Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Humor
My wife is one fine piece of arm
How low will I stoop to draw blog traffic?
That’s a difficult question. Yesterday, I learned over at Non Compos Mentis that I’ve been going about it all wrong. Why putz around with Technorati tags when one photo of nude women wrestling, appropriately labeled (or inappropriately labeled, as you shall soon see), will launch your blog into the stratosphere? Sex. Free porn. Nude photos. That’s where the action is.
I have two problems with this plan.
One: most of y’all are of the feminine persuasion, and while I don’t think of you as prudes, I don’t want to alienate you, either. You come here for the humor (I hope), not for photos of naked women making out. If I did put up photos of women with huge breasts french-kissing, you would think that I had photoshopped Ann Coulter’s and Michelle Malkin’s faces onto the relevant parties first. And you’d be right.
Two: if I do something like this, it had better be funny. Despite the things I say sometimes, I’m not a blog traffic whore. Much. I mean, I have to draw the line somewhere, and shameless exploitation of anyone except me, my wife, my son, and certain media figures who richly deserve it — oh, and actors and actresses and other people who catch my attention, not to mention old friends and acquaintances and other family members, associates, and folks I meet in the blogosphere — well, it’s just not right, and I’m not going to do it.
Besides: do I really want tons of traffic from pimply faced kids with megadoses of testosterone surging through their bloodstream? Well, sure, if they decide to stick around for the humor.
These two concerns have led me to make the following two self-imposed requirements. Any naked skin which I show on this site will be (1) non-exploitative, and (2) humorous in some way.
Before I unveil my creation, I need to do something first. I have to frame the image with lots of raunchy words. I apologize if you’re offended by phrases such as
Tasty Bulgarian virgins bare all!!!!
Shaved underage midgets engage in unspeakable acts!!!!
Tentacle sex, cold pasta fetish, exquisite tickle torture, and more!!!!
HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT!!!
You must be 18 years old or older to view the image below. Click here if you are under 18.
Behold:
Girls so young they have acne on their tender buttocks!
Scroll down for more!!!!
Okay, I’m back. That’s Karen’s arm, bent at the elbow. Now think about all the thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds across America who are doing unspeakable things with that image up on their computers.
See how much she loves me?
D.
Your morning dose of fugliness
Because I love y’all so very, very much.
At least you girls have Fabio
I’m feeling a bit wiped out from my editing work, so I decided to hand today’s blog off to Bare Rump. In case you don’t know her, Bare Rump is a ten-foot-long, eight-legged research scientist from the Tromatopelman planet M833-G1a. Like the rest of her kind, she has a rather odd take on romance which I’m sure you will appreciate. Actually, Bare Rump is an atypical Tromatopelman female; she’s had her share of lovers, but presently enjoys a long term relationship with a Grith Lyssome intelligence officer whom she calls Lord Valor.
As for why Bare Rump is here on Earth, you can read more about that here.
Oof. That’s it for me. Be nice to my favorite girl.
Bare Rump here, y’all. (Ooh, my Texas time is showing!) Doug wanted to take a bit of time off from the blog, and since I have been ever so negligent updating mine, I volunteered. Lord Valor offered, but what could he write about? Poop and software, that’s all my lover knows. Well, he also understands how to show a girl a good time. Dear me yes. If only you could see the way he rolls me onto my dorsum and sets me a-quiver with that magical proboscis of his — but, heck! This isn’t the Epigynum Monologues, for gosh sakes.
Doug has left it up to me to introduce you to my planet’s top-selling Romance novelist, Bronwyn Webweaver. A bit of background: Bronwyn was born the only daughter in an egg sac of eight. She excelled at her schoolwork and rapidly grew big and strong. As an only daughter, she had to skip college and take work as a legal secretary. “I could type fast but couldn’t spell. I was the worst legal secretary ever,” she says now.
She took a mate who survived their first encounter only to get too zealous on the second. Now fat and pregnant, Bronwyn took a job as a botanist’s assistant at the University of South Underland. Her work forced her aboveground on a daily basis, collecting moss and lichen samples for her bosses. The now famous mugwasp storm of 4079 forced her to stick to her tunnels, and out of boredom, she took up a pencil and notepad and wrote out the rough draft for her first novel, Silk Bondage (4080).
Silk Bondage suffers from first novel syndrome, sadly. Way too much angst and not enough sex. For my money, Web of Desire (4081) was her first true hit.
I love this book, but Miss Webweaver, puh-lease, what is up with your cover artist? Start with those silk sheets. Girl, it looks like your red-kneed hobag of a heroine has just worked her way through the entire South Underland Males’ Varsity Yabbaball Team on those very sheets. My advice? Find a good dry cleaner.
And those little black balls. Are those . . . no, please don’t tell me those are thought bubbles. Your heroine apparently fantasizes about beady-eyed males with Fu Manchu pedipalps. And where are the rest of his legs? Good God, girl, have you been snacking?
I have only one word to say about the male on the cover of Bronwyn’s next book:
HAWT.
Take me, take me now, you great savage wonderful hairy bastard you. Burn me with those Palps of Fire. I promise I won’t even snark on that weird-ass floral arrangement you have on the left margin — what is that, Baby’s Breath? — okay, I said I wouldn’t snark. But gaaawd look at those stout glorious pedipalps. You know they don’t make pedipalps that big in nature, so what is this, some sort of cruel photoshopping stunt? Cover artists are mean bitches, I tell ya.
Only one problem. He’s a little too perfect. He’s like, “Look at me, God’s gift to females. You’d be lucky to come within a mile of my sperm web,” and I’d be like, “Dude, if you don’t get over yourself, I’m going to fix those two buttonholes on your thorax,” and he’ll be all, “I don’t have two buttonholes,” and then WHAM! I’d be all, “You do now, dude.”
Um, Doug? Don’t let Lord Valor read those last two paragraphs. He can be awfully possessive.
And now, on to my favorite Bronwyn Webweaver novel:
“I salivated for days!” says Emma Longfang of the Silken Times. Yeah, you would, Emma. You haven’t tasted male-meat in decades, you desiccated skank hobag. (That’ll teach you to snark on my abdominal hair condition on network TV, bitch.)
Damn, she pisses me off. Such a perfect cover, and Emma “Drool Problem” Longass has to ruin it with her stupid witticisms — not. Grrrr.
Okay. Take a deep breath, clear head, concentrate on Sex at Seven, Dinner at Eight. Aaah.
Everything about this book is perfect. Start with the title: why not treat copulatory arachnicide with honesty and a sense of fun? Girls, be honest: who among you hasn’t sucked dry your share of males? The one who says no, she’s an anorexic. You humans aren’t so different than us.
Then there’s that dude on the table. Man, they don’t get more dashing than that. Yeah, he looks like he’s about ready to dash clean off the table before I get my chance to pounce. And the way he’s holding his forelegs, he almost looks intelligent, don’t ya think? Sure, it’s not realistic, since most of our males can’t be trusted to dig a tunnel without burying themselves alive. But a girl can dream.
He sure is one handsome bad-ass brute. Only thing I don’t like about it is the wine glass. If I have to listen to one more “I don’t drink . . . wine” joke, I’m going to barf. And you wouldn’t like me when I barf.
As for the story, here’s the deal. Bawb is a handsome young home-spinner who gets drunk one night with his buddies. One of them, Dood, bets Bawb that he can’t survive six matings in a row with the ladies from the Girls Who Don’t Suck dating service. Bawb takes the bet, figuring he won’t mind too much if he loses since he’ll be dead. Little does he know that Dood has lined up his sister Scythee as Bawb’s last date. Scythee is legendary in their community; no male has ever survived her embrace. Will she be his last date, literally?
WARNING! SPOILERS!
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Bawb’s sister warns Bawb of Dood’s trickery and tells him to tell Scythee that he (Bawb) has a rare blood disease, making him unpalatable. The first five girls learn about Bawb’s supposed blood disease and they are righteously pissed that he didn’t warn them. Comical hijinks follow. Meanwhile, Scythee has little else to do but admire Bawb’s good looks, and, lo and behold, she falls in love with him. She saves Bawb from the other girls’ attacks.
Bawb desperately wants to inseminate Scythee, but Scythee is leery of the blood disease. Bawb gets his sister to explain everything. Scythee falls in love with Bawb’s sister. Together, they eat Bawb and then take a long vacation in the Crystal Caverns.
Groucho snarks proto-muffin: myth or reality?
From snopes.com, the urban legend clearinghouse:
The most infamous remark of Groucho’s You Bet Your Life years supposedly occurred when he was interviewing a Mrs. Story, a contestant with twenty-two children (reputedly the largest family in America at the time):
GROUCHO: “Why do you have so many children? That’s a big responsibility and a big burden.”MRS. STORY: “Well, because I love my children and I think that’s our purpose here on Earth, and I love my husband.”GROUCHO: “I love my cigar, too, but I take it out of my mouth once in a while.
True or false? Read the whole story here.
D.
I wish I could say this was an American idea
But it’s not. The company is Australian.
Pleasure Puss reusable sanitary Pads
Pleasure Puss® Cloth Reusable Sanitary Pads incorporate the features of disposable pads that you need within a comfortable, body friendly and environmentally kind cloth pad alternative.
Absorbant, Leakproof and Comfortable one piece design makes Pleasure Puss reusable sanitary pads easy to use and simple to care for.
Non – allergenic – no skin irritation.
Saves you money.
100% Money Back Guarantee
Caring for your pads
I’ll let you folks peruse those links at your leisure. When you’re bored of that, the Wikipedia entry on toilet paper was a hoot.
D.
Lame Reasons to Have Sex #3
Karen: Uh-uh.
Me: You realize, you’re contributing to my risk factors for prostate cancer.
Karen: Oh, that is weak. Besides, I thought you had your bases covered with all that fiddling.
Me: Damn.
D.
Lame Reasons to Have Sex #2
Karen: NO.
Me: But it’s my second day after my birthday day!
Karen: Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
D.
Lame Reasons to Have Sex #1
Karen: Not tonight.
Me: I hope your conscience doesn’t bother you too much, what with the shrinking rainforests and all.
Karen: Huh?
Me: Well, you’re wasting perfectly good wood. Heh heh. I just thought that one up.
Karen: I figured.
D.
So you want to be a Prairie Muffin . . .
Modern world got you down? Tired of having to shelter your daughters from media images of harlots like Hillary Clinton, or unfeminine hippy rebels like Cindy Sheehan? Thinking how nice it would be go back in time to the early 1800s, a time before abortion, birth control, and pornography were the scourge of a good, decent, Godfearing woman like yourself?
Not to fear, milady. Submit to the will of a manly Godfearing man NOW. Become a Prairie Muffin.
What’s a Prairie Muffin? You’ll be hard pressed to find a definition on their website, so let me help you out. Here’s a crash course in becoming a Praying Muff. Um, Prairie Muffin.
Step 1. Do not lose your sense of humor.
On the Muffin site, you’ll find nuggets like this:
Note: It was decided in a hotly-contested election, that the husbands of Prairie Muffins would henceforth be known as “Prairie Dawgs.” An official Prairie Dawg greeting was also proposed. Single women aspiring to be Prairie Muffins will be known as “Muffin Mixes” and young children of Prairie Muffins are “Mini Muffins.”
Thus, lesson one is, you are not a woman. You’re not even a Prairie Muffin yet. You, my dear, are a muffin mix, eagerly awaiting a man to leaven your fertile, ah, flour and sugar mixture.
Step 2. Study and commit to heart the Prairie Muffin Manifesto.
Since the Manifesto has 39 steps, I’ll simplify it for you. Here are some of the bitter pills, erm, blessings of the Lord you’ll have to swallow.
In case you were wondering about your proper place in your all new Muffin-friendly home,
11) Prairie Muffins own aprons and they know how to use them.
Just so you know it’s not all about tater tot casseroles and Scrambled Egg Surprise,
9) Prairie Muffins do not reflect badly on their husbands by neglecting their appearance; they work with the clay God has given, molding it into an attractive package for the pleasure of their husbands.
You need never trouble your head again with unpleasant thoughts:
18) Prairie Muffins are fiercely submissive to God and to their husbands.
“You will be my master, hubs, or I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp!”
Now that you have your priorities straight,
Step 3. Get ready to spread your legs and keep ’em spread.
From the Manifesto,
3) Prairie Muffins are aware that God is in control of their ability to conceive and bear children, and they are content to allow Him to bless them as He chooses in this area.
Translation: get used to this . . .
cuz families of 10 to 15 children or more are not unusual. This, by the way, is a core Muffin belief: God meant you to have as many children as your womb can possibly bear.
Hope you like morning sickness. Here’s some Muffin reassurance for you from QuiverFull contributor Elizabeth, “mother of ten”:
“Yes, my children all know that I highly prize each one of them, and they know that I would welcome as many more as God would choose to give me. I am also honest enough to tell them that I have never been too crazy about being pregnant. However, I sure am crazy about those sweet little babies when they finally arrive.”
Yup, she sure is.
I’ll save the shining star of the Prairie Muffin movement, the Duggar Family — fourteen children, one more on the way — for some other day. For now, you had better . . .
Step 4: Get used to the world’s fugliest dresses.
Nuff said. Finally,
Step 5: Never take your eyes off the prize.
Back to El Manifesto:
2) Prairie Muffins are helpmeets to their husbands, seeking creative and practical ways to further their husbands’ callings and aid them in their dominion responsibilities.
‘Dominion’ is a code word for Dominionism. Read what Wikipedia has to say about Dominionism, or be content with my nutshell definition:
Reactionary evangelical Christian philosophy that encourages adherents to impose their moral code on the rest of us.
You know, like Alberto Gonzalez going after pornographers. That sort of thing.
Yes, I know I’ve been ignoring the guys out there. I don’t know about you, but this Muffin movement creeps me out. Maybe some guys like their women all covered in flour from 9 to 5 and screaming for fertilization from 6 to 8, practicing their sperm-retaining yoga a la Julianne Moore in The Big Lebowski, quilting and crafting and diapering and shit, but as for me, I like a woman with teeth.
Tomorrow:
D.
A Birthday Wish List: Part 3
This is it, folks. The home stretch. Soon, you will be privy to my most intimate hopes and dreams.
It’s still not too late to click over to Boing Boing, where you can treat your eyes to Flying Spaghetti Monsterotica. Hey, there’s a reason why Boing Boing is number one: they give you guys just what you want to see. In this case, a naked woman (I think) clothed only in Saran Wrap and spaghetti.
On the other hand, all I have to offer is the warped Woody Allen-meets-John Waters schtick that runs through my head. Here ya go.
#4: I want my body back!
A couple years ago, I decided that a man really ought to be able to see his penis when he goes pee. Is that so much to ask? At the urging of a doctor-friend, I plunged into the Atkin’s induction diet and discovered the wonders of bacon, eggs, cheese, and more bacon, with a few more eggs for good measure.
The weight came off, I had to buy a new wardrobe, but I still felt crappy. I had no energy. I felt like I had Crisco for blood. When I tried a more reasonable diet (South Beach), the weight came back, a pound a day. I realized there was nothing for it: I needed to add some carbs back to my diet, but the only way I could do that was to exercise.
I used to laugh at my hospital colleagues whenever they’d been injured biking or doing something else vaguely athletic. “No one ever broke or sprained anything sitting on their couch,” I’d say. That’s how much I hated exercise — I made lame jokes to excuse my torpor. But a year ago, desperate to feel like a normal human being again, I joined a gym.
I surprised myself by sticking with it. And, you know, I found out something surprising: I’m a mesomorph. I put on muscle with relative ease.
I began to look pretty damned buff.
Then, about a month ago, my gym closed. Just for a few days, the manager said. We have to bring the plumbing up to code. Four weeks later, they’re still closed.
And now, damn it, I can’t pass the pinch test.
What I dream of:
Looking like this again.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
Avoiding a return to my fat clothes’ drawer.
#3: I am such a whore for brains, beauty, and fame.
It’s true. If a woman has all three, I’m lost. There was a time, a very brief time, oh, for maybe a few months after I saw Beetlejuice, when Winona Ryder did it for me. The fact that she was tribe, well, that only added spice (Winona Laura Horowitz — you figure it out). But then she got all klepto for Dolce & Gabbana black leather purses and Gucci dresses, and, you know, I’ve never looked at her the same way. (Click the link to find out what else Winona had in her trench coat!)
I mean, she might be able to play smart women for the movies, but how smart is she really?
Y’all know about my jones for Olivia Hussey and Jacqueline Kim, but honestly, I don’t know much about either woman. Not in the brains department, anyway. On the other hand, 10,000 Maniacs’ Natalie Merchant has it all, and damned if she doesn’t choke me up whenever I see her on TV. Now, if only she would jam with Trent Reznor, I’d be in heaven.
Ah, well. I can only pick one perfect dame for this particular birthday wish, so I’m gonna choose Cintra Wilson.
If any of you aren’t familiar with Ms. Wilson, you might begin by checking out Bookslut’s interview with her. Karen and I own both of Ms. Wilson’s books, and we read her weekly column in the Bay Area’s Freep, The Wave. (Note: to read Cintra’s column, The Dregulator, online, you’ll need to download the pdf — see link in upper lefthand corner of The Wave’s home page. It’s worth it. You’ll get to see Cintra’s newest photo, Cintra in dark lipstick, gggrrrahghglllrlll.)
Not only is she beautiful, but she looks like a different beautiful woman in every photo she takes. Don’t you see? She’s a one-woman harem! And oooh, is she ever smart. I especially loved her snark on the Bush Campaign in the last election, saying that Bush’s only plank was “the strengthiness of strengthy strength.”
Arguably, Cintra’s master work is her collection of essays (A Massive Swelling: Celebrity Re-examined as a Grotesque Crippling Disease, and other cultural revelations). Here’s a quote from her rant on Los Angeles, which is sort of a latter day nonfiction version of what Nathanael West had percolating in his brain when he wrote The Day of the Locust:
“L.A. is the place where Satan squats with an enormous ladle and dips deeply into his black cavity to extract huge soiled wads of cash, which he then pitches at the heads of the inhabitants below with such speed and force that they are rendered first unconscious, then punchy and depressed. This affliction causes them to overfeed the Dark Lord a-more with their incessant compromises in the workplace, and He devours and digests their creepy and self-negating decisions by day, and befouls them anew with the sooty issue of their moral failures each evening.”
Karen and I chortled when, in the middle of Terminator II, the Wrath of Schwarzenegger, Linda Hamilton‘s character dreamed of a Los Angeles devastated by nuclear holocaust. (And, yeah, a lot of folks in the theater just sorta stared at us.) So you know where we stand with respect to Cintra Wilson’s take on L.A.
(Hmm. I wonder, though, if there’s a neutron bomb which would leave Sahag’s Basturma Sandwich Shop and all the great Chinese restaurants and sushi bars untouched.)
What I dream of:
An evening of dinner, dancing, and sparkling conversation with Ms. Wilson. We have one of those nights where we are both on, you know what I mean? We play off each other, our comic riffs building to feverishly trenchant heights.
Afterwards, she touches me on the hand — a light touch, but a lingering one — and says, “Call me, any time,” and with her lusciously dark mouth gives me a chaste but emotion-packed kiss full on the lips.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
I bought Karen some Max Factor “Black Cherry Truffle” lipstick. I have a well developed imagination.
#2: A night of male bonding.
Just so you know I’m not a total cooch hound, there are some guys out there I’d like to know better. I suspect Dr. Otter is a great guy, and probably has a few stories to tell, and if DHH doesn’t want me, I might as well experience things vicariously through Doc Ott. I’m also intrigued by guys that seem quick-witted and brainy, like MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann, and it would be a blast if I could pal around with some of my favorite directors, like John Carpenter, Sam Raimi, Tim Burton, or David Cronenberg.
But if I had to pick one all-around great guy to bar-hop with, it would have to be Bruce Campbell.
I know him and love him from the Evil Dead movies, especially Army of Darkness, but Bruce has also had great bit rolls (from The Hudsucker Proxy to both Spiderman movies) and, hey, I happened to like him as an obese, elderly Elvis in Bubba Ho-tep. But there are two things you need to know about Bruce: he answers emails from his fans, and he has a heckuva writer’s brain, too.
We’ve bought both of Bruce Campbell’s books, Make Love the Bruce Campbell Way and If Chins Could Kill. The first is sort of a blustering guy version of Carrie Fisher’s Postcards from the Edge, in style, if not in content. The second is Bruce’s memoir. Karen and I just got it from Barnes & Noble, and it’s a fine read.
What I dream of:
Carousing Hollywood with Bruce Campbell, getting only drunk enough to enjoy myself, but not so drunk that I can’t remember every moment until I’m too old to care.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
Watching Army of Darkness for the umpteenth time.
And . . . drumroll . . . my number one birthday wish (you knew it had to be about sex, didn’t you?) . . .
#1: An evening of exquisite torment at the hands (and whips) of Lydia McLane.
She’s bad. She’s beautiful. Performance artist and model Lydia McLane has been my wicked dreamgirl ever since her centerfold for City Slab (Volume 1, Issue 4: buy it!), wherein she wore nothing but a pair of devilish horns. Subscribe to The Slab and you’ll be treated with loads of Lydia, frequently in nasty vicious mean dominatrix garb, and not much of it.
(By the way: those of you who follow my Tangent Reviews know I loves my City Slab. Urban horror at its finest.)
Lest you think I’m some sort of shallow, testosterone-hypercharged vehicle for balls, I’ll have you know that Lydia is one smart cookie. From her website bio:
“Lydia is currently a student working towards her Masters of Clinical Psychology and is employed part-time with an agency that specializes in chronically mentally ill individuals. She is a trained Hospice volunteer. Lydia enjoys literature, Opera, all animals, live music, dancing, and other life enriching activities.”
See? She likes chronically mentally ill individuals and all animals. Lydia, I’m yours.
What I dream of:
Lydia, make me your bitch!
What I’ll be satisfied with:
How do you like the new outfit I bought Karen?
Don’t forget the spiked heels, Karen.
D.