It's Like Closed Captioning Without the Captioning

Lately, I've been watching far too much of "The N" -- the MTV-lite hormonefest that the pre-school-targeting channel Noggin morphs into at 6:00pm. In between episodes of Degrassi, I find myself drawn, almost hypnotically, to reruns of Sabrina, the Teenage Witch.

Before you accuse me of jacking off to Melissa Joan Hart*, let me explain: The show contains what has to be the most egregious cameltoe ever displayed on prime time television. Sadly, it's not Ms. Hart and, thankfully, not Caroline Rea [or Martin Mull, for that matter.]

No, it's Beth Broderick, who plays Sabrina's Aunt Zelda. Check any episode in which Zelda's wearing pants, and see for yourself. It's so out there and in-your-face that I refuse to believe it's accidental. Clearly, we're all the victims of some clever ploy to boost ratings or to further Beth Broderick's career. And by "victims" I mean, of course, "very, very lucky people." Because, dude... free cameltoe. Sabrina Down Under indeed...

*If one was to consider pleasuring oneself to Sabrina, always err on the side of caution and pick an episode when she's away at college, living with the chick who used to play Punky Brewster. I'm almost certain she's over 18 at that point.

The Ghost of VMA present

Me watching VMAs.


"A Crazy Highlight from the VMAs", courtesy of Getty Images, in case you missed the strategically-placed white type. If you look closer, you can see that absolutely no one is paying attention to them. That, to me, illustrates beautifully how douche-baggy boring it all was.

Only moment that caused me to lift my head slightly from couch cushion in mild interest: when 50 Cent crew was yelling FUCK YOU! to Fat Joe and the censor-bleep guy was obviously out taking a piss. Puff-Diddly-Sean-Combs looked skeered, as if he suddenly realized for the first time all night: Aint no bodyguards on stage.

Memories of VMAs Past, Vol. 29

Enrique Iglesias: Proud owner of the luckiest hand ever.

My bizarre, most unhealthy fascination with Fred Durst

No, I have no idea from what sick and twisted corner of my pituitary gland this creature hath sprung. But every time I see him (on TV, I mean--despite theories to the contrary and an occasional "Kramer" sighting, celebrities out here are not on every corner peddling their wares.) I stop what I'm doing and stare at the screen, mouth slack, an ever-so quick twitching of my kegel muscles. An involuntary "hhunnhhhhh" escapes my throat. The air suddenly feels thick.

Yes, I know his caliber of eye candy:

Yes, I understand he was heard to moan, more than once, "touch my ass and my balls" on his "Shoulda-Wona-AVN Award" sex tape. But then I see this video--

and I get really hot and bothered, and then look, here he is being daddy (I think that's his kid)

And he was all sensitive and insecure on MTV Diaries and he really admires Rage Against the Machine and I think deep down he's just a sweet, misunderstood kid, don't you?

(WARNING: YOU ARE SEEKING ADVICE FROM PEOPLE WHO JACK OFF TO HISPANIC METEOROLOGISTS AND...FRED DURST. CONTINUE AT YOUR OWN RISK.)

Si! Si!

Attention, American TV weather forecasters:

You can all suck me.

From this moment on, I pledge allegiance to the Spanish Channel and its incredible fucking hot weatherbabe.

Today's forecast: Sunny skies, light southwestern breeze, and a sixty percent chance I will injure myself masturbating.

Thank you, and good day.

The Lee Harvey Oswald of Transportation Devices

I nearly got run over, in veerry sloow mootiion, by one of these bloody eegit machines yesterday. Tell me, in what way does this "innovative mode of transport" improve the quality of our lives, except to give us yet another excuse to forgo exercise and still get our fat asses around town?
And BTW, I don't care if you're the reincarnation of Johnny Cash and Steve McQueen and you smoke unfiltered reds: you still look like a fucking retard on these twatmobiles.

Next Position Please

Thank god someone had the good sense to start adding detailed definitions of sex acts and positions to Wikipedia. Because now, future generations will understand the subtle differences between a Dirty Sanchez, a Lucky Pierre, and the Squashing of the Deckchair. When I have a chance, I'll get around to adding some of my personal favorites:

The Who's on First
Man strategically positions bedroom TV set so that he can catch last few innings of Sox game while going down on Woman. Man blows cover by screaming, "Fucking umpires!" after a particularly close play. Woman beats man with table leg.

The I Swear I Saw This in a Porno Once
Woman lies on bed, holding American flag in one hand and lit sparklers in the other. Man stands on dresser with erection pointing forward, leather flight goggles and scarf in place. Man assesses trajectory, creeps to edge of dresser. Woman spreads legs wider, looks nervously at sparklers. Man falls to floor, snapping penis in two.

The Was That You or Me?
Man and Woman go at it like tasered marmots. Rhythm of intense fucking is interrupted by bizarre, squeakish, flatulence-like sound. Copulation haults momentarily as both Man and Woman go pefectly still. Man excuses himself and heads to bathroom, where he promptly jumps out window and runs home.

The Hey, Does Your Roommate Want to Join Us?
Woman brings Man home from Cask n' Flagon. Man is escorted to bedroom, but spies hot roommate in thong brushing teeth. Man begins asking Woman if her she'd ask her roommate to join in. Woman eventually caves, conveniently neglecting to inform Man of roomie's crabs.

The Beam Me Out
Girl enters Man's apartment. Girl sees stand-up cardboard Mr. Spock figure. Girl departs.

The Look at Me! Fucking You! From Behind!
Woman gets down on all fours. Man commences "doggy style" screw. Man then catches his reflection in mirror. Man continues to study himself as he fucks Woman, making exagerrated hip thrusts and shouting "Hoo Hah!" with each pump. The next morning, he heads back to his small apartment where he resumes his worthless existence. Later, he is seen dining at Arby's.

Tempting

...and he brought his friend, Really Shitty Spelling.

Seriously, though, last weekend, I ate a meal at BK. And I was waited on by one of the hottest ninteen year old chicks on Boston's south shore. All big, full lips and hips and, in what I'm sure was a gross violation of BK dress code, a hint of thong peering out from her company-approved polyester slacks. Enraptured, I wasn't quite sure what I ordered. But I got something in a little paper sack, then retreated to my car, where I sat to eat, unsocial bastard that I am. While seated in the parking lot, I saw the aforementioned hottie come outside and put up the message on the BK marquee pictured above.

And the fact that she couldn't spell? Didn't bother me at all.

Dude, that's the power of pretty.

Just do us BOTH a favor and chug, will ya?!?

Advantages of being drunk girl: built-in excuse to be the slut you were destined to be. Can start fights. Can reattempt double-backflip you were unable to master in high school gymnastics.
Disadvantages of being drunk girl: Numb from the neck down. An orgasm becomes urban legend.
Advantages of being drunk boy: built-in excuse to be the asshole you were destined to be. Can start fights. Can reattempt lighting farts on fire that you were unable to master in high school physics.
Disadvantages of being drunk boy: Numb from the shaft up. The money shot becomes urban legend.

Therefore:
Sober girl+drunk boy with perma-boner who will never come* = my idea of a good time.

*-may need muzzle.
*-keep lighters, matches out of drunk boy's reach in case of re-reattempt of lighting farts on fire.

Three Words for Friday

Paz. Motherfucking. Vega.

Say them loud. Say them proud.

Almost made Spanglish bearable.

Almost.

O for an O

One of the seven deadly sins is LUST. I heartily disagree. Indeed, some of my sexual adventures have been a downright religious experience, and I would argue that JC's golden rule comes in very handy during the act of fornication: Do Others As You Would Have Them Do You.

Sadly there are those who do not follow the Golden Rule. I won't name names (Joe S., Michael C., Timothy M., Mahatma K., Giorgiescu P.,) but these heathens will not be allowed in my sacred ground anytime soon. Oh yeah, they are great with the prayer and worship talk, but after I've loved thy neighbor for nearly half an hour, they roll over and commence silent meditation instead of loving thy neighbor whole-heartedly in return. What has happened to the Good Samaritan, who sees a neglected punani in need of salvation? I'm telling you, a camel will fit through the eye of a needle before their raised Rod will part my Sea anytime soon.

File Under: My Dumb Life

Best things about working in an office that is 97% female:
-- Never a line for the men's room.
-- Eye candy, eye candy, eye candy.
-- Taking advantage of my cock ownership to wrangle special favors, rush jobs, etc., when I need 'em. [My experience shows that some women simply work better with men. Period.]
-- I'm thankfully excluded from conversations involving guys, Desperate Housewives and The Click Five.
-- Being the target of random, torturous teasing.

Worst things about working in an office that is 97% female:
-- Mood swings.
-- "Ice Cream Day," a summertime phenomenon in which everyone gets free frozen treats after our weekly company meeting. This means I get to sit in a room while women from ages 18 to 58 fellate popsicles with wild abandon. Once, I actually had to tape down my cock beforehand.
-- Still no good stories about being pulled into the broom closet and felt up by those chicks in accounting. But I'm working on it.

She is Such a Teese

What I find so fascinating and deliciously ironic about this great country of ours is that while we are guilty of excess in every other arena, when it comes to sex and the female body we actually prefer less to more.

Scroll down this page to handsome Ken Doll's posts. The A-,B-,C-, or D-lister celebs he woos have not, I believe, taken off all their clothes in public. They have teased the fuck out of him, pushing the envelope to the absolute teetering-off-the-ledge point, but still, fabric and (therefore) powerful sex appeal remain.

Interesting, no? Millions of Girls Gone Wild will cheerfully flash their tits for the flash of the camera, there are more porn stars than mailboxes in my zip code, and yet the ones who leave it on are the ones who get their magazine spread. And, those who push the envelope too far, such as these wardrobe malfunctions, are usually punished, not rewarded for their reveals. For example, when's the last time you saw Ta-ta Reid on the cover of a magazine?

Which brings me to the beautiful pin-up girl above, Dita Von Teese. That's almost-Mrs. Manson to you. Mr. Manson, who has gone to every possible extreme imaginable and then some, is a good ol' American boy at heart. He prefers the company of a girl who uses pasties and feathers in her strip tease, who recalls a more modest, demure era as opposed to the televised gynological exam on Spice. Something to keep in mind, ladies, when the Girls Gone Wild crew hits your neck of the woods.

Next Stop, Oblivion

Christalmighty. Just when I thought I'd finally gotten a handle on my obsessive pre-work masturbation sessions, along comes the goddam Pussycat Dolls' video for "Don't Cha." Carmen Electra's not in it. Neither is Christina Applegate. But goddam, it's not like they replaced those two with Buddy Ebsen and James Garner. I may just break down and look into some kinda flex time, work-from-home thingee.

Okay, so next year, sure, they'll be working at Home Depot. Or the local supermarket. Or their Aunt Helene's hairstyling salon. But for now, can we bask in the cheesy glory that is The Pussycat Dolls? Clearly the best thing to spring forth from Johnny Depp's Viper Room since... er... well, actually, this might be it.

Wing Man, Barbie Style

Apparently there's this service that hires hot chicks for guys. No, they don't fuck you (I think,) but instead they're your go-to bitches--They run around the bar and wrangle up the ladies for your viewing, and choosing, pleasure. Imagine, an entire business built around the line, "Hey, my friend thinks you're hot."
My first thought was, "Shiiit, I coulda gotten paid for this?!??!" Followed by, "Hmmm...kinda creepy." If some random chick approached me to tell me about her hot guy friend I'd think she's either a. a covert lesbian or b. one of Charles Manson's groupies.

Thoughts? Ideas? Patents Pending? Let us hear from you. Callers are standing by.

Get The Message

Throughout the course of my young life, I've done some amazing things. Swam in three oceans. Had my feet on both coasts within 24 hours. Felt the sunshine on my naked ass in the Himalayas. Even rode a private jet twice.

But I've never, ever received a blow job from a chick with a pierced toungue.

So, of course, my existence, to this point, has been fairly worthless.

To be honest, thinking back on the blowjobs I've received over the course of my life, I can't think of a single one which led me to comment, "This is great, sweetie, but if you had a chunk of metal in your mouth -- man, that'd be something else!"

But still, I need to know if I'm missing out. Is it all just a sham? A ploy to sell metal and keep piercers employed and give chicks something other than tan lines and thongs to show off at a party? Or is there really some untapped world of exceptionally wonderful knobjobs that I'm not privvy to?

Looking at the big picture, though, how can any red-blooded guy NOT dig a chick who so blatantly taps at our Achilles tendon: the dream of the perfect smoothie. It's a safe bet that most girls who opt for the barbell know full well the myth that accompanies it, and the fact that they embrace the mantle of oral experimentalists is just further proof that Earth is the single coolest planet to be living on.

In the end, I guess it doesn't really matter if the presence of a tiny piece of metal really does enhance one's fellatio skills; the fact that an entire generation of women is marching to the local piercing shop just to send out the "I give killer head" vibe is a good thing.

My Interview Suit.

WARNING: Business Casual, with its shapeless, sexless khakis and Misses Activewear sweater sets, may cause nausea, chills, and extreme irritability. Severe caution must be taken when viewing the vomit-patterned men's "golf" shirts on the 7:12AM commuter express (especially the morning after Jose Mac's "Thursday Magherita Special").

Casual Friday, corporate America's attempt to momentarily distract employees from their mind-numbing, soul-draining jobs, is nothing but a cruel tease, a mix of baking powder and arsenic. I mean, for Chrissakes, COME ON. You insist that I wear the buttoned up, non-form fitting jacket, suitably-hemmed skirt and stockings to work. If I attempt an outfit that gives off the slightest hint of what separates the women from the girls, if I flash a kneecap here, possible cleavage there, it's not the men I have to worry about. No, it's the old, bitter hags who have only made love to Ben and Jerry for the past 20 years who are all over me in two seconds. They waddle up furiously, their scratchy nylon-encased thighs swishing together, a horrific old-lady pink manicured nail in my face. "That outfit is inappropriate for the workplace."

Fine. But Casual Friday is different, right? That's when I can actually wear what I want, with no fear of reprisal or a 21st-century witch hunt? Wrong. See first paragraph for details.

So, y'all can take your 401(k)plan and 0.5 vacation day accrual and shove it up yer ass. I'm going back to the strip club.

The Defense Rests

Until Al Qaeda can perfect their own Jessica Simpson technology, even they will have to bow before the superiority that is America.

USA! USA!

Happy Ending

Ladies, don't get me wrong. Anytime one of you is kind enough -- some might argue charitable enough -- to take my Irish cock in your mouth, it's a damn good time. Seriously. Like a parade in my mind. Because in my world, blowjobs are second only to breathing on the list of things I enjoy experiencing, and any female who helps further my experiences in this department is, as my Uncle Topper would say, "aces!"

That said, and at the risk of sounding like a nitpicky bastard, I feel that it's important to call your attention to that magic moment that occurs when you have orally stimulated me to the point that my body is helpless in a spasm of release. For some of you, this represents the end of the blowjob. But what I need you to understand is that it's actually the beginning of the orgasm. And how one navigates the course from this point on is of critical importance.

Using the last few Kennettes as examples, I'll offer some different approaches. Some very desirable, some not so much.

1. Once "that stuff" [her words] starts coming, you immediately remove your hand and mouth from the cock, recoil and back away sharply, like a puppy that's just been kicked. Or my buddy Pete when he realizes it's his turn to buy a round.

2. You immediately stop any and all kind of mouth movement until I'm "finished." You then scoot to the bathroom to spit in the sink with an audible "pfffffttttttpppptthhhh."

3. When you feel the inevitable throbbing, you instantly remove the cock from your mouth and start jerking it madly in a bizarre attempt to see how far you can make it shoot. [Actual Kennette dialogue: "Holy fuck. That's a new record -- clear over my head!"]

4. Feeling my abdominal muscles start to quiver and my balls begin their inevitable ascent, you intensify the suction, taking everything in. You then not-so-gently massage the base with your thumb and index finger and continue said massage until I am dry and moaning and going on and on about how I can't wait to meet your family and fuckgodalmighty can we get together tomorrow and every fiber of my body has melted into the couch or floor. Or until the Red Sox start a massive rally.

Of course, number 4 is the girl you marry. Although, I must admit that when she was sober and not calling me from the bar saying she was heading to my place with a loaded rifle, number 3 was a hell of a lot of fun.

Your VIP ticket to the Darwin Awards

You're in the bedroom, the lights are on because you like it that way. It's finally gonna happen. You kick off your shoes. He removes his belt. You whip off your shirt. He whips off his shirt...only to reveal, on his entire upper chest, the most horrific rendition of Cheech & Chong you have ever seen. Did you ever really think your first "foursome" would be like this?

Yes folks, it's stupid tattoo time, those permanent etchings of shame we obtain when we're usually at our drunk n' drooliest. G-Shack.com has a great gallery you can check out here.
Enjoy!

How to Win Any Argument with a Guy: A Handy Guide for Women

Ken [looking at a photograph]: Honey. Did you fuck Bob?

Kennette: Now why would I screw your best friend?

Ken: Not sure. But someone just mailed me these photos of you fucking Bob.

Kennette [glances about nervously, then...]: Hey! I totally want to blow you right now!

Ken: Really? Hot damn! [Tosses aside photo, pants.]

Insert Beavis & Butthead Laughter Here

Someting I just noticed: When you publish your page on Blogger, you get the message: "This could take a while, especially if you have a large blog."

Any women with the capability should feel free to send an audio file of themselves reciting said line to kenandarielATcomcastDOTnet.

Myself? I'm Irish. So I like to say that my blog is simply "servicable."

Line forms to the left, ladies.

Nocturnal Emissions

For the past few nights, I've had a reoccuring dream about Paris Hilton, culminating in our sexual liason last night (which, I'll have you know, SHE initiated). Being a pursuer of tall, stubbly-faced hot rods, I was rather disturbed. Was this the wish-fufillment of my previous suitors, who begged and pleaded to see me tongue-kiss one, if not all, of my female teammates on the water polo team? Is it what dream interpreters call "mirroring", an supressed desire to mimic the characteristics of our fellow xx chromosome-carriers? Or is it that my unconscious id just has really, really bad taste in chicks?