Diatribes And Rants
It doesn’t matter if you watched the Academy Awards last night or not, you have undoubtedly heard all about it today.
As expected, Jennifer Lawrence was so goddamned down-to-earth, personable and gorgeous that both of America’s previous sweethearts put themselves in the hospital. Julia Roberts smiled so hard her horse teeth cracked into shards, creating a mild earthquake in the San Fernando Valley. Reese Witherspoon hyperventilated, her breaths causing her face to finally cave in on itself, as it has been trying to do since she hatched out of that dragon’s egg so many years ago.
Anne Hathaway was insufferable, making sure to thank every single person in the production, in an effort to not seem insufferable. I am pretty sure her teleprompter just listed the credit roll from Les. Mis. She even thanked the dry oatmeal and celery diet that helped get her crucifixion thin.
Seth MacFarlane was hilarious and charming as a host. If he wasn’t 4 feet tall, I would stick it right up his pooper.
Argo, or whatever movie that is where Ben Affleck borrowed Raquel Welch’s morning wig in order to dress up like a dime-store pedophile and save the world or whatever won best picture, which made me wonder if nobody at the Academy saw Jack and Jill, with that busted Weho tranny Adam Sandler.
But on, to more important things, here are the biggest hot messes of the night :
Adele (pictured above) obviously farted on stage. That look on her face is the same one we all make when we fart in our sleep and it wakes us up. The whole: “Did my boyfriend hear that? Did it actually happen? Just to be safe I better hold my breath and pretend to be asleep. Will he ever look at me sexually again? Oh wait, never mind, I am alone.”
John Travolta’s wig, and his New Jersey bourgouise pronunciation of Les Miseraberlereassay.
Sandra Bullock flashed us a glimpse of her real face, when even her man-hands couldn’t manage to get the envelope open. Now we know the truth- that in her Oscar winning performance for The Blind Side, she played both herself, and that big black football player orphan or whatever. All I’m saying is that you don’t get a neck that thick without bench-pressing a ham hock or two. Or being born with a penis.
Renee Zellweger was shit-faced. She stumbled over her words, swayed back and forth while she was presenting, and was almost knocked over by George Clooney. It is also clearly obvious that when they went backstage, Catherine Zeta (whose presentation reminded me of a Florida drag queen winning a local pageant) dipped into her emergency stash of primo Colombian cocaine to perk Zellweger up enough to form coherent sentences.
Dare I say it, I actually enjoyed the Oscars this year.
I don’t know much about presidents, except that the current one has two daughters named Nala and Simba, and his wife currently made a very bad decision whilst at the synthetic wig store in downtown DC, but I do know a funny photo when I see one. This composite of President Obama and Jesus not only made me LOL so hard I contracted toxic shock syndrome, but it also got me thinking of previous presidents, and the scandals that followed them around. Not that any of them compare to Michelle Obama’s horrible fringe bangs (made even worse by the fact that Karl Lagerfeld spoke out publicly against them, and I hate to agree with that old cunt on anything). Anyway, here are 4 of the top presidential scandals in the history of the United States.
Richard Nixon was so shady that rumor has it he was born under a redwood tree, which he later chopped down and traded to the Devil in exchange for blood diamonds mined by orphaned African AIDS babies. Everyone has heard of Watergate, but not everyone knows what it is. Thank you, Wikipedia. Apparently, Nixon used stolen money to fund his re-election, and was later accused of covering up a bunch of other illegal activities, which the public discovered because there was a secret tape recording device in his office. He is the only president in US history to have resigned from his post.
Grover Cleveland had a secret kid. Before his election he had an affair with a widow, who bore him a son. He then secretly agreed to pay child support, but ended up putting the kid in an orphanage to be raised by wolves and pedophiles (Or Popes. Same thing, right?)
Ronald Reagan’s administration secretly gave money to Nicaraguan revolutionaries that they obtained by selling weapons to Iran. Reagan was basically the poor man’s butt-baby of Sadaam Hussein and Bin Laden. Unfortch, terrorism wasn’t as chic then as it it today.
Bill Clinton got a blowjob. I will never understand why this was such a scandal, since the president of the United States should be allowed to get blowies all day, every day, from whomever he chooses regardless of political affiliation. As a result, Clinton was almost impeached. If you ask me, seems like a lot of trouble for a Saturday afternoon pump and dump, but the fact that this scandal is even on the list is evidence of just how ass-backwards our country is.
Anyway, Happy President’s Day.
Every time I got to Florida, I am reminded of just how hard Floridians party, and how if I hadn’t left there when I did, I would probably be dead. Floridians party in a different way than New Yorkers. When they go out, its all about having a ridiculously crazy, fun time. They don’t give a shit if they look good. They are my kind of people.
I went down to support Square One Florida, a company that produces large scale art shows that I started with my friend years ago. (He has since gone on to turn that company into the producer of one of the biggest art shows in Florida). JMO and Emsy were headed down to perform an amazing dance number they choreographed for the event, called Invincible Summer. I helped with the costuming (basically covering them in glitter and drawing muscles on them) and a little with the choreography (fine-tuning things, like telling him not to actually stick his fist in her butthole).
If you think that all of us being there is going to incite a chain reaction of utter insanity, you are right. But my sister was there, too. So it was more like a super nova of intense partying the likes of which the American people (especially the Christians, Republicans, and virgins) cannot possibly fathom. Except, of course, the people who were there. Here is all the shit that went down, in no particular order, with no names, named.
I remember my friend letting me play with his assault rifle. No, that isn’t a euphemism- altho these particular friends have learned not to give me a loaded gun when I’m loaded because apparently I take them all hostage and then don’t remember it in the morning. I ate salt and vinegar chips in the bathtub of a Ramada Inn with my sister. Somebody spent an entire night making out with a married couple. Somebody licked some pretty strange substances off a random iPad. There was a hotel party in our room at the Hilton Garden Inn where I ended up in a fur vest and my undies while crazy bitches all around me took pics of their brown boobs. We had brunch at Hamburger Mary’s in Ybor, which we kindly referred to as Cheeseburger Meredith’s. Apparently Nadia isn’t as hated by all the drag queens as we thought. In fact, they love her. They love her so much they basically put a spotlight on her called her a tranny in front of the entire restaurant. I think their exact words were “This is an OG bitch that we love so much and she has a penis. In her panties. Even though she looks like a girl. She has a penis. A penis.” The rest of the weekend we referred to her as the great and powerful Nadia. If I had a troup of trannies that loved me that much I would storm San Francisco Gaza-style. Too soon, I know. You don’t have to say it. We continued our brunch at Gaspar’s Grotto where they have $2 whiskey shot/beers. The New York side of the table took advantage of this and drank 15 shots and 15 beers EACH. Some straight guy was clinging to us that day (I’m pretty sure that he was egged on by the fact that one of us was trying to dick him hardcore in a very gay way) (PS, it wasn’t me for once) and invited a stripper friend of his to our festivities. She literally looked like an anorexic hatchet-face meth mother with so many stretch marks on her tits you could use them to decipher the DaVinci code. Julia was not having it, so she relocated us to another bar where we held an impromptu fashion show with some random girl’s purse that we found on the bar. Our good friend from Chicago got a VIP area at G Bar, which was awesome because it gave us all a meet-up area since me and my sister are apparently club nomads who get there, and run around meeting strangers passing like ships in the night. We danced our tits off, and I met a cute guy. At that point I was so drunk tho that I found it difficult to think of anything between bouts of dancing to say other than Read more…
Sidenote: These scams will only work if you have really ignorant parents. Luckily, the majority of us live in America. All of us that have been through it know that its hard to be young and gay. Not only are you dealing with a shitload of emotional issues and hormones, but you are constantly horny all the time, and have to deal with trying to fit in, in a hostile school environment full of other crazy kids. Luckily, if there is one way to skirt by being a teen, its by taking advantage of materialism. Teenagers are too young and inexperienced to have developed any really awesome personality traits, so instead they focus on materialism. What you are wearing and what you drive is much more important than who you are, so if you find yourself wanting to come out as gay, but having to deal with super ignorant parents, you might as well take advantage of it. Here are some suggestions to get you started:
Tell them you are seeking religious counseling from your super hot, christian friend from school. Tell them that if they hear any strange noises late at night, it is your friend trying to exorcise the gay demon out of you.
Tell them its a phase. Parents always believe this, and it gives you carte blanche to go fucking crazy for a while, and be as gay as you want. As long as they think its temporary, you would be surprised what they will sweep under the rug, including the plastic handles of Karkov vodka you convinced them to buy you so you could “experiment at home, where you are safe.”
Tell them you think your need to “try new things” is just because you are bored in your hometown. Parlay this into an all expenses paid trip to New York for an internship or weekend retreat, which you can promptly ditch and use the fake ID you bought off Etsy to meet more people like you.
No matter how you slice it, gay is gay. If you are sure you are gay, and your parents probably won’t accept it at first, you might as well have some fun with it. They will come around eventually, but hopefully by then you will have a lot to show for it. And they will end up proud that they raised such a self-knowing, manipulative bastard.
Is it possible to get alcohol poisoning off Mimosas? I think we proved yesterday that it isn’t, because we drank about 15 each. It was Nicky’s birthday yesterday, which was especially nice since his present (the official birthday gift of my group of friends) is to have power over the rest of us for the entire day. Nick was especially considerate of us on this day, because on my birthday I make my friends do foolish things like break up with their boyfriends and stick spatulas up their asses. We had gone out the night before to XL (which was an ordeal in and of itself, which I will get to later) so Nadia and I woke up alone in JMO’s apartment wondering if everyone else had been raptured. This would have been ironic because if anyone is going straight to hell in gasoline panties, its JMO.
I quickly discovered the Nicky had gone back to our apartment where he passed out in the nude surrounded by lit candles. I woke him up with two shots of vodka, and we decided to head to brunch. I don’t know if you have been to Pier 9 in Hells Kitchen, but we were blown away by it! Not only was the hostess super friendly (she even convinced the DJ to play Candy Rain, by Soul for Real, which was an idea that sounded awesome in our heads but ended up being lame as fuck-thank god we were shitfaced). The server refilled our unlimited mimosa’s every thirty seconds, and the food was absolutely impeccable. Our fruit salads contained nary a slice of cantaloupe, which is impressive in and of itself.
Since we started the day off wasted with cocktails its unsurprising that cock talk followed. Everyone went around the table discussing the worst places for bodily fluid, Emsy basically ate with one her legs up on my shoulder, and Nadia deep throated a mimosa glass. Frecks showed up 2 hours late dressed like a substitute teacher that got lost in Jurassic Park so I spent the rest of the day trying to let people in on that joke without him finding out. Oh, and there were children all around, which didn’t stop me from flirting with the guy at the next table over. I can’t get over how friendly the staff was though, it really was the perfect brunch.
I think we must have had at least 15 mimosas each, which I guess explains why Nadia ended up taking photos of my asshole on Ninth Avenue. Emsy and Nadia secretly made Nicky a cake, which I accidentally told him leading to Nadia putting the tranny smackdown on me by smearing my face with frosting, which I somehow forgot about even though I was basically snorting an 8 ball of sprinkles the entire time. Nobody had a candle, so someone (I am 100 % 50/50 that it was me) had the disgusting idea of using a lit cigarette instead, which is even more ironic since none of us smoke. Then, everyone was so fucked up they actually ate the cancer cake. Then, since we apparently love wasting alcohol we decided to Read more…
I don’t mean to sound racist (mostly because what I’m about to say doesn’t sound racist) but has anyone every considered that maybe Honey Boo Boo is the anti-christ? In my book, the qualifications for being the anti-christ are as follows: be charming enough to make the masses fall in love with you, have a parental figure that is clearly up to no good (coupon queen is the bane of Piggly Wiggly’s everywhere), and put into action a plan for world domination (which is exactly what the world of child pageantry is all about). It is plainly obvious to me that Boo Boo’s Go-go juice is a concoction mixed of unborn fetuses, the souls of blind cripples, and pixie sticks for flavor. The fat folds of Mama June’s triple chin are obviously inscribed with the DaVinci code, obscured by a fine powdery layer of Cheeto’s dust and Gold Bond.
The only issue with the whole myth of the anti-christ is discovering their identity while there is still time to stop them. Honey Boo Boo and her family circumvent this by speaking in an very secret ancient language, created by Apalachian brother-fuckers with uneven mullets that made money by opening beer bottles with their singular brown teeth. Luckily, I have taken five quotes from the Honey Boo Boo family and deciphered them for you.
1. “A dolla makes me holla.” Plainly deciphered, this means “I am one uncomfortable fondling from my uncle at a Sonny’s Barbeque family reunion away from being a teen stripper.” Follow my logic–businessmen control people’s money, strippers control businessmen’s money (especially Japanese businessmen) , therefore strippers have the power to bring the world to financial ruin.
2. “My mother has told me in the past that if you fart 12-15 times a day you can lose a little weight, so I think I’ll lose a lot of weight because I’m going to fart a lot.” This is clearly a warning. There is a reason that Hell smells like sulphur, roasting flesh, and government issued baloney sharts.
3.“My mama weighs the most in my family because she’s fat. Truth.” Mama June is so fat because she not only scarfs down a Costco sized industrial pepperoni plate on the hour, every hour, but she also Read more…
Ok now listen, you can change you name, your hair, your body, or your penis into a vagina and you will still be a psycho. Take this wannabe ginger snap that planned, plotted and put into action the Colorado Dark Knight Massacre. His new look shows that he has been poked in his pooper a few hundred times and is now at peace with it. I’m pretty sure he shaved his head so the orange doesn’t show underneath the mop wig he wears around prison, “Bitch Boi!” However, let him get out of prison and get into revitalizing community activities, and he will probably still slice open a few squirrels in the park.
10 Myths About Promoters
10. Promoters have an unlimited amount of drink tickets and can give you a drink when you ask for it.
9. Promoters can get everyone in for free.
8. Promoters just drink and party all the time.
7. Promoters are the sole party responsible for the entire party.
6. Promoters all secretly hate each other (actually many of us are friends & even party together).
5. Promoters enjoy littering your inbox with tons of emails (they make us do it).
4. Promoters enjoy banning you from a club (no, you do that yourself).
3. Promoters do not sleep (okay sometimes that’s true).
2. Promoters are fake to everyone (our job is to be nice, not fake).
1. Promoters cannot be monogamous and therefore they have no souls (we actually are judged by others for not being faithful).
And while some of these myths hold unfortunately true for some, they do not hold true as a stereotype for all. I’m a PhD student, another promoter friend of mine is a college professor, another is a counselor, another is a lawyer and another is a father of three beautiful children with a wonderful wife. It’s not our lives; it’s a job and an extension of our lives. And even if it was our lives, it doesn’t mean these myths hold true at all. So before you judge us, why don’t you get to know us first.
In my vast experience of sexual exploration, I have used a great many things to masturbate: Couch cushions, bug repellent, the carburetor to a 1969 Ford Mustang. I have never, however used fruit. With the upcoming release of the American Pie reunion, I thought it was a good time to explore the idea of fruit with sex.
Why would you do this? There are so many people in the world willing to have sex with you for free, so why would you shell out 3 bucks for a watermelon, 6 bucks for an apple pie, or 89 cents for a kiwi (if you happen to be Asian)? I have enough problems in my hour long masturbatory sessions with lube drying out- the last thing I want is a sticky fruit exfoliating mask on my crotch.
And what about ants? Its hard enough finding a person that can give a good blowie without at least a scrape or two of their molars. Ants have millions of tiny little teeth like a super-sexy glamorously thin shark ( I am assuming because that is what it feels like) so it is that much worse.
And what about seeds? If you get an orange seed in your pee-hole will you grow an orange tree in your ball-sack?
When it comes to masturbation and food, rather than partake and experiment I defer to my right hand man.
Sorry I meant my right hand, man.
Good grammar, much like masturbation is a keystone to a satisfying life.
[ img via ]
I had a disheartening weekend. Just kidding. Actually, I had an amazing weekend. One of the many events we took on was going to Lazertag on Saturday. Frecks, Jmo and I met up with a bunch of other guys for a little weekend afternoon warfare. The disheartening part came when I realized just how much I suck at it. Blame it on the shots of Patron we took beforehand. Blame it on my restricting Stella McCartney gladiator shoes or that damn LaPerla pearl thong that rubbed my taint so raw it looks like Maria Shriver’s face. For whatever reason, when it comes to lazertag my scores were lower than Tara Reid’s credit score.
This bothered me because I always figured in a zombie apocalypse I would be one of the survivors. After some thought though, I realized that maybe my contribution to the zombie apocalypse is about something more than mindless killing. I realized that in the event of the inevitable zombie apocalypse, Jason would be the bloodthirsty, tactical, cold blooded murderer. Frecks would be in charge of the long term plan and the most intelligent course of action. I would be the one that finds us food, shelter, and keeps us alive, since I am more resourceful than Whitney Houston’s cocaine habit.
So my point is this: Read more…