Today’s safe sex warning comes to us from Zombieland, just in time for Halloween. While you’re out there shopping for your Slutty Zombie/Playa Zombie costume, remember not to make it too realistic. You don’t want anyone avoiding you because of any of the following zombie-specific sex challenges:
crotch rot
S&M without the sting
insertion without the option of exertion (dropped limb syndrome)
or the truly terrifying consequences of necronautical oral sex:
Zombie blow jobs suck.
Oral sex can be challenging for zombies, especially if you’re in a state of advanced decay or have taken a lot of physical damage. The repetitive sucking and mouth movement can overtax the jaw joint and cause permanent dislocation of the mandible. In addition, your partner’s genitalia may have degenerated to the point of being unrecognizable. And if you thought the smell was bad before…
We haven’t had a good Youtube in quite some time (days), nor a good Mylene Farmer youtube in even longer, so here’s a nice little AIDs allegorical one (which should, incidentally, put me back on the top of the WP.com Allegory tag page) called Que Mon Coeur Lâche, and which dates from the days in which she was young and pretty and had unfortunate haircuts, ie 1992, as you will see:
And, incidentally, if this doesn’t get me back on the Michael Jackson Haterfan Juggernaut, nothing will.
[Some parts of ‘Que mon coeur lache’ are missing in the english version ‘My soul is slashed’, so …]
Too much brutal
the mixing
the dance of bodies
the death of love
poisonous love
collision
the fear beats down
on our frolic
You between us
rubber
you seep into
our intercourse
It’s not easy
the pleasure
to tame your iced body
My heart gives up
my dreams of kinky love
do not have paste anymore
my stress about love
is so sad
My heart gives up
please harm me
misuse of bonds and lilies
times are loose
love is in pain
times are plastic love
what nasty angel
came up to crucify my liberties
Me, poor devil
It hurts so much
love fever, hurt love
This is a totally, completely, utterly gross story and you will love it. You will curl into the fetal position and cup your hands protectively over your bits, but you will like this story.
It’s a true story. For once. It comes from my mother, who was in charge of medical records at the King Fahd Hospital in Riyadh in the 80’s.
Saudi males who are not married are not supposed to notice they have penises. Seriously, they’re supposed to just pretend it doesn’t exist. So when a Saudi male who was not married was admitted the the hospital where my mother worked and the diagnosis was “ruptured penis” naturally all the typists in medical records were DYING to know how it happened. They were all Westerners and somewhat starved for scandalous sex gossip of this type, or even the sight of a penis, if only in their minds’s eyes.
What made it even more bizarre and in-your-face was, the doctors told him he needed some exercise and so every day he would get out of his room and go for a s…l…o…w… walk up the hallway. Down the hallway. Up the hallway. Down the hallway. With a determined look on his face and his legs bowed as if he were riding a Percheron.
My mother was not a shy woman. She was not what you could ever have called retiring. Or bashful.
So, one day she saw the doctor in charge of that patient in the hallway and walked up to him and said, “Doctor So-and-So, my typists can’t even concentrate to do their jobs, they are so distracted by this. How did it happen?”
He was used to my mother. He knew those western women were crazy and my mother was the craziest of all of them and, thus, not to be trifled with.
He looked up the hall. He looked down the hall. He looked up the hall. He looked down the hall. He leaned in and whispered, “The goat bolted.”
I saw this embroidered Marilyn Monroe quote done by Rosie Geissler on TheDailyWhat and decided it went perfectly with my Mylene Farmer post from yesterday. Monroe was never the most independent of women, but after a very rocky youth, she did develop a strong sense of self and in her maturity if she chose to be dependent on men, well, it was her choice to make.
Goodbye Norma Jean, we never knew you embroidered at all
Now, I don’t like to brag (as all my millions of fans know) but I’m kind of a big deal on Twitter, and you may make all of the one-eyed-man-in-the-kingdom-of-the-blind references you like, but it won’t change the fact that I’m the queen of the 140-character realm. One of the reasons for my vast popularity and nearly unstoppable power on the platform of choice for the short of attention span is this video: Mylene Farmer‘s L’Amour N’Est Rien or Love is Nothing.
If you clicked to play the video, then how it contributed to my sudden popularity will come as no surprise, for it is nothing less than a striptease in which the chanteuse gets her kit, as they say, if not her rocks, entirely off. For those of you who did NOT click to play the video, we’ll wait while you rush back to do that.
It’s not the first time we’ve featured the Divine Miss MF around these parts (nor even, it seems, the first time we’ve posted this video, although the other version is down). What elevates this from mere cheesecake to feminine empowerment? It’s a fine line, and Farmer walks right up to it, puts her toe across and then snaps it back in a Fosse-like flourish. To me, what elevates it is, as always with Farmer, the lyrics; she is happy to play on her looks, which she knows are exquisite, and use her body as honey to draw the audience in so it’s at least minute 3:20 before they realize they’ve been listening to a song about how women don’t need to be trapped by the old fairy tales of chivalric, perfect love, or the new ones of political correctness. They’re both cages: one gilded, one woven of hemp, and she doesn’t need anyone’s permission to say she’ll have nothing to do with either of them. She is free to say what she wants, free from the need to apologize for it.
raincoaster 