Friday, July 31, 2009

BREAKING NEWS: Michael Jackson Has Died

Not sure how I missed this, but apparently Michael Jackson died sometime last month. If anyone has any more information, please let me know ASAP.




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Wednesday, July 29, 2009

No Fucking Shit, Brainiac

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Monday, July 27, 2009

Where The Fuck Have You Been, Johnny?

Mind your own fucking business, Johnnyheads. Like you've never drank a fifth of Absinthe, flown to Switzerland, checked into the Lucerne Gender Institute, paid them $87,000 to cut off your penis, craft a breathtaking vagina in its place, build you breasts with tissue from your ass, awakened from your propofol-induced stupor, vaguely remembered why you were there, peeked under the covers to check out your brand new vagina, only to be repulsed by it and immediately ask Dr. Durrenberger for your money back?

That's right. Spanish Johnny's now Spanish Jenny.

I don't know what the fuck I was thinking. Surely, I'm not the only dude on the planet who thought it would be super-hot to have his own vag? A vag to call my own. To have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness—gross...maybe not sickness—or in health, to love and to cherish 'till death do us part. Is that too much to fucking ask for, God?

Once stateside, I had a very simple plan: I'd spend my days admiring the beauty of my new vag when I wasn't beating off to it. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. The very first time I tried to beat off, I realized (A) I had no cock to beat off with and (B) I was tired and wasn't feeling very sexy. So I gave myself a raincheck and turned on Grey's Anatomy.

Seems having gender reassignment surgery in order to satisfy deviant sexual cravings while redefining social mores and overcoming unspoken childhood trauma was a lot more complicated than it seemed.

Now it's back to Switzerland and Dr. Durrenberger. Let's just hope he hasn't given my cock to someone else. I'm looking at you, Nobes...
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Thursday, July 16, 2009

Mama-Se, Mama-Sa, Ma-Ma-Coo-Sahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

Say what you will about Michael Jackson, but that motherfucker could move. And if you thought he could dance when his hair wasn't on fire, wait until you see his moves when his jheri curls are aflame. Though, "aflame" doesn't do justice to the wildfire you're about to see raging on his head. That's right. This is the actual footage from his infamous 1984 Pepsi commercial shoot. And it is pretty goddamn astonishing. No wonder Jacko became addicted to painkillers and children as a result. Apologies for the lame commercial you have to suffer through before the video. Trust Johnny—it's well worth it.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Subway Stories 8: “I Agree—The Stairs Of The Houston Street Station Seem Like A Reasonable Place To Defecate"

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Ah, the New York City subway. Has there ever been a grander, more civilized way to travel? Do you think riders of the Metro in Paris have to worry about human urine dripping down on them as they wait for their train? Probably not—though, I’m sure they have to dodge their share of baguette assaults. Likewise, do riders of the London tube have to carefully sidestep human feces as they exit the station? Doubtful, but there’s a good chance an IRA pipe bomb might blow off their leg.

What’s most troubling is that the above urine and feces incidents have not occurred at random spots throughout the labyrinthine NYC subway. No, they’ve been isolated to one particular station. One disgusting, filth-ridden hellhole of a station: The Houston Station on Varick.

Three times as I’ve exited the station, I’ve had to carefully sidestep a pile of human feces. Just in case you didn’t catch that: HUMAN FUCKING FECES (!). One of those times, there was a shoeprint smudged in it.

Holy fucking Christ.

I shudder to think what would’ve happened had that been my shoe. Stepping in dog shit? Appalling, but dealable. But, stepping in human shit? Honestly, I'd have to throw away the shoe. Immediately. In fact, I'd probably just leave it on the steps. But, I don’t think I'd stop there. If I stepped in the shit of another adult human being, I’m pretty sure I’d have to cut off my foot. Because, clearly, it would never ever be clean again.

After coming across the second pile of shit, I began avoiding the north exit, site of the ungodliness. For the next six months, I dutifully exited the station via the south stairs until one day, the south stairs were blocked off. I approached the north exit with obvious trepidation. Surely, nearly half a year later, there would be no trouble, right? I was halfway up the stairs, where the staircase curls around, when I saw it: the biggest fucking pile of human shit yet. People were crowded around it, staring in a combination of revulsion, astonishment and what oddly look liked admiration to me. Not twenty feet away, at the base of the stairs, stood a homeless man. Though, he wasn’t really homeless—I’d seen him "residing" in the station every day for the past year. The Houston Street Station on Varick was his home. And he was undoubtedly shitting in it. The fact there wasn't a toilet in it made no difference to him. Every time I stepped off the number 1 train, it was his number 2 I was desperately trying to avoid.

I skirted around the crowd and headed up to the surface, pausing on the sidewalk to clear my head—not knowing that two months later, in the very same spot, I would witness something equally as horrifying as what I just saw below.

In an effort to bring some balance and equilibrium to the universe, to add some yin to Houston Street Station’s yang, God saw fit to show me the flip side of the underground abominations. Emerging into the daylight, I saw a heavyset black woman squatting over the subway grate. She proceeded to lift up her skirt, pull her enormous black panties to the side with her hand, and urinate down into the grate—the piss spattering and bouncing off the metal grate onto some poor soul’s nearby Honda. This went on for at least 60 seconds. A heavy, never-ending stream of urine. Like watching a horse piss. One of the most repulsive things I’ve ever seen. (And I’ve seen Ghosts Of Girlfriends Past. Oh, wait—no I haven’t.)

I suppose it wasn’t exactly the flip side of what was happening below ground. If it was, there would’ve been a white woman from a nice home pissing away in broad daylight. Huh. That actually sounds kinda hot. And totally racist. Wow. Johnny did not see that coming.
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Friday, July 10, 2009

Gunt

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Just because.
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Wednesday, July 1, 2009