Gunning, and other useful prison terms.

Not too long ago Relevant Magazine published an article called “Is Masturbation Sin?”  by Jesse Eubanks. My first thought was, “your face is a sin.” But then my second thought, the more mature one (which is always second or possibly third in the lineup), was “maybe I should read this bullshit.” So I did.  And so did Sugardaddy, who had some interesting insights. (Thank you, my sexy little homersexual).  We will share these with you here.  The article is from a man’s point of view. He didn’t seem to elicit the perspectives of a woman when espousing his ideas, so I will do that for him here. I’m not going to be one of those people who stands around and complains that someone else didn’t do something helpful. No one likes those people.

The main issue Sugardaddy took with the article was that “disconnectedness” was being blamed on stroking the salami.  And as a man and woman who have been married for ten years and have experienced the gamut of “marital issues”, we can attest with the strength of a thousand suns that arm wrestling the one-armed champ is NOT the culprit for disconnection between us. Not even close.  I can expand on that at a later, more drunken, date.  And then on top of that, a female’s perspective on masturbation was no where to be found.  Here women are still struggling after FOREVER to understand their bodies, their sexuality, their needs and desires… much of this achieved through the exploration that is masturbation, and this goes straight up ignored during his belittling of the act.  That and– Sugardaddy just likes to watch me masturbate, so Eubanks can just go suck a cock.  With that being said…

In prison, masturbation goes by the term “gunning”. Therefore, in order to accurately relate to you as the prison bitch that you are, I will henceforth refer to it as gunning for the remainder of our time together here on this blog. Maybe by reading it, the chances of your gunning session being interrupted by a large greasy 55 year old white biker inserting his super-nast rod in your brown star… will increase.

What I don’t think people understand is that… gunning is one of the keys to world peace.  If everyone would just take a moment and partake in a little anal play while applying a vibrator to sensitive areas, mass conflicts would be resolved!  Babies would be reunited with mothers, mothers would stop getting acid thrown on their faces, chemical weaponry would cease to be used against your friend and neighbor.  It’s when dictators or mothers begin using butter or the blood of Jews as lube that we need to stop and say to ourselves “maybe something is wrong here.”

45387908714429798_7DvJ8hS6_fIn the article Eubanks states, “When we attempt to find fulfillment outside of God’s design, we may find temporary enjoyment, but ultimately it leads to pain, disconnection and death. It’s like donuts. They are delicious and when I eat them, a smile emerges from ear to ear. But they do not bring a lasting fulfillment and when my life is littered with donuts, it ultimately leads to pain, disconnection, death and husky jeans.” What I can gather from this is that 1) Eubanks has never actually gunned (or maybe he did it wrong?); and 2) is under the (false) impression that he can do a better job of flicking the bean than a woman can. Does he even know what a bean is, when I use that term? Tell us Eubanks, are you a master of the clitoris, so much so that you and your crusty donut must be the only one who touches it, and no one else?! PPBBFFFFTT! Holy shit, that’s funny to me.

He goes on to ask, “How can a spouse in the real world ever compete with the on-demand response of our fantasies that masturbation encourages? …In real life, people don’t want to have sex at the drop of a hat all of the time. People have emotional and spiritual needs that often must be met before they are ready for physical intimacy. There are no issues of love and forgiveness and struggle in the world of fantasy. There is no deep connection.”  I don’t know, maybe he never gets turned down by his wife. Let me tell you when Sugardaddy gets rejected: when the baby is crying, when I haven’t slept in days because the baby won’t sleep, when the 4 year-old won’t stay in her bed, when I have morning mouth, when I’m bleeding heavily, when I’m on a business trip, when I’m bloated, when either of us is sick sick, when one of our kids is in the hospital for months on end, when we’re stressed…. oh wait that’s potentially a lot.  Far be it for me to deny him a little cum in the bucket when I just don’t feel like giving it up.  And I’ll be damned if I’m seen as some sex slave who has to pleasure my man every time he gets a little wood. Which is a lot. Fuck that shit. If he wants to lead Pedro down the road of bulimia, he has my blessing.

Cracka rap needs more ass.

The Food & Wine Hedonist recently asked me to write a music piece for his blog.  GO READ THAT SHIT. It’s about the white parent raps that go viral and annoy the shit out of everyone. BOOM!

CLICK HERE for some food and wine hedonism, sprinkled with commentary from yours truly about how people should eat shit.

How can I get my filthy hands on a dwarf?

I’m with my in-laws and I’m horny.

Back up.

It was Christmas day and I’m watching a movie with my in-laws.  “The Station Agent”.  With Peter Dinklage. You might know him as Tyrion Lannister from the Game of Thrones series on HBO.  He plays the dwarf. (Because he is a dwarf).

The dwarf makes me hot.  I would let Peter put his Dinklage in my pachinko.

peter dinklage2Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against dwarves. I’ve just never had the opportunity to feel compelled.  Do we as a society hide them? It can’t possibly be that I’m not seeing them because they’re small. I notice children, for instance, all the time. Maybe it’s because the children are loud…  Maybe someone can help me further understand any societal discrimination as it relates to dwarves. It’s a topic I’m unfamiliar with.

But what I do know is that, when it comes to swagger, Peter erases any doubt in my mind that we would have nothing short of a fucking FABULOUS time together. He even has a nice voice, which makes my panties drop.  I mean, just look at those sexy forearms.

I think it helped that I am familiar with him as the badass, super-strategic Tyrion Lannister because, in “The Station Agent”, he plays this lonely emo character. And ya’ll know how much of a turnoff that emo shit is to this bitch. I usually just want to tell people to put on their big girl panties and take life by the balls. If you gotta lick those balls every once in a while to get what you want, then goddamnit lick the balls.  Ain’t no other way to live.  But he has his reasons, and he also grows and develops as a character, so it didn’t detract from his sexy dwarf hotness.  And it was a great movie.

The only thing I regret about the experience was finding myself on the floor, playing with the toddler, in-laws to my left and my right, knowing there was absolutely no relief in sight for my poor vagina.

Don’t poop on me: A Universal rule in sex and other life scenarios.

Tonight I get home from running an errand for a friend, and Sugardaddy’s watching Star Trek: Next Generation. Again. Guess who’s NOT getting laid tonight. This bitch.

But let me break this scene down for you.  The episode involves Deanna Troi (the notorious “hot” chick on the Starship Enterprise’s crew) and her mother, who are of an alien species that can sense other’s thoughts and feelings and, I don’t know, have a lot of sex and go to weddings naked, and other stupid geek porn fantasies like that. Now, if you’ve ever watched this show, you’ll know that Deanna Troi’s mom is a serious fucking slut. She’ll reappear every now and again and try to get a VIP pass to party with Captain Picard’s trouser snake. Cap’n ain’t havin’ any of that shriveled slut’s diseased shit. (He’s classy like that… all French with a British accent and shit).  So a good portion of this particular episode involves watching old-mom-slut try to fuck like three different dudes on the starship.

Then …THEN…, Sugardaddy turns to me and says “You know what I like about the Fresh Beat Band*? That dark-haired chick? She kinda resembles Deanna Troy. Yeeeeeeah.”

Fuck my life.

And this is where I’d like to point out that some shit just shouldn’t happen.

There is a point, ladies and gentlemen, with many MANY things in life, where we as a society surpass the limits at which we need to FUCKING STOP. I’m talking about sex, I’m talking about politics, I’m talking about the small window I get into the imagery that may or may not go through my nerdy husband’s head as he makes marital relations to yours truly. And you know, it makes the throw-up come up into my mouth. It really does.

May I advise you of some things? All ya’ll dudes out there who watch porn and think that you are now pornstars and can do weird porn shit? Please read THIS link.  Now, I am going to blow up your brains at a later date with information on how to please your woman. But that right there needs to be mass distributed.

Now. My people. My fellow Americans. Democrats, Republicans, Moderates, “Independents” (whatever the fuck that means), Libertarians, Socialists and Fascists… lend me your ears, little lambs. Shhhhhhhhhh gather ’round. Are you listening? Please stop being so fucking stupid. I’m serious, just stop.

Let me tell you about a little thing called “mutual masturbation.” Can you say those words? Muuuuutual. Maaastuuurbaaation. This is when two or more people do or say things that make themselves and/or the other feel good, affirmed, validated, excited, ecstatic, hot, turned on… the list goes on. The point I need to make about mutual masturbation, and why it’s relevant here, is that it’s NOT REAL. Nothing is being PENETRATED. It is not real intercourse. It is not real fucking. There’s no. mutherfuckin. penetration, people. And this is where things can get a little… off course. Because it is at this exact point that leads me to ask: “What exactly is getting you off right now?” Because if you just think and talk about hopeful shit that sounds like the magical fucking land of Oz and spank yourself until you cum in your own hand, that don’t mean shit to anyone but you. And if it’s the actual act of pooping on someone that is hot to you, you need to fucking get therapy, or get the fuck out!

So when you’re watching the political conventions, Fox News, CNN, or listening to NPR, watching Meet the [fucking] Press on Sunday mornings, or reading something from Focus on the [fucking] Family, may I suggest that what you really like about it is not actually real? It’s someone telling you something that makes you feel good, logical, or right in your convictions, and it has just enough reality tied to it that it makes you believe it’s the real shit. But it’s not. It’s not the real shit. Like when you tell me you aren’t racist, sexist, classist, elitist on SOME level deep down, intentional or unintentional. Go fuck yourself. Because if you haven’t come to terms with the fact that life is complicated, messy, lacking easy answers and solutions, then I’m not totally convinced you’ve really experienced people. People who are in your life, your community, your planet. Those people? They want to climax too, asshole. They want to feel their bodies exploding in ecstasy, just like the next guy. Because at the end of the day, if you’re not doing something real, participating in something real, if you’re NOT penetrating something, you’re just masturbating. And the only person getting off is you.

*For all of you childless readers, Fresh Beat Band is a children’s show on Nick Jr. that makes me want to kill myself.

Even Albinos have lubrication needs.

I decided I needed to go to Planned Parenthood to get different birth control.

The reason being, my old birth control had left me with spotting- random bleeding because God hates me. On three separate occasions I have left a fucking crime scene after a slutty yet fulfilling hook up. The first time I left a decent sized blood pool on the bed (my bad), the second time there was a smaller blood pool, and the last time there was a fucking abortion of blood everywhere. Whoops. Funny thing is, only the last time was because of the birth control. The first two times it was because it was right before I was supposed to get my period and that little “jabbing” was all I needed to open the flood gates. Should I write these guys thank you notes for the timely piercing of my cervix?

This particular Planned Parenthood is located in the “bad” part of town (“bad” because there are poor people there, and nobody likes poor people) on the corner of a very small strip mall. I had been there once before a few days prior without incident, but today was different. The windows are still all covered up so as to deter any neighoborhood poor people or republicans from looking inside to glare judgingly at the ladies patiently waiting for their routine womb cleansing.  How are we supposed to abort the deaf kids named Hunter that are causing conflicts with gun control policies in pre-schools… if we can’t safely get an abortion?

However, as I walked up on this particular day, the door swings open and I am standing face to face with a large and manly female “security guard”. That’s new. Taken by surprise I step back and consider running the fuck outta there but I’m paralyzed by her butch haircut. She finally breaks up the awkward eye-fuck fest and asks me for identification before letting me in through the door.

ME: “Is everything okay? I was here last week and I don’t remember there being a ‘security guard’ (inside giggle) here asking for i.d.”

BUTCH: “Oh, yeah everything’s fine. This is just something we do to make sure it stays that way. We started doing this about a month ago.”

Now that is bullshit because I think I would remember seeing a rent-a-cop guarding the door as under aged penis cushions walk out with their little brown baggies of birth control and condoms, hanging their heads in shame while assholes wave signs in their faces saying “God hates your vagina! What is a vagina, anyways? B-T-Dubs, can I see your vagina? No seriously, I really want to get laid tonight. Don’t worry, we can abort the unwanted child with the VIP program where you can sneak in the back of the clinic for an extra $400, so we can wrecklessly screw while also maintaining our Pro-Life values.”  Anyway, I decide not to pick a fight with Butch McButch-a-lot today as there are pressing matters at hand. I need to be able to get my fuck on without the fear of babies growing in my mother-hole. I sit down and wait to be called.

MEANWHILE, another bitch is walking up to the door and Butch jumps to her feet to greet this bitch with “can I see some i.d.?” like we’re in some exclusive high class lounge-VIPs only. Well, holy shit.  I should have trusted Butch’s butch instincts. This ain’t no ordinary bitch. This an ALBINO bitch. Wearing grey sweat pants with elastic on the ankles and the legs pushed up cinching her “cegs” (calf legs, where does one end and the other begin? No one knows). Her long flowing white hair pulled up into a rat’s nest of a pony and I’m pretty sure there was an acid wash jean jacket in there somewhere. Planned Parenthood etiquette dictates you do not stare at your fellow jump down/jumpdick, so I cannot recall many of the important details of her physical appearance. For instance, I do not know if she was a true albino (or would it be the feminine “albina”?) with reddish purple eyes. But I digress. The point is, the crazy bitch would NOT stop talking about lube!

She starts asking the receptionist about the security guard and the i.d. requirements, like “when did you start doing this” and “I don’t remember having to do this before”. Basically the same shit I was thinking but kept to myself because I’m not albino and I fucking know better. The receptionist is answering her questions like “we’ve always done this” and “no, we haven’t changed our procedures” et al. But Albina can’t let that shit go and keeps questioning the receptionist like “are you sure?” and accuses her of neo-fascist associations (who knew albinos know about neo-fascism, but whatev). Now, as this whole circle jerk of bullshit is going on in front of me I am sitting there with my eyes down (never make eye contact with albinos, this is just fact) trying hard not to take pictures, laugh until I pee my pants and/or beat the everliving shit out of some bitches. Then… the conversation takes a turn for the worse.

The Albina wants lube with her complimentary bag of condoms. Not just lube, EXTRA lube. But alas, the receptionist explains they are no longer receiving free shipments of lube, therefore they are no longer available as freebies. Oh. Shit. Albina is not having that. How dare we expect her to BUY lube. “Can you contact them and see if they will send another shipment? Or maybe see if another company will send some?” …Albina helpfully suggests. I am fucking speechless. Bitch is asking receptionist to ask various companies for free shipments of lube so she doesn’t have to pay the $5-6 for some lube. But wait, there’s more. Then she goes on and on about her lube preferences. She likes the jelly kind cause it’s not as messy, she likes warming lube because it makes her clit melt, etc. etc… Mind you this whole exchange is being played out in front of a waiting room of at least 5 other people, not a private exam room. It is clear she is quite disheartened about the lack of lube in her gift bag but, when the receptionist tells her there are still condoms in the bag, Albina wants to know if they are the female kind.

Receptionist: “Umm, no… just the regular kind.”

Albina: “Oh.”

This post was inspired by the true stories from four different sources. Thank you for your vulnerability and sacrifice as I serve to educate Amerrrrrica.

I get sad when I see princesses that are ugly.

I realized this when I saw a picture of Princess Beatrice this week. I’m sorry Princess Beatrice. I’m sure you have a stellar personality.

I’ve been waiting for FIVE FUCKING YEARS to congratulate Katie Holmes for leaving Tom Cruise’s crazy ass. That stupid bitch made me wait longer than I thought! Turns out there was a contract or something. And *gasp!!!!* apparently scientology was partly responsible for the split. Um who didn’t see THAT coming???  Pfffffft.

Well, Katie, as an old married woman to a younger, less mature married (soon to be divorced) woman, I have some advice for you. After so many years, it can be a little rough getting back into the dating scene. You see a hot guy in a steaming hot parking lot, and all of a sudden your panties are wet and you get arrested for dry humping someone because it “wasn’t consentual”. (Although we all know that if he didn’t want my crotch on his leg, he wouldn’t have worn that old t-shirt and those perfect jeans. That slut.)  There are a whole lot of things you shouldn’t say to a man (or woman) upon this all-too-exciting reentry. Because you’ll get fucking arrested, Katie! I know they didn’t have restraining orders in Dawson’s Creek OR in the church of scientology, but this is the fucking real world, bitch.

Don’t say this shit:

“I wanna use your face like a thigh master.”

“What does a girl need to do to get you and your friend to Eiffel tower this bitch?”

“I wantchu to wear me like a mask.”

“It’s the end of the world and my pussy’s your only salvation.”

“I’d like to wrap my legs around your waist/head.”

“There’s a fire in my uterus and the only thing that can tame these flames is your semen.”

“My throat’s sore. I hear semen is good for that.”

“I can’t get pregnant from anal.”

“I want your penis in my vagina.”- (actually have used this one, then we got married!)

“Have you ever had a tuna taco?”

“Please put your coin purse on my crotch pocket.”

“My vagina would look awesome on your penis.”

“My lady balls would like to meet your man balls.”

“You’re getting my lady dick hard.”

“You’re making my lady balls tingle.”

“Hide your chocolate bunny in my Cadbury. I want the cream all over my face.”

“My nipples are hard, wanna feel?”

“No really, feel how hard my nips are. They could cut glass.”

“These are real, wanna feel? You need to feel with your mouth, that’s how you know for sure.”

“My clitoris would look good in your nostril.”

“Our lady balls should scissor.”

…………You’re welcome.

A special thanks goes out to doodoomamajuju and ‘trickdaddy for their contributions to this post. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May his face shine upon you and bla bla bla you know the rest.

Let’s get loud: Female beauty of all flavors.

New post over at BIG TOUCH >>> (Go there now!!!)

Ladies, let’s explain sexuality to the world (so they hear us).

Beauty has been defined for us as women, of all races and ethnicities.  Here are some voices contributing to reclaiming sexuality and beauty.  Raise your voices, friends.

Take me to BIG TOUCH. 

The lost art of keeping your 4-year-old off the pole.

If you haven’t figured it out already, your role as a parent includes keeping your daughter off the pole, which requires setting standards of how she should expect to be treated by others, as well as explaining her anatomy to her.  As much of a free spirit as I am about sexuality and femininity, I found the latter to be one of the more difficult lessons for me to relay to my 4-year-old.  It all started when she was 3, and stopped wearing diapers. I was so proud of myself.  Potty-training– DONE. The next thing I know, we’re watching cartoons and I see her chubby little toddler fingers exploring her nether regions. I mean, you can’t blame her– she’d never had access to that part of her body back in diaper-land.  Undies offer a freedom that I had to teach her to respect.

“What are you doing, pumpkin?” “I’m touching my privacy,” she says matter-of-factly in her high-pitched little voice. (That’s what she called her private parts at the time.)  I had no idea what to do. How was I supposed to teach her that it’s not socially acceptable to finger herself in the presence of others without making her feel ashamed? Knowing your body and the eventual art of masturbation are healthy parts of life, but not in front of your Mom. NOT IN FRONT OF YOUR MOM. Luckily, my fellow mom-boss Holly was there, and she’d already traversed this scary frontier with her two boys. “Bathroom or bedroom, bathroom or bedroom,” she whispered to me hurriedly, so that the madness would end.  It was at that point that I realized I needed to have some answers ready… coming up with them in the moment was not an option.

And she’s going to have a lot of questions, your daughter… and you better have the answers ready that you want settled into the little “sex corner” of her mind.  Otherwise, our fucked up world has answers ready and waiting, and they’re not the answers that will give your daughter a long and happy life with a satisfying and self-respecting relationship with her body, or with other people’s bodies.  Like these “pole-dancing parties”. And I’m not talking about for adults, I’m talking about the ones that 12-year-olds are currently doing for their birthdays.  Or the “rainbow parties” that involve junior highers, a line of girls with different colors of lipstick on, and a line of little dudes who, in my opinion, have years of work to do to earn that kind of love from a woman.

Mark my words: My. Daughters. Aren’t. Gonna. Do. That. Shit.

So here is what I’ve learned. It’s okay to shake your booty with your daughter while you listen to LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It”. It’s NOT okay to let them watch the video, and not just because it is not attractive when a guy can only lift ten pounds, or when groups of guys have penis-wiggling contests in bars. Also, it is not okay to let her say “shake my hot booty” (because she should not at the age of 4 know what “hot” means in that context). And when the word “sexy” pops up in the verse, tell her she can’t sing that word because, while sexy is not a bad word, it is a grown-up word.

When you explain her lady parts, don’t use words that have negative connotations that might invoke a sense of shame for having a vagina.   Like “naughty” or “no-no”. Because the world is telling her that it’s a dirty, wicked thing. And it is NOT. The world is also telling her that, if she has a vagina, that she is dumber than her penis-bearing counterparts, and that she shouldn’t hold positions of power, authority, decision-making, strategizing, or influence.   I find it’s simplest to use the technical term, but then apply a nice little word for her everyday use. Like “bottom”, or “private parts.”  A nice little analogy to help your daughter understand what private means can be found in Where the Wild Things Grow, where the kid has a private boat. The boat is JUST HIS. And people have to ask nicely before they can ride in the boat, and he’s allowed to say no to anyone who wants to ride in the boat if he doesn’t want them to. And if people insist on riding in the boat after he says no, then it is more than acceptable to kick that person’s ass so they think twice the next time they feel like riding in whatever boat they fucking want to.

Also, try to avoid using the following terms to refer to her vagina:

Penis glove, cock sock, cock pocket, cum dumpster, sperm bottle, goop chute, love rug, poontang, poonanie, cooch, vertical bacon sandwich, bearded clam, meat curtains, hatchet wound, fur burger, front bottom, kebab, minge, snapper, catfish, love canal, the cum dump, chocha, black hole, sperm sucker, fish sandwich, cock warmer, whisker biscuit, deep socket, cum craver, cock squeezer, slice of heaven, flesh cavern, glory hole, man in the boat, DNA dumpster, tuna town, split dick, bikini bizkit, cock holster, cockpit, snooch, poody tat, cold cut combo, furry furnace, slop hole, nether lips, serpent socket, hairy doughnut, fun hatch, spasm chasm, bacon hole, belly entrance, sugar basin, sweet briar, breakfast of champions, wookie, fish mitten, fuck pocket, hump hole, Republic of Labia, fetus flaps, sausage wallet, Yo Yo Smuggler, Ninja Boot, Chia Hole, Furrogi (Poland), Fortune Nookie, Calamari Cockring, Displabia, Bluntfrunt, moneymaker, The Helmut Hide-A-Way, toolshed, snake charmer, Furby, Enchilada of love, queef quarters, cream canal, punash, salami garage, slurpee machine, pink cookie, penalty box, meat crease, pole hole, one-eyed python trail, bubble gum by the bum, horn of plenty, the indoor picnic, hamper of goodies, the welcome opponent,  devil’s hole, pooswaa, south mouth, Lawrence of A Labia, ponchita,The Notorious V.A.G., baby oven, penis parking, cooter muffin, the promised land, cha cha, the virginator, scrumpter, cucumber canal, dick dungeon, cock curator, nice slice, weiner wrap, pachinko, fuck donut, the unmentionable, jaws of life, love cave, Indiana bones and the temple of poon, or pushin cushion.

If she, upon maturing, and from a place of self-awareness and long-established self-respect, decides to adopt any of those terms (really more because some of them are funny) then so be it.

UPDATE:

A good one: Holie of Holies. Brought to you by the man who explained to me that, if a man wasn’t crazy about me, then he wasn’t fucking worth it. And that’s truth, people.

New & improved Sanctity, brought to you by the gays.

Gay marriage should be seen as the “research and development” department of Marriage & Co.  Which means pure profit for my straight hookers, okaaaay!

Last night I was out with my hoes, and we ended up at Hell’s Kitchen Underground to see A. Wolf and Her Claws. It was so late by the time they went on that I finally left.  So, I basically paid $5 to see “weird shit opening band”.  It was heavily redeemed by my girl Tyesha. I’d have paid at least ten times that amount to not hear that band, and to only hear the stories she told me about the mad sexytimes she had with “hot Irish rugby player bus-driver.”

Bjork + The Cure (- anything cool) x computer engineering degree = these guys

The scene was dark and goth-like, and I was surrounded by electro-art-nerds??? I guess?  In this picture, you will see a table of computers (or “instruments”), a guy with a beanie made out of rope pulled down over his eyes (cus that’s so boss, ya’ll), and an angel statue behind them. Note the dark ambience, with red lighting hues (that’s from all the candles). What you can’t see here is the lead singer who was literally half my weight, wearing all black, skinny jeans, singing about something really deep. It was like Bjork gone horribly wrong. Bjork mated with The Cure, had a baby, and then it went to school for a computer engineering degree, and then decided to start a band and make me pay $5 to see it perform.  It was exactly when I walked in the door and saw this shit that I decided it would be okay if I just ordered a tonic water and then poured in my own vodka from a flask I had hidden in my purse. A bitch gotta do what a bitch gotta do.  And I couldn’t muster enough respect for the venue to not do that…

And honestly folks, if Bjork and The Cure can mate and send its baby to college, only to later torture me with its computer music, then “the gays” should DEFINITELY be able to get married and procreate.  Because so far, gays have not made me want to disrespect their offspring with a flask of vodka.  Celebrate, yes. Disrespect? No.

Plus, if society can deem it appropriate for Britney Spears and Kevin Federline to marry and procreate, then society should at LEAST let “the gays” have a go at it.  If all it takes to make marriage “sanct” is for K-fed’s man-meat to make its acqaintance with Britney’s sex-hole(s), (not even required to make it feel good, just a little diseased penetration), then I think my gay-bors up the street can make some magic happen, and be allowed to piss each other off by leaving their socks on the floor after nine goddamn years.

So here we have a socially approved construct for demonstrating the deepest of love. Literally.  Penis + Vagina = “Sanct” Marriage.  So much so that our legal system is all tied up and knotted, handcuffed even, with laws that prevent the true expression of love among people, in life and in death, when their children are sick and hospitalized, when someone’s been injured or murdered, transfer of property… in the most serious of life situations, you are not legally protected in such a way that allows for the truest expression of love and concern unless you have Penis + Vagina.  If it is SO goddamn moral to have Penis + Vagina to care for one another, and it’s so goddamn immoral not to, to the degree that the 1100+ federal benefits and 515+ state-specific (MN) legal benefits of marriage in place to help us love and care for each other to the greatest extent possible are only to be utilized by Penis + Vagina… then nuns are possibly the #1 offenders. Something to think about…

Perhaps it’s all rooted in low self-esteem… heterosexuals requiring affirmation from none other than the all-empowered judicial system. I mean, is it so hard to believe that some chick isn’t interested in your throbbing man-rod? Or that some dude doesn’t have a taste for your delicious maiden-carpet? Because I think you might need to make peace with that shit. Not ER’body wants to fuck you, baby! Aww shhhh there there. But be reassured, there’s someone out there for you. I mean, you weren’t really actually hoping that Ricky Martin or K.D. Lang wanted to marry you and start a family, were you? I know I fuggin’ wasn’t…

Now, for all my sexy conservatives out there that only think in terms of free market capitalism, let me break it down for you, baby. I got you.  As you know… a monopoly by one company in an industry stifles innovation and quality, ultimately delivering to society an inferior product at a high cost. Open competition in a market inspires innovation, shared best practices, high quality and constant improvement, all at a cost that everyone can theoretically access.  In this case of course, the product being marriage. (And don’t act like it’s not a product because it fucking IS. I refer you to the amounts of cash all my hetero bitches pay for their weddings, only to get a divorce 4 years later).  So, as a married woman in a heterosexual marriage, I beg of you… please… for a little R & D action up in this bitch.  I can feel the “sanctity” of every marriage around me slipping away like sand through an hourglass. Maybe the gays can get the job done better than the straights? Just a thought. I think Kim Kardashian just showed us that the product needs a bit of work.

Howard Hughes is the Gay to your Marriage.

Aviator, bitches. It’s about the genius and totally obsessive-compulsive germaphobe Howard Hughes, one of the wealthiest men in the world and one of the most influential aviators in history.  As the head of TWA during WWII, he fought for market share in aviation where Pan Am desparately tried to maintain monopoly control of the airways.  I mean, Pan Am even had the U.S. Congress and the FBI in its pocket, trying to control all that shit (sound familiar?).  Howard Hughes, as fucked up as he was, created something new and beautiful in aviation.  Sure, it was delivered later than it should’ve been, but that’s what happens when the government restricts the resources with which you are allowed to build it.  The point remains, aviation is where it is today in part because he fought for improvement, for new ideas, for a different (and possibly better) product made by a different company.  Society gained from this, forcing Pan Am to step up its game and follow suit. I know you’re pickin’ up what I’m layin’ down.

So Howard Hughes is up against Juan Trippe, founder of Pan Am, who at the time had a monopoly in aviation.

“He owns Pan-Am. He owns Congress, he owns the Civil Aeronautics Board, but he does not own the sky!  The sky’s my business.”

And isn’t that what love is? …The sky? You can’t contain it, you can’t shape it or hold it or control it. You can only experience it for yourself, and if you’re a decent enough human being, you’ll only hope that others get to experience love too.

I’ll leave you with this… where Howard Hughes finally gets his heavy-ass H-4 Hercules out of the water and into the air, too late for use in the war, but soon enough to show Juan Trippe that he’s the real deal, and he can do amazing things.  Did anyone else almost cum in their pants when all that vibrating, shaking, and acceleration finally climaxed in the peaceful calm of lifting out of the water and into the air?

This post is dedicated to all you gay lovers out there. Someday, all these straight assholes will thank you for helping improve their marriages. I will start by thanking you now.

Sexy film for my crackas.

New sexy film post over at Big Touch, bitches!! CLICK HERE to see that sexy business.