Category Archives: Sex

how to stuff a blog

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blogwars! 

from Gawker, who helpfully shares some blog-stuffing tips for the sake of their Dark Lord, Nick Denton, who is slumming it this week as a writer for Valleywag (fluffing the VC’s, Nick?). One gawktease commenter has requested my email, claiming many and varied interesting Gawker tidbits, but has yet to put out for me. I’m not going to wait forever, baby; show me yours and I’ll show you mine.

Meanwhile, I appear to be the only one who reads these tips and thinks “those would work for blogging drunk, too.” See the rest of this blog for examples.

  • Photoshop and other graphical tricks can often disguise the fact that your posts have little or no information in them.
  • “This thing looks like that thing” never gets old. Ask Kurt Andersen!…
  • Engage the commenters. Sure, some of them can be truculent or deliberately obtuse, but the involvement of a comment community can really make any post – no matter how vapid or desperate – appear to be a riot of activity.
  • Don’t be afraid to be hypocritical. Worried about castigating someone for committing the exact same practices in which you usually engage? Don’t give it a second thought! Who remembers? And if someone does, and e-mails you an angry response, hey, free post!
  • Naked chicks amp up clickthroughs. Rock ’em…
  • When all else fails, never underestimate the power of a screengrab to masquerade as actual content. It’s quick, it’s easy, and requires little effort on your part.

    • Britney and K-Fed and Bobby Fischer in sex tape shocker!

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    Britney en route to a chess tourney, no doubt.Now, we’re informed media consumers here at the ol’ raincoaster blog. We like to think we can sniff out a planted story faster than a police dog can sniff out a suitcase full of Elmos. And the British press is to bullshit reports what Iraq is to oil imperialists; an irresistable and inexhaustable well.

    But that doesn’t mean we’re not going to cover their stories. Oh no, perish the thought. Because then we’d have to do without this brazilliant piece of bullshit from, one would hazard a guess, the UK publicist of Fed-Ex (maybe the separation agreement means he gets to keep half of the publicists?). The image of a spent and sweat-sheened Britney and K-Fed taking a break from mind-boggling, 10 on the Richter Scale sex only to play a round or two of chess is just too precious and ridonkulous to pass up.

    Britney, unless I’m mistaken it’s your move.

    London, Nov 12: Pop singer Britney Spears’ estranged hubby Kevin Federline has reportedly threatened to go public with the couples[sic] honeymoon sex tapes if she fails to make a hefty payout to him and hand custody of their two sons.

    Po po wha???Britney fears the raunchy footage will destroy her wholesome image [also sic, BIG sic, as Ed the Sock said, “I know strippers who can’t move like that!”] unless she caves in to his demands for a £16million payoff and custody of their children Sean Preston, one, and Jayden James, eight weeks…

    “At the time the two of them were in the honeymoon stages of the relationship and couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They did nothing all day but have sex—and play the odd game of chess.

    I’m killing myself here. Someone alert Bobby Fischer.

    unclear on the concept

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    stolen from Gawker. Location, location, location!

    Not Chick Lit...Chick Lit.

    the biggest, bestest Bond Girl of all

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    kiss kiss bang bang 

    And with the best chest, if you ask me.

    In the realm of carnal beauty there is no shortage of icons. From Helen of Troy to Brigitte Bardot to Carmen Electra, the competition has always been brutal and the loser taken hindmost…or, wait…you know what I mean.

    At the very pinnacle of sexual desirability are the Bond Girls. From the blonde, slinky Honey Ryder to the brunette, slinky Vesper Lynd, Bond Girls have always been seen as the very definition of female hotness, driving men cooler than Bond into raging hormone frenzies and irrationally long wait times at NetFlix. Their faces and bodies have launched a million suavetés, convincing Red State palookas and sub-Arctic lumberjacks alike that all they need to do is look good in the monkey suit and drink Martinis and the ladies will come swarming.

    Bond and girlsAnd we will, you know.

    I was at the Urban Mixer West End Martini Tour, along with a hundred perfect, and perfectly friendly, strangers, and quite a variety of garb was on display; we had some people in jeans, we had many in suits and cocktail dresses, and we had one man in a tuxedo.

    And he was surrounded by women, all night. Are you taking notes, boys?

    For the record, my Bond Girl name is Faith Mountain. Dayum, I could do better than that; lessee, um, uh, well, how about Jeanine Tonique? Butter Tartt? Pandora Box?

    In any case, I ran across this on the Guardian site, and it’s one of the funniest things I’ve read in ages. As always with Jeanette Winterson, I’m not sure I agree but I do enjoy. It’s well-written, it’s witty, and it is very well-informed. The research must have been gruelling, poor thing.

    And as anyone ’round these parts could tell you, if you want an honest evaluation of girls, ask a lesbian.

    The Biggest Bond Girl of All:

    My mission, and I chose to accept it, was to watch Bond movies and summon up some firepower on the Bond women. I could gun down the pathetic sexism of early Bond, or the patronising raised eyebrow of mid-Bond, and we could detonate the tortured hero of Brosnan Bond, and, guess what? I will. But first, let’s agree that Bond movies are fabulous fun.

    I don’t know which I enjoy more – the cars or the girls. I didn’t buy my 3-litre BMW because I saw Goldeneye, but I was very upset when Bond got the Z8 in The World Is Not Enough. Why? I can’t afford to spend £80,000 on a car, even though I long for a champagne cooler under the handbrake. Driving round Cheltenham without one is a mini-roundabout too far. If I knew there was a Dom Perignon ’53 ready to drink on touchdown in the multistorey car park, I would feel less like machine-gunning Burger King, as I pass it for the 20th time in a traffic labyrinth that could have been devised by Dr No…

    Charo sings The Love Boat

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    Proof positive that if you can shake it like that in skimpy sequins, it doesn’t matter how badly you sing. But I love her anyway.