New York Gaily News
First off, I want to say that I am not calling Kim Kardashian fat. I would never call a pregnant woman fat, mostly because I don’t need to. It is a known fact that women gain weight during pregnancy–they have to, otherwise their babies will be born glamorously thin, and then have no goals to work towards in life. I will take this opportunity, as I often do, to say this:
Originally, Keeping up with the Kardashians was komprised of 4 sisters: Kim, Khloe, Kourtney, and Killah, the out of work killer whale actress from the Free Willy movies. Killah was let go, however, after it was discovered that her and Khloe wouldn’t fit in the same big black Escalade at the same time. And by big black Escalade, I mean big black dick.
My money is on Kim. Literally. My wallet is sitting on top of her ass in this photo, you just can’t see it hidden behind all the bad fashion.
All I am going to say is that this dress reminds me of her love life.
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For those of us who are aware that Hugh Jackman is a card carrying powerdrill-collecting Crisco pre-lubing bottom, this may come as no surprise. But Marvel X-men character Wolverine was recently revealed to be a homo, and in a secret relationship with Hercules. If you can bypass the fucktuppery of that statement for one moment, I can explain. Apparently in the Marvel universe there are different realities, and in this particular one Wolverine is in a monogamous (meaning they have threesomes with fresh-off-the-boat Colombian bartenders from Craigslist) relationship with this particular universes version of Hercules. Of course, Hercules’ father (who is apparently a member of the Westboro Baptist Church) can’t stand the fact that his son would be in a relationship with a “mortal” (read: guy) and sends them both to the fiery pits of Hell.
Sounds about right. I am a little shocked by this because if I was going to pinpoint a stool-stuffer from X-men my money would have been on Gambit or Jubilee. Gambit, because he obviously liked to hit the bottle and you know most guys are three beers away from a midnight hand-job in the basement, and Jubilee because Asian twinks have no choice but to be gay- because no self-respecting woman would ever sleep with them.
Regardless, I am glad that Wolverine finally found a big, beefy back to dig his claws into. I can only imagine the smell of the bear-on-bear leather bondage sex they must have. I would go so far as to say it smells like unkempt hobo ballsack, Nutella, and Jovan Musk.
If you’re like me, you are taking this frigid cold, anti-testicle winter weather as an opportunity to think about this coming summer. I am so fed up with this weather, if Mother Nature actually existed, I would track her down and do the Harlem Shake all over her face until my taint gave her a wicked case of rugburn, much like the Nebraska Men’s gymnastic team (except their rug burn was on their foreheads). So naturally, I stumbled upon these photos of Anthony Gallo shot by Greg Vaughan and I had to share them. They remind me of Fire Island for two reasons:
1. I am pretty sure they were shot on Fire Island. That pool deck looks familiar. I feel like I have been face-down drunk on it before.
2. Every photo of a guy in a speedo reminds me of Fire Island. Even though I wonder if Fire Island is over (like Hurricane Katrina, it just hasn’t been the same in the past years. Chalk it up to mis-management), I am pretty sure it still has a couple seasons left. I will never forget my first New York summers spent traipsing around the beach in a speedo, biting people’s faces, getting a tick on my balls from giving my boyf a beef in the meat rack, and all the friendships I made (and by friendships, I don’t mean hookups. Those only lasted 30 seconds).
So enjoy the speedo pics and get into the spirit of things. If you need help, I added some friendly captions below.
I finally made it to the Americas. That Michelin tire didn’t last long, and sharks ate all my clothes, but I see a Taco Bell already, so I feel right at home. Viva La Puerto Rico.
When dildos just aren’t available, heels are the next best thing. Just make sure you lotion up or it’ll be like Read more…
Or, as I like to think, the Nebraska Men’s Gymnastics team has a spontaneous orgy in the foam landing pit. (PS, the phrase foam landing pit also refers to the clenched rectum of a male gymnast after he dismounts. Dismounts refers to the male gymnast jumping off the coaches erect cockle after his wife walks into the locker room. Locker room refers to the coaches vagina, which hasn’t been touched in years. And vagina refers to the reason child support was invented.) How do I know so much about men’s gymnastics? I used to be a gymnast for a short time. Its the reason I still have five abs even though I can put away an entire pizza without even swallowing.
The Harlem shake is sweeping the nation, just like Gangnam style did. But unlike Gangnam style, the Harlem shake isn’t fucking annoying, and has nothing to do with Kim Jong Il wearing harem pants (too soon?). This video is worth watching because it involves a bunch of shirtless guys jumping around like monkeys and beating each other off. Its like Lord of the Flies, but without any fat kids getting murdered (unfortch). Also, there are muscles.
Plenty of muscles. Any more questions?
I inserted some screen shots into my foam landing pit after the video. Scroll down for a blurry treat (PS blurry treat refers to lunch-time fapping sesh in the bathroom of the JC Penney’s where you work).
Let me start off my saying that I am the one in the yellow sweater. I replaced my face with Beyonce’s because I have never in my life seen a more unflattering photo of myself. I look like a homeless man emerging from the subway tunnels at first thaw, after a long winter of anorexia, meandering in my own filth, and casual butt sex with stray dogs. I don’t know if its just me, but I haven’t been drinking as much in 2013. I have taken this time to reflect, work on projects, and hibernate in my bedroom, which is as much of a man-cave as it can be with a chain chandelier and 30 color coordinated cushions. Regardless, this means what when I do go, I go hard. So this Sunday Funday brunch extravaganza lasted no less than 9 hours. In no particular order, here is what went down:
We started brunching at Pier 9, which is a hit-or-miss brunch hotspot in HK. Its a hit because some of the staff, like the hostess and one particularly charming foreign server that resembles Mr. Bean are awesome and super accommodating. Miss, because they often get your food wrong, or run out of champagne and have to serve Sangria (Red wine does nothing but piss me off). Hit because the manager always makes up for any service issues we have. (sidebar: I am pretty sure our actual server was a Russian prositute).
Anyway, I was still drunk from the night before, so it was pretty easy to get my buzz back. I noticed a friend of mine across the restaurant, but rather than get up to say hello, I sent him photos of my nipples, and the nipples of the girl next to me. Jmo spent the entire time talking about how flawless his skin was. I was sitting across from a Puerto Rican tranny, near a girl who didn’t realize she was at a gay brunch, and some rando Colombian guy who kept grabbing Nadia’s justies (we call her boob’s justies, because a handful of tit is “just enough”). We ended up getting a random birthday cake platter even though it wasn’t anyone’s bday and more than enough mimosas and glasses of sangria to tranquilize a horse. Then we went to the new Boxers in HK, where I pondered whether or not my attraction to gingers is due to some kind of vitamin deficiency (I saw a redhead there that was so gingery his eyelashes were translucent- so hot). Then we went back to JMO and Nadia’s new apartment, where we were surprised by some interesting characters- a pair of twinky young vampire-looking creatures that were clearly “awake” if you know what I mean. In case you don’t, I will just just say that it was snowing wherever they came from. Meaning that they were hanging out with a white girl.
Cocaine. Just cocaine, okay?
I will say the best line of the night came when I told one of them (who was randomly washing his hair) that I loved the towel on his head. Without missing a beat, he said: “Its Chanel.” Well played.
Apparently the other one took that compliment to heart and Read more…
1. Go fuck yourself. Literally. Today, while you are out purchase 2 bottles of red wine and a Mama June sized box of chocolates. When you go home tonight, sit in front of your mirror, drink the red wine (so you start crying immediately), eat the chocolates, right the name of your crush on your index finger, and shove it in your b-hole repeatedly while self-flagellating. That way, tomorrow when people asked what you did, you can say you had a nice dinner, drank your tits off, and got finger-banged so hard you burped up a press-on nail.
2.Watch a marathon of the Millionaire Matchmaker. If Patti Stanger’s coked out, anorexic, sunburnt puffer face doesn’t make you glad to be single, nothing will.
3. Be a whore. Go out by yourself to the sleaziest bar you can find. If you are gay, that means the Cock in the East Village. If you are straight, that means any bar that doesn’t have a dress code. Sit alone in a slutty outfit and get so shitfaced that it doesn’t matter who hits on you. Go home with the first person who talks to you, even if its the janitor. If you do this, you can guarantee you won’t be alone next Valentines day.
You will have Herpes to keep you company.
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I know the world is up in arms about you singing over an audio track at the inauguration of President Michelle Obama is just like us because she shops at Costco, but I forgive you. Why? Because while I do believe that since we turn recording artists into millionaires, they should be able to sing whatever we want, whenever we want, without objection, I also believe that you have paid your dues and earned the right to just exist–I don’t care whether you ever open your mouth again (unless it’s to scream because you are having a nightmare that Aretha Franklin and Steve Buscemi had a baby named Jay-Z and you married it. In that case, scream away. I know I am).
Here are the reasons I wouldn’t care even if you hummed the Taliban national fight song while drinking champagne in a can during the inauguration:
You convinced the world that you were pregnant when in reality you just balled up some old Yaki mixed with Kelly Rowland’s career and stuffed it down the front of your maxi dress.
You are so iconic that you have single-handedly prevented your baby sister Solange Knowles from ever succeeding at anything just by being yourself.
You wore all those outfits your mom pieced together from Toddler’s and Tiaras talent competition cast-offs. You wore them proudly. You went out in public matching two other women, all the time. You looked like a homeless harlequin ethnic Bratz doll that got attacked by a pitbull. Or Pitbull himself. Or Taylor Swift, in one of her breakup songs.
So lip sync away, Beyonce. You can do no wrong, no matter how much wrong you do.
When I am feeling down about myself, there are a few things I sometimes do:
1. Walk around Hells Kitchen–even if you are dawg-ugly chances are there is at least one self-hating gay guy on Ninth Ave that will eye-fuck you so hard your ass will bleed.
2. I look up photos of
Lindsay Lohan Faces of Meth. Not only do they give me the healthy self-esteem boost I need, but they also remind me of how lucky I am that I failed chemistry. They also remind me of my dad, and give me a warm, fuzzy feeling in my veins. The kind of feeling that reminds me of living life to the fullest and cleaning my entire house from top to bottom.
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As we all know, X Factor only has one more week before they stop putting us through the torture of watching them figure out how to format the show, how to tape the show, how to turn on microphones at the appropriate times, how to best capture Britney Spears’ dubble-bubble chin stankface, and how to showcase Simon Cowell’s I created all this so we should worship my tiny micro-penis condescending smirk.
So the burning question on everyone’s minds (and in everyone’s vaginal canals) is obviously WWKKDN: “What will Khloe Kardashian do next?” Her momager Kris Jenner had a few great gigs lined up, including, but not limited to: A walk on part as a yeti in the upcoming Monsters Inc. 3D redux, a super exciting 3-year contract job playing a California redwood in the next Planet Earth for Discovery Channel miniseries, and a unique opportunity to work as a security guard for the new Freedom Tower in lower Manhattan. Her responsibilities would consist of holding the tower up, should it be struck with any random flying objects, like airplanes, or big black basketball dicks.
Khloe passed on all of these projects however, deciding she would rather play Goro in the New Mortal Kombat movie. Why did she make this interesting decision you ask? Because she believes it will lead her one step closer to finding her birth parents, who are obviously four-armed nine-foot tall tranny beast creatures from some far-away land called outworld where the letter “C” doesn’t exist. If you don’t believe me, take a look at the evidence, referenced below.
Total twinsies, am I right?
This comic has it all: elicit gay hot-tub sex, huge penises, shooting ejaculate, and shooting stars. What more could a gay guy ask for? Except of course, something they can read at work? I have included the first few frames of the comic, but things get really interesting after the jump! So don’t be afraid to crawl in and check it out