Step Into My Parlor…

You’re free to fuck around and leave shit here and there. But start attacking me or other commenters and I will cut you…

…r comment out of my blog.

So seriously, play nice.

Oh, and: cats, lolcats, loldogs, fashion, politics, hot guys, hot girls, and other fun shnitz I find on the internet.

You’re welcome.

Oh, and in case you haven’t had enough of me, I’m here, here and here:

Would You Rather Wednesdays – The Facial Edition

Hello my internet lovelies. Let me preamble with I am so seriously behind on reading and writing (and ‘rithmetic?) but I just really needed to get this WYRW out of my system.

If you’re new to Would You Rather Wednesdays, Maxie over at ihatesomuch invites discussion on many soul-searching and thought-provoking moral dilemmas.

This is my attempt at cracking open your skull, scooping out your brain and unceremoniously dumping it at a fork in the road, hoping that it will take the road less traveled (for reasons that will become obvious shortly).

So without further ado, let me present this week’s

The Facial Edition

Would you rather:

Cry tears of 99% liquid amoebic diarrhea OR have a fully functional reproductive organ on your forehead?

Things to consider:

1. Tears of poo. I mean, seriously.
2. Tear ducts are connected to the nose. What happens when you just pass gas?
3. Sappy love stories, reminiscing old flames, and onions are forever forbidden in your date itinerary.
4. Sneezing is the new sharting.
5.  If you’re a dude, you will need to have some fantastically ugly glasses to hold up your testicles, or risk bumping into things.
6. Your attraction to that hot copy girl, cute hygienist, or any dead body will be instantly apparent to anyone who can see your forehead.
7. Ladies, one word: MENSES

And if you comment with “eeewww that’s sick, why would anyone want either?” a penis will magically sprout from between your eyes, replete with some voluptuous ‘nads, and then start having anal leakage from your eyes.

Back from the Third World

To… well, the third world. But at least I’m in my comfy apartment.

I have a bajillion and one stories to tell and probably more pictures to post but I just want to say that Nana has finally been laid to rest.

And I can go back shopping. Starting with this:

Bloggy Phimpage

Needing to take a break from the dark and twisty places of my grief (and spelling, apparently), today I pimp out the bloggers out there that have made me laugh, chuckle, chortle, and shoot milk out my nose. My feed reader is like my little jewelry box: some are awesome new pieces that I constantly pick up, look at, and fondle. Some of them are oldies but goodies. Some of them just make me feel funny in my stomach… like a sneeze only better.

LiLu from LivitLuvit. She’s the Karen to my Jack. We would totally do the nation’s capital a LOT of good. Just as long as we don’t have to deal with the poor or ugly people. Besides, her B and my J opens up a world of sex puns! (And yes, I’m sorry I didn’t partipitate in this Thursday’s TMI)

Maxie from ihatesomuch. She’s LiLu’s lesbinim lovah who I am totally jealous of slash fascinated with. I have a feeling that the combined awesome of LiLu + Maxie + The Demigod + Tequila + Boys + DC will be too much for the space-time continuum and rip it into pieces, causing an alternate reality where everyone is born with pink fur, bunny ears, and salamander tails. Either that or I need to dial down my meds. (And yes, I’m sorry I didn’t participate in Wednesday’s WYR).

Martini Mom from I Need a Martini Mom. She’s doing what I should be doing: teaching second graders. Of course if you read through the archives of this blog you’d be hard-pressed to find anybody who’d let me alone around kids, much less teach them. Of course you wouldn’t read through my archives.

And finally, the most awesomest pimpage of all:

Remember this guy? Yeah, we helped him get on the Hot Blogger Calendar. Part Asian, Part shaved head, Part Dad, Part Kung Fu, Part Funny, ALLLLL sexy. (Don’t worry, Teddy Bear J, he only pops up in my dreams every other day now. I still wake up next to you, don’t I?)

So anyways, Busydad is totally flashing the internet. And he’s trying to win Best Mewbs (which isn’t the hippity hop spelling of “moves”, trust me). And I mean honestly, did I mention he was kung fucking fu dad? Yeah. So go vote on this piece of hotness.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta take a cold shower.

Goodbye, Nana

Dearest Nana,

You taught me to find tenacity in the face of grief, to find the joy in the pain, the find the light in the dark. You are strength personified, and today I celebrate your life.

Today you are finally yourself again, unencumbered by wires and tubes and bags and bandages. Today you see Pop-pop again after twenty years apart. Today you are finally at peace.

Thank you. For taking care of me. For feeding me vampire blood. For trying (albeit unsuccessfully) to teach me Mandarin. For nursing the infected rashes on my legs from lying around in the mud playing with marbles. And for ultimately fishing one of those marbles from inside my nose. Thank you for inspiring me to live.

I love you so much.

Tell Pop-pop I miss him, and that he still owes me  gum.

B

Where is My Martin Luther Queen?

I’ve been sitting here for hours trying to top Max Mutchnick’s brilliant article put together my thoughts about what it means to be “non-mainstream gay” but this captures it perfectly.

Dykes on bikes, Tarzana Trannies, Jewish Leather Daddies and Kathy Griffin’s mom. Don’t get me wrong. I love these people. Let’s call them the “Usual Suspects.” They fought for my rights and taught me how to dance. But they should no longer be representing “the pride.” It’s a different time. For god’s sake, Larry Craig is a life-long homosexual. What I’m trying to say is that “unremarkable” mainstream people are gay, too. So I cringe when a local newsperson shoves a microphone in the face of some young 95-pound twink (Straight Translation: a twink is a skinny homosexual with a lot of moxie). The twink looks into the camera and screams into the reporter’s microphone: “Get down here now. The drinks are big. But you know what’s bigger…” He laughs in a high-pitched cackle and his “girlfriends” join in. I wish they’d read more and drink less.

TMI Thursday: Insinuated Edition

You know the drill: join us as we embarass the living crap out of ourselves. Share some completely tasteless, absolutely crass, dear-god-why-is-this-person-even-on-my-blog-reader-much-less-my-friend-when-should-really-call-the-cops-on-this-sick-fuck TMI story of your life.

Why?

Because LiLu, the Karen to my Jack, said so.

In this special edition of TMI Thursday (which is really kind of redundant because seriously, when is TMI Thursday not special?), I’ll throw you a list of random factoids, and you can make your educated guess in the comments!

1. I am lactose intolerant. My body cannot process the milks. The reaction is usually explosive and south of vomit.
2. My horniness is directly proportional to the newness or novelty of the location and position.
3. When I crave for something special, I will move heaven and hell to get it and eat enough of it to stop world hunger.
4. I just recently bought a new bed.
5. I had a massive craving for cookie-dough ice cream on Tuesday.
6. The Teddybear and I just recently got back together after a brief break-up.

And finally, remember this post?

What do you think happened?

Would You Rather Wednesdays

Spawned by the lovingly twisted mind of Maxie, who is LiLu’s special lesbinim lovah (not really, but I’m like, the only gay man who thinks girl-on-girl is hot), I ask you the dumbest question and force you to make a decision.

On this week’s special male hetero edition of Would You Rather Wednesdays:

Would you rather:

Go down on a girl and discover a piece of toilet paper stuck to the tip of your nose… curiously brownish and smelling of copper?

or

Go up the wrong hole by accident and violently pull out an unholy mess onto the sheets, the pillows, and your crotchal area?

Let’s see, with this post I’ve managed to disgust and alienate about 300 readers… I wonder how many more I’ll gross out in tomorrow’s TMI Thursday?

(Oh, and PS: he came back. *sniff)

In Local News

Disclaimer: I may not be a full-blooded Filipino, but I hold the Philippines near and dear to my heart. I’ve come to consider Manila my city, my home. I don’t think anyone would call me unpatriotic, despite what this post may tell you.

Over the years that I’ve spent here in Manila, I’ve learned to threaten with bodily harm subtly influence the things I can change, and to make peace with things I cannot. No country is perfect. The US is infected with Republicans, Saudi Arabia is 300 years late, Japan has cartoon alien porn, and Manila…

Well, Manila is full of fucking idiots.

If you haven’t already, please read the disclaimer above.

Case(s) in point: we Filipinos demand an apology from these Hollywood actors who we THINK have wronged us.

Claire Danes — for saying that Manila “smelled of cockroaches, with rats all over, and that there is no sewerage system, and the people do not have anything – no arms, no legs, no eyes.”

Now, I’m not a big fan of Ms. Danes. I don’t think she can act to save her life, but that’s neither here nor there. In fairness to her comments, she was cloistered in this old abandoned (and by that I take it to mean ‘dilapidated’) hospital in the outskirts of the city to shoot “Brokedown Palace”. I’m assuming there were roaches and rats to add to the ambience, and her Hollywood lifestyle plays a huge factor in her perspective.

Wake the fuck up, Manila. There ARE roaches and rats all over (at least in the ghettos and the inner city, but so does Buenos Aires, Shanghai, or New York)! If you so much as spit in some places, the sewer system clogs up so bad you end up waist deep in dysentery! And many of us are guilty of having no arms to clean up our own city, no legs to walk the talk, and no eyes to see that things can be so much better had our goddamn Juan Tamad (Lazy John) attitude didn’t get in the fucking way.

Teri Hatcher — well, not so much Teri Hatcher as the scriptwriters of Desperate Housewives. In one episode of the hit ABC show, Susan Meyer is at the doctor’s office and the doctor suggests she may just be going through menopause. Susan doesn’t take the news well and says “Okay, so before we go any further, can I check those diplomas? Just to make sure they aren’t from some medical school in the Philippines!”.

Wake the fuck up, Manila. If the quality of medical training here were up to par, then why does the fucking president seek medical attention in the US? At this point, I know I’m going to alienate some of my friends who are doctors, but come on guys. If you had a choice between seeing a doctor that graduated from AMA Medicine College or one that came from Harvard, who would you HONESTLY go to? What about if your child was dangerously ill and you had the money to choose? The medical profession is all about credentials and qualifications. Let’s not be hypocrites here.

PS: Desperate Housewives is a SHOW. It’s SUPPOSED to be entertaining. If you can’t laugh at yourself then stop watching the fucking show.

Alec Baldwin — for joking on late night TV that he needed to buy a Filipina mail-order bride.

*slaps forehead*

WAKE THE FUCK UP, MANILA. Have you seen how many idiotic, brain-dead, money-hungry, gold-digging opportunistic fucks are out there? They span the entire sexual gamut from underage girls to old women to will-be-a-woman-once-i-get-the-money-for-the-big-surgery.  They troll the streets, the girly bars, even the goddamn shopping malls. They litter the fucking internet, inundating craigslist with “h0t p!nay, luKin 4 to g0 to aMer!cA babeh! F0reiGners ONLY!!!!!1!!!”.

The truth hurts, doesn’t it?

The Philippines is amazing and Manila is a wonderful city to live in if you know where to look. And I’m sure we can make it even better. But until we stop wasting our energy on getting mad at Hollywood actors who think that Hollywood is The World, we’re not going to get anywhere.

Let’s fix what needs to get fixed:

• The legitimately slanderous piece written by Chip Tsao. We are NOT just a country of maids. We are artists, designers, media moguls, nurses, teachers, economic leaders, and corporate movers.
• Our Senate wasting time and resources investigating a sex scandal. In my head, Nancy Pelosi is cracking up trying to figure out why a Paris Hilton debacle would come under Senate scrutiny.
• Charter Change or Constitutional Assembly. While we’re at it, let’s find and shoot the motherfucker who dubbed it “CON-ASS”. Let’s just get it done. It will empower the local governments, abolish the senate, decentralize power, and allow for the creation of a federal government with better checks and balances for the office of the President.
• While we’re at it, can we give the copywriters responsible for these lovely gems a big fat bonus?

Movie Review: Twilight Redux

Just because I get the most site hits (and hate mail) from my less-than-sterling review of the Twilight movie, I am posting this:

Yeah, I went there. And I’m not alone in that idea.

Sparkling fucking vampires.

A Small Bump

The sun is setting.

I can’t think of a more appropriate analogy to end the hell that is today.

The sun is setting.

After seven years, the sun is setting.

My world is aflame, collapsing in big clouds of ash and dust around me.

I stand here quietly watching it fall apart. Numb. Stoic. In shock.

A tear clears a path on my face and falls on a small bump in my finger

where your ring used to be.

After seven years, the sun is setting.

The last of the golden rays are on the plush couch, the expensive furniture, the empty apartment.

I touch the small bump.

And remember you, Teddy Bear.

Today in Ass-Whooping

This is what I am capable of doing. So get the f*ck out of my way. ROFL

(From engrishfunny.com)

The Sanctity of What Now?

I don’t see any devout, church-going “Christians” getting all up in arms about this:

A real Las Vegas tradition. For the couple that wants to have some fun and tell their friends they got married at a “Drive Thru” wedding window in Las Vegas. Weather you come in your car, motorcycle, bicycle, or our Stretch Limousine you will have a great time. Daytime or evening weddings available 7 days a week 365 days a year. Take a look at the photos below, and see some of the unique vehicle ideas couples have had over the years.

 

Or this lovely little gem from the people that brought you “Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire”:

The show revolves around some poor sap in her late 30s whose biological clock is counting down in big, bright red numbers. Her family and friends are presented with five men of questionable sanity, and they boot them out one by one based on whether or not the men look good enough or have enough money (I’m assuming here).

As each guy gets shot down, the bride is presented with who she WON’T be marrying (uhmmm… Dating Game, anyone?). The grand finale is the big reveal, and the wedding is held right then and there in national television.

And just because I’m gay, I shouldn’t be allowed to violate the “sanctity of marriage” by declaring my commitment to the man I love?

…

The sanctity of what now? I couldn’t hear you over my spleen rupturing from all the laughter.

Weird Demigod Widgets – Rusty

Every week like clockwork, I get my hair done. And by “done”, I mean every strand of hair that is not in its proper place is cut, shaved, plucked, hacked or sawed off my head. Like everything else in my paradoxical life, I am the hirsute Asian man.

This week as I was sitting on that ridiculously comfortable pleather chair, basking in the buzzing of the hair clippers and the follicular explosion going on around my head, I spied a tall drink of water walking towards the barber shop. He wore smart denim and sported a rugged, Ralph Lauren polo shirt which hung beautifully on his 5′11″ swimmer’s frame. As he walked past me to sit and get his nails cleaned (heaven forbid it be called a “manicure” in a barber shop), I caught a faint, silken cloud of Bvlgari, causing my mouth to water, my heart to race, and testosterone shooting out my ears and drenching the guy attempting to tame the unruly jungle that is my hair.

• Height? Check
• Great outfit? Check
• Well groomed nails? Check
• Cologne? Check

By the time the barber pulled out a broadsword to slay the last of the snarling beasties that is my hair, I had over a thousand flirty little lines ready to be deployed. The first of which is printed in the chest-ular area of my shirt, “Hey Man, Give a Dude a Kiss?” (classy, I am not).

As I walked up to the counter to pay my bill, the planets aligned and the universe smiled on me. There we were: standing side by side waiting for the girl to wipe her drool and take the hot supermodel man’s money. He looked at me, flashed his pearly whites, and said marry me “you’ve got some lose hair cuttings on the back of your shirt”. I attempted to brush them off my shoulders, but the barber came around and with his little brush, started sweeping my butt area.

I looked up in shock, totally ready to accuse of him of checking out my ass, when he said I want to be the father of your children
“nice shirt”.

My response?

“dfhsodufhddsioflcjupe… hihihihi!”

I should NOT be allowed in public. Srsly.

That’s Right. It’s Been a Year.

Didn’t even realize it until now. Jeez. This day is all about new realizations.

Methinks blogging for a year has dulled my perceptive abilities, but oh well.

I’m basking in my betterthanyouness.

Happy Bloggiversary to me!

TMI Thursday: BMI Edition

I know, I know, it’s technically late Friday afternoon if you’re in the western hemisphere, 5am Saturday morning here in Manila. So bite me. To up the ante, I’m going to give you TMI w/ BMI: Too Much Information with a Bad Mental Image.

You know the drill: join us as we embarass the living crap out of ourselves. Share some completely tasteless, absolutely crass, dear-god-why-is-this-person-even-on-my-blog-reader-much-less-my-friend-when-should-really-call-the-cops-on-this-sick-fuck TMI story of your life.

Why?

Because LiLu said so.

Well, ok, this isn’t so much a story as it is just a bad mental image.

 

=====

I’ve been in southeast asia for close to a decade now and I just noticed something peculiar today. Whenever I pay cash for stuff, the cashier will almost always hand me my change with both hands. I never paid any attention to it until I paid cash for a new toy *cough-rhymes-with-bilbo-cough* and the unusually hot guy behind the counter handed me my change holding out both hands attached to impossible pecs. In the interests of expanding the cultural knowledge of you, my dear readers, I decided to prolong the conversation (and open the top button of my shirt and flex my “biceps” for emphasis) and dig a little deeper.

Apparently, the custom of handing change back with both hands is a sign of respect. Also, because handing change back with the left hand is considered a social faux pas. When I asked him why, he said it was because the left hand is what’s used to wash one’s special place after doing the dirty deed. So essentially, you wipe your ass after you take a crap with your left hand?

Nobody ever told me any of this. Am I the new social pariah now? I’ve always cleaned up with my right hand. It’s just more dexterous. The toilet paper doesn’t rip and I can dig around looking for the errant piece of poo.

As I am about to do, as soon as I’m done typing this post.

…

Don’t tell me you’ve never blogged while taking a crap. Coz I’ll call your shit on it.

Letter to My Kids

I’ve got a bajillion and one blogs in my google reader from all parts of the planet. Some of them are in LA, some are in Utah, some are in Australia, some are in Manila, and some are in places so far forlorn I can’t even pronounce them (these are usually filled with pictures of half-naked men or a Gaykoslovakian fansite of Channing Tatum). Some of them are fascinating reads. Some of them… *shrugs.

Opinions are a tricky thing. They’re formed out of our own prejudices and framed by our perspective of the world. What breaks my heart is that some *popular* opinions are subtly laced with poison and malice. And there are a bajillion and one opinions that fall into that category: a blogger that’s never left LA, a single mom working as a maid in Hong Kong to support her kids in Manila, or that Mrs. Spelling widow chick. I chuckle sadly at these poor folks, ranting and whining and smashing their frustrations into their keyboards, oblivious to the lives being lived in another “dimension” (for lack of a better world), sometimes right next door.

-

Hi babies,

When you’re older and mommy lets you read his blog (or after your therapist helps you get over your issues with calling a grown man “mommy”), I want you to remember that there is infintely more to the world than what your father and I were able to show you.

If all had gone according to plan, you were either raised in a house in the middle of a cornfield in Iowa, or in the lap of luxury in a skyscraper in New York. Either way, we may not have always had the chance or the money to see the abundant wonders of our planet: the Banaue Rice Terraces, the Grand Canyon, Angkor Wat, Machu Pichu, the Pyramids, Crete. We want you to explore these on your own. Read books, watch the discovery channel. It would help if you got off your virtual reality bed pods and disconnect those wires sticking out the back of your head. It’s called going offline. You’ll survive.

An important thing to remember is that New York is not the world. Los Angeles is not the world. Manila is not the world. Your opinion of the world will almost always be wrong. Read your history books. But take them with a grain of salt. They’ve been rewritten by the winners. Revel in the joy of meeting new people, expanding your horizons, enriching your stories with their own. The human tapestry is so rich and colorful. You are but a thread in an amazing bolt of fabric that spans the world, and your one thread makes it all the brighter.

Most importantly: live. today. now. Of one thing I am certain: one day we will pass, and so will you. Don’t wait for death. Don’t be afraid of death. Embrace your mortality, and live for this moment. There’s only now. There’s only this. You never know if you’ll be given another one. The rain in Seattle, the sound of the wind rushing through trees in the Serengeti, the kiss of the rising sun in Nepal, the feel of ice-cold water wrapping around your parched throat on  hot, sweltering day. This is your world. Enjoy it in this moment.  

Eat your veggies.

Safe Sex.

Love,

Mom.

-

Conversations With (The Demi)God

 

 

 

Friday Afternoon: 

*ring ring

Stupid Lying Motherfucking Receptionist at Abe Restaurant (Serendra, The Fort): Good morning Abe Restaurant, how may I help you? 

(The Demi)God: Hi, I need to make a reservation for 6 people tonight at 7pm

Receptionist: Go ahead. 

(The Demi)God: Uhm… So… yeah, can I book a table for 6 people tonight at 7pm? 

Receptionist: Ok, you’ll be fourth in line. Thank you for calling! 

(The Demi)God: WAIT! What does that mean? 

Receptionist: Sir, pang-apat po kayo sa pila (Sir, you’re fourth in line)

(The Demi)God: I still don’t know what the hell you mean because you just translated what you said into Filipino. 

Receptionist: Oh, just show up at 7pm sir, you’ll be fourth in line and we’ll seat you when you get here. 

(The Demi)God: Well that just defeats the whole point of making a reservation doesn’t it? 

Receptionist: *Long Pause*

(The Demi)God: *Opens up a browser and googles waterboarding*

Receptionist: Well… it doesn’t, really. I have your name down here, and you’ll be fourth in line. 

(The Demi)God: … … … What name did you put down because I haven’t given it to you yet because you haven’t asked for it. 

(Author’s note: seriously, if I have to deal with an idiot during reservations the waiter will probably bring the breadsticks in his crotch. I do NOT recommend you try to eat at Abe Restaurant in Serendra, The Fort). 

 

Saturday Night: 

The demi-brother and girlfriend are crashing at my place and we decide to watch a movie at the totally kick-ass Ultra Cinema 7 in the new Eastwood Mall. I just felt like I had to plug that again in case you haven’t heard of the awesomeness that is a THX-certified movie theater where all the seats are la-z-boys and there is free-flowing soda and popcorn for an amazingly low, low price of only — wait for it — $7. The only thing that could make it any better is if they had the male models serving them in nothing but speedos and a smile. 

The demibrother: Uhm… So, do you have, like… a shawl? 

(The Demi)God: Pardon me? 

The demibrother: Well, you know, the girlfriend is only wearing a t-shirt and it gets kinda cold in the theater so I was wondering if she could borrow something to keep her warm. 

(The Demi)God: And you automatically go to shawl instead of jacket?

The demibrother: *awkward pause

(The Demi)God: And you somehow think I have said shawl? 

The demibrother: *looks at foot

(The Demi)God: Ok, I’m gay… but I’m not THAT gay. I can’t believe that you would think I own a shawl or a pashmina or an evening wrap. Did you think I do drag? Like I’m some kind of drag queen. You’ve got SOME nerve for someone crashing at my place.  

The demibrother: *blink blink* So do you have one? 

(The Demi)God: Yeah. Is she allergic to wool? 

(Author’s note: I do not, in fact, own a shawl. Or do drag. Or think that there’s anything wrong with either. She ended up with a manly jacket. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to drink a beer or spit or think about breasteses or whatever it is manly men do.) 

TMI Thursday: Japanese Gourmet Edition

It’s that time of month again, my internet lovelies. And no, I’m not talking about my period (which is about 15 years late, in my humble opinion). It’s TMI Thursdays! Join me as I humiliate the living shit out of myself in the interests of achieving Self-Actualization and world peace.

So gather round, children, bring your blankies and bunny slippers. But I suggest you leave any refreshments behind.

Our story begins in 1999, and the world is caught up in the end of the millenium. Survivalists were stocking up their bomb shelters with water and dehydrated food. Gay survivalists were stocking up their bomb shelters with tins of crisco. We die-hard carpe diem-ists wanted to go out with a bang: grabbing every opportunity to experience new things before we were all reduced to so much cockroach toilet paper.

Never having eaten at a fancy Japanese restaurant, I figured… “no day but today”. It didn’t hurt that I had been asked for a first date to one of the swankiest dining spots in the city. Kai’s reputation was one of healthy fusion: everything raw, spritzed with oil and salmonella, and splashed with whatever herb was readily available.

The only thing yummy in that restaurant was my date, and I waded patiently through course after course of wheat grass shots, salmon skin rolls and a blended cabbage-and-old-shoe soup just so I could get in his pants (many layers, I have not).

After about five courses of cold, raw, crap (and having mastered my gag reflex), the boy excused himself to say hi to an old family friend (yes, he was THAT kind of rich). The waiter came and cleared the table and presented two beautiful crystal bowls filled with a warm, citrusy liquid.

*Holds bowl. Oooh! Warm!

*Sniffs bowl. Ahhh. A lemon-flavored water fusion dish…

*Sticks classy finger into bowl and jams said finger into mouth. Not too sweet, but this must be what passes for dessert here.

I clasped the bowl in two hands and raised an imaginary toast to what I knew would be sex of triathlon-like proportions.

I liesurely made slurping noises (my Chinese heritage clearly in evidence) to show appreciation for a good dish, while waiting for the boy to make his way back. As he sat back down, he dipped both hands in his dessert bowl, rubbed gently, and wiped them on his napkin.

*blink blink

Lesson learned: there is no sex to be had after drinking hand-washing water.

Testing Blogging via email via Blackberry

If this works, it’ll be the hottest thing since my ass.

Srsly.

If it doesn’t, it’ll be baked. fucking. beans.

Word.

Would You Rather Wednesdays

Maxie over at IHateSoMuch has a regular feature called Would You Rather Wednesdays. They are deep, riveting, existential questions. I, of course, ripped off the theme. 

In the vein of Painful Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, where Robin Leach wishes you champagne wishes and caviar dreams, would you rather:  

Piss Diamonds

(Probably not very large ones, maybe the size of peas. Now imagine a cold, rough, multi-faceted, cut pea coming out your Urethra. Yeah.)

or

Shit Money

(Think freshly-printed, crisp $10,000 bundles of $100 bills. Leaving your ass SIDEWAYS)

 

What say you?