A World Without Internet

I am in the process of moving and am going to New Orleans this weekend for Poop Snacks' bachelor party. How we all grow up. Anyway, in the interim between houses, I have no Internet.

All business is conducted from my iPhone. And by "business" I mean, of course, porno watching and various sundry types of whoremongering. 

My world has been reduced to the size of an impeccably HD three inch screen. I'm even writing this post from my phone. And I remember a time when the Internet charged you by the minute and it was through a 14k modem and you couldn't talk on the phone and be online at the same time. And masturbating was really just comprised of the anticipation of waiting for that one fake nude picture of Sarah Michelle Gellar to finish loading.

A simpler time.

Off to the land of gumbo, jazz, and public drunkenness. Adieu.

How hard could it be?

I was wearing my tightest pants today, which is already an admission because I have a large ass and the prettiest pink thighs you can't get your hands around.  Trying to do that is like trying to choke a rhinocerous at a dry wedding.  It's not happening, pal.  Sometimes I try to cheat and touch my thumbs together and HNNNGGGGG myself forward to get my middle fingers to touch but god damn it, that rhinocerous must do shrugs all damn day because his airway is unconstricted and the Bride is a reformed Mormon who just can't stand the evils of the intemperenace.

But look, these were my tightest pants, okay?  So you probably know where this is going.  Yep.  I looked down and I wondered...hmmm "I could probably get a thigh gap if I wanted".  These are not normal, appropriate thoughts.  These are not thoughts I used to have.  These are not thoughts anyone but twitter-obsessed 13 year old girls have.  Well, those girls and yours truly.  And then I laughed at myself, because I have thick, stupid thighs.  To create a gap would involve having me ride an overturned barrel and then breaking both of my kneecaps so my shins jut in sideways beneath me, so I look like an enormous pacifier ring that has a torso instead of a rubber nipple.

What the hell was I thinking?  But still- lunges should do, it right guys?  Guys?

And now: A Word from Jason Collins

Hi Everyone!

Yep, it's me, Jason Collins!

I don't know what all the fuss is about. Really. I mean, it's 2013 and we're not ready for a gay NBA player? Here we are, in the new millenium, and people are this freaked out about the thought of my beautiful lips around another man's cock?

What's the big deal? Look, I get it. I'm the first one to come out while playing professional ball. But I'm sure as hell not the first tall, handsome man to want to sink his tall, handsome, turgid member deep into another man. Hell no! Shit, there've been plenty of guys before me. Plenty of sexy, butch guys, with strong jaw-lines, exquisitely sculpted butts, and just the right amount hair on their chests who enjoy the sights, smells and tastes of other similarly gorgeous men.

What? You're telling me the thought of penetrating a man's tight yet welcoming anus in the missionary position while simultaneously stimulating his growing erection isn't a little intriguing to you? Okay, well how about being taken from behind, entered powerfully yet slowly until your prostate is hit in just the right way to push you inexorably towards an earth-shattering orgasm while his supple pectoral muscles press into your back?

No?

C'mon man. In the 2010-11 season, I had a better field goal shooting percentage than Kobe, Chris Paul, Carmelo Anthony AND the suspiciously named Rudy Gay. And I did it in Atlanta. ATLANTA. You got any idea how hard it is to score a sexy twink in Atlanta? This ain't Chelsea. Or San Francisco. Shit, it ain't even Austin, TX. But I put up those numbers without nearly the sexual relief accorded to my straight counterparts. Except when we played the Lakers. Hoooweee! I met a guy in West Hollywood. We went for sushi, had some lovely conversation and then when straight back to my hotel room, put on a cock ring and just went to town. Because that's how I roll. Put up 20 points and 15 rebounds against Kobe and the Lakers the next night! Boom! Nothing like the taste of perineum to get you riled up for a big game.

So get the fuck over it. Pussies.

Recurring Nightmares

"It all started with a dream", or so it reads to our right. Each morning I fall awake, startled and stumbling, grasping for purchase at a thing not forgotten and never lost. How many mornings has it been? How many dreams have gone un-posted? How many nightmares denied a place in the scripture?

But then there is a calling; not a summons. A mention of sinners and saints whispered in long-abandoned halls, their vibrations like a thousand tiny knives causing the cob-webs of creativity to quiver and flutter, to dance and die upon floors carpeted in ash.

I drew an mspaint of a naked woman on a cliff this afternoon, wearing an eye-patch, hair tussled in the back-blast of a rocket launcher which she holds tightly between her skirt-less thighs, all the while screaming with laughter.
The rocket launcher shoots geckos.
There is a skull by her feet, and it is weeping.

"I knew a terrible fear..."

The Gaunlet

Thrown, you ask? Picked up, I say. And then dropped. And fumbled. And possibly used to lubricate and forcefully enter something. But a gauntlet must be answered.

There.

That feels better.

A Canadian Tuxedo reunion:

It's good to be back.

Two Years. Two Days.

"Forgive me Father for I have Sinned.  It has been two years and two days since my last confession."

Oh mah hunny bunny.  My spaceship bride.  How could I have done this to you?  Once my most beloved plaything, my pixellated-pixie of an English Channel that I swam every day- why?  Because you were there.  Of course you were, we carved you out of the interspace and filled you with fun foolishness and spirited nonsense.  I let you languish.  I left you in New York, along with sweaty trainrides.  But I don't need to go back there to get one of those two things into my life again.  We left you in a Cleveland basement.  We abandoned you, ripe words rotting on the virtual vine.

The Calvalry is coming, baby.  Even if it's just me carrying a sack of potatoes and screaming in my underwear. Two Years, Two Days, Too Long.

I needed you more than you needed me.

Game 4

Game 3

USA

In Washington, a man assembles his Cabinet for an intense evening of playoff hockey on VERSUS.

To kill some time between periods, they watch with token interest as a SEAL unit halfway across the world provides a decade's worth of closure to a great and angry nation hungry to find its way again in times of trouble:



Meanwhile, someone on a bucolic little street outside of Philadelphia designs another bad t-shirt over a bottle of craft beer and the smell of freshly cut grass:



Welcome to Earf.

Are You Not Entertained?

Hello, Centaurs. Let us face a few facts - as men, and as horses.


This once-great blog has been reduced to something akin to the Jundland Wastes.


Time, life, obligation, wandering interest - all foils to our noble endeavour.


To paraphrase the late, great, Jack Napier: "You've changed things."

Blazers do this as well.


What is to become of this barren landscape in its postlapsarian days?


Pheewrap knows.


I will tend to it, as a lazy gardener tends to a drying patch of forgotten glories.


Weeds will grow. Sharp edges will soften. The vibrant blooms and verdant greens of the halcyon days will not be quite so lush.


But there will be life.


Oh, yes. There will be life...

Day Forty-Two

Day Forty-One

Day Forty

Day Thirty-Nine

Day Thirty-Eight

Ethos

"Do you suffer from depression? Well, if you don’t, you probably should, because the world is an ugly, violent place - and the only people who can’t see it are idiots and the blind. And believe me, brothers and sisters, blind people can smell how bad it is out there..."

Phoodie Phriday

Excerpt from CNN.com

For the 46 days of Lent, J. Wilson is forgoing solid food and only drinking beer and water - just as Bavarian monks did hundreds of years ago. Wilson is a husband, father, newspaper editor and beer enthusiast. The 38-year-old is the proprietor of the beer blog brewvana, where the motto is, "An ideal condition of harmony, beer and joy." "That pretty much sums up our lifestyle," Wilson told CNN.

He is practicing a Lenten fast with Christians throughout the centuries who typically give something up from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday (April 24 this year) to remind them of the sacrifice they believe Jesus made on the cross for them. Typically, Christians give up something such as alcohol or sweets.

Wilson knows his sacrifice is bit extreme. He said his wife, Michelle, has been completely supportive. In his experiments as a home brewer in Iowa, he said Michelle "puts up with a yeast blow up on the ceiling." There are doctor's visits during the fast, and he did copious research before he began. He even bulked up beforehand, knowing he would lose weight. "I wasn't running into this half-cocked," he said. "I didn't wake up on Ash Wednesday and think, 'Wow this would be a great idea.'"

It helps that his boss at the Adams County Free Press is on board, because he keeps a keg at the office. Each morning, Wilson pours himself a 12-ounce Illuminator Doppelbock for breakfast. Then another at lunch, a 3:15 p.m. snack and finally a beer around 7:15 p.m., once he is home and settled in with the family. Each beer has about 288 calories and is about 6.7% alcohol he said.

The hunger stopped during the first week, he said, and he has no designs to break his fast. "No question, I'd have to get hit by a bus to stop." From here on out he said it would be, "just an exercise in discipline."

Suggested pairing: Baked Eggs

Shall we begin?

Day Twenty-Six

Day Twenty-Five