Tag Archives: vagina

Looking for Restaurants for Mother’s Day?

Well call off that exhaustive search, because you’ve struck (greasy) oil!

Yes, tell mom to put on her Sunday best, because nothing says quality, fancy and dignified like Hooters! Yes, Hooters, the purveyor of  top-notch eats that satisfy a foodie’s palette more than humblebragging about their Yelp.com review.

So when you saunter into Hooters, mother in tow, be proud that you took the woman, that carried you in her body for 9 months, underwent hours of painful, pelvis-crushing labor to give birth to you, and put up with your crap for at least 18 years, to the restaurant given three stars by Urbanspoon in Seattle!

Oh, Hooters. Your wood-paneled walls and silicone-paneled waitresses are the perfect backdrop to show the primary caregiver in your life your eternal gratitude. Your high-top wood tables all a-clutter with paper towel rolls and wet-naps display a level of preparedness for the bar food that your bowels will regret in hours, and your mother will regret immediately.

The ’80s power ballads ringing through your ears will simulate the harried screams that your lifegiver hurled towards the sky as your umbilical cord-connected body squeezed out of her vagina like an arm trapped in a Pringles can.

See waitresses are trying their damnedest to tame the bile in their livers when hit on and/or groped by the slovenly middle-aged guy in a trucker hat and shirt as drenched in questionable stains as those “Nearly World Famous” chicken wings!

Add a cherry on top of this winning sundae by requesting a bottle of Korbel champagne to your order! And you get 10 free wings, to boot? HOLY SHIT!

Hooters! Mother’s Day! Show the most important woman in your life  HOW. MUCH. YOU. CARE!

The Book of Statham: The Essence of Statham

Movie star, ex-footballer and sexual conquistador Jason Statham transcends mere categorization. His tough-as-nails persona is a front for his even tougher-as-more-nails inner psyche, crushing the emotional states of the world’s most intelligent minds with a mere thought of them being “tossers.” His machismo is enough to turn America’s red states gay; his sexual charisma whips through vaginae like tornadoes through trailer parks.

Jason Statham, emerging from the "Sea of Fucking"

In other words, Statham is the pinnacle of Stahamnosity.

Thanks to the combined efforts of archaeologists and relics of Variety magazine, we have pieced together accounts of That Which is Statham — translated from stick figures engaging in strongly suggestive content by Stathanmian sociologist “Arran,” himself bold in the boudoir and jet ski arts.

Excerpts from Book XVI:

New York Times Arts Critic Ben Brantly once said of Statham: “That guy makes Charlie Sheen look like the cast of Will and Grace.” Leaving out the fact that Brantly’s comment was in a review of the 2011 theater performance of Macbeth,  Statham’s legendary masculinity was the stuff of love nectar legend.

Statham has had sex with many men, but it was not gay because he was Statham. The world is infinitely pliable to his whims. If he says it ain’t gay, it ain’t gay. When Statham said that being gay wasn’t gay, his words reinterpreted history: the Bible no longer says that a man could not lay with another man, but that man could lay with Statham; history books touted Nazi Germany as the “Sausage Nigels” party; “the gay condition” was known as “Statham Fever”; and actor Tom Cruise rented out his house for Craigslist sex parties.

Statham didn’t really like being subject to regular human labels, but if pushed (something you don’t want to do, of course), he acquiesced to the following:

Gender: Statham
Sexuality: Stahosexual
Religion: Statheism

The one reported case of someone mocking Statham was a teenage internet user that ironically claimed to be a Statosexual. Statham, sensing someone using his name in vain, reached through the user’s smartphone [an ancient form of wireless communication — Ed.], grabbed him by the neck, punched his penis off (through the kid’s pants) and said “Next time, I’ll deflate all your balls, friend.”

The incident resulted in a change to the Obama Administration’s much-vaunted net neturality rules – ISPs do not have the legal right to filter content through their service, however the Statham Amendment to the bill allows providers to voluntarily block access to anything Statham related in order to protect customers’ safety. Apple was ahead of the curve – Steve Jobs personally blocked the Statham App from the iTunes App Store in order to avoid complaints of iOS devices overloading due to sheer machisimo, while the iOS autocorrect facility automatically changes “Statham” to “state of ham” to avoid the possibility of arousing Statham’s ire.

Excerpts from Book XVIII:

The Statham Amendment would become its own amendment in the Constitution in 2014 after a Senate meeting incident to vote on the changes to the Net Neutrality bill. On the Senate floor, after John Boehner rolled his eyes when reading the motion of the bill to pass, Statham crashed his Land Rover — otherwise known as his “Fuck Truck” — into the U.S. Capitol building, hurtled himself through the windshield at full screen and tackled Boehner, beating him with his gavel until the orange skin tone was removed from his face.

A real-life event filmed for Crank 2.

The Statham Amendment incident was the start of Statham’s involvement in bureaucratic service. Statham immediately removed the Senate and Congress from Washington, leaving the Legislative Branch in the hands of Statham. The Supreme Court, fearing hostile takeover, vacated their spots. President Obama promised to relegate himself to Vice President. (Joe Biden was kept on as Statham’s White House jester.)

The national tragedy was immediately challenged by Statham as a “National Correction.” Fearing similar government incidents, foreign countries enacted similar measures of Statham-blocked internet information to prevent his wrath.

Despite the measures being purely for the safety of the citizenry of the world and not a slight against Statham himself, Statham worked from within the system to remove all restrictions on the world gettings its dose of unchecked, uncensored, grade-A fuckworthy Statham. He had only appeared to support the amendment from the outside because he was bored and felt like a challenge in getting it repealed (“challenge” being a relative term when it comes to Statham; being something which takes him using just 1% of his immense brainpower).
He worked to both undermine and publicly support the Amendment through means of democracy and the power of the vote and…

Just fucking with you; he totally boned Nancy Pelosi.

Excerpts from Book XIX:

The magnificent bonetude of Pelosi gave Statham an immediate dosage of political savvy and knowledge — partially from absorbing Pelosi’s chi and literally blowing her back out. (Pelosi’s spinal fluid worked as a stem cell-like supplement that also gave Statham Pelosi’s past memories and feminine attitudes, which he mentally eradicated from his brain with the thought “I’ll give you five seconds to remove your pussy thoughts.”)

Statham, emerging from the "Fuckorghini"

With decades of political knowledge, Statham managed to uproot all America knew of democracy, running afoul of political friends and foes alike. Political pundits fell into step, praising his name in reverent tones like Gregorian chants.

FOX News [a former broadcast television network for Conservative political propaganda, hosted by retired strippers — Ed.] was the first, with the cable news leader changing their name to “FOX Statham” and the slogan to “Statham and Balanced.” Glenn Beck, fearing not getting a ratings boost by not having him on his show, offered himself up as a Stahosexual conquest. Statham took that as a challenge, strapping Beck to the hood of his Fuck Truck and driving it around Australian prisons while having a seven-way with the female anchors.

Excerpts from Book XXIX:

After conquering FOX News, Statham took over every single cable news and television network in similar fashion. Americans could not turn the channel without seeing Statham riding his jet ski in Fuck City, yelling and pointing at the sky, or having graphic sex with the WNBA league while shouting “You know you won’t understand it, but it’ll be good practice for me!” CNN became known as Statham News Network. MSNBC changed the meaning of its initials to be “Motherfucking Statham National Broadcasting Company”. Even the Onion News Network changed to “Statham Statham Statham!”

The former country of the United States of America wondered how its airwaves became a haven for Statham porn programming so quickly. Once-professional networks such as CSPAN and MTV4 were reduced to clearinghouses for Statham’s “Fucking from the Fuck Palace” recordings. His bedroom trysts with models and supermodels were top stories on televised news; his bonings of super-duper models were prime-time shows on NBC’s “Must Fuck TV” lineup.

Statham’s book-publishing companies — Statham Books, Lil’ Statham Kids’ Books and Statham’s Adult-Time Monographs — celebrated Statham’s sexual exploits in printed form, with his biography, 20,000 Fucks: Tales from the Set of Crank 2, winning the Mark Twain Award. Statham’s reach extended itself to the internet, with academic and carnal material re-purposed for shrines in his honor.

His reach over all communication channels went unmet for 12 years. Meanwhile, a small group of counterculture radicals, calling themselves “Alarmists to Subvert Statham,” plotted to overthrow their ruler. And the time for revolution was nigh.

Ladies, Want to Bedazzle Your Va-jay-jay?

I was browsing Facebook on a Sunday morning when I stumbled onto an advertisement that defied logic for many reasons. Like alcohol sales, this should have been locked down until at least 10 a.m.:

I wasn’t aware that Facebook allowed companies to sell vagina-decorating products to preteens and idiots distracted by shiny things. There are so many things baffling about this ad that it deserves to be broken down (the lack of punctuation in this ad will be spared):

1. Vajazzling

Enough with making up words that even a child wouldn’t say. I know that television train-wreck Grey’s Anatomy popularized the word va-jay-jay (along with cultural milestones/retardants McDreamy and McSteamy) to cutesy up the more clinical-sounding vagina, and that is only the tip of the iceberg of my hypothesis of American culture regressing in maturity.

If we’re going to talk truths about gussying up the downstairs, be upfront and don’t call it “Vajazzling.” It may not capture that critical moron customer base, but it will lend any fleeting credibility to your business of vagina icing. And the use of a Facebook ad to sell the service is like watching a Jay Leno monologue: It is a punchline you see coming a mile away, and yet the results still elicit pity.

2. WHY?

My quandary is why — WHY — the craft hobby of bedazzling — long the pastime of girls and Disco Stu — is now being farmed out to beauticians in the art of scorching the lady-Earth. Do they want their genitals to feel like royalty? Do they want the pick-up line of men being able to see themselves in the woman’s pants (via Windex) to be partially true because of the shine? Is there some subset of Cosmopolitan readers that believe that blinging their lady-bits will lure men into their love caves? (BTW, that is the type of man you DON’T want spelunking in your love cave.)

"Disco Stu doesn't advertise."

I am not a woman (I just checked to be sure; pass!) so I can’t pretend to understand the thinking behind embellishing the baby-maker, and I know that piercing genitals is already out there. I don’t understand why adorning one’s vagina needs to be done with Sawarovski crystals. Do they need to center their chi? Is Spencer Pratt of The Hills behind this shit? I haven’t heard of men giving their junk tribal tattoos — though who knows what UFC marketers will do next — or testicle necklaces, so clearly we are the more simple sex.


Who would say this with a straight face besides a Grey’s or E! viewer? Seriously.

If you know anyone that even considers getting their vagina Vajazzled, ask them if the waxer also hermetically sealed their genitalia. I’ve backed off my stance on procreation licenses, but these people really should not breed. (Some will slip through,  and we can only hope those children won’t do too much societal damage.)

The only reason I can see for getting a Vajazzle is if you are a stripper. Sure, the sight of a nude woman should be enough for the dollar bills to fly, but perhaps that classy combination of clear-heeled shoes and vagina crystals will “make it rain.”

"Ooh, girl, you disgusting!"

Getting a Vajazzle is like wearing a Git-R-Done t-shirt: You are willfully letting people perceive you as not having competent thinking skills. If that is your goal, congrats! My magic 8-ball predicts some Sawarovski crystals in your future. Git-R-Done.

A Black Man Explains Why He Prefers Old White Women

(Inspired by this feature article.)

Old white skin is loose and thin, flimsy between my fingers, like chicken flesh made human. There’s only one patch of skin on a young white woman’s body that even compares to nearly every geriatric inch of an old white woman’s skin — only one… one remote, discreet patch that I can’t recall right now. The first time I stroked old white skin, it felt like the discarded pork fat that killed my pappy. I yearned for it more than Marion Berry craved an 8-ball of cocaine. That singular phrase, “I’m on it like white on rice,” can describe the transparent look and feel of that skin.

Oh, but I had reasons for my craving that were socially sound. For years, I hid behind the notion of young black men leaving their black women under the age of 40 for any white woman with a pulse. A black woman hitting puberty is like Kryptonite to a black man, so I thought. He goes young or younger, average girth or big, average-looking or UGH-LEH or drinks a 40 with his homeys and looking for trouble. Old white women are thrilled to get the black man that they couldn’t get with in their younger, baby-making years, for Civil Rights done happened. It’s not my fault; it’s those black women that wanted me so much that I had to run away.

Well that’s a damn lie. Truthfully, I attract a decent percentage of black women. Heck, some of them aren’t too shabby on the eyes

More than enough black women want me that I could split my paycheck for alimony for a fortnight, but I don’t want them.

I want old white women. And they want me. We look at each other and exchange a sultry glance of lust and fear, passion and purse clenching in those fertile few seconds. And our attraction is based first and foremost on race. Oh, we aren’t one of those pairs who “tear that ass up” with one of a different race or dutifully come together but out of a greater feeling of interracial brotherhood and sisterhood. Not as liberal hippie men and women do we seek each other out. The welfare lines has made it easier to get the mad hookup. Women advertise: ivory frisky for ebony. Men text: I WANT 2 HIT THAT OLD WHYT ASS. We aren’t the same people who cry: Race ain’t all there is, y’all. It is all there is. We want to get with the swirl.

Despite the fact that some amount — I can’t remember the source… let’s say 94 percent — of single Americans have dated outside of their race, that purposeful seeking of the specific other makes some, especially white men, more uncomfortable than Brokeback Mountain.

We are what they blacken and whip: black men and old white women who come together because we want that pasty and dark ass. They are bitter about us taking their unwanted women. Old white women are seventy six and a third times more likely to marry a black man than a white man is to marry one of those… black women. White men can grab statistics out of their air, too, in representing their argument. But in truth, white brothers, we’re after that wrinkled ass, not the commitment and they aren’t long for the Earth anyway.

Yes, that ass!

The men who go after the old white women is a spin-off of black-woman connoisseur Thomas Jefferson’s (also a U.S. president) “always take hold of things by the smooth handle,” for the black man’s handle is large and the old white woman’s handle glove is cavernous. According to some unnamed school of thought, black men turn to white women when baby’s lookin’ fine and they wanna — as the poet Ginuwine once said — “jump on it.” It’s a “damn, girl, you easy” reaction.

When we get to the “damn, girl, you easy” place, they know it, and they are already halfway in the grave. Old white women are more grateful, accommodating and easier to shut up than black women. They know how to cook meatballs, a nearly lost art among the rest of us. An old white women is so damned fine because she knows how to make some meatballs.

Old white women have something black women don’t have anymore: shawls. They clearly know that their necks are delicate. Black women appear to be waiting to catch their death of cold to learn whether they are resilient. Yet old white women know that they are fragile, one step away from fatal pneumonia, something black women would name their child. They make you feel like a man that needs looking after, after you grip it and rip it. I can go all out when I am with them. How many black women can treat a man like a gentleman and a succubus of life energy?

I often felt in my Black period that only during lustful sessions of freakin’ it that the connection between me and the world was as light as cornbread, encompassing my intimacy like a cast iron skillet. It takes a lot of sexin’ for two black people to be in the same room together. These old white women, so alive by the waning days on their calendar, slice through that cornbread and latch on with their delicate bodies, freeing me and I can truly get with it. I am like the driver of a Cadillac hooptie with a fine-ass bitch that can shoot a gun out the window. I know I can yell, “Move bitch, get out the way!” but there’s no need. On the other hand, the last time I waxed some black ass, we chugged along on a crowded bus, and she was like Mabel “Mama” Thomas from What’s Happening, Raj and Dee’s mother that disappeared sometime after the first season and never came up in conversation for some reason.

My current girl, a spry Medicare recipient, seduced me via butterscotch candy at a senior center while I was doing community service. Without saying a word, she felled me under her spell, presented with her drawn-in eyebrows. She didn’t motion me over or ask me to see pictures of her grand kids until she knew that I wouldn’t take her Social Security check. Both quaint and hip, she has a butt that won’t quit. I was asking her if she wanted to go downtown 30 minutes after that candy.

Another afternoon, in that same senior center, a different old white woman, a spry pensioner, asked me to help her off of her feet.

I don’t doubt that there are some old white women who can’t get down on it or make meatballs. Personally, I have not experienced one that can’t. (True, I am not dating some broke-ass woman, but I didn’t do that when I dated black, so clearly and without doubt, I am an equal opportunist.) They look better than black women, they hold, coddle and top it off better than black women. Statistically, their vaginae are only a fraction of a meter larger on average, but they seem friendlier and whiter.

Black women under 40 still have their waistlines and standards — if they ever had them. They carry youth, courage and firm breasts above their plump asses. Perhaps a good part of that firmness is their courage. Even the youngest ones look courageous somehow and deeply fearless. They soldier on despite any setback that would fell the whitest of women. Surely, our culture as much as biology has made them braver, grittier, less-pushover versions of themselves just at the point where black men and old white women and Eskimos are browbeaten within an inch of their lives. Society undervalues the black woman, leaving her scrappy and bold when she realizes under the age of 40 that she’s all that.

With the exception of some college women at Freaknik after a few Mad Dogs, black women don’t turn me on anymore.

That admission put me in the same grouping as the unpopular geek only interested in Asian women. While black men my age will shake their heads at me, not understanding why I’m not chasing down a young, thin white woman, I feel a kinship with the dorky nerds. We are the same, me and that awkward geek, drawn to the exotic object of lust, not caring that the forbidden fruit doesn’t know about the term “baby mama” or prenuptial agreements.

Break down the roots of attractions all you want — like so-called scientists will do, just because — and you won’t be able to formulate a good answer why we want to sink the canoe. Desire pours out like a 40 on Dre Day, and it is delightfully oblivious to others who just don’t know. Yet until just now, I opined that my passion was like affirmative action, because it was a reward for my suffering.

Halfway through my last booty call with a black woman, I realized that little smoke rings of courage and audacity were escaping her ego like fur from a wolf shot down from Sarah Palin’s helicopter. This woman was at least mildly secure in herself, and I wanted to tell her to go fix me some food, submit to me and cater to my every whim. I would have climbed off her and told her to get her ass out, but she seemed to expect that — like she wanted to start a fight. I couldn’t give into her desire and make her louder and angrier. My Northern cousins would describe her general aire as “uptight” or “like the president.” Into the second double dip of ass-freakin’, I wanted to get my ass out and I didn’t notice that she said that she was late because she stopped taking her pill.

What did she think would turn me on more: That I didn’t know she was late because of her not taking her pills since Clinton was president, or that she wanted me to be the father of her baby because we already had three kids?

I cannot even imagine an old white women having a baby without the horrific black magic of modern medicine.

That was my last token black women. I recently came out of my race-exclusive closet and told my friends, “I love old white women. I’m not attracted to uppity black women under 40 and I am not dating them anymore. Really, I don’t love them hoes.”

Nobody was dumbstruck.

MANswers: Idiocracy come to life

More than a year ago, I watched the movie Idiocracy, eager to devour the future-forward, culture-skewing comedy from Beavis and Butthead/Office Space creator Mike Judge. What I got was both a nuanced and infantile bashing of current pop culture, set forward in time. Entertainment like Ass: The Movie and Ow, My Balls! on the Violence Channel reigned supreme, while ex-athlete Dwayne Elizondo Mountain Dew Herbert Camacho rose to the ranks of U.S. President.

Today, while we have a charismatic and — dare, I say it, intelligent — man as president in Barack Obama, one of the signs of the pending idiocracy has come true, and that is in the form of the television show MANswers.

Ever the purveyors of mature, sophisticated media, Spike (“The First Network for Men” — never mind The Playboy Channel and every other network not containing the word “Lifetime”) has saw fit to crush the stereotype that there was a bottom to the trough that the lowest common denominator feeds from. MANswers aims for the beer-chugging, Maxim-obsessing, fratboy-perpetrating, law-breaking, horndog-exuding, UFC/homoerotic sport-viewing Alpha Male, and hits him square in the testicles.

Charging forward with the most amped-up announcer since the ShamWow TV guy swam in a cocaine vault like Uncle Scrooge’s money room, the most idiotic questions are shouted at the audience, questioning whether the writers of the show are either woman haters or 14 years old. Wonder “what’s the best way to have sex while scuba diving”? Ever think to yourself, “Does spanking lead to horniness?” At your local MENSA meeting, do you address your intelligent peers with the genuine quandry, “Are natural boobs getting bigger?”

Something does not fit on this DVD. Oh yeah — the “B-word.”

Want to see an example? Do you REALLY want to? Check THIS and try not to say a prayer for humanity.

Seriously, these are all true, and they are accompanied by gratuitous sound effects and graphics — with greased-up models, fast-forwarding/rewinding stock footage and frightening screams being passed off as throes of passion. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to be aroused or call the police.

Show topics boil down to the basics: belittling the opposite sex, bowel movements and how to break the law. A quick scan of the episodes can fit into one of these three categories:

* What’s the safest, and best, way to have sex underwater? – Sex

* What are three ways to make money with a dead body? – Breaking the law

* Which animal is the gassiest – Bowel movements

* How can you literally get drunk on Grandpa? – Breaking the law

* Sign your lady up in this military and she can get breast implants for free! – Sex

* The sure fire way to escape from handcuffs – Breaking the law

* Find out which country’s ladies love to dole out oral sex – Uh, sex

* How to save lives with your poo – Bowel movements

* Find out how to stretch your weed dollar by getting the highest you can – Breaking the law

* Could those boob implants stop a bullet? If they can’t, how about a samurai sword? – Sex/Dumbassness

* CPR is down right nasty if it’s on your buddy. Can you save him with just your farts instead? – Sex (Homophobia)/Bowel movements

The worst aspect of this show is that it has no respect for its audience. Their attempts to back up their facts with “experts” look like models hired from Ashton Kutcher’s College of Douchebaggery. And while the topics and imagery are tailored to chauvinists, degenerates and Freepers (Free Republic readers), it makes no effort to instill anything of sustenance, being the video equivalent of a bag of Funyuns. And if learning how to spot a narc or fixing their bitchy girlfriend is necessary to navigate their life, that viewer has bigger problems. Entertainment doesn’t have to be educational, but hell, even Thundercats had a lesson at the end of each episode.

Sadly, the only lesson learned from MANswers is how to cultivate a community of morons. The “Comments” tab on the show’s webpage amazingly revealed even more stupefying — and somehow, awesomer — questions and poorly strung-together thoughts than the show — a feat that, judging by the show it represents, should not be possible by a room of one-fingered monkeys typing on Speak and Spells.

Here are some examples from the kids in the “boiler room” classroom:

* Are there ANY side effects to (chronic) masterbation?
* Are there really boobie-traps in ancient ruins, like in Indiana Jones?
* How fast do you have to drive, with your arm stright out the window, to break it at the elbow?
* What are the best ways to get with hot girls that dont like you?
* is women on pms an excuse to get mad or is there a science behind it?
* whats the best way to ask your gf/wife for a 3some without her flipping a bitch and cutting you off or dumping you?
* how to increase a mens size?
* is it true that if you put lemon jiuce on girls vagina and if they react like jumping in a pool of cold water they have std’s?

The mind wobbles. Honestly, watching the show and reading the comments, it is like rewinding an educational video on the evolution of man into its primate form.

While the true signs of idiocracy are still well off — Costco has not built a university yet — the seeds are being laid by shows such as MANswers. There is a market for TV junk food that titillates and entertains, though it comes at the cost of degrading the views of “Joe Six-Pack” even more.

I’ll admit to fascination with bottom-feeding culture and its vittles of interest, and in that aspect, MANswers is chocolate-coated kryptonite. But in a cultural sense, this show is the tip of the stupidity iceberg, with even murkier findings yet to submerge.


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