegas. You can roast mild-mannered tourists with your reflective buildings, but where’s Celine Dion? Not on fire, that’s where!
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.
Photo: Georgia May Jagger, for Hudson Jeans. Erection: me, for whatever's hiding under her elbow.
I have some issues with Ms. Jagger. Forgetting to put on a shirt or button her pants before stepping in front of the camera suggests she’s got memory issues, her dad is the only man alive who could take down Ron Perlman and Tim Curry in an Ugly Face/Cool Voice showdown, and her mother was disfigured first on film by The Joker, and then in real life by the domestic abuse of Father Time. All that’s bad enough. Then you factor in her weird hobbies:
A while ago, on the street, a guy yelled, “You could stick a gold through your front teeth!” Which meant I could put a £1 coin between them. But you can’t. I’ve tried! Fifty-pence coins and 2-pence coins, yes. But not a pound.
What the hell? Bitch, have you never heard of Ass Pennies?!
You don’t ever put random, filthy coins in anything that matters to you; the disgusting state of our cash supply is why Western society’s piggy banks are the only ceramic livestock in the world that carry salmonella. I have it on good authority that the average woman’s change-purse is crawling with more microscopic critters than a rest-stop glory hole on Hobo Appreciation Nights.
Simply put, there are some lines that even I won’t cross. If terrorists were threatening to blow up one of our national monuments and the only way to stop them would be to gargle a few dimes, well, Mt. Rushmore would just have to deal with a decapitation or two. A serial killer could have my grandma strapped to an explosive device made out of nitroglycerin and dildos, and I would still be forced to pass.1
Dammit, why does that Samantha Ronson get all the hot chicks...?
I suppose I could overlook this behavior, though. I mean, viewed from a different perspective, it’s just an example of an attractive young lady stuffing unnatural things into her orifices; I’m on record as a fan of that sort of thing. And from an aesthetic point of view –given the state of British dentistry’s art– it’s just lucky she can’t wedge the grille from a ’76 Jaguar in there.
So okay, tight-bodied daughter of celeb royalty who will inherit more money than Jesus in a few years… I will consent to be your mancubine. Now, introduce me to Uncle Keith; I hear he has some awesome eyeball stories.
Let’s be very clear about something: I resent Seth Green. First, there’s the obvious: he made Without A Paddle, for which he will endure a well-deserved season in hell. I’m also bitter about his talent, since I firmly believe hairless Ewoks should stick to playing in trees and stop making the rest of us feel bad for under-achieving despite our robust height and relatively massive genitalia. But most significantly, I resent him for marrying Clare Grant; in a world that contains an available –and given his hair and her skin, color-coordinated– Snooki, why poach the good chicks? It’s just rude, is what I’m saying.
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I've got a Facebook friend with a nearly identical head shot. Ah, Hollywood... a land where women never have right ears.
And believe me, I would marry Clare Grant in his place. She’s distinctively gorgeous, has ridiculously hypnotic eyes, and is completely unashamed of her busy genre-sploitation acting career. Hell, from what I can see, she actively embraces it. That implies the sort of down-to-earthiness that would appreciate my sense of whimsy1 and tendency to cry after sex.2
My impotent rage and potent sexuality aside, this is where I point out that the delightful Clare has been in the dorknews of late because she rounded up some sexy friends and Chris Griffin’s less-suave alter-ego to make this video:
Now, in general, I’m not a geek-girl sycophant; these days, we’re supposed to fall all over ourselves the second a pretty lady confesses her love for Alan Moore, but I’m not havin’ it. Why the fuck would anyone act like this is a big deal? Alan Moore is a batshit-crazy genius, and there’s something wrong with you if you don’t appreciate his work. I’m not going to give you extra Life Points for simply resisting the urge to let your physical beauty overwhelm your good taste.
Life Objective #4,287: Somehow convince Clare to wear this outfit while making me a sandwich. Life Objective #4,288: Get Katy Perry to wear the same thing while feeding me the sandwich. Life Objective #4,289: Talk to a shrink about why my fantasies involve sandwiches rather than my penis playing "Destroy the Death Star" with Clare's cervix.
But I do award Life Points for brazenly being who you are, having fun with it, and not making excuses. That is hot, in oh-so-many ways. And by that standard, Clare’s score is about to roll over like the odometer in a 1972 Duster.
Someone has excellent posture. Also, boobs. And a skilled aesthetician, by the look of things.
Interesting side-note: despite the Geek Girls video’s popularity, I believe people are missing out on the real gem in her online filmography:
That’s just art, that is.
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Yeah, fuck you, Green; you're the Billy Joel of poultry-oriented android shows, and one day you'll get yours. Which, if history is any indication, will involve lots of money and hot babes. So... fuck you twice!
Oh, and Clare, seriously love… have you delved deeply into your beau’s oeuvre?3 I’m just puttin’ it out there; this is how your offspring will turn out:
So do us all a favor: if you’re determined to stay with him, at least keep Seth as far from your womb as possible. (I’ve got some really tiny crime scene tape if you’d like to borrow it.) And if you absolutely must turn to a young star of Can’t Buy Me Love to ruin this majestic perfection:
…at least give Patrick Dempsey a call. Worst case scenario, your kid will wait until he’s thirty, and then turn into a stud.
Natalia Paris is a Colombian bikini model. In fact, from what I can tell, she’s pretty much the bikini model, as far as Colombians are concerned. And here, I must bow to the wisdom –and potential national rage– of said Colombians… she fills out a two-piece as well as anyone on the planet, and I don’t need any mustachioed men from Medellin showing up at my door, ready to do to me what OJ said they did to Nicole.1
Among the many impressive bits about Natalia is that she’s not a teeny-bopper… mamacita is pushin’ 40, and pushin’ it well. I guess she’s not technically ready to be a cougar, but she’s a viable ocelot.
(Educational Note: In Colombia, the ocelot is known as a tigrillo, probably because it sounds like something you can smoke. Crazy-ass Colombians… there’s probably no part of their flora or fauna that they haven’t tried to smoke, snort, or sip.)
A bit off-topic here, but if I haven’t done it lately, I would just like to thank the universe for DailyMotion. Yeah, I have no idea what’s going on in half the videos on DM, but at least they don’t quake in fear at the sight of tits and ass the way those repressed nerds at YouTube do. Depressing to think that the French are more American than America.
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But back to the ass at hand. For reasons not entirely clear, Natalia made a video wherein she gives a teddy bear an around the world. And I don’t know about you, but it feels awesome just to write that sentence.
There are some days that the web just makes me happy.
Doutzen understands that this outfit simply demands a pearl necklace. That's just good breeding, that is.
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I’ve always felt it was very appropriate that Doutzen Kroes is from The Netherlands, ’cause I’ve always wanted to explore her Nether Regions. But now that dream is over, thanks to some Cash Warren-level douchebot who has spilled his dollar store baby balm all over her Dolce & Gabbana uterus, and dammit, you just can’t get a stain like that out. Well, not without visiting that special dry cleaner with all the protesters on the sidewalk, anyway.
It looks like one of Dolly Parton's wigs got loose and is trying to eat her alive. And I still think it's hot.
(The line to complain about that last joke –much like your mother’s massages– starts at the head of my penis. Don’t forget to speak up; my nuts are hard of hearing.)
If I were Don Draper from Mad Men or George Clooney from Awesomeville, I would insist that any woman living with me be dressed and posed just like this every time I come home. I'd walk in, flick a cigarette butt at her, and she'd pour me a scotch rocks. Then we'd do it up against the wall while I kept a fistful of her hair in one hand and my drink in the other. Then I'd have a nap, while using her ass as a pillow. (I have very specific fantasies.)
At this point, the spermination of our planet’s sexiest women is reaching epidemic status. In fact, I want to see the CDC get involved before Blake Lively trips over a paparazzo’s foot and lands vagina-first on some dickweed plastic surgeon’s unprotected cock. I mean, I don’t want to go on a murderous rampage through the streets of Hollywood, but I will if I have to, people.
Fifty percent of the vaginas pictured here are officially on their way to being wrecked. And one of them will probably end up boning Shia Lebouf on the set of Transformers 3, which is almost as bad.
Just to compound the pain in Doutzen’s case, the DNA donor is a fucking DJ! A DJ! You know, the profession so ridiculous that people even let Pauly D do it.
And what's up with that name? "Sunnery"? I hate you, you fruity-named model mangler!
I leave you now with this gallery, a memorial of sorts. Ah, Doutzen… we’ll always have Paris. And that stack of Victoria’s Secret catalogs next to the toilet.
All day, every day… staring into the mirror, taking pictures of my boobs. I could be in the middle of a vampire movie, and I’d be the only character you could trust, ’cause I’d be that chick who’s constantly ogling her reflection. My own body would file a sexual harassment lawsuit against me, and I would plead innocent by reason of being so fucking sexy.
And then, on my days off from salivating over my own awesomeness, I’d go the mall and help my girlfriends try on bras. Because I’m a helper.
I’m not normally into freak shows, but… well, that’s just a lie. I’m totally into freak shows. I would pay real money to watch Rosie O’Donnell do Katie Curry with a strap-on. I would gaze in awe at the sight of Perez Hilton being lowered into a pool of ravenous fish which have been genetically engineered to feed solely upon stupidity. If I’m really desperate, I’ll even watch an episode of Leave It To Lamas.
But in a perfect world, all freak shows would look like these red carpet shots of Irina Sheik and Jessica White, welded together at the hip.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Wouldn’t it be awkward, trying to please two connected women like that?” To which I respond: “Sure, they have two vaginas, but only one bloodstream. With the price of roofies these days, that’s like a 50% off sale.”
And for the record, I’m not a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure a three-way with a pair of sisters isn’t incest if they share the same nervous system. Just sayin’.
This is a tough post to write, because it cuts so deeply. But I can’t remain silent, waiting for the world to change.
As some of you know, Bar Refaeli once spent a few months as my lover. To call that time “profound” would be an understatement; I was forever changed. She was like sexual Oxycontin. If you had told me I had to pay $10,000 every time I popped her pill, I would have immediately sought out a reasonable line of credit and invested in a hearing aid. And since Bar, I’ve been all about the Jewish girls. It’s like my cock is Emperor Hadrian, and all it wants to do is storm their sexy love-temples with my wriggling legions.[1]
This is how I like to remember Bar: carefree, happy, waxed...
Alas, when my little Mars Bar (private joke between us… ’cause she was always walking around full of my nougat) decided that she could no longer wait for me to decide between our love and my career, I sincerely wished her well in starting a relationship with that DiCaprio guy. Even though my work (fist-fighting mutant bipedal rhinos for the secret anti-childhood-leukemia serum contained in their horns) keeps me busy (and smelling of rhinoceros dung), I’ve always made a point of watching over her from afar.
Recently, I began to notice a disturbing pattern. It started when her thing with Leo was getting rocky; I noticed little comments in the media that were designed to get my attention.
I'm surprised the photographer let her wear my old cock-ring as a bracelet.
Yeah, to most of you, that reads like a press release. But once you know that her nickname for me was “Rampage McCockthrust”, it’s obvious she was trying to catch my eye. Bar being Bar, she wouldn’t just come out and say anything, but I could tell something was up. Then I actually started to worry when I spotted this photo in Sports Illustrated:
Her gaze is so hungry in this shot. Eric Carmen sang "Hungry Eyes". Eric Cartman sang "Come Sail Away". I gave Bar her first multiple orgasms on the deck of rented yacht named "Ankhors Away". She had multi-Os because I found her G-spot. Many doctors claim the G-spot is a myth. So clearly, Bar mythes me terribly.
When I started seeing rumors that she was back with Leo, and the ungrateful little prick was finally considering locking her down, I figured everything was okay, and I could stop worrying. But then… this:
Damn it, Bar! I understand how you must be feeling. You’re about to settle for a petulant movie star when what you really want –really need– are the strong, admittedly musky arms of a heroic champion of the helpless around you. That can’t be easy. I know it isn’t, baby. But you know the one bitter truth that lingers between us, one that demands you put on a brave face and accept the touch of that little pussy from Growing Pains.
You know as well as anyone, my love.
The rhinos just aren’t going to beat up themselves.
Goodbye.
FOOTNOTES:
[1]Crack a fucking history book, you lazy-ass anti-Semenites!
Y’know the kind of friend I’m talking about? The kind that offers to pick you up at the estate sale where the IRS is auctioning off your home and drive you to your divorce hearing, but he does it in his new Bentley, and asks you to ride in the back seat ’cause his NFL cheerleader girlfriend wants to experiment with road-head on the way there? Yeah, like that.
See, Fox tells W magazine that –just like normal women– she’s insecure about being photographed and how she looks in her underwear. Isn’t that something? It’s like she’s just the girl next door, if the girl next door had weird toe-thumbs and an Armani lingerie modeling contract. But the beautiful part is when she tries to describe her insecurity.
There are some women you could put in underwear and photograph them, and it looks really classy and it doesn’t necessarily provoke a pin-up image. But with me it does, immediately, as soon as I’m in underwear I’m a Vargas girl.
Uh-huh. For the uninitiated, these are “Vargas girls”:
If you were growing up in the '80s, your older brother or sister probably had this album cover somewhere around the house. Or your dad had it under the mattress.
…the creations of Alberto Vargas, whose 60 year body of work has adorned everything from the noses of WWII fighter planes to dorm-room walls to movie marquees.
This puppy was a ground-breaker when it was released in the '30s, and critics routinely rank it among the top two or three movie posters of all time.
So just to make this clear, Megan Fox is insecure about the fact that, when she strips to her panties and lounges in front of a Nikon, she looks more like the idealized images of female perfection that kept soldiers sane during the ravages of multiple wars than a classy lady like, say, Queen Elizabeth.
There you have it, ladies. Megan understands your fears and shares them. Megan is one of you.
