Kinda Indecent Proposal

So I'm taking a stroll, in the relentless Cali sunshine, when this dude approaches.
"You over 18?"
"Excuse me?"
He pulls out his card. "I'm a photographer. Do you model?"
Oh c'mon. He can't be this fucking lame. "Uh, no thanks."
"OK, OK." Good, I thought. He's backing off.
"Do you wear lingerie?"
Apparently he's not. "I said, no thanks."
"Just a couple photographs. Bra, panties..."
I casually reach in my purse for my Mace, scanning the street for cops. None around, of course.
"Not interested."
"Fifty bucks if you moon me. Please. I'll give you fifty bucks on the spot."
"If I what?!? MOON you?!?"
Jesus, this guy's fucking whacked. I flip off the safety switch on the canister.

Wait a minute. Fifty bucks?!?

Shiiit.

"Here dude, hold my Mace for a sec."

Here it is. Not bad for a fidy, eh?

Screw Baseball

Women drinking with other women: Still the world's greatest pastime.

Rejection in under five minutes. Guaranteed.

Technological advances like indoor plumbing and online porn aside, I think our forefathers had it real good back in the day. They lived in the bliss of ignorance, cheerfully sunning themselves on the porch or shooting gophers whilst the railroad and Pony Express took weeks, even months, to deliver news. Letters and telegrams, practically yellowed with age, would announce the unfortunate (past) events: Your parents passed away. Your house and crops have been traded to the Indians. I, Eunice Cuthbert, do not accept your hand in marriage; I am betrothed to another.

You'd sigh, shake your head in disgust, but there weren't nothin you could do 'bout it because it was too damn late and life had already moved on, with or without your permission. You might as well take a piss out back, jerk off to the Sears catalog, and do the same.

Fast forward to present day. Three voice mail systems, two email accounts, IM, text messaging, blogs, not to mention good ol' fashioned Fed Ex and 1-2 day "snail mail," all determined to inform you that you didn't get the job, that hot guy never responded, and no, you weren't on the invite list of "Ken and Ariel's Ultimate Kegger." Instant rejection and failure, brought to you by Verizon.

Curiously, the speed in which our fragile psyche is crushed to smithereens does little to dimish the illusion we're somehow in control. Instead, it promotes an even more ominous condition: false hope. What do we do? We whip out our little devices and start furiously punching away, convinced we can avert the unavoidable. "There's still time, I can fix this, I am not a big fat loser who will die alone with sixty cats!"

Instead of wasting valuable time, energy, hair and sex drive on life's inevitable potholes, let's toss our handhelds and follow in the footsteps of our great nation's forefathers:
Take a piss out back, jerk off to the Sears catalog, and move the heck on.

HOLY JUMPING MOTHER OF JESUS

The orgasm-inducing video for Jessica Simpson's "These Boots Were Made for Walking" can be found here.

Attention would-be masturbators: Several mug shots of a greasy Willie Nelson are interspersed throughout this gratuitous and unstoppably awesome ass-and-boobs fest. Tug at your own risk.

Marco....Polo

Folks, I don't believe our moral majority has been properly informed of the salacious goings-on in most backyards of this great heartland. I'm referring to, of course, the swimming pool.

When summer arrives, these innocent man-made bodies of water become dens of iniquity, filled with bodies of a scantily-clad nature and suspect flotation devices.

People, I've seen it happen with my own eyes: put two healthy, attractive specimens in a pool and they are drawn to each other faster than a fly to shit. Sure, it starts off all innocent: splashing, handstands, who can hold their breath the longest. But I'm telling you, that is foreplay to fornication! Soon somebody is ON TOP OF someone else's shoulders, WRESTLING a similar human pretzel in an orgiastic, frothy frenzy. And they call this game CHICKEN? Folks, I was born at night, but it wasn't last night.

For the love of Jaysus, get out of the pool, put some clothes on and git yer ass to church! Afterwards, why don't we go and play a nice, safe game of Twister?

As Walt Spins in His Grave...

Fresh off the soundtrack to her new Disney flick Herbie: Fully Loaded comes Lindsay Lohan's "First," with its joyous refrain: "I wanna be like other girls/I wanna come first/Yeah, I wanna come first/I wanna come first."

Popular music and family entertainment! So good together!

The Bachelor -Season Two. Would you pick....

...Bachelor #1, who dresses impeccably, is always on time, knows exactly what to say or do in every situation, charms your parents, makes your girlfriends wild with envy BUT has a concave chest, a slightly-less-than-average size member and tends to fall asleep after your once-a-weekly-seven-minute-coitus workout.

OR, would you pick...


...Bachelor #2, whose version of "dressing up" is to put on a slightly-ripped flannel shirt, eats like every meal is the last for the next fifteen years, makes a complete ass of himself at every social gathering, causing your girlfriends to shake their heads in disapproval BUT his entire body is rock-hard, he's hung like a horse and your once-every-seven-minutes-coitus workouts are giving you a permanent limp.

Whom would you choose?

And Now a Quick News Update...

There is nothing in this world sexier than a chick with beer breath.

Thank you.

Just a Peek

I had a boy tell me once that my outfits leave little to the imagination. After I stuck out my tongue and flashed my tits at him, I got to thinking. Hey, maybe he does have a point. After all, my creative muse always comes up with a much better benefits package than what's actually beneath those boxers.

The real secret to sexy is anticipation, aint it. You can only imagine what is under the skirt, beneath the blouse, just below the elastic of the panties. The hidden tattoo between the breasts. Is there a belly button ring? Maybe the ass is as smooth and round as the one below. Here's the final KO: you may never know.

Buy This or Else

OK..OK.....just move a little bit to the left...mmm, yeah, right there...up a little farther...too far, go back, go BACK! Right there, yerrssss....Sh-sh-sh-sh, no noise, don't talk....don't talk to me, don't TALK...uuawh...upa lil'...up-a-lil'...righ-ooooh! Stop, stop, don't move, stop moving, stop MOO.OOV.vvv.vv.v............................................................
..................................................................Complete silence.

Time stands still.

The Earth stops turning on its axis.

The universe starts to collapse into itself like a giant black hole.

Breathing is but a distant memory. I can almost

reach out

and touch

the Hand

of Go--

**Cheerful metallic excerpt of "Who Let the Dogs Out?" rings on cell phone**

YOU'RE GONNA DIE, MOTHERFUCKER.

Show of Hands

Okay, so. Who likes giving rimjobs?

::Raises hand and waves it about enthusiastically::

Now, who likes receiving them?

::Falls over in disgust. Writhes on floor. Quietly rolls himself out of the room.::

Personal Problem Update

So in an effort to curtail my "Denise Austin Problem," as so eloquently illustrated in the preceding post, I avoided Lifetime TV this morning, opting instead for the relatively safer confines of the Discovery Channel.

That's where I found the show Hi-5, which features songs for kids. Like the one called "Let's Blow Blow Blow Some Kisses." Which was sung by these chicks:






I won't tell you in graphic detail how I fared in my effort to control the dragon in the face of such early morning temptation. Let's just say that tomorrow, I'm opting for The Weather Channel.

Ken out.

My Own Worst Enemy

Ken [adjusting tie as he scrambles to the toaster]: Alright. Five minutes for breakfast, then I hit the 7:30 D Train.

Inner Ken: Hold it.

Ken [munching toast furiously]: What?

Inner Ken: Did you want to watch the news? Check the weather?

Ken: No, no, no. No TV. I'm all set. Nice day today. Steamy. High 80s.

Inner Ken: Come on, let's just flip it on for a sec. You never know when a monsoon might hit. Here we go. Okay.

Ken [trying to look away as TV flips on]: I really don't have--

Inner Ken: Uh-oh. This ain't the Weather Channel. Looks like Denise Austin's Daily Workout to me!

Ken [looks at watch]: Fuck. Shut it off.

Inner Ken [staring at TV]: Oh my god. Those shorts. That body. You know she's pumped out two kids? Christ, her ass looks like it's carved outta marble.

Ken: I don't wanna see. I've got a train to catch. I can't be late again.

Inner Ken: Dude, just check it out for a second. It's glutes day! She's doing squats!

Ken: Squats? Fuck. Maybe I could just check it out for a sec.

Inner Ken: Totally. Jesus, look at that form. Imagine backing right up to that and... [does the patented, goofy-ass "white boy gettin' some" jig].

Ken: Haw fuck. And look at those legs. [Checks watch] But that's enough. I gotta go.

Inner Ken: Just a few more minutes. It's almost stretching time.

Ken: I know what you're up to, and it's not gonna happen. I'm not gonna make my self late for work again by jerking off to the Denise Austin Daily Workout.

Inner Ken: Whatever. Hey, check it. Leg scissors.

Ken [drops toast]: Holy jumping Jesus.

Denise Austin: Alright ladies. Now it's time to work that tush.

Inner Ken: Oh, yes!

Ken: Alright. The 7:45 train. Can't miss that one.

Inner Ken: Right, right. We won't. I promise.

Ken: 'Course I could always tell the boss the train got derailed... or there was an electrical problem... [starts jerking off to Denise Austin's Daily Workout.]

That's Gonna Leave a Mark

Hickeys--so very high school. Yeah, turtlenecks in the summah is a bummah and all that, but I think as pubescent, rapidly developing horn dogs, we were much more in touch with our base nature back then. By placing a hickey in a highly visible spot we staked out our claim; marked our territory; "That's my property BITCH, now step the hell off!"

I don't think the neck as a popular destination was any accident either; not only is the neck a kick-ass erogenous zone, it's also the location of the jugular vein. It's like we're saying, "That's right, I own your life-blood, and if I bite down it's all over." (Is a Vampire then simply an overzealous male teenager? You decide.)

Nowadays, bruising your partner in a highly visible area will probably get you assault and battery and 90 days in the can. But I still find that when I'm in the throes of passion, my primal urges completely take over. I bite, I suck, I squeeze, I scratch. In other words, I most certainly leave my mark.

Playing with Fire

Oh dear. I was supposed to be home hours ago. But we had this project to finish up and the deadline is tomorrow. Gotta work late...again.

Look, this would just be messy. You have a girlfriend. Or a wife and five kids. And yeah, we keep finding excuses to touch each other, like brushing off that naughty piece of lint that keeps showing up on your suit jacket, or how my hair keeps falling over page 72 of the quarterly management report that you just have to brush aside. We're working so closely together we're popping Altoids like drug addicts and I can hear your sharp intake of breath as my head grazes your crotch, reaching for a dropped pen.

But, you have a girlfriend, or a fiance, or a wife, and you tell me all about your problems--she doesn't understand, she never shuts up, she whines about money, she never wants to have sex. And I ask, then why are you with her? But you can't answer that. You still love her. You don't know how to end it. You're confused. You wish she was more like...me. Then I play Mother Superior, lecturing you about infidelity and how things could never possibly happen between us and how I don't get involved with married or "taken" men.

Yet...here I sit, in your office after the cleaning crew has left, or in my parked car, or in the driveway of the Starlake Motel. Oh dear. I was supposed to be home hours ago.

Pornography: A User's Guide

1. Label your videos carefully. Nobody wants to sit down to watch last night's According to Jim and be greeted by the dimly-lit image of Jenna Jameson getting fisted. Well, some people do. But your Aunt Netty isn't one of them.

2. A cataloguing system is perhaps the easiest way to ensure streamlined access to your favorite films. Don't make it too complicated; labels such as "Spanish girls with riding crops," "urine-crazed midgets" and "69-ing with mules" should suffice.

3. Again, label your videos carefully. You spent years trying to track down that rare Japanese schoolgirl bondage video. Don't go taping over it with fucking Road Rules again, Brown Eye.

4. Always be cognizant of Murphy's Law as it applies to porno. On those occasions that you are unable to resist jerking off, rest assured that at the precise moment you feel yourself getting swept up in a spasm of release, the image on the screen will inevitably switch from the hot blonde delivering a deep, slow blow job to Ron Jeremy's "O face."

Star Maps

Supernova


Black Hole


Meteorite


Fecal Matter from Mir Space Station

Toil and Trouble

So if you're a female "porn site model" and you work for, say, DrunkenCheerleadersGetFeltUpByDad.com, it's safe to imagine that, when not being photographed or videotaped for said site, you don't go walking around in public with your ass hanging out. Or sit at the back of the 10:05 bus to Longwood masturbating with your legs up around your ears. You're a professional, and once the camera stops snapping, you're back to your job at D'Angelos or as a teacher in the Brockton Public School system.

But whither the young lasses who work for this site? Do they refrain from chewing gum at the office, for fear they might be giving someone a free show? When someone casually offers them a slab of Bubblicious at the movie theater, do they interpret it as some sorta sick come on? And just how does the webmaster build a stable of these ladies? "I saw your work at the Wal-Mart bubble gum blowing contest and I think you've got what it takes to, er, make a few extra dollars..."

These are the things that keep me up nights, folks. It ain't easy being Ken.

Oh, and any women out there who can really work a piece of Bazooka are encouraged to drop me an e-mail. There's cash to be made... and I need a new car.

Squoze

Apparently, the pick-up line, "Hey I was in Pump Up the Volume. Can I feel your ass?" isn't nearly as effective as I'd imagined.

There Goes My Hard On

Something about googling the words "deep throat" and coming up with this guy's sick ass makes me want to wash my eyes out with Borax.

Thank you, Washington, for ruining blow jobs for me for the next, oh, six days.