This weekend, I uncovered what might be the greatest mystery of all time:
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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.
Roadhouse episode 11: “Happy Holidays, D-Rock is Here To Wreck Your Shit Up.”
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I hesitated posting this, in light of the news of the national tragedy in Connecticut. Then I remembered that I live in America, and if I waited for a day when we didn’t have a gun crime tragedy, it would never get posted. At best, I hope it serves as a diverting distraction.
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.
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.
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.”
“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.
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.
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”
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!
Due to technical difficulties…
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…today’s episode of Roadhouse is delayed until either I or Youtube get our collective shit together. Thanks for understanding, because I sure as hell don’t know what’s going on with this?
*runs away, handfuls of still sparking circuitry clutched in her enraged, white-knuckled fists, because she doesn’t do well with technology.*
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:
A moment ago, I had a horrible epiphany.