Posts Tagged ‘sex’

A long time ago, in a city not too far from here, I had an awfully awesome idea for a Halloween costume.  The emphasis, of course, is on the awful.  Luckily for those near and dear, I was talked out of my despicable machinations.  Some of you know about the costume that has only been whispered about by alcohol-kissed lips during lascivious sidebars.  That’s right, I’m referencing him.  The one, the horny, the psyche-scarringly wrong… Professor Porn.

Oh Leopold...

… except this kind of “getting it in the eye” is technically SFW.

That’s right, the 18″ double-dong-wielding madman known as Professor Porn never saw the light of day, or the dark side of the moon, or even the rings of Uranus.  No assjacks tasted the mushroom-stamp of justice.  Nobody benefited from hiding behind his splash-guardian cape constructed of clear shower curtain– and that’s about as far as these are going to go.  Long story short, it was an idea that was miscarried into existence due to my (former) habit of watching Jenna Jameson get blasted during particularly boring fraternity meetings, but that‘s another story entirely.  Anyway.

Fast forward a bunch of years, and here I am slinging job apps like manchowder at any potential place one might stick.  Now, have you ever applied to a job– never expecting to get a phone call back?

Here’s where the aborted Professor comes into play– and no this doesn’t mean I’m gonna enhance/ruin your spank session by showing up on your screen (nor am I going to be some entry-level fluffer).  I got a phone call today from a certain…  purveyor of assorted “adult novelties” looking to interview me for the assistant manager slot.  It doesn’t help the situation that my cousin is a web content developer for Girls Gone Wild.  I’ll give you a second to process this, but I’m warning you–  you’re laughing prematurely.

Now, riddle me this: how does one interview for the ass. manager position at a fap shack?

Almost feels like you took a dildo slap to the cerebellum.

Hurts your head, don’t it?

No jocularity spared here, I have more questions than…  yeah maybe that analogy is a bit too far.
However, here are the major ones that come to mind:

  1. What does one wear to an interview like this?
  2. What kind of questions is she (yes, the store manager’s a she) going to ask me?
  3. How loaded should my responses be?
  4. What kind of product knowledge ….  yeah gonna stop there.
  5. Will there be an employee discount?
  6. What in the Nine Levels of Hell should I tell my little Italian grandmother if I get the job?

I mean, yeah, it’s pretty funny to think about being the “ass. manager” of the sex smorgasbord…  I may be a touch overqualified for the job (don’t judge me), and yeah— I have no choice but to take the first job that comes my way.  I just didn’t expect the possibility of said job being this… sticky.

Savor that.



Ok, WordPress, WTF?!

Posted: October 2, 2011 in Self-Deprecation
Tags: , , ,

How in the Holy Name of Jesus Heisenberg Christ does my little blog register clicks from a referring engine search for “masturbation at sea”?!  For those of you reading this from active wordpress accounts, you will know what I mean by the “search engine terms” part of the stats page.  For those of you unfamiliar, I can see where hits come from, if the referring link is from a search engine.   One of my biggest referring topics is appropriately “atrophied arm cast.”  Today, I saw a referring link from “masturbation at sea”– with a hit total of two.

Damn skippy.

Who, me? Talk about that? No way... You don't say? Reference heavily in a sarcastic light, of course, but seriously? And up until today, I've never even considered alluding to Jill or Rosie doing work on a boat? How the Hell...?

I’m floored.  Seriously?  Have the machines learned how to interpret comically inspired names for a right (Jill) and left (Rosie) hand?  If they have, you all should be praying for Zombpoc even harder than I am– because when the machines take over, shit will have truly hit numerous fans.  Think about it, up until today, that term has never been put in writing by me… well at least not here.  To refer that term here would have to be inferred.  That’s a subjective call.  Get where I’m going with this, or were my anvil-sized hints bouncing harmlessly off your Neanderthal forehead?

That bit of creepy aside, you know what really bothered me?  Who in the Nine Levels of Hell is searching for “masturbation at sea” anyway?  I mean, the fact that it landed in my square of the ether aside, really?  What is it that confused you, the concept, the mechanics, the ethics?  Seriously, if you’re reading this, and it was you–  I gotta know.  I don’t care if you email me, or leave it as a comment, this is too good to just pass off as a perverted fluke.  Wanna know why?  Whatever search engine led that curious soul here, led it here twice.

You on my level yet?

If your brain doesn't hurt yet, you haven't been paying attention.

I officially have seen everything.


I know last time I sat down at my keyboard, I was a bit of a raging bastard.  Yes, I still stand by my words, and I still feel justified in every last one of them– it’s still posted, isn’t it?  Anyway, today’s been a perfect bookend to the deicidal  fury of Friday, and the subsequent smoldering up until yesterday’s tirade.

First off, I got an important phone call (neither from work, nor from the previously alluded-to company) and it freaking made my morning.  That was great, then I found out that the duster I’d bought for Halloween was at the UPS Hub.  Between these two levels of awesome, was a priceless bit of WTF.

Yes, I am pretty fluent in Text– just like my other written/spoken sub-languages: Sarcasm, Typo, Drunk, Condescending, Legal, Medical, and Psychotic.  Get used to it, but I digress.

Since I’ve been working on dropping the couch-poundage that I packed on during the whole Jill-in-cast period, it only makes sense that I work out as well as diet.  I don’t just work out, I kick my own ass.  Since Jill’s still recovering, I’m only working lower body (giggity), cardio, and core– the last being the only one I habitually used to work.  From the get-go, I know this is going feel pretty damn awkward– like the first time I started hitting the gym like a narcissistic perfectionist three years ago.

Holy crap, they DO have a sign for that!

It's not worth it if you didn't work for it.

Did I remember to add in that this is, like, the second time I’ve gone to this gym– ever– to use the membership that I signed up for before I had surgery?  If you’ve ever joined a gym, you know the whole new-gym feeling that I’m trying to work out.  On top of that, I’ve gotta watch what I do so as not to aggravate the wrist– but still hammering away at the flubber using exercises that I don’t normally do.

When feeling out the new gym, you also get to see the scenery.  Compared to my old gym (which shall remain nameless because I’m not going to get hit with a libel/slander suit from those freaks), Nautilus is very different– and pretty bad ass on the level of equipment.  There’s a bunch of old dudes, a few really fit dudes, and a similar juxtaposition for the ladies.  Am I there for the scenery?  No, but I do have eyes.  Seriously.  Anyone who tries to claim otherwise is a hypocrite, and should be hit in the mouth with a tree branch.  Before anyone tries to throw the “pig” card out, one– you’re a hypocrite (see above) and two– my girlfriend and I have already had conversations about this and we had identical thoughts on the subject.


Peek a boo?

Yeah, people think they can surreptitiously stare. Most are really bad at it. The best part is, they're clueless.

I’d kicked my ass for the better part of an hour, throwing a small amount of core in between the bike and the elliptical.  First, I caught a few girls looking.  Cheers, apparently I hid my weight gain well.  In the middle of my bemusement, a guy ran past the elliptical on the track.

This is the point where I closed my eyes and focused on the DevilDriver blaring in my headphones– just to not crack up.  Flattery is sometimes funny, and it’s not like I’m a freaking phobe.  The funny part of this is, the size of the indoor track requires something like 16 laps to run a mile.  He.  Kept.  Passing.  By.  And.  Never.  Got.  Better.  At.  Staring.

Meanwhile, I’m sweating like a Steeler Fan in the Dog Pound– so I’m starting to wonder if I’m actually looking apocalyptic, and I’m having the trainwreck effect on this particular Takei (off topic: having a gay man as one of my closest friends for like six years has given me impeccable gaydar.  This one was a bottom.  Yeah, that precise.  Anyway.).  I figure that maybe a little eye contact might pass along the hint, “yeah, you’re busted, I’m feeling weird here.”  Yeah, he totally didn’t get the point– or couldn’t find a damn to give.  I will never know.

It didn’t stop me from putting in a solid hour and a half workout, put out 9 miles on the bike/elliptical, burned somewhere above 600 calories for the workout.  I say it wasn’t too bad of a second day back.  I am pretty stoked for this.

Hell, I got good news, and I got a chuckle in today.  I’d call today a win… but I’m not sure which way to look at the funny part.  I mean either I’m a hot mess, or things are going to get downright awkward once I get my bodyfat percentage down.