No name

If Ya Gotta Watch Something...

noreply@blogger.com (Ken) — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 21:16:00 +0000

I shit you not: The other day, I spent three hours on a flight sitting next to a woman--probably in her mid-30s--who was watching porn on her laptop.

Actual porn. Like with fucking and stuff. Men and women.

She wasn't being obvious about it, but she wasn't really going out of her way to hide it, either. One of the stewardesses clearly saw as well, because I saw her chuckling something to a fellow stew after stopping at our row for a bit.

I wanted desperately to say something, but what do you say? "Cool porn" or "Hey, if you wanna actually do some of that stuff once the plane lands..." seems a bit tough to pull off.

When we landed, she simply closed up the laptop, slid it smoothly into her bag, and off she went. Just another hot chick to everyone else in the airport, but a fellow porn enthusiast to me.

It's Time For Male Objectification: Flat-versus-Squeezalicious

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 14:43:00 +0000

Just like those boob men who don't like flat chests, we don't really like the flat butts. We lika-da bubble-booty. Really, it can cause some of us to drool, Pavlovian-style. Now, I'm not quite sure why, from a biological standpoint. A woman's breasts make sense, because that was the first form of nourishment; indeed, what kept us alive. And the more rounder, fuller breast, the more food! But the butt doesn't really serve any other purpose except for excreting waste and looking good in Levi's. Perhaps it's just one of God's gift to women, free of charge?

The Evil Twins

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 14:23:00 +0000

I was cursed with breasts at a fairly young age. Yes, I said cursed. I was totally fine, going along with my mosquito bites, cheerfully unaware of the evil that lurked in men's hearts until a crappy family vacation in which I ate too many chips and chocolate suddenly made these boobs appear. And suddenly, boys paid more attention to me. Well, not to me, to the hypnotic "fun bags" suddenly attached to my ribs. Suddenly, I had not-so-nice nicknames and various titty-ditties written about me, and not one of them rhymed. Old pervy men who wouldn't have noticed me before if I had fallen on them ("look where you're going, boy!") suddenly leered and ogled and practically drooled as I walked past, asking if I was single and available for various acts that would get them arrested in most states. And if we were going out to church or a family bbq, my poor father took to throwing sweaters, jackets, blankets or sheets at me, clucking and tsk-tsking and shaking his head, murmuring "cover them UP, for God's sake! You look like a trollop!" when just a few months before that same dress or shirt made me look like a schoolhouse kid extra on "Little House On The Prairie".
So, I suppose, now that I'm a full-grown woman, it's great I got 'em, some people have to pay money for 'em (not to SEE them, I meant plastic surgery!)but when I have to run with 2 sportsbras or I'm asked if I would let the "tittens" come out to play, I fondly think back to a more innocent time, a time of asexual mosquito bites.

My Short But Brilliant Career in Adult Films

noreply@blogger.com (Ken) — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 10:35:00 +0000

This weekend, I was hanging with a female friend of mine from the college days. As is typical once the booze hits, we found ourselves laying on the floor with her laptop, scrolling through online porn sites to find the most inexplicable fetish for which targeted, demographic-friendly fetish films exist (guys hot for girls wearing raincoats, etc.)

"There's actually a lot of money in that stuff," I said, because, shit, that always seems like the thing to say when you're looking at weird-ass fetish films.

So we kept on drinking and scrolling through page after page of this lunacy until our blood alcohol levels got us talking about how to make a quick buck in this market.

"It would have to be something where I didn't have to show my face," my friend says, and I agreed. Nobody wants to be our neighbor, the adult film star.

Also, I added, it couldn't be anything with career-ruining potential if it was ever unearthed. Because once you put a horse's cock in your mouth, you're pretty much kissing any bid for normalcy goodbye.

We finally agreed that one of those jeans facesitting films, in which a woman clad in jeans uses a man's face as her bacalounger, would be perfect. No one's nude. There's limited dialogue (unless "mmmffffff" counts). And, depending on the camera angles, you really can't see the actors.

About twelve beers later, we're setting up the shot. I assume my place on the floor, on my back. She sets up her camera behind my head and straddles my chest. There's about as much eroticism in the air as you'd find at a Milwaukee Brewers game, but we're only in this for the money, so it's all good. Two seconds later she scootches back, lifts her derriere up over my face, and deposits it with a slam. I feel my nose cartilage bend with an audible "crunch" as my entire face floods with pain. My body instinctively jerks itself forward, sending her flying into the coffee table, and setting about seven spent Rolling Rock bottle smashing to the floor.

Five minutes later, we've assessed the damages: my nose may or may not be broken (and I'll be damned if I'm explaining that one to a doctor), the bruise on her head seems okay, and the band-aids seem to have the glass cuts on both our hands under control.

Going forward, I'll leave this shit to the pros.

Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 14:35:00 +0000

This is an awesome goofy picture I found of "couples fighting" in Google images. The guy looks like he's quacking like a duck, the chick is doing the classic "what about my needs?" pose whilst the fat cab driver is enjoying the show. I do feel, in many ways, like that fat cab driver when I see a couple fighting, it's the ultimate schadenfreude. Pookie and smookie normally have no problem in any social situation, because hey! They have each other! until someone says something or does something to piss the other one off. And when they really get going, they have completely lost all sense of their surroundings or that other people can see/hear them, especially, say in a crowded deli or the middle aisle of an airplane. Sure, they may try to keep their voices down, but the jabbing gestures, the strained facial expressions (somewhat akin to constipation) and bulging eyeballs are usually a dead giveaway. And man, it can go on for hours--I was once waiting for a friend at the beach next to the bike path, and this couple, all decked out in cute, almost-matching pastel summer gear on their shiny new beach cruisers, we're going at it for a good 45 minutes (I got totally sucked in watching until I realized that, wait a minute, I'm at the wrong beach!). They were literally in the middle of the bike path, people and kiddies whizzing past them, as they waved their arms wildly and yelled things like "youNEVER--" "whycan'tYOU--" "whatthefuckdoyouWANTMETODO!!!" Again, totally awesome. Of course, until it happens to me.

New One On Me

noreply@blogger.com (Ken) — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 11:55:00 +0000

The other day in the office cafeteria, I'm minding my own business, scoping out the ladies from Finance as they stroll in, when I hear this twentysomething dude behind me telling his friend, "Man, she moved like a screen door."

Huh?

I may be woefully out of touch, but the only image that came into my head upon hearing that was the painful thought of my erect cock being caught repeatedly between a door frame and slamming metal.

But, hey. Some folks like that shit.

mute

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 14:25:00 +0000

Some people can sleep with the TV on. Some people can have sex with the TV on. Unfortunately, I can't do either. Brilliant multi-taskers, there are those who can share a chuckle with David Letterman whilst performing fellatio from a trapeze. Me, I am haunted by "now for just $19.95 you get THESE KITCHEN KNIVES plus FOUR POTATO PEELERS and this COLLAPSEABLE TUPPERWARE!" And I think, wait, collapseable? I wanna see! Then I'm distracted and my mate is mad because he was just about to come before squashed plastic became more interesting. Or I'm forever going to associate doing a 69 with the time that the Fonz won the dance marathon. So yes, turn it off, turn it off!

But then I think,
oh Jesus, it's so quiet! Can everyone hear us? Are we making too much noise? Is that the bed post hitting the wall to the neighbor's bedroom? Are his roommates gonna give me sly looks when I run out to pee? I think that little kid who lives downstairs, his bedroom is right underneath, am I completely ruining his childhood? And so on.

Eating Ice Cream Off a Woman's Ass: A Primer

noreply@blogger.com (Ken) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 10:00:00 +0000

Okay, listen. I like ice cream. I like ass. So really, it was only a matter of time until I concocted some Costanza-esque way to enjoy them both simultaneously. But as I learned just a couple nights ago, when eating ice cream off a woman's ass, you should keep a few things in mind.

1) Roll with vanilla. Trust me on this. Chocolate is just too weird and if you're into Mocha Latte Crunch with Teaberry Leaves then you're probably not into chicks anyway. So, vanilla.

2) Go high-grade. Listen, it's hard to find a woman who will let you eat her ass. It's even harder to find one who'll consent to having ice cream dolloped on her backside while you make like Jughead from the Archie comics. So spend a few extra bucks and roll with the Ben & Jerry's or the Haagen-Daz to mark this occasion. This ain't the time for that yellow "Stop and Shop" house brand vanilla.

3) Scoop some out gently with your fingers and let it fall onto the thick of her buttocks. In the name of all that is holy, don't try to stuff it into her rectum like you're filling a goddam cannoli. Part of the fun is watching it gently cascade down her curves, and stopping it with your tongue before it dips too far south. Just like our ancestors did before God invented television and Entertainment Weekly.

4) If you decide to ask her to flip over so you can try this on her holiest of holies, remember that ice cream is "motherfucking colder than a fucking iceberg packed with ice, you fucking prick" when applied to her more sensitive regions. Or so I've been told.

5) As attentive as your tongue may be, there will always be stray ice cream on her skin. After a while, this becomes sticky. Make sure that there's a shower or at the very least a few moist towelettes nearby, lest she be shuttled off to Mass General to have her pants spot-welded off her body the next day.

If you take one thing away from this, let it be the vanilla. Always roll with vanilla.

My name's Ken. And I approve this message.

I'm tired

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 14:43:00 +0000

I was watching her reality show the other night - granted, it's filmed in impossibly grainy, washed-out, extreme angles (today's version of 'soap opera filter') but she still looks fantastic. And I just feel so tired when I look at her, because it would take so much damn work to look like that. Let's just forget diet, workout, and plastic enhancements for a second. Nails, hair, makeup, tanning - it would take 5 hours before I could even leave the house. Right now, we're lucky if the teeth are brushed and the hair's been washed sometime in the past 72 hours.

RU4REAL?

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 14:45:00 +0000

I'm sure I'm not alone in this, but dating someone whose primary form of communication involves only his thumbs is quite a bummer. We meet, swap numbers, and then it's a colorful exchange of 3-letter abbreviations and the stupid overuse of emoticons. If I try to call, I get his voice mail, then he'll immediately text me back: "Sry! cant PU 2 LOUD hre, LOL! WatRUdoin?" He seems to have a real voice, if I recall correctly, and a fairly good sense of people skills, so why the hell can't he use the phone for its God-intended purpose?
Oh well, I guess it could be worse.

The Business of Perversion

noreply@blogger.com (Ken) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 10:57:00 +0000

One night last week, a day of seemingly endless meetings finally ended, and I found myself heading out for after-work dinner with some coworkers. Some I knew quite well; others I'd never met. But one of the ladies with us possessed a remarkable ass, which a friend of mine and I had spent the better part of the day's meetings drooling over. And getting to ogle it for a few more hours was good enough for me.

But not, it would seem, for my friend. As we're walking into the restaurant, I see him walking close behind her, fumbling with his phone. A couple minutes later, inside the restaurant, he sends me the photo posted above. Of her backside. Now the pic doesn't really do that bum justice, but the point is he sent me the photo, I laughed, saved it (of course), then went about my business.

Until last weekend, when I attended a family cookout and got all silly with the Bud Light. My niece, who loves playing with cell phones, asked if she could see mine and I quickly obliged. So she goes off, pretending to talk to someone on the phone and I get back to my drinking. Then, a few minutes later, my niece is waving the phone at her mother, my sister.

"Ew, Uncle Ken has a picture of someone's bum on his phone."

My sister took the phone from her daughter, gave it a look, raised an eyebrow in disgust, then scanned the crowd for me. I was already sprinting her way, wishing myself invisible, and blabbering whatever excuses came into my head: "Oh, yeah, a friend sent me that as a joke and I meant to delete it but I kept it andohboyisthisweirdbutitreallyisn'tmyphoneandanywayIjustneedtoblahblahblah..." I took the phone from her, and faded sheepishly into the background, where I remained for the balance of the night.

See, I can handle everyone at work thinking I'm a world class pervert (hell, no way to change their minds now, anyway). I can handle the Kenettes who wander in and out of my life thinking the same thing. But my family? Something about one of my sisters knowing I had that photo on my cell phone... it just makes me wanna join the French Foreign Legion.

I hear they've also got some hot chicks as well.

A Moment of Silence

noreply@blogger.com (Ken) — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 12:20:00 +0000

This year, by my calculations, the first wave of chicks with tramp stamps will hit their thirties. As these lasses make their slow and steady way from twentysomething hotties to soccer-field MILFs, I salute them.

The Best Sleep Aid Money (Can't) Buy

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 14:41:00 +0000

So I read somewhere that the NUMBER ONE reason people pleasure themselves...is in order to go to sleep. It's not about reaching the gates of orgasmic nirvana, it's not about checking out the latest Vivid offering, or finally enjoying that secret fantasy of you, Christian Bale and 5,000 peacock feathers, it's about passing out. The primal urge to procreate...has been commandeered to catch a few zzz's.

Tan-O-Rama

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 14:26:00 +0000

My friend once gave me some very sage advice: "When you go in the tanning booth, make sure you lift your ass cheeks when you lie down. Otherwise, you get white lines under your butt."
I wondered who the hell would be inspecting possible pale skin under my ass, then remembered that I was entering the bikini zone for the next 3 months, in which every errant strap mark, ingrown pubic hair and (of course) evidence of cellulite would be available for public viewing. Which is why I was at the tanning salon in the first place, giving the Oompa Loompa behind the counter my $70 for 10 visits.
I look good in a tan. Doesn't everyone? But I do worry about leatherface and skin cancer. And I always remember my friend Tina, who was a tanning supastah and every year was literally bronzed by May 1st--no matter what, she was always the darkest. Until one day when we were hanging out by the pool, and she went to scratch her face and her ENTIRE FOREHEAD fell off, giving "peeling" a whole new horrific dimension. Be warned, my brown-skinned honeys!

Different Strokes, Folks

noreply@blogger.com (Ken) — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 11:50:00 +0000

One of the things that I find endlessly fascinating about the various Kenettes who've come in and out of my life is how different they all seem to be when it comes to matters of the loins. Some have been impossibly freaky--typically the ones who stay around the longest--while others have been surprisingly staid and upstanding (their association with me, of course, not withstanding). But the movement from one Kenette to another can often be jarring.

Case in point: A couple years out of college, I met Kenette D. Around our third or fourth date, we arrived back at her apartment after a movie to have a few drinks. After the third drink, she calmly, matter-of-factly removed her underwear and then pressed it against my face.

My first thought was, did she dip those things in choloroform and is now trying to kill me?

She said something along the lines of, "Just inhale that. Doesn't it make you want me even more?"

Hokey and psuedo-porno dialogue, yes. But I found it oddly intriguing. And arousing.

And this maneuver became her modus operandi. We'd go out, eat or drink, and I knew at some point she'd be trying to smother me with her panties. And as predictable as it was, there was something just so goddam freaky about it that everytime I saw her reach under her skirt, I found myself panting like a motherfucking dog waiting for his master to toss him a bacon snap.

As these things go, we broke up about half a year later. And I distinctly remember the next girl I dated. The first time we went out, we ended up at my place for some extended tonsil hockey. Then my mind got all silly with booze and lust and memories.

"Do you want to... make me smell your underwear?"

::abrupt silence::

"What?"

"Er... do you--"

"Did you just ask if you could smell my underwear? Are you fucking serious?"

"Well, I--"

"I'm outta here."

And with that, she was gone. And an important lesson was learned. Namely, one woman's good time is another woman's restraining order.

Remember that, folks.

Cream With That?

noreply@blogger.com (Ken) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 11:02:00 +0000

Travelling with my boss on business is always an adventure. She's older, in her fifties, but stunningly attractive with a damn straight hot body to match. I've often fantasized about the two of us hunkering down in a hotel bar after an important meeting, the boss tipped out on too many appletinis, and an errant hand--preferably hers--making its way for my johnson.

Alas, it hasn't happened and I'm not so sure I really want such a thing to happen as it would no doubt change everything and seriously compromise my ability to collect a regular paycheck. Also, there's the fact that the boss considers me a creepy but highly productive perv.

Yet we seem to have our share of impossibly awkward moments. Like yesterday, which found us having a drink before heading back home after a quick business trip. We were discussing a meeting from earlier in the day and, attempting to convey a manager's enthusiasm for statistical data, she noted that, "He creams himself for that kinda stuff."

So, all of a sudden, the thought of one of our greasy, sixty-year-old managers "creaming himself" is in my mind. Urgh.

But she doesn't drop it. "Do you think he creams for that?" She asks me. And it's bad enough the boss is tossing the word "cream" around with no coffee in sight, but she's continuing to push issue on a subject that I honestly want no part of.

"I'm certain he creams himself for that," she says out loud again, and I find myself fumbling with my Blackberry, hoping--for perhaps the first time in my life--that my boss will please stop talking about ejaculation.

I Pledge My Love To You-At Least Until Next Tuesday

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 04:58:00 +0000

Blessed hindsight is 20/20, but it would also be nice if I could have less of an insane biological imperative when it comes to dating dudes. I will fall huuurd--the more unavailable, detached, checked out, fucked up, the better. And suddenly within hours, days, (sometimes seconds) I've planned out the names of offspring, a desirable neighborhood, and possible daycare in the area. The inner dialog will go something like this: "hmmm, he's got crazy curly hair even though he keeps it cut short but if we have a daughter I may have to look into getting her a relaxer, and his mom lives in Detroit and there's no freakin way I'm moving to Detroit but what if we need her to look after the kids, maybe we could fly her out here like 3 months out of the year and after the wedding--oh yeah, the wedding, maybe we could meet halfway and have it somewhere romantic like Napa or Cabo or--wait, he said he loves Austin maybe we could have it in Texas but it would have to be in the winter or spring, although I really want a June wedding but it's already humid and I'm not too sure about the musician thing, maybe I could turn him towards web design or turn him into some kind of hip computer geek that at least would make decent money so I wouldn't have to work all the time---I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

Music to Screw By

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 14:20:00 +0000

We covered this topic eons ago and it's in dire need of updating, as many of our choices won't even get played on Classic Rock these days. Also, with the meteoric rise of advertising buys in music, that song that you and Stu first made love to on the beach back in '97 now makes you think of that annoying Jetta commercial. So, herewith, a few ripe choices, relatively untainted:
Satisfy - Me'Shell Ndegeocello
Like A Star- Corrine Bailey Rae
Business Time - Flight of the Conchords (heh heh)
Summer Breeze - Isley Brothers
Destiny-Zero 7
You Don't Know Me - Willie Nelson
Orange Sky-Alexi Murdoch

Refried Sex Life

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 14:32:00 +0000

Hooking up with an ex usually happens when you're single (at least, for the sake of keeping things simple, let's pretend it's so.) And it's usually because nothing else save Joey Fatone's new reality show is going on at the moment. Because if that cute "friend" request online or that possibly normal dude who bought you a drink three barstools over or your new neighbor at 16A had any promise, you'd sure as hell wouldn't be returning your ex's call/text/yodeling outside your bedroom window. But hey, you've done your nails, picked your toes, and Supernanny's a rerun--what else, or who else, is there to do?
So I think of hooking up with the ex like going to that neighborhood diner. You never think, during the week or making plans for Friday night, "I really want to eat at The Egg n' I tonight!" It's Sushi, it's Italian, it's anything that doesn't have a "super value menu." But late Saturday night, or hungover Sunday morning, that's where you go. And wait for a table (yes, you're willing to wait up to 20 minutes for a $4.99 pancake special.) Just like you'd wait for your stupid ex at the dive bar on the corner, even as you're still checking your watch and drinking warm Bud swill and telling yourself, that's it, I'm so outta here. But when he shows up 28 minutes later, there you sit, a mixture of resentment and horniness which will at least fuel your first few thrusts. So, in essence, you eat at the diner. Since it's comfort food, you think, yeah, these greasy eggs and over-buttered toast and black sulphur coffee tastes pretty good. Hits the spot.
We'll check back a few hours later when you're on the can with a magazine and Tums and we'll see if that diner will still be in your immediate future.

The Backside Party

noreply@blogger.com (Ken) — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 19:04:00 +0000

I shit you not: Just yesterday as I sat in the cafeteria at work, a coworker pointed to a hot chick in line and said he wanted to "party on her backside." I wrote the guy off as a fellow perv and got back to my chicken sandwich. But later on, I read an article that informed me the guy might not be a perv at all! He might just be from Dubai:

“Dinglish” is a blend of broken English, Hindi, and Arabic that most expatriate residents of Dubai end up speaking, as it is both practical and sociable, according to British expatriate Annabel Kantaria, who lives in Dubai. "A grip on the basics of Dinglish is essential when you need to get things done in Dubai," she maintains. "Ask for something to be done with typical British reserve and politeness and you'll be waiting a very long time." One example of Dinglish is a invitation Kantaria received to attend a party in a friend's "backside," which in Dinglish means backyard or rear building entrance.

Still, any city where women are tossing around phrases like, "come party in my backside" is pefectly fine with me.

There's Always Someone Worse Than You (or, The Sneakiest Possible Way to Feel a Woman's Ass)

noreply@blogger.com (Ken) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 10:15:00 +0000

Okay. I've been known to pull a few patented "ass man" moves from time to time. Laying my hand palm-up on the passenger side seat before a girl sits down in my car. Shifting my shoulder just a bit too far out into the aisle while on an airplane so as to catch a bit of the cute flight attendant's arse. Hanging out in the gallows of the Boston Public Library, scoping out college chicks bent over stacks of Kierkegaard. Y'know, pretty basic stuff.

But here's a guy who's taking it to a level of which I've never even dreamed--Hiding in a woman's couch and waiting for her to sit down on him:

A 27-year-old Hudson Valley man is accused of cutting hole in a woman's couch and hiding in the carved-out space until she came home.

Police in the city of Newburgh, 55 miles north of New York City, say the 22-year-old woman sat on the couch Wednesday evening and felt a bump in the cushions. She jumped up and David Joe Limones emerged from his hiding place.

Bizarre, yes. But it's nice to see that there are fellow ass fanatics who are working on bigger, better and more ingenious ways to get their feel on.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to Jordan's Furniture.

the next B-town generation

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 04:50:00 +0000

You know, I was just thinking that between October 2007 and now, a lot of babies have been made in Boston. Little babies made in the drunken, sloppy, silly, euphoric love of winning something, that is just so unbelievable and amazing and sweet, well, you just gotta fuck.

(Or, conversely, in February 2008 a loss so horrific I cannot speak its name, it is so devastating that you just have to make the pain go away, well, you just gotta fuck.)

There's gonna be a lotta little babies running around this time next year.

Not Safe For Work

noreply@blogger.com (Ken) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 10:30:00 +0000

As far as my office is concerned, I'm all about the illicit affairs. Because those people know how to keep things "on the sly" as the clever people say. A nod, a wink, perhaps a brief coded e-mail, and they're off to dinner at Joe's and perhaps a nice bang session at a local Marriott.

On the other hand, you've got the office workers who are co-mingling and seem to want the world to know about it. Yeah, they're usually younger and don't have a significant other at home whom other may know about. But still, I just don't need to see that shit in my life.

For example, the other day, I head down to the soda machine. When I get there, I see, out of the corner of my eye, a couple making out in the corner of the hall, between the cafeteria and the corporate gym. And not just making out--she's practically humping his leg and he's squeezing her over sized ass cheeks like they're a couple wet bags of sand. I look at them--purely out of the fascination of the abomination--and they stop and look at me, and the girl--a real ornery sort--shoots me a look and chortles, "What are you lookin' at?" They then proceed to move about four feet down the hall, just out of my line of sight, and continue.

I just bit my tongue, went to my happy place, and selected my soda. Looking back, I wish I'd told them, look, no one needs to see such PDAs in an office. As I see it, if you're banging the resident "big girl," that's your problem--not something you should feel obligated to share with the masses. Unless, of course, two hot chicks wanna make out with each other. Hell, they can use my office.

Next week, I'll probably slash her tires. I'm keeping my options open.

Thar's gold in them thar hills

noreply@blogger.com (Ariel) — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 04:18:00 +0000

Hey kids,
why I can't be a Celtics dancer? I say this, of course, because the supabadass Celtics are in the Finals and I would love to be at the games. I'd be fired after the first quarter though because I would be not doing the dance routine and instead going up to the players and saying goofy things like "You guys are AWESOME! YEAH!" and then I'd yell at the other team like "You guys SUCK! YEAH!" and then I'd ask how I can get a popcorn or a beer and I'd shove one of those rich white fat bastards out of the their premier $2,000 seats so I could watch the game.

When are the Pats cheerleader auditions?

Nothing to See Here

noreply@blogger.com (Ken) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 11:14:00 +0000

...just your basic gum commercial in which a cartoon cat goads some young Spanish boys into spying on a pre-teen girl getting dressed. Or something like that.

Pretty run of the mill stuff, I'd say.