They’re right, but only in certain circumstances. THIS picture, for instance, is worth a thousand words. What’s the union rate for a thousand words during the writer’s strike, though?
by Tom Burns at Threadless, via Neatorama
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My celebrity gossip blogging is catching up to me. I spend so much time reading about Lindsay Lohan‘s latest twelve-stepping breakthrough than I do reading about flaming Swedish assholes or Great Cthulhu. This, obviously, will not do.
But sometimes I do find something of moderate to severe amusement, and such is the following. For those of you who haven’t been reading People at the checkout line, Lindsay Lohan is probably the most talented of the Trainwreck Starlet Cavalcade currently lumbering through Hollywood, and probably the one with the most problems, except of course for Ms. Spears, who is in a class by herself (in so many ways). Lohan‘s father has been in and out of prison for at least a decade for a stunning variety of offences, and her mother is a notorious party cougar. Her sister is being moulded into the next sexpot, despite being 14 years old. And the boys? They’re not so pretty or potentially lucrative, so nobody cares about them.
And then there’s Perez.
Perez Hilton, the world’s most popular blogger (or, to be more specific, the author of the world’s most popular blog; everyone loves to hate Perez) was censored by YouTube yesterday, losing two of his accounts over claims he posted footage of Liza Minelli to which he did not have permission of the copyright holder. This claim appears not to be true, and his account has been reinstated, but he is, quite naturally, rather burnt about the whole experience and not thrilled with YouTube. He therefore went ahead and used a different format for his latest video about the troubled Lohan clan, a format which WP.com forbids us to use here on the ol’ raincoaster blog, but for which we have found a workaround.
We found it on YouTube.
(‘twould be amusing if he asserted copyright and got it deleted, eh?)
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Forget slow hands. There’s something the ladies like even better, and if you don’t know what it is, let’s look to Kuato, the veiny, stomach-dwelling Yoda creature from the Schwarzenschlocken meisterpiece that is Total Recall. Let’s face it, when you look like that, you’d better have some hidden talents, and we don’t mean playing the violin.
We mean making music with the humid harmonica.
Yes, the ladies like me, and they dig on my movie star status, but sometimes not all women are impressed by that. You know that singer Shania Twain? I showed her the veins in my tiny squat head and you know? Didn’t impress her. Not much at all.
I’m not the tallest guy in the world. I don’t drive a fast car. But based on the fact that I’m located in a guy’s torso, I know of which I speak. I’m in a perfect place to give a woman pleasure with my tiny gummy mouth and gimpy, rotted hands.
You think I’m joking? Ask me what I’m doing Saturday night. Just ask.
What am I doing Saturday night? Giving some lucky lady head. All of it. My whole head.
So kids, remember. Cunnilingus is cool. Blowjobs are so last semester.
Very indirectly via kstafford (sorry, ladies, I believe he’s taken).
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How is this for a bad day. First, the anonymous (for good reason!) woman had to have an operation to remove her enormous, inflamed hemorrhoids. While she was in there, she had them schedule a lump-ectomy for a mysterious lump in an unspecified, but equally south of the equator place. So, she’s got two butt surgeries in one day, and a couple of months of using a donut pillow ahead of her.
Then her ass caught on fire.
The accident took place after a nurse had cleaned the woman’s skin with an antiseptic solution.
With some of the highly flammable liquid having trickled under the women’s body, the patient caught fire when staff switched on the electrical current and began operating.
Yep, that’s what we around these parts call a ringburner!
Do you, too, remember this golden Cthristmas Cthlassic from your Cthildhood? I can remember the plot to this very day…
It was a dark and stormy night. In his house at Rlyeh, Great Cthulhu was Fhtagning.
But though dreaming, he was not dead. He merely seemed dead. In reality, his malign consciousness was free: free to roam the galaxy, seeking ingress to the minds of the weak, the stunted, the insane. Finally, after torturous aeons of fruitless fumblings, he had found his entry point.
“Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the haunt, Not a tentacle was stirring, not even the night gaunt. The brains were hung by the intestines with care, In hopes that St. Cthulhu soon would be there.”
Infiltrating the airwaves with his inhuman, eldritch thought-patterns the sinister Great Old One was able to connect with those who had remained loyal to him throughout all the dark aeons of his silence. A little “shipyard accident” here, a little “missing in Arabia” there and poof! The stage was set for the Greatest of the Great Old Ones to rise again, striking fear into the hearts of all puny humans.
The stars (m)aligned. The Great Cthulhu rose, slavering for victims.
But how to get to all of them? Why, look to the Ancient Masters for instruction, of course. Who has free access and welcome into all households? Who has profound, unthinkable powers of transportation, manifestation, and time-manipulation? One, and only one being, my friends.
Yes, the old man had to be gotten out of the way. Thus began the battle between The Old Man and the Sea Creature from Beyond the Abyss of the Star Spaces and the Clamoring Chaos Which is the End of All Things, by Asenath Waite.
I won’t go into the details of the battle (too gruesome for a wholesome, all-ages blog such as this one) but rest assured, there was much mucous involved.
That accomplished, Cthulhu settled down by the fire with a nice, wholesome snack, and waited for breakfast delivery.
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raincoaster 