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werner herzog greeting cards (click for awesome punchline!!!!!)

new slang for you.

a terrible metaphor.

For the seventh consecutive season, Manny Ramirez will man the Green Monster and serve as a meaty anchor in the middle of the Boston batting order.

Of course, there’s the eeeeew factor, which is huge. But also, nautically speaking, I don’t think a meaty anchor would work well. The fish would nibble it and you’d drift into the horse latitudes.

apparently, vaginal canals can be different lengths.

I do not believe, however, that doctors describe them as being either a “Bert” or an “Ernie.”

A rad theory.

Millions of years ago, as a defense mechanism to ward off predators, children evolved the ability to be really really annoying.

The boys of today will make terrible lovers.

You guys ever masturbate?

It’s really really easy these days! I can just turn on my computer, type “vaginas” into Word Perfect, and I’m ready.

But back when I started working on mah bird, all there was was HBO. And back before The Sopranos, even back before First and Ten, all HBO had on at night were about 15 titty movies they’d show over and over and over. And with HBO titty movies you got three, maybe four really good long stares at lady parts.

After a few times, you’d know when those scenes were, so that the next time the movie came on you could be all, “OK, I’ve got fifteen minutes before we see something. It’s right after the Mister Mr. song, when her shirt gets caught on the antenna.” That’s when you’d get your rub on.

But here’s the thing! You wanted to finish at the right time, while you were looking at your goal. Moving target, you know? And even the best of us couldn’t go through the entire cycle in the eight — MAYBE eleven — seconds that there was an uninterrupted nipple on the screen. So, you risked messing the coverlet at the wrong time. Maybe right afterwards, when she’s covering herself up, or even worse, when the fat guy is in a closeup shouting, “GENTLEMEN WE HAVE YABOS.” Because that would make you gay.

So one had a strategy. You’d toy with yourself, coquettishly, so you were on what the HBO Hair Trigger. You’d have to keep yourself right on the edge, for a good half hour sometimes. That way, when you saw your quarry, you were only about twelve good pumps away. BLAMMO.

I won’t deny that, if I couldn’t wait for night time HBO, I’d settle for MTV. Which means a ZZ Top video. The stakes were higher, and for less payoff. I mean, all you’re getting is some skinny model thigh, risked against blowing it at a smiling Texan who has a beard with bits of gravel stuck in it.

Anyway, that is CONTROL. That is BRINKSMANSHIP.

And it is something that the kids of the internet generation will never, ever have to develop. Except maybe for the ones in shitty places like North Korea. Those guys have it rough.

Living well is the best revenge.

Second best: dig a hole and cover it with banana leaves. Tiger trap!

I’m in Philadelphia.

1) I bought a soft pretzel today from a Mennonite teenager. I was reminded how when I was 10 or 11 I told my parents I wanted to be Amish. I didn’t mention that it was because I wanted to bone an Amish girl really badly, and just didn’t see any other way around it. Having bought the pretzel, I couldn’t quite remember what I saw in them. Maybe I was into bad skin?

2) A horde of families were trying to get into the Hard Rock Cafe. Do 12 year olds still care about eating a hamburger next to Bob Seger’s guitar? Shouldn’t they be going to Jay-Z’s Oyster Barn or something?


There are no cars or trucks driving on my street. Birds sing as the milkman checks his list and drops off 4 pots of yogurt, two pints skim while whistling a jaunty tune. Neighborhood stray dogs are banding together to do fanciful tricks for our enjoyment. The Brazilians lie sideways in their hammocks, thinking about the next World Cup while sad, summery songs are played on their battered guitars.


Dirty talk!

The tension was building. They both knew it. “Girl,” he said, nestling deep DEEP into the couch, “I can’t wait to let you smell it.”

“Hey Big Daddy,” she cooed with a put-on southern drawl, “you gonna shove some fingers in mah stew?”

“Baby,” he said in an oily grunt, “I will bang you. I will bang you SO HARD.” He meant it. He really did. “I will bang you and bang you until my shows are on.”

“Mmmmm. Sounds good.” She settled into the chaise longue opposite him, kicking her shoes far into the next room. She tossed her head. She narrowed her eyes, and suddenly turned to capture him in a stare of almost cosmic intensity. “I didn’t get enough schooling to be able to count all the things I’m gonna do to your wiener tonight.”

“It’s lean and it’s limber and it can handle whatever you throw at it.”

She took off her hat. And then her gloves. She emptied some fluff from her pockets. “I’m sticking this in the garbage,” she purred as she tipped the linty residue into the basket, “which is exactly what I want you to do to me.

“I can do that.” He looked at her with the eyes of a steel alleycat. “Because I am really, really into sex.”