Thursday, November 5, 2009

Today's Shameful Blog

Best part of eating a caramel apple? It’s the nuts. I love nuts. Absolutely adore nuts. Can’t get enough nuts to satisfy me in one day. Mouthful of nuts is heaven.

I say this out loud.

Somebody giggles.

Dammit, people.

Yes, I’m a man, and yes, I need nuts. Just because I need nuts doesn’t mean someone should giggle nervously every time I say I need nuts. Well I need nuts, dammit. If you were a man reading this I would go straight for your nuts. Snatch ‘em off ya like I owned stock in it. Best ones are the ones with a little size to them. I’ll do a sunflower seed too but hit me with a big football shaped almond or that fat cashew with just the right angle of curve to it and I’ll scream “Touchdown!” every day.

Nobody’s come out with a candy bar in ball form. They’re missing a huge market. I know about Whoppers but you hurt your jaw on those. Imagine a Snicker in ball form. I’d roll as many of those bad boys cheek to cheek as I could. They could pack it with extra nuts. Around Christmas several companies come out with round chocolate treats, some of them covered with nuts, but a man shouldn’t have to wait for a special holiday occasion to get his inner nut on. You’d think with all the protein benefits sucking up on nuts would be a year round thing.

I’m just wondering.

So today’s shameful blog is about actresses who give me boner shame. Pam Grier. Nia Long. Carla Gugino. Eva Longoria. Penelope Cruz. Bai Ling. Raquel Welch. Rosario Dawson. Sophia Loren. Jennifer Beales. Salma Hayek. Jennifer Connolly. Now, understand and accept, this is binding only if none of the aforementioned have taken to turning themselves into scrawny sticks suitable only for poking at the ground. A woman who can stand upright in a 20 mph wind is a beautiful thing. This list, and it’s hardly complete, honors women who’ve stopped time at a particular moment of perfection to occupy my lonely mind as permanent objects d’boner whee. That’s French for “out of my league”.

Actors Who Give Me Boner Shame:
Antonio Banderas
Mumble mumble mumble…mumble mumble mumble; meaning there’s more, but—hell, Antonio Banderas—why go on? If I was gay I’d drop some change on the ground where Antonio passes and hide in the bushes. That is one fine, smoldering man. From earlier posts you might imagine I have a jones for the Latin spice. Tell me you wouldn’t eat a cat for Penelope Cruz? In the words of the poet: “Shee-id!” ‘Cause if you tell me that, you would lie to your mama. Which is wrong. I have a thing for flat-out, outright, confident sexual sensuality. Man or woman, it don’t matter. Hell, hot is hot.

Taye Diggs? I would tear him up if I were so inclined. Keanu? Give whole new meaning to the Matrix Bend Over. Slow mo deez. But seriously, in 2009-about-to-be-2010 (this is the future!), can we talk about sexuality as it relates to identity and the raging frivolousness of homophobia? I didn’t do this but when we met I looked the Wife dead in the eye and said, “If Prince ever approaches and offers to do me, I am not saying no.” I can look at a male statue from any one of the classic periods and appreciate it on both an artistic and aesthetic level. The human body, done right by art or nature, is a beautiful thing. Gonads don’t preclude me from admitting that Marc Singer of Beastmaster fame had a helluva male ass back in the day. I know what a helluva male ass looks like. It’s how I want mine to look. I know what it’s like to hug a man, I know what it’s like to kiss a man on the cheek—I, easily shocked, non-cosmopolitan 5th reader, and I’ll slow down because you’re new to this—even know what it’s like to kiss a man on the lips in greeting…FOR THESE THINGS I HAVE DONE. And the Wife naked is about the best thing on this earth alongside peach cobbler and deep dish pizza. So verily I say unto you: I am not ashamed of being what I am. A human being. Because seriously, if Beastmaster’s ass throws you into serious conniption fits about homosexual marriage and the erosion of God into fine dust, you got problems with yourself. Seriously.

Dudes and Ann Coulter? Get a grip. If I catch a gay dude checking me out I pump up. I run home and tell the Wife just to keep her on her P’s & Q’s. Maybe do a little flexing in the mirror. And if a woman lets slip that she fancies me by either word, deed or small bite of her lip as I pass by, I become a major stallion of love that night…depending on whether or not it’s one of the Wife’s TV-watching nights. Friday is Ghost Whisperer/Medium/Numbers night. Jennifer Love Hewitt’s cleavage hasn’t won an Emmy yet but America is rooting for her! (Watching Ghost Whisperer is like watching that special Gomer Pyle episode where they finally get around to discussing spiritually, and where Goober turns out to be a woman with a nice rack, but I digress.)

I don’t understand the paranoia about gays. Guys, come here, especially you Religious Right types. Conservatives, uptight mofos, Vatican priests—come here. Get your asses over here. Don’t tell me your porn tapes aren’t cued up mid-scene where the women are getting it on in hot lesbian bliss. Don’t you dare tell me you’re against homosexuality as you stand there with curiously smooth and supple palms. There’s a reason a jerkoff with very little apparent talent could build an empire off “Girls Gone Wild” drunk party chicks sucking face with each other: you like gay sex! “But, dude, gays are dudes. We don’t watch dude sex. That’s gay!” Ok, smart ass. Let’s run down the names: John Holmes. Ron Jeremy. What? You say you know these names? Seen their rods and watched them hammer? They weren’t getting off on dudes, you say? But if you take the rod out of the equation is porn porn or just a Lifetime Channel movie? Ron Jeremy is NOT Antonio Banderas by any stretch of the imagination, but millions of hot-blooded American men have watched him whip his King Dong from film to film, all while maintaining those supple palms.

Sex is sex, folks. Don’t be scurred of it. Don’t be scurred of stigmas. Don’t worry about that. The only thing we have to fear…are those who fear. Let’s start wrangling ‘em in one by one. Your faithful blog site herein initiates Gay Dudes for Straight Men day. Gay dudes, run up on one of your hetero male friends today and body hug him. If he tries to pull away, grind. If he gets rough, bust him in the chest. Your fist can inflict pain just the same as anyone else’s. Now understand: VIOLENCE IS NOT SEXY. This, your Blog In Servitude, ain’t for everybody, just the sexy people. My homosexual brethren and sisthren: I do not want to see hate crimes perpetrated upon weak-minded homophobes. Pity them if you must and work your hardest to reeducate them, but do no harm…unless they push you, then rip those earrings off and engage in the most vicious slap fight they’ll never forget.

I mention this because somewhere out there, right now, another state is banning gay marriage. Right now.

The future.