That's the Stuff

Sorry... with all the testosterone surrounding the last couple posts, I really needed a Mya moment.






Okay, that's better.

Over 3 Billion Muffburgers Served

One of our lovely, erudite readers yesterday suggested Brad Pitt as a possible stand-in for my nocturnal thrashings. Agreed--he is INSANELY gorgeous. But to me, he is the McDonalds of hot guydom: everywhere, all the time, for years and years and years, 99 cent special value calendars or supersize posters, on every bedroom wall of straight girls and gay boys across the land. You know when you hear a really good song and then goddamn KissFM or whoever has to play the shit out of it for the next three months until you're ready to pull your teeth fillings out with a fork in case it's being transmitted via radio waves to your head causing permanent brain damage? That's kind of how I feel about Brad Pitt. Thanks, but I think I'll hit the Maw n' Paw-Tom Welling-Diner up the street.

Git Along, Lil' Horn Doggie

OK kiddies, you're gonna have to bear with Auntie Ariel for a little while because she's not gettin' any, and it makes her real ornery. So just stuff yer lil' ears with cotton while she starts to yappin'...
Last night I had this dream last night of me and...Bruce Willis? Perhaps it's because Demi & Ashton finally tied the knot and he may be looking for a sympathy fuck. At any rate, he was big and muscley and a wise ass and he kept picking me up and carrying me off to bed. Not a bad way to travel.
But, just like in waking life, my good times gotta get stepped on. For some reason (and perhaps the good readers would like to open their psyche books to page 42 and analyze this) my coitus dreams always get interruptus. Someone walks in, suddenly we're about to fuck in the middle of Mrs. Feldman's 6th grade social studies class, my parents are having breakfast at the bedside table...it goes on and on. So I wake up exceedingly frustrated and sure as hell not ready to face another sexless work day.

Please, help me and Bruce complete our task. I'm begging you.

Three Questions That Haunt My Sleep

"Do you think she's done this before?"


"What if her ex-boyfriend comes back?"


"Why is Andy Dick famous?"

OhNoSheDid'Int

Sweet Holy Mother of All That's Good And Holy. As if I didn't have enough obsessive paranoia fueled by Google and PeopleFind. Then theys gotta come along with this site. Methinks this may be worse than my 2:37AM weeknight drivebys to make sure he's a. home and b. alone.


ps-As you'll note from the pic above, intense rage and fury upon finding out about said cheater can also cause loss of spelling/grammar ability.

Friday's Lament...

...is that I don't have any of the photos leading up to this one.

Collegiate women's wrestling is back. Who knew?

Ice Breaker

At the end of a first date, I find this very helpful to whip out when there's a lull in the conversation or it's unclear to your gentleman caller what he's supposed to do next. However, I do have one complaint: do you see the puny size of those jars?!? How the hell am I supposed to work with that?!? This is America, man. Bigger. Better. I don't want the kids menu, I want you to SuperSize me. So, if I'm going to continue using your product, I better look like this:

Someone's Got to Do It

Not to go off on some porno tangent [twist my arm, why don't ye?], but I must say I've always been intrigued by the employment opportunities offered by this robust industry. Not acting, mind you. Christ, I can barely keep my mojo working long enough to keep one lady interested, let alone a room full of gaffers and cameramen.

No, what truly intrigues me are the guys [and ladies, I suppose] who get to write the little blurbs on the back of the DVD cases.

Seriously, talk about overkill. I mean, imagine for a moment that I was interested in a certain genre of porno flick... oh, I dunno. Let's say facesitting. Would't seeing a photo like the one above on a DVD case pretty much tell you everything you needed to know? I mean, it's like putting a bowl of Frosted Flakes on the cover of a box of Frosted Flakes. "Hey dudes, guess what's in here?"

Anyway, as much as it may seem overkill, these video blurbs provide some intriguing and ultimately hilarious reading. So much so that you may forego another Saturday afternoon at the Chelsea Library to hang at the adult bookstore and just work your way through the stacks. My personal favorite these days is this one, from Saddle Face:

Paige Richards is an arrogant, imperiously cruel Femme-Domme who dressed in black lingerie. Her subby boy alix tries to impress her with a gift -- a stuffed owl. Mistress Paie is NOT pleased by this gesture. "Are you out of your mind? Is this a joke?" she asks as she slaps his face cruelly. "Look at how fabulous I am. Is that how you show me you adore me?" Using her gloved hands, she wrestles him to the ground and uses her hands to block completely his access to air. "You see these? Aren't they beautiful?" she asks as she unveils her glorious rack. But she does so only to taunt alix (and us!). "You'll never touch these again!" she promises.

Trust me, it only gets better from there.

Today, I'll be writing a tech manual. Somewhere else, some dude will be writing blurbs such as these, pondering at the keyboard, asking himself "How can I most effectively convey the vast amounts of fucking contained on this video?"

To him, I raise a glass.

Porn Stars Have Feelings Too

Since both New England teams essentially shit the bed yesterday, I needed to find some ray of sunlight. So I rented Porn Star: The Legend of Ron Jeremy. It's the rags-to-riches tale of an adult film star who just used the Tool God gave him to the best of his ability. Quite inspiring, actually. But it also reveals that being a millionaire, having a gargantuan penis and banging 4000 chicks still doesn't always bring you happiness.
**Spoiler Alert**: RJ is a narcoleptic and addicted to food. A man after my own heart.

Bedtime Reading

What did we, as a society, do before they started manufacturing women's underwear with catchy, sexy phrases on them? How the fuck did we even get by? God knows they've improved my days and nights tenfold. My personal fave was a pair that Kennette v4382 would wear, that had the words "Your Face Here" printed across the back. Although I'm also fond of the ones with "It Ain't Gonna Lick Itself" across the front. All I can say is that it's just further proof that Earth is the best goddam planet to be living on. Word.

Fine, I'll Do My Own Damn Oil Change

This one time, at band camp, a guy friend told me that I probably get all this free work done on my car when I go to the mechanic. "Ya know, you go in there with your blond hair and your big tits and they just roll out the red carpet," he grumbled. I quickly informed him that while I appreciated his charming physical description, said assumption was a huge pile of horseshit.

When I clickety-clack my heels and suit skirt into the auto shop (what do you want, I'm on my way to work) they all start rubbing their piggy little hands together, dreaming of retirement or maybe opening a Hooters restaurant on Route 1. See, as stated in the previous post, I don't know the difference between a fan belt and a carburetor, and I barely know the trunk from the hood. And it becomes painfully obvious as I struggle for words to describe my car's current ailment: "Um, it makes a weird noise, like a cat getting a root canal, and sometimes it just won't start. And a light comes on." They nod sagely, then ask me questions using one-syllable words. "Does it make a noise like a choo-choo?" And I still can't understand, so I giggle nervously and anxiously peer around for the nearest exit. Then I see one of the guys mouth something to the other guy which looks suspiciously like "trust fund" and then they usher me outside, assuring me that everything will be fine and they'll call me.

When they do call, they speak in hushed tones as if someone has died. "Ariel, your car is in really bad shape." Then they read off a laundry list (which I assume they keep tacked by the phone precisely for customers like me) of various broken parts and other naughty car behavior. After 10 minutes of this I ask Joe or Al or Arturo to cut to the chase and tell me how much. He tells me. Then I start crying. Not the sweet, gentle sobs of Harlequin Romance. I'm talking snot-filled, dry heaving hysteria. You'd think now the evil car guy would let up, maybe have a little compassion. Nah. He goes in for the kill, telling me that not only is my car polluting the environment, it is a DANGER to myself and others. Meaning I'm not only killing Bambi and Mother Earth, I'll most likely take out a few school kids in the crosswalk in my suicidal rampage of "driving to work."

After taking out several loans to fix the car that I don't even own yet, I've decided that this big-titted, blond bimbo is going to do what's best for school kids, the environment, and my bank account: I'm gonna hitchhike.

I Love Women, Part XXVI

Any heterosexual women out there who would willingly participate in the sort of harmless party game pictured above, please raise your hands.

Okay, now. Any heterosexual men out there who would engage in the same sort of frivolity, but with a guy, please raise your hands.

Just as I suspected.

On another note, last weekend, I attended a party in Providence and found myself, through circumstances far too blurry to transcribe, in the bathroom with two cute girls. I've known these girls for a number of years, and have heard all kinds of stories about how they aren't afraid to work each other over when there are no menfolk around.

So, equipped with two sizable beer balls, I assessed the situation and, during a lull in the conversation, blurted: "Hey, do you guys wanna kiss?"

They giggled a bit the way drunk twentysomething girls do and said, "Kiss you?"

Unable to grasp the mathematical possibilities that moment presented, I quickly responded: "No! Each other!"

So they laughed again. Then stopped. Then they slowly stepped toward each other and, still smiling, softly pressed their mouths together. Then opened their mouths so that I could see their tongues interlocking. Then one traces her hand down the other's back and gently cups her ass. And before my drunken Irish brain can process what's up, two attractive girls are groping each other madly in front of me. And this isn't the sort of barroom frollicking I'm used to seeing -- that closing time shit when the cameras come out and every drunk girl in the place decides to model her thong or stick her tongue in her best friend's ear. This was showtime. And all I can hear in the back of my head is the line my buddy Felton would scream whenever we watched lesbian porn: "Ooooh, they love each other. They LOVE each other!"

This went on for about three minutes or so, until the crowd outside the bathroom door threatened to break it down. So they stopped kissing, justlikethat, and one of them unlocks the door and the two of them sashay right out. Like nothing ever happened.

And I'm left there, bulge in my trousers, goofy grin on my face, spilled beer on my shirt. And reality creeps back in the form of a drunk Asian girl yelling, "Hey, asshole, I gotta take a piss."

Man, I need more parties like that.

My Knickers are In a Fix

Whilst Ken is currently facing charges of muppet sexual assault, let's turn the channel to the adult version of educational programming: TLC/The Discovery Channel. I personally enjoy shows like "Monster Garage" and "American Chopper", and while I still am unable to ascertain the difference between a carburetor and a fan belt, I sure as heck can tell you what makes Paul Sr. curse a blue streak or what makes Mr. Bullock shove a tire iron up an unsuspecting ass.

"In A Fix", TLC's show about..uh...home improvement(?) is on the right track to holding my interest. Dude, there's some hot guys on that show. Not the retarded metrosexuals with designer tool belts that just stepped off a Volkswagon Jetta ad to tell you about light fixtures. I'm talking about the hard body, blue collar boys like Justin, who actually, you know, do this for a LIVING. Round up a bunch a guys just like him, take off their shirts and make 'em demolish a dry wall for an hour. That would make Ariel very, very happy. Oh, and smarter, too!

See You in Hell

I'm man enough to admit: My masturbatory impulses have met an all-time low. That's right, folks. Gina from Sesame Street.

And while we're on the subject, where were these "Elmo visits the fucking super hot nurse" scenarios when I was a wee lad watching the show? Most I got was James Earl Jones reciting the alphabet. Not exactly wood-inducing stuff.

God Bless the Boys in Tights

Ladies and Gentlemen;
Football season has officially begun.
Tight ends strut with tight asses.
Tatted out triceps throw TD passes.
Quads strain through spandex to leap up and catch
Those TD passes that can't be matched.
Huddle. Tackle. Punt. Kick.
Offensive. Defensive. Sack. Blitz.

If this aint poetry, what is?

From the Mailbag, #2156

DEAR KEN & ARIEL: A couple weeks ago, I walked out of the bathroom to find my boyfriend clutching a pair of my jeans to his face. I wrote it off as a tick, then yesterday caught him clear as day smelling a pair of panties that he pulled from my hamper. I'm all for heavy lust, but that's just fucking sick. Am I wrong?

KEN SAYS:
While it is completely understandable for guys to become obsessed with objects that have been dangerously close to their loved one's skin, such enticement can lead to some pretty bizarre behavior.

Case in point: My old college roomie had a serious jones for a girl in his History of Bipolar Economics class. He was a baseball-cap wearin', Ford truck drivin' werewolf and she was a Eurotrash goddess who wouldn't look in his direction if they were showing the director's cut of La Dolce Vita on his ass. So without any hope of a connection (at least one not involving roofies and probable jail time), he began collecting various scraps of memorabilia.

Once, during class, he noticed her working over a large wad of pink bubblegum. After class, he waited for her to casually loogie the gum into the nearest wastebasket, then dove in hands first to retrieve the sticky treasure. Back at the dorm, he secured the gum in an airtight sandwich bag and began examining the teeth marks as I called the campus counseling center to inquire about finding a new roommate.

A few weeks later, while propping my head up in class, I glanced out the window into the quad and noticed his Eurodream sitting under a tree, flipping through a copy of Turn of the Screw, and puffing madly on a cigarette. As she got up to leave, flicking her spent cig to the ground, my trusty roomie emerged from the shadows, picked up the butt, stared longingly at the lipstick traces swirled around it, and placed it in his chest pocket.

This sort of behavior went on for weeks, over which time our room became littered with her cigarette butts, chewed gum, discarded corn chip bags, old soft drink tins and browning apple cores. Every time I asked him what he hoped to gain by all of this, he'd just chuckle and begin tracing his fingers along the opening of an empty Pepsi bottle. I could see it in his eyes. He wanted something more.

About a month later, news of a dorm room break-in began to spread across campus, and with an ounce of trepidation, I asked about to find whose room had been burgled. Sure enough, it was our Eurotrash queen, who was happy to report that no money or credit cards had been pilfered -- just a pair of jeans she'd bought in France.

Now the crazy bastard has done it, I thought. He's finally crossed the line. I confronted him, but he denied any knowledge of the crime, serving up a darn good alibi involving a sick family member, a long car ride, and a visit to a wax museum.

So all was well and good, until about two weeks later, when I found my Gorillas of the Fifteenth Century class cancelled and returned to our room an hour ahead of the norm. I walked in and, to my horror, found my roomie huddled in the corner, his hands all over the backside of a pair of French jeans, which had been stuffed with old shirts and pillowcases to somehow resemble an actual ass and legs. He laughed nervously, broke down in tears, then moved away to Zurich the very next day, where he is now a successful commodities broker.

What's the moral of the story? Hell, I don't know. But if what your boyfriend is doing bothers you, just tell him to knock it off.

ARIEL SAYS:
Clearly, your man is reverting back to his evolutionary roots, when mammals crawled around on all fours and sniffed each others' crotches to determine if they were compatible. Nowadays, astrology has replaced this elegant ritual, as evidenced by the popularity of the phrase, "hey baby, what's your sign?"

Your little Neanderthal isn't all bad; he obviously digs your musk. Which is better than a guy who thinks you smell like a sweaty monkey, right? Whether or not you can de-evolve to his level is entirely up to you.

If you still think it's "fucking sick," I wouldn't necessarily phrase it in that manner to him, but perhaps just pat him gently on his enlarged frontal lobe and tell him, "naughty cave man, leave woman loincloth alone."

Seriously dude, the mall is haunted.

Finally, TV Execs are waking up and making shows that cater to my demographic: horny single chicks that pick their toes and mentally masturbate while flipping through the latest A&F catalog.
The WB has this new show called Supernatural that was on last night. What's the premise? Who gives a shit. Something to do with ghosts, given the title. They run around, they drive around, they freak out and there's some yelling. I don't really listen to what they're saying, I just watch their mouths. Gosh, they're so dang purty. There must be some sort of paranormal activity which requires them to take off their pants. Or smear oil over their chests. Oh let's face it, they could sell Post Its on QVC for three hours and I'd still watch. Note to writers: make an episode where their clothes get ripped off by...um...a haunted tornado and there's no Gap or JCrew for miles.

Ken, Voyeur

Sitting at a friend's Labor Day thingee on Commonwealth Ave the other day, and suddenly everything comes to an audible halt. No, Crazy Jenkins didn't put his balls in the punchbowl again. Instead, all eyes were fixed on the girl in the photos above, who spent the better part of an hour trying to tie down a mattress to the roof of her car. Intriguingly, one of the guys alledgedly "helping her" seemed more interested in finding new and innovative ways to get her to bend over. And as the traffic started to snarl to Mass. Ave., it became apparent that we weren't the only ones hypnotized by the unfolding drama.

To whoever she was -- and to her male cohort -- I give a hearty "thank you."

I ::Heart:: Cooter

So I happen to overhear a couple of BU girls on the train the other day, and one of them starts talking as-a-matter-of-factly about her boyfriend's "dink."

Dink? Honey, I wanted to say, you do your man no favors by calling it a "dink." A newborn baby has a dink. Possibly some midgets. But not anyone over the age of 13. That's about as sexy as some chick getting me all hot n' bothered, then asking if she can hold my "pee pee." Just like that ::finger snapping sound::, the tower collapses and the game's over. Thank you, and good night.

For the record, I use "cock." Not "dick" or "wang" or "Love Missile F-11." Okay, maybe there's the odd occasion where I'll use "Little Jimmy O'Sullivan," but that's typically relegated to St. Patty's Day. Or, y'know, when I'm on "bizness."

Similarly, I like it when a woman refers to her holiest of holies as her "pussy." And I'm man enough to admit that "cooter" is pretty hot too. Yeah, that's right. I said "cooter." Represent!

Drug-Induced Sex life

I just want to say, that if I get arrested for soliciting sex from teens at the local mall, I plan on suing the pharmaceutical companies. Because of their fantastically annoying, endless stream of commercials, I'm now convinced that any guy over 35 is completely incapable of getting, and maintaining, a hard-on. I have this horrible nightmare that Charles, the handsome, debonair, sophisticated older man that won my heart will turn to me on our wedding night and whisper, "Sorry love, I forgot my Cialis. Honeymoon's off." And the thought of being Eli Lilly or Pfizer's bitch for the rest of my life just gives me the heebie-jeebies. Four-hour erection as a possible side-effect? That conjours up images of John Doe's portrayal of Lust in "Se7en."

So c'mon down to the playground and hang out with me, Demi, and Cher. We heard there's a junior varsity boy's basketball game at 4:00PM. Mmmmmm.