Thursday, February 01, 2007


...on the other hand, change seems to have fried my links list.
And your avatars.
And my comment lounge.

Yay for change.

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

vaseline for africa part II: uterine midnight

Let's all treat ourselves to a bracing onion smoothie while we review the results of this latest goofy and pointless exercise, shall we?

It was inevitable that Tim Footman would emerge by overwhelming popular acclaim as the 'John Steed of blogdom'.

...the shizz: mack daddy mcnee

He is intelligent. He is smooth. He is incredibly well- spoken. He is the type of man who would not hesitate to stab the crap out of someone with an umbrella. a recent television interview. footman has been described as 'distinctly punditlike with a strong note of oak' and 'super nice-n-smart + realy cool!!! funy to!!! 4 perod math see you next yeir!!!'

Come forward, Tim, and accept a congratulatory glass of Moet&Chandon and this sleek Starbucks coffee thermos which, when hurled at the feet of an opponent, emits a crippling cloud of narcotic gas.

If for any reason during the term of his reign Tim Footman is not able to carry out the responsibilities of his office, his alternate is....


...crying on the inside

..who ran a popular second despite my best efforts to influence the judges by (showing them all the places I have piercings) pleading eloquently on his behalf.
Well fought, my darling. Step forward and receive your second place award...ten pounds of raw pork and this wadded up Canadian $20 I found when I was doing laundry. It wont buy much, but it's pretty. You can color on it if you want.

Wyndham Triffid was notable among the field of competition; an unsung blogging GOD. His enormous brainial giftatude intimidates me so much, in fact, that I have been reduced to lurking at his place, as helpless before his mental attainments as a chihuahua under a fat lady's ass. God bless you and all who sail in you, sir.

Danator nominated herself. Then I think what happened was, she nominated Mrs. Danator, the delightful and wicked Mrs. Danator, the beautiful and vibrant Mrs. Danator, the Mrs. Danator of hot-corn-on-a-stick fame. Then I forgot what I was saying and the phone rang. It was some kind of phone sales crap. I don't understand why they bother. Its not like I'm going to buy shit over the phone anyway.

Murph received one highly enthusiastic nomination. After a critical review it was decided with reluctance that, while Murph is both smooth and well dressed, the lack of opposable thumbs would prove a distinct disadvantage when battling cybernetically enhanced Russian agents. Good boy, Murph.

MUTTLEY'S varied career has included a stint as comedic sidekick, weapons expert, and alternate driver for modified racings' reknowned Team Whiplash.

..remember, ninety cents out of every dollar goes towards helping these kids.

After a puzzling silence of several years Muttley re-emerged upon the public stage as an intrepid survivor in an alternate, postapocalyptic Britain, bravely holding his own against the radioactively mutated inhabitants and slutty, hardware-obsessed naked booby ladies. It was determined, with regret, that Muttley already has enough on his plate.

Dave received one vote. But it was a vote which included the phrase 'dirty vicar' so I call that well done.

...i like TITS!

Fine; that was a lie. It was nothing like 'dirty vicar'.
Dirty Vicar.

Knudson nominated himself.
He was barred from competition by showing up to the gate clad in a used leather catsuit.
"...Vile and unsanitary vodka nonagenarian crusted, floating balls of animal sticky hair. Heat rash, beans for lunch like a mouse squeaking in a trap, insufficient support for whenever scaly psoriasis because gravity, called moobs, deflated patchy red rash all over the unsightly lumpiness of the ew ew ew hanging out. Traffic accidents when a dog that's too licky because with identical roll-on deodorant used by teenage girls. Really icky linty too lazy in a pop bottle next to the victrola, wintergreen liniment strong enough to fricken taste (call me.)"
...from 'tribute to knudson', rod mckuen (deceased)

FROBISHER, my rat, my only rat, was nominated in a charming display of (guilt and pity) manly chivalry by Beast.

...scary robot man! his fu is unbeatable!
Frobisher was unavailable for comment as he was busy fending off the lascivious advances of his hareem with a garbage can lid and a shitty stick.

Last but certainly not least, the white hot law-enforcing goodness that is local mover-n-shaker Ed Troyer is taken, much to our dismay, by the discriminating and lovely Kristy of Eats, Shoots and Leaves.

...wearing Garanimals

'Think globally, lust locally' are words she lives by. I think we can all appreciate why.

Well! Wasn't that fun? I know I had fun.
Did you have fun?
Because, you know, I did.
Have fun.

ok. go away.
its done.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

nerd heat

stainless steel amazon? don't read this. trust me.

Well then.

Spinsterella (the Emma Peel of blogging) has a fatal fascination for scrawny, veiny guys.

100 % white-hot, nightcrawling, alley dwelling boy meat. for you it's free. the rest pay. gladly.

SurlyGirl, for Rowan Akinson as Elizabethan Blackadder.

he maketh me to swete fair, strait through my stomacher, i too have ruint for setting my inward skirts as he maketh me to shift so in my seat, to imagine how hot couydd burn the kisses of his sneering lips upon my heaving white bosom, yo.

Me, I have a real weakness for nerds.

gates-on-gates action. we all know how this turns out....

Now by nerds I don't mean chinless adolescent gamers picking at their acne in the dark foetor of their basement bedrooms, no no no. I mean full-grown man-geeks with overriding passions for say, ornithology, or experimental chemistry. The type of man who gets so lost in his enthusiasm for his interest that he fails to notice until too late that you have slipped beneath the table, mouth full of ice cubes, and undone the buttons of his pants.

1. Bill Nye the Science Guy

we believe you, bill.
UPDATE: bill, you lie like an egg sucking hound.

This guy is just likeable anyway. Still, Bill Nye was just another postmodern kids' show host...Until I saw a segment he did while standing thigh deep in a tidepool WEARING A WETSUIT. And it wasn't so much as the wetsuit, really, as it was the wet curls of hair at the pit of his throat. That, and the guy's got hands the size of canoe paddles, if you follow me. I imagined slooooooowly unzipping that wetsuit with my teeth for quite awhile.
All together now: What in GODS NAME is wrong with me?

2. Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs

...why yes! I'd love some!

Handsome and funny despite the fact that he can usually be found standing tit deep in raw oysters or stuck up to his armpit in a cow rectum, Mike Rowe is GAME. And more than likely gamy, too. Of course, that washes off. Still, he's just as happy stripped down to damn near nothing (God bless you, Mike) surrounded by tiger sharks as he is dressed in full hazmat gear chucking muck out of a dairy gutter. Never one to let the opportunity for a truly filthy double entendre pass, delivered with a gentle, rueful smile in a voice like a bank of organpipes, Mike Rowe is delightfully hairy and completely out of his mind. And very, very dirty.
Of course, as I've said, that washes off. In a hot, steamy shower, deserted when I enter, towel already inching towards the tiles....Deserted except for Mike Rowe enthusiastically rinsing off the days pay...

3. John Cleese

never doubted it for a moment, Johnny boy.
Yes, John.
Oh YES, John.
God, yes, John.
It's been like that since I was thirteen years old.
Remember in 'How To Annoy People' when he smiles, languidly clasps his hands behind his head and says, 'That's right, she can't get enough of it' ? He was right. I cannot get enough of this guy. The years have not lessened nor have they dimmed the raw bestial glory that is long, tall and british John Cleese draped elegantly across a piece of furniture, eyes intent, a faint flush spreading across his aristocratic features as he watches me slowly sink to my knees, smiling wickedly, reaching for his
I was genuinely pissed off when I realized he wasn't gay. Really, really, REALLY pissed. Here he'd been on tour in the United States while I was in my childbearing prime and I BLEW IT! Or failed to. Because I would. Bald, ancient and toothless though he is in real life. Oh hell yeah. Until he had an aneurism.
Remember in that zoo picture he did with Jaime Lee Curtis when he suddenly throws her over the top of his desk and puts the meat to her? THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME.

What? Jaime Lee is hot.

4. Jaime Heineman (I have deliberately misspelled this. The man already has girlgeek pornsites devoted to him. I have SOME pride. Kinda.)

The confident stance of a man who knows that those last two inches will always go unused.

Proving once and for all that happiness is indeed a warm gun, any time this guy does a segment of M***B*****s which involves firearms I am there. And I am lickin' the screen. It's the way he laughs when something toxic explodes in a ball of flames...that fine hard ass you could bounce a dime off of...damn. I have fantasies about this guy that include a mechanics creeper, a bottle of oxyacetelene and a large pile of shop rags. See, it's a warm day, and Jaime is wearing his starched white shirt open. The breeze moves it. Sweat has dampened the hairs on his chest into dark ringlets that follow the pulse in his throat, ringlets that dissappear into luxuriant darkness.
From where I am lying I can see him through the darkened glass of my welding helmet. I have dropped all pretense of repairing the axle of the monster truck I am under (we'll be filling it with dead swine and plastique and pushing it off a building later). I simply observe him. Sparks fall around me.
He walks over to where I am.
I have enough remaining presence of mind to turn the gas down and let the flame go out.
I expect him to lean over and say something. Instead he grasps the end of the creeper and pulls me out from under the truck.
He helps me to my feet. Takes off my visor. The gloves. The jacket.
And my hand is inside the top of his shirt. Just like that, the motion deliberate. Gliding over his throat. Up the line of his jaw. Drawing my finger across his lips. Between them.
I follow the dark line down his chest to the waistband of his slacks.
He bends his head towards me
I'm not thinking anymore
He is kissing my neck, kissing and biting it.
I can't help it. I'm making noise now.
When his hand slides up the back of my shirt and unclasps my

Gosh! Isn't it warm in here?

And speaking of heat, RealDoc posed me this burning question, which I turn over
you, my darlings...


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