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THE WEEK OF NOTHING SERIOUS: The Mystery of Giles’s Apartment

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This weekend, I uncovered what might be the greatest mystery of all time:

What I figured was, someone, probably several someones, would answer my tweet and I would get my answer and that would be the end of it. And at first, that looked like the case:
“Okay, that’s what I thought,” I says to myself, I says. But then:

“Well, now I don’t know what to believe,” I think to myself, because I watched “A New Man,” the episode where Giles turns into a demon (I’m a Buffy/Giles shipper and that one is full of “proof,” okay?) and not only does Demon!Giles trash his apartment, but that’s the “new apartment” I had been thinking of in the first place.
Things started getting weirder when people started remembering different times that Giles got a new apartment:

As you can see by the time stamps, this discussion has gone on for days now.
Still, a lot of people insisted that Giles never got a new apartment:

So, how did some of us come to the conclusion that he moved? Especially when many of us are all so certain?
Here’s a shot of the apartment during season two, from the episode “Passion”: 
Not pictured: Me, making out with Giles on that uncomfortable looking couch.

And here’s a picture of it from the season 4 episode, “Pangs”:
Pictured: Way too much pointless brooding.

If you look past depressionsweatpants!Giles and sad!Angel (also known colloquially as just, you know, Angel), you can see it’s the same damn apartment.
But I swear, I swear on my soul, that at some point, in some line of dialogue, someone mentions Giles’s new apartment. Clearly, the only way I’m going to be satisfied is if I watch every single episode and get to the bottom of this.
While I’m doing that (and sewing until my fingers fall off, because YAY CHRISTMAS!), please to be enjoying the following, which is my favorite Buffy/Giles fic of all time. It’s rated G, so don’t worry about clicking on it and getting a landslide of smut or anything: 24, by Jacqui. Feel free to share any recs you might have, I know other B/Gers are out there. And don’t forget to swing by yesterday’s post for tons of cute animal links in the comments.
When I have our answer to this mystery, oh, you best expect I’ll be updating this post.

The Week of Nothing Serious

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It’s difficult to know how to approach life after a tragedy. With my entire country reeling from grief, there’s a lot of finger pointing, a lot of anger, and a hugely politicized gun control argument. We’ve got people saying this is because we’ve moved into a secular society and removed God from schools. We’ve got other nutjobs saying that Connecticut deserved this because they offer marriage equality to their residents. We have people passionately calling for a ban on guns, with others passionately calling for armed teachers. At the end of the day, every single one of those reactions are coming from people trying to make sense out of the fact that twenty children are dead at the hands of a deeply disturbed individual.

I started a blog post with the intent to look at some aspects of the media coverage that make me uncomfortable. The rush to blame mental illness, the rush to divert gun control into a discussion about violence in videogames. The way that everyone gets up in arms about the tragedy of a school in a “safe” setting being targeted, but collectively we couldn’t care less about the gun violence deaths of children of color in our cities.

The more I wrote, the more mired down in depression, until I couldn’t do anything but stare numb at the tv and watch episode after episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer in my increasingly odorous clothes I hadn’t changed and, yes, had slept in. I recognized this as the beginning of a depression spiral that I can’t afford, and I know it’s having the same effect on a lot of you out there, because some of you have shared your struggles with mental illness.

So, with that in mind, for the next week, this blog will be all fluff. There may be pictures of baby animals (my husband says he can tell how depressed I am based on how many videos of cute baby animals are in my youtube history). There may be mindless chatter about stupid shit. But I won’t be mentioning the shooting, and I’m not going to air any big political opinions.

That might sound callous, but I assure you, it’s coming from a good place. There is no amount of analyzing we can do that will bring those kids back to life. No amount of cultural reflection will mend the families whose lives were irrevocably torn apart. But at times like these, when every channel is airing photos of the smiling faces of the deceased, when every facebook status update is lauding the heroes who laid down their lives, it’s very easy for people made vulnerable by mental illness to get overwhelmed. So, I just want to explain why it’s going to seem like I’m carrying on without a care in the world while the rest of the nation falls apart.

It’s not because I don’t care or I’m ignoring the tragedy. I hope you all understand.

I’m so mad at Anne Hathaway’s vulva right now.

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As you may have heard (and how could you not hear about it?), adorable gamine Anne Hathaway accidentally flashed her vulva getting out of a car, and someone got a picture of it.

The female-celebrity-getting-out-of-a-car-pantyless photo is nothing new. Britney has done it. Paris has done it. In the world of celebrity, you’re nobody until somebody has taken a photo of your labia.

For the most part, Hathaway’s slip might have gone uncommented on. And then Matt Lauer commented on it. Like, on tv. He was basically all, “So, saw your vag, tell us about your new movie.” People were, understandably, outraged. Anne Hathaway is an Oscar nominated actress. Her work is lauded and respected by millions. She seems super nice and her smile is like sunshine (that’s not sarcasm). She has way more teeth than a person should reasonably have, but they’re so straight and blindingly white that it’s like looking into a virgin’s soul (some of that was sarcasm). She’s the closest thing we have to an official “America’s Sweetheart.” Some MAN can’t acknowledge that the whole country has seen her bare crotch. TO THE INTERNET OUTRAGE MACHINE!

Here’s the thing that I can’t quite get my head around. Accidental nudity photos have been an issue for years. There’s a scene in Spice World where Richard E. Grant blocks a paparazzo’s camera and admonishes him for trying to get an upskirt of the Spice Girls. Spice World.

I fear many of my readers won’t have any concept of who these women are, due to my old age.

The point is, this has been happening for a while. And yet, the collective anger only reared its head on a large scale when it happened to Anne Hathaway.
Look, I’m sure many people were as disgusted at the publication of LiLo’s beaver pics as they are at Anne Hathaway’s. That’s not the point. The point is that, collectively, we decide who is deserving of our ardent defense and who is not based on the same misogynistic bullshit that creates the marketplace for those pictures in the first place.
We live in a culture where we feel we have the right to see an actor, musician, or model’s naked body on display for our own gratification. Your first urge there might have been to correct me: “No, we live in a culture where we feel entitled to see women’s bodies.” That’s just not true. If that were true, True Blood wouldn’t have half the ratings it’s getting.
You are not watching this show for his incredible acting. Come on.

So, why are we so up in arms about the exploitation of Anne Hathaway, when we tolerate and even pay to see other celebrities being exploited?
Because Hathaway is a “good girl,” and as such she deserves our moral outrage. She’s never been involved in any scandals (at least, not any of her own making). She doesn’t openly use drugs and doesn’t get kicked out of nightclubs for being too drunk. But most importantly, she doesn’t trade sex as a commodity. Any time she’s done nudity for a film, it’s been “artistic” nudity that’s necessary for the role. When you compare her to Britney or Paris, she’s practically a nun.
Some have argued that since Britney and Paris have made their careers out of flashing flesh, they deserve what they get. That’s just stupid. If you break into a grocery store after closing time, you aren’t going to get very far with the defense, “Well, it was open this morning, I figured I could just go in at any time.” It’s like these people are saying, “My mom gave me twenty bucks for my birthday, so I emptied out her bank account. What? There’s nothing wrong with that, she was asking for it.” A woman dressing and behaving in a sexually provocative manner doesn’t mean we all have this all-access pass to see parts of her body that aren’t meant to be displayed.
Others have said that since Britney and Paris and Lindsey have made it a routine to go out and get plastered and fall all over the place with their skirts up, that’s the key difference. Hathaway doesn’t act like that, so we don’t feel she deserves the ridicule. This is also a completely fucked up and illogical way of thinking, and it’s akin to arguing that women who get drunk at parties should expect to be raped and don’t deserve sympathy. Intoxication is viewed as a moral failing, and it is extra, extra immoral when women are the ones who are intoxicated. But even though society now grudgingly admits that raping drunk girls is wrong, it still seems pretty comfortable saying that if you get drunk and flash your panties (or lack thereof), it’s perfectly reasonable to expect that someone will take a picture. Oh, and it’s all your fault.
What’s worse is, the women whose snatches are being mercilessly hunted are women that are culturally understood to be, well. Not very intelligent. Whether Paris is truly a dumb blonde, I have no idea, but that’s the image the media projects: “Here’s Paris Hilton. She’s a stupid whore.” Britney Spears is/was? under a court ordered conservatorship because mentally she was not sound enough to care for herself as an adult. Doesn’t it seem like these women, if they’re really, truly of a lower intelligence or functional capability, are more vulnerable than Hathaway? And therefore more deserving of our indignation? Aren’t they victims of the very culture that encouraged them to market their sexuality in the first place?
Look, I’m not saying we shouldn’t be angry about people with unscrupulous morals benefitting from poor Anne’s wardrobe malfunction, because we absolutely should. I’m just saying, maybe we should examine why we care, as a culture, more when it’s a “good girl” and not a “slut” or “trainwreck” being exploited.
Speaking of wardrobe malfunction… why did everyone blame her? It was Timberlake who exposed her titty, FFS.

Maybe you’re not guilty of any of these things, and you’re thinking, “But Jen, I always defended Britney!” Good, I’m glad you did. I didn’t, because I hadn’t wised up at that point. If this is you, then good, I’m happy for you. But the fact is, a lot of people don’t defend the Britneys and Parisii of the world and choose instead to defend a woman who is clearly more than capable of defending herself. And that’s fucking sick.

Guest Post: Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever

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When my tweep ‘Ro Mania from Ramblin’ Ro’s tweeted about a book called Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever, of course I immediately needed to get the scoop on it. Here’s the review, and it’s about 100% more professional than anything else you’ll ever see on this blog. Much thanks to ‘Ro for making it through what sounds like a thoroughly frustrating book.

Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever
(A Parody – The Ghetto Girl Romance Quadrilogy)
L.V. Lewis
Jungle Fever Press 2012
I’m sure by now everyone has been, in some way or other, exposed to the literary phenomenon that is Fifty Shades of Grey (FSoG). For those three of you who haven’t, I will give a brief synopsis.
Brief synopsis: FSoGis a fanfic of Twilight wherein Bella Swan and Edward Cullen have been…reimagined…as Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey: a virginal college grad and the multi-millionaire BDSM dominant who wants her as a submissive. From what I understand the story is just as awful as the source material.
(By the way I haveread Twilight, but I’ve only read part of FSoG so most of what I know about it comes from numerous in-depth critiques and reviews).  
So, now that we know where we’ve come from, let’s see where we’re going, eh? I recently stumbled across Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever (FSoJF) in one of my ‘free-kindle-book” e-mails. As soon as I saw the title, I had to click on the link and ‘buy’ it. How could I possibly resist the potentially massive sh*tshow this book could turn out to be? Please recall the subtitle – “A Parody – The Ghetto Girl Romance Quadrilogy”! (So there’s more coming…)
I actually saw the ‘ghetto girl’ part first (and was excited) and then I saw the ‘parody’ and was a little saddened. I was really looking forward to reading an attempted ‘urbanization’ of FSoG and I felt that a parody would be too self-aware to be funny; I find the best parodies to be the fully unintentional ones – the possibilities for humor are much higher.
And of course, for the culturally un-hip amongst you, ‘jungle fever’ refers to the time-honored act of ‘miscegenation’ – or, for those of you born after 1852,  ‘interracial relationships’.
I decided, however, to take a chance and read the book anyway. And now that I have…I’m not too sure how I feel about it…
Let me back up and start with the characters. Instead of Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey, we have Keisha Beale and Tristan White. She’s a well-educated singer/songwriter from “the ‘hood” who’s trying to start a recording studio/music business with her best friend. He’s the multi-millionaire venture capitalist she goes to with a business proposal hoping he’ll become an investor. He ultimately agrees on the condition that she become his submissive.
On its face it’s an interesting enough premise and – standing on its own – it could have made a decent story. Actually, it could have been a really intriguing story: a smart, professional black woman, not only entering into a D/s relationship as a submissive to a wealthy white man, but doing so willingly and then learning how much she enjoys her submission. In the hands of a skilled writer, that would have been fascinating.
Unfortunately L.V. Lewis is not that writer (not yet anyway), and, as a parody this story mostly falls flat. The major situations that the author parodies are done poorly and the minor ones are seemingly chosen at random.
Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever has many of the same trappings of FSoG: the ‘dungeon’ sex room, the non-disclosure agreement, the bestowing of ostentatious gifts, etc. But everything is, of course, done with an “urban” twist.
For example, in FSoGAnastasia has her subconscious and her Inner Goddess, her angel-/devil-on-the-shoulder…except that her subconscious seems reallyjudgmental and her Inner Goddess is overly-dramatic, doing somersaults and dancing about. Keisha has her own versions of these:
There are two entities that war inside me, but I’m the only one who sees them manifested physically. […] On my right shoulder is my Ghetto Good Girl or Triple-G for short. She keeps me out of trouble and generally roots for me to do what’s right. The mischief maker, my Fairy Hoochie Mama aka the bad girl, resides on my left shoulder. She generally wants the exact opposite of what my Triple-G finds to be prudent. Yeah, I have an angel on one shoulder, and a devil on the other, as good and evil has been depicted over the centuries, but who doesn’t?
Now, while there are a fewamusing moments with these two (especially when her Fairy Hoochie Mama does a little song-and-dance to Salt-n-Pepa’s “Push It” as Keisha and Tristan dry-hump in his office) they show up way too often, and they’re normally not funny. And, while their frequent appearances are in keeping with the source material, other parallels are not. For example, the ‘gay’ issue. 
During Keisha’s initial meeting with Tristan she questions his sexuality, much like Ana did with Christian. Unlike Ana, who was mindlessly reading interview questions written by her roommate, Keisha has no reason to do so. Her sole intent is to unnerve him because she’s annoyed with him; not the smartest move to make when trying to woo an investor. And, in the greater context of the story, it makes little sense.
This, unfortunately, is a recurring theme throughout the book. The plot will start to get interesting, and then Keisha will do something that Anastasia did, only because Anastasia did it; there’s no logical reason behind it. And that is really a shame, because it really detracts from what could have been an interesting story.
Another example of the odd things the author chooses to parody is the way the main character expresses herself. In Twilight, Bella Swan was constantly referencing Wuthering Heights; in FSoG, Anastasia had Tess of theD’Urbervilles. Keisha’s corollary? Ebonics! Seriously.
While Bella and Anastasia are meant to be literary-minded and upper-ish middle-class, Keisha is more the “educated urbanite” who’s had to master the art of code-switching as she navigates between the “hood” and the business world. And she tells us this over and over. It becomes rather tedious, actually.
At one point, she runs into her ex-boyfriend on the dance floor of the hip-hop nightclub, Wicked. Unsure how their meeting will go, she greets him and then says of the greeting, “I speak ebonically to put him at ease…” And, even after she learns that Tristan happens to be the owner of Wicked, she still feels, “…compelled to use my sometimes dormant, proper English vocabulary I learned in high school and college [when speaking] with Tristan.”
In addition, the author uses the lazy habit of name-dropping to circumvent the need for actual description. How does Keisha describe her arms? “…my petite biceps, which I am proud to say are more toned than Michelle Obama’s”. And, as for Tristan’s facial expressions: “He raises one eyebrow, like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is famous for doing, but he doesn’t look comical”.
And later, the reader is offered this:
“Ms. Beale, fancy seeing you here,” [Tristan] says, his tongue caressing my surname in a succinct purr, like a lion. His smooth baritone does weird things to my nether regions. My Fairy Hoochie Mama jumps up off her chaise and does an African dance, shaking everything her mama gave her.
 “Yeah, fancy that”, I say flippantly, like Maggie Gyllenhaal said to Christian Bale, in The Dark Knight.
I honestly have no idea what that refers to, and I’ve seen TheDark Knight several times. I’m not even going to touch the “African dance”…
The story is peppered with current pop culture references – movies, tv shows, celebrity names, and famous products – in a way that, while it is clearly meant to “connect” with the reader, only serves to cheapen the reading experience. If I wanted commercials and celebrity sightings, I’d watch tv; I read to avoid such things.
We later learn that Keisha is apparently a *big* movie buff. The movie references she makes throughout the story, however, are often either poorly chosen, obscure, or both.
Of course, numerous references to popular music/musicians fit the framework of the story as Keisha is a singer/songwriter, Tristan owns a nightclub (among many, many other things) and their plan is to open a music store/ recording studio.
Despite these shortcomings, the characters are actually rather believable and likeable. There are some definite differences between Bellastasia and Keisha, not the least of which are age and sexual maturity. Keisha is clearly an adult who is making informed decisions – and she actually makes the decisions herself, she is not coerced. And we learn that she has a solid support base in the form of her best friend/roommate Jade who ends up in a similar situation with Tristan’s twin brother.
And Tristan, though he is controlling and demanding, does not exhibit the level of stalker/abuser creepiness that so completely defines Chedward.
As far as the sex scenes: they were pretty good. Not worth slogging through the rest of this mess to get there, especially when there’s so much more BDSM erotica and porn out there that’s better written and more engaging, but they were ok.
Overall, I’d say this was a decent effort. As a parody it fails, mostly because it makes the same blunders as the source materials, which could all really be boiled down to one thing: lazy writing. As a story on its own, however, with a good re-write and some heavy editing, it could definitely be worth purchasing. If you’re bored and you can find it for free on Amazon, it’s worth a look.

My pick for best book of 2012

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It’s been a year packed with blockbuster novels, from 50 Shades of Grey to The Casual Vacancy, and Gone Girl, but I think that so often the commercial success of a great (or gallingly mediocre) novel can sometimes bury the true artist, and their masterworks can be woefully ignored.

This year, no book was so tragically left by the wayside as Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machine by Catherine Devore.

I know what you’re thinking. “This is a cheap money grab on the part of the author to cash in on the success of properties like Spielberg’s Lincoln and that really shitty movie that blamed vampires for slavery.”

How could you, Rufus Sewell? I thought we were imaginary lovers. How could you betray me like that?

Well, you’re wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. This book has a better plot than both of those movies combined, because fuck American history, that’s why.
The story opens with honest Abe waking up with morning wood, and right off the bat he addresses the reader as “dear reader.” You know how much I love that, dear reader. So, page three, I’m already sold.
We learn that Mary Todd Lincoln is grumpy in the mornings, so rather than trouble her with her marital obligation, the sixteenth president of this great country gets oral from Martha, the maid who brings him breakfast:

“Do you know why they call me Baberaham Lincoln?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Well, you’re about to find out.” With those words, I unbuttoned my pants and produced my throbbing, erect cock.

File under: Things that have never happened at Disney’s Hall of Presidents.

At this point, my husband came into my office and asked me, “Is his dick tall, too?” Well, dear reader, let me assure you, that point is laid to rest on page six:

I have always been a tall man, and I take no false pride in saying that my prick stands tall as well. It is fully nine inches long and as thick and hard as a birch rod.

Subtle period details are always a necessity when writing historical fiction.

Abe and Martha the serving girl proceed to engage in behavior that got a later president impeached, with Martha performing oral sex on Abe while he enjoys his breakfast. No, seriously, he just casually eats breakfast while she sucks him off and fingers herself. I guess when you’re the most powerful man in the country, shit like that happens all the time, and you just have to work it into your schedule. Because being the commander-in-chief is a busy job, evidenced by the fact that the servant just barely has time to lick her fingers clean before William Seward and Charles Sumner come in.

Shown here, ruining your erotica with their weird 1800’s noses.

Seward is Lincoln’s secretary of state, and he is thoroughly vexed over Japan’s “Order to Expel Barbarians.” Abe is 100% against interfering, since the United States is currently torn apart by civil war. Then Sumner fills him in on the rest of the plot: Emperor Komei has created a doomsday device that will blow up the moon, thus disrupting the tides and sea travel and preventing any foreign invaders from landing on his shores. Presumably because his shores would be entirely underwater? I don’t know if I buy the emperor of an island nation wanting to fuck with the sea, but I did buy this book knowing it was titled Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machine, so in for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.
The Shogunate, who not only oppose the expulsion of non-Japanese, but who also are definitely against blowing up the moon, have sent a ninja warrior, Matsukata Takayoshi, to help Lincoln unlock a cosmic power he wasn’t even aware he had. This power unlocks, of course, with mystical handjobs.

Rather than responding to my plight or alleviating my pain, Takayoshi dropped to the floor and covered his head. If I had been in my right mind, I might have wondered at this strange behavior, but it was at that moment that my body was wracked with a final shock and my true power manifested. I bellowed mightily as I ejaculated with the force of a thunderclap. The spunk I released was no ordinary spunk. It burst forth from my prick like a jet of hot magma and seared a hole through the exterior wall. I stared out the window in amazement as my sperm burned across the sky like a falling star, before finally disappearing over the horizon. Many men claim they saw a comet that day; few, if any, would believe the truth of the matter. 

The only way to celebrate finding out that you have super cosmic cum is, of course, to engage in anal sex with a stranger. In front of the secretary of state and the leader of Massachusetts’s anti-slavery movement:

He was just removing his pants when Seward and Sumner strode back in. “Excuse the intrusion, Mr. President. We were just… wondering… how… the negotiations…”

When Seward surveyed the illicit tableau before him, he slowed down like a train pulling into the station. Sumner’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

Rather than risk embarrassment, I chose to brush off their incredulity and continue where I left off. I said: “Now that you two are here, you can learn why they call me Gaybraham Lincoln.

If there’s one major complaint I have with this book, it’s that two of its most prominent jokes are straight up ripped off. “Baberaham Lincoln,” is the title Garth gives to Cassandra in Wayne’s World, and “Gaybraham Lincoln” is a recurring sketch on TGS, the fictional comedy show on 30 Rock.

I assume everyone reading this has seen a porno before, and therefore understands the unspoken rule of sex scenes: if someone comes in during, they at least have to jack off while watching, or join in. In this scene, Sumner inhabits the role of the voyeur at first, then performs fellatio on Takayoshi, while Seward climbs on Abe’s desk to get a bj with some finger action while the president buggers the ninja envoy.

Here’s the point in the book when I realized something was wrong. The page counter on my Nook app said there were only thirty-four pages, and I was on page thirty. I thought maybe the download was incomplete or something, but no. The story ends super abruptly:

And so began the first of several weeks of intense training. For hours at a time, Takayoshi would teach me exercises to control the power of my cock. Eventually, I could flex my muscles and shoot a stream of hot spunk with the accuracy of a bullet through a bulls-eye.

One day he came to me after a particularly intense lesson with a gleam in his eye. “You are ready,” he said.

And then that’s it. After that, it’s just a plug for the sequel, Abraham Lincoln: Ninja Fuck Master.

Okay, listen. This book is thirty-four pages long, and I paid three dollars for it. That’s like… ninety cents a page. You’d think I would be furious that the story wasn’t wrapped up entirely. And I see this for what it is. This is crack dealer shenanigans right here. Giving me a little, but high is over all too soon, and I’m right back at B&N.com, scratching and panting and begging to waste three more dollars. That kind of thing should make a principled person like me absolutely furious.

But it doesn’t. Because as ridiculous as the overall plot is, as simplistic and sometimes blatantly unsexy as the writing is, this thing is fucking clever. The historical details, like Komei’s disagreement with the Shogunate and America’s wary surveillance of a foreign situation they couldn’t expend the resources to even attempt to control, are all surprisingly accurate and only serve to highlight the absurdity of a plot that involves one of our most revered Americans shooting lava jizz into the brisk April morning. And that’s worth more than money, friends. That’s worth the glittering golden tears of a weeping bald eagle.

Maybe it doesn’t surprise you to learn that I will be buying and reading the hell out of the forthcoming Abraham Lincoln: Ninja Fuck Master. I mean, I really, really hope it’s forthcoming. Otherwise, how will I know if he manages to stop the emperor from blowing up the moon? And yes, I’m aware that I’m falling for the afore labelled “crack dealer shenanigans,” but I’m actually a bit jealous that I didn’t think up this scheme myself. That alone is worth the admission price.

I think you’re doing yourself a great disservice by not picking up Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machine. Do it for America. Abe certainly is.

Oh, and I just wanted to add, thank you to Katiebabs for bringing this book to my attention, though I’m sure she thoroughly regrets it now.

Roadhouse Episode 10, “Episode 420”

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Roadhouse, Episode 10, “Episode 420”

Since YouTube is a ball of flaming wreckage right now, we’ve moved the show to Dailymotion. I would complain about the upload speeds there, but considering it just took me two days to not upload a video at YouTube, I think Dailymotion wins this round.

This week’s episode is a serious look at marijuana prohibition in the United States, and we’re totally serious the whole time. I promise that won’t happen again. Also, you can see one of my dogs!

My 50 Shades Movie Picks, volume 1.

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By now everyone knows that a 50 Shades movie is something humanity is powerless to stop. Everyone is talking about who should be Christian, who should be Ana. If you are a young actor or actress in Hollywood, people have probably asked you if you would want a part in the movie. Hell, even if you’re way too old to play Christian Grey or Ana Steele (Michael Fassbender, as a for instance), people are still lobbying hard on your behalf for your casting.

But you know who hasn’t been asked for casting advice? A certain author/blogger who is, by all accounts, an expert in 50 Shadesology and who could easily teach an entire college course on the subject. Just as no one in Hollywood ever asked me before canceling The Adventures of Brisco County Jr., no has yet asked me to cast this damn movie. Well, I’m not going to wait to be asked, damnit. Here are my picks for the cast of 50 Shades of Grey the movie. Today, I’m going to concentrate on the characters who are, arguably, the most important:


Christian Grey
Obviously, when casting Christian Grey, you have to find someone who can convincingly convey the complex mental and emotional problems of a sadistic billionaire, while also being creepy as hell toward women at every available opportunity. He also has to be so devastatingly attractive that women have juicy, gushing orgasms every time they look upon his magnificent form. Which rules out about 97% of the Earth’s population, and leaves us with these guys:
Henry Cavill.
If playing Superman doesn’t utterly destroy his life (as playing Superman in any form of media often does), Henry Cavill would be my top pick for Christian Grey. Why? Because I realistically accept the fact that I will have to go see this fucking movie, and I would like to at least have something handsome to look at while I’m bored by the non-existent plot and what will undoubtedly be many cut-away scenes with grainy, artistic shots of languidly moving body parts. Also, Henry already perfected the “totally shitty guy who for some reason still seems attractive to me” role when he was on The Tudors. It seems like he would have this one in the bag.
Honorable mention:
Simon Woods.

After watching him as the sexually sadistic Octavian Caesar on HBO’s Rome, I could totally buy him smacking a woman around in bed. But his performance in Pride and Prejudice was utterly charming, so maybe he could bring humanity to Christian Grey, something the character lacks in the books.
The dark horse:

Norman Reedus.
Hear me out on this one. Yeah, he’s in his forties, but he can easily play much younger. Sure, he’s not known for his romantic leads, but anyone who watched even one episode of The Walking Dead last season knows that this suave motherfucker can bring depth and heart to literally any role, including racist backwoods hick Daryl Dixon. If he can make me like a man who speaks gruffly about his brother’s STDs in a survival situation, he can make me like Christian Grey. Also, did you see the way he carried Carol out of danger? So hot.
Anastasia Rose Steele

Heavy is the head that will bear her stupid, stupid name. Also, rail thin must be the body exposed by the actress, because if there is one takeaway from these books, it’s that skinny is a big, big deal. Will movie audiences accept a childlike waif with wide-eyed innocence in the same way readers have? I doubt it. The biggest mistake this movie could possibly make would be casting a heroine who’s more spunky cuteness than sexual awareness, no matter how naive she’s supposed to be. That’s why my pick is:
Amber Heard.
Amber is the only actress I can think of who could play both clumsy, shy Ana, and sexually adventurous, newly awakened Ana. “If I were casting only the white swan,” I say in a faux-French-Canadian accent, “Selena Gomez would be perfect.” But audiences need someone who’s like Kristen Stewart, to remind them of Bella, but who, unlike Kristen Stewart, has the ability to mimic human facial expressions. Amber Heard was awesome in the criminally unwatched The Playboy Club and she was the only reason to watch the messy adaptation of The Rum Diaries. She could play Ana with a straight face without making us all roll our eyes.
Honorable Mention:

Alexis Vega.
With roles in Repo! The Genetic Opera and the upcoming Machete Kills, she’s shed her child actress image. She’s youthful, which is a huge part of Ana’s characterization, and again, she has more facial expressions than KStew, so that puts her high in the running right there.

The Dark Horse:

Jennifer Lawrence.

She’s a mature, self-assured woman who brought Katniss off the page with quiet strength and vulnerability. Doing the same with Anastasia Rose Steele would probably be a cakewalk for her. But I don’t see her simultaneously cast in a series aimed at teen audiences and a series known for allegedly graphic sex. She doesn’t have a chance, and that’s too bad, because she could rock it. Imagine her falling into Christian’s office. Is it not the most adorable imaging you’ve ever imagined?

I’ll be back next week with my pics for Kate and Mrs. Robinson, although you all probably know exactly who I want to play Mrs. Robinson.

A thought about 50 Shades of Grey

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A moment ago, I had a horrible epiphany.

The titular character of the 50 Shades of Grey series is a billionaire obsessed with ending world hunger.
In the time it’s going to take you to read this sentence, someone will probably have died from starvation.
50 Shades has sold 40,000,000 copies, by the most recent estimation I’ve been able to find. The paperbacks are like $15 bucks a piece, so doesn’t that make it something like $600,000,000.00 that we’ve spent on these books?
This is not a condemnation by the way, I’m not some raving socialist or someone who’se like, “I do nothing, yet I think you should do x,” Do whatever you want with your money and for fuck’s sake don’t quit buying books. I’m just saying…
Our fellow human beings are starving to death, we’re completely aware of this fact, and we’ve chosen, collectively (hell, I even bought them), to spend $600,000,000.00 on books about a  guy who is fictionally curing hunger.
If someone wrote a book about that? No one would ever buy it, it would be too unbelievable. How bleak and funny and tragically human is that?