Some people may take issue with me calling an accused murderer sexy. My response to that? All murderers are sexy. Obviously. Otherwise, how would they be able to convince their victims to agree to be murdered? And that, kids, is forensic science 101.
Oscar Pistorius used to be known as a noted South African sprint-runner before he went all Casey Anthony with a six-pack on his girlfriend. Call me crazy, but I still think he’s hot as Hell. And a little murder never hurt anyone. (Except of course the people who were murdered). Here are three reasons whey I would still bone Pistorius, regardless of how red his hands are:
1. He’s part robot. If I was Pistorius’s girlfriend, I would never let him take his bionic robot legs off, even if they chafed his stumps in the bedroom. Sex with robots is obviously the wave of the future, and I like to consider myself ahead of the curve. Besides, if his legs are made of metal, imagine what his dick is made of (unless you are one of his future inmates, since I am sure they will catch a glimpse when they are ass-raping him). Lets just say that erectile dysfunction is probably not a problem. Unlike airport security…
2. Height is not an issue. There is nothing sadder than a super hot guy with a great personality, that looks great on paper, but is only 5’7″. Guys that are 5’7″ are proof that God has a sense of humor, because you want so badly to like them and be with them forever, but are constantly reminded that they are short enough to breastfeed without slouching. It’s really not fair. Pistorius probably has like 6 sets of legs that are interchangeable depending on the size of his girlfriend’s heels. That is called being considerate. Tom Cruise, take note.
3.He has an accent. I literally do not care what kind of accent you have, from New Jersey to New Guinea, I think it is sexy. Why? Because I think retards are sexy too, and in my mind, people that can’t speak the same language as me occur as slightly retarded. Is this probably an ignorant American standpoint? Yes. Am I an ignorant American? I don’t know. Would a truly ignorant American admit to that?
In conclusion, I don’t care if Oscar Pistorius murdered his girlfriend in cold blood-he is still a total dreamboat. Or dream motorcycle. Or dream toaster oven. Yee Haw.
More sexy, shirtless pics of Pistorius after the Read more…
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).
Crime, Welfare, Slavery, Timberlands, and Queen Helene haircare products.
Just kidding, that was definitely racist.
Gay Rights: The whole Civil Rights Movement began when Rosa Parks decided she didn’t want to sit on the queef-infested seats at the back of the city bus. If you have ever ridden a city bus, I am sure you can relate, but imagine it without air conditioner and industrial strength deodorants. Buses back then must have smelled like the inside of Christina Aguilera’s spanx after couples night at Golden Corral buffet. In all seriousness though, its because she stood up for her basic human rights that we are able to do it too.
Beyonce: If the almighty Oprah Winfrey is willing to stick her nose so far up Beyonce’s ass it comes out bedazzled in Swarovski crystals, then America should follow suit. Beyonce is an inspiration to us all. Why? Because she is classy in a way that many celebrities aren’t, and no matter how far she gets in life, she doesn’t forget the small people (those backup dancers of hers at the Superbowl whose mics weren’t turned on). I was going to mention hair weave on this list, but saying Beyonce is kind of the same thing, right?
Sending the Ravens to the Superbowl: Lets call a spade a spade. Black people are better at sports. There, I said it.
Underwear: If Eli Whitney had never invented the cotton gin, we would all Read more…
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…
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.
This video is everything that is, every was, and ever will be. If you don’t watch it right now I can’t guarantee that you will even live to regret it, because you might die of chronic disappointment. In the history of music videos, I don’t think I have ever seen one that combines overeating, used condoms, stripper dicks, harassing children, sex with bikers, destroying office furniture, rastafarians, and riding horses with black men in such a classy, uncomplicated way. Anyone who has ever had a boring desk job, been a shlumpy (yet fucking awesome) redheaded slut, or woken up from a one-night-stand, puzzled because the handle of whiskey is still full can relate to it. And lets be honest, that covers just about everyone, right?
In case you need more incentive, here are a few screenshots to wet your palate. The video itself is at the end of the sexy rainbow.
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.