Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Never mind your kid's toys

Your pet is on drugs!

Wood revisited

The Plank

Another one for guys who point straight out or slightly down. Stand a foot or two away from the toilet and lean forward, supporting your weight by putting your hands on the wall above the toilet. Take aim and hold your body rigid. This position also strengthens your abs and core muscles.

The Girly Man

Sometimes you just have to suck it up and sit down to pee. Sit on the john with your legs apart and lean forward so your penis points down into the bowl. You may have to press down on your erection slightly to make sure you don't pee out and down the front of the bowl. And no, sitting down doesn’t make you any less manly, especially if there are extenuating circumstances. What? You say it’s so long you can’t keep it from dragging in the water? Oh, alright then.

Monday, March 30, 2009

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Hijacking Heaven- Chapter XIII

“OK I have to level with you,” Sheppard said as he crouched behind the counter of the TPE with Malcolm Buck. “I’m not a scout for the Majors.”

“If you’re trying to distract me with disappointment it’s not work---”

“--- I came here to warn people of the danger.”

“You’re a little late don’t you think?”

Malcolm reached for the rifle he kept below the cash- a Winchester handed down from his father, the wooden butt shined to perfection, its thirty inch barrel still intact- a true marvel of simpler times. The occasional shot still rang out as the Trooper aimed for another target, or stopped to reload his revolver. Malcolm twisted around so his back was now to the counter. He held the rifle tight to his torso, gripping the bolt. “What would make a State Trooper go off his rocker like that? And those people? What were they thinking?”


“He’s trippin’? On what? He’s a cop for Christ’s sake.”

“A cocktail of diphenhydramine and atropine among others.”

“But how?"

“Any number of ways; airborne; through the water system; in over-the-counter pharmaceuticals, food. I don’t know for sure. All I know is this is where they planned to carry out the experiments.”

“Experiments? On who? Us? How do you know this?”

“My name is Sheppard. I used to study this stuff in California,” Sheppard said eyeballing the firearm and wondering how much he should disclose to a man with a loaded weapon. “At one time I had access to certain levels of classification and I stumbled on something called Project Eden. An experiment in cutting down the population, or enslaving it, whichever way you want to look at it, it isn’t good. And I know that what’s going down here is just the beginning of something bigger. It’s going to get worse and not just here, everywhere. You need to get out of town as soon as possible and warn others, but they’ll be watching the roads soon. Is there another, less conspicuous, way out of Coram?”

“Through Glacier Park, but it goes on for miles. You need a guide over that terrain.”

“You’ll have to take it.”

“I can’t. My wife. She’s too ill to travel.”

“Look, what I’m telling you is the truth. You must leave here if you want to live. If you stay here you’ll die and she’ll die for sure.”

Buck cocked the rifle, his finger now resting on the trigger. “I’m not going anywhere. And I’ll tell you this Mr. Sheppard; I’m no lab rat who’s going to take a prod in the asshole while I still have breath in me.”

Sheppard inched higher so he could peek over the counter. The Trooper was walking down the center of Route Two, his gun, back in an unbuckled holster, his hat hanging from its chin loop down his back like some western deputy waiting for a showdown at high noon. His mirrored sunglasses gave him a lifeless quality. He stopped and stood motionless with his legs apart and his hands dangling at his sides wiggling his fingers, waiting for his next victim, the Sheriff, Billy the Kid, whomever. Sheppard was reminded of Yul Brenner playing the robotic gunslinger in West World when the computers had run amok.

The Trooper’s police radio no longer barked orders at him from a distance. He’d shot it out after the first wave of killing. The dead lay strewn about the road and sidewalks like ragdolls tossed aside in boredom. The blood from some of the victims had joined into bigger pools being fed by the reddish-black tributaries of carnage mixed with the rain. The light over the intersection turned green. Sheppard lowered his frame and sat back down next to Malcolm Buck.

“So what you’re telling me,” Buck said. “Is our own Government is doing this to us?”

“These people go way beyond government.”

There was another volley of gunfire and the screeching of tires followed by an ensuing crash.

“We have to stop this guy,” Buck said. “There won’t be anyone left in this town if we don’t.”

Sheppard felt for his gun under his shirt. If only he had followed his initial instinct and shot the Trooper when he’d had the chance, all this bloodshed could have been avoided. But how was he to know the officer would go ape shit and start blowing people away.

Buck eyed Sheppard’s piece and nodded. “Good thing I didn’t see that when you walked in, or else we might not be having this conversation.”

Sheppard gulped. “So how do we do this?”

Buck jerked his head toward a doorway near the counter. “Through there is the stock room. You’ll find a door leading to the back of the store. I say we come at him from two angles. One of us is bound to take him down.”

Sheppard wasn’t too anxious to explore this plan if it meant going out into the rain. If this Hallucinogen was airborne, it sure as hell was in the rain. He’d get it all over him and he didn’t think the element of surprise would be an ally if he were holding a bright blue umbrella. But he wouldn’t need to....

“Hello?...... Knock, knock. Anyone home?” It was the same voice that had told Sheppard it was his lucky day. How ironic that statement now seemed. If this was lucky, Sheppard didn’t want to see the alternative.

The Trooper had entered the TPE and was walking around with slow deliberate steps. “Come out, come out, from wherever you are.”

Are you kidding me? This isn’t some fucking game.

Malcolm Buck tensed up, but held his rifle cocked - ready to answer this lunatic. Sheppard had also moved his gun and held it upside his head like he was listening to the trigger’s intimate secrets.

The feet walked slowly to the counter where the two men hid. “Are you hiding? I know you’re here. I saw you playing peek-a-boo through the window.”

Suddenly an explosion lit the store in a yellow glow and Sheppard half expected to see the blood of Malcolm Buck all over him, but it was the vehicle the Trooper had shot at. It burst into flames across the street. Must have taken out one of the pumps at the gas station when it crashed?

Malcolm Buck was quick, in fact, in a scary kind of way for a man his size. With lightning action he was on his feet- a jack-in-the-box popping out of the counter. The Trooper had turned to face the fireball. He had no time to react as the store owner’s blast hit him in the shoulder to the left of his vest sending him backward and on to one knee. His sunglasses flew from his head landing with a scraping clatter on the tiled floor and the gun dropped from his hand.

“You shot me!”

“I’ll shoot your mouth off if you don’t shut up!”

“I need an ambulance!”

“Half-an-hour wait, or so they tell me. Get down on the ground and stay still!”

The Trooper threw his head back and opened his mouth like he was trying to catch snowflakes. The fire from outside the shop danced on half of his face, dousing it with madness. He let out a hideous burst of laughter- guttural in nature. “You shot me,” he said again. He slowly brought his head back to level and stared back at Malcolm Buck. His pupils were as big and dark as two black moons. “Now it’s my turn.” He stretched out toward the revolver. Buck fired again. This time the shot was fatal, hitting the Trooper in the ear, before it entered his skull with fragments of splintered bone. The spray from the exit wound splattered all over a row of food products in a gush of brain, bone and blood. The officer dropped to the side with an involuntary twitch of his left leg squeaking on the floor and he was dead.

Malcolm Buck slowly placed the rifle on the counter and backed away from it like it was evil personified. Sheppard slowly stood to his feet and placed his gun back in his pants. The big Indian turned to the side of the counter, grabbed a wastepaper basket and threw up into it.

Sheppard placed a hand on the man’s massive back. “You had no choice. You had to kill him.”

Buck wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Go! Don’t worry about me. Get your own ass to safety.”

“Not without the Bradley boy.”

“What? I thought after all this...?”

“You were right about the kid. He is special, but not because he’s fast. There’s something more about him. I don’t have time to explain, but I have to find Rabbit and get him out of Coram.”

Buck tossed the waste basket into the corner. He grunted and hacked the acid taste of vomit from his vocal cords. It resonated through his nasal cavity, sharp and potent. He reached to a stand at the right of the counter and gave Sheppard another map. “Take this. It has the system of trails in the park, even the lesser used ones. The map you bought is for shit unless you want to do some fly-fishing. And grab a compass- third row top shelf near the front.”

Sheppard did as he was instructed, stepping over the fallen police officer and turned back to the big shop-keep to try and persuade the man to at least come with him to the Bradley’s. Malcolm Buck’s eyes told him all he needed to know. The big man wouldn’t hear of it.

Buck motioned to the door. “Now, go on and good luck.”

Sheppard left the TPE and wandered out onto the deserted street. It was more like a war zone with the bodies scattered about the ground; the rivers of blood now snaking their way to sewer grates in a trickling procession. Except for the sound of the burning vehicle overturned and resting on top of a place where a gas pumps used to be, all else was silent. Plumbs of gray smoke and ash billowed into the sky above. The, charred remains of a body spewed out of a driver-side window like a blackened tongue. Yet all Sheppard could think, was how strange it was to be standing in the midst of this madness beneath a bright blue umbrella.

Sheppard turned to the Trooper’s cruiser; its lights still flashing- a beacon for the carnival of the damned. He trotted to the vehicle. The keys were in the ignition. He climbed in, folded the umbrella and tossed it in the back seat. He slapped the map and compass down on the seat next to him. Sheppard turned the key and drove off in the direction Malcolm Buck had told him. He had to find the Bradley boy. With everything unravelling around him, it would have to be soon, before someone else found him first. Rabbit’s abilities in the wrong hands.......Sheppard didn’t want to think of the consequences.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

A lazy dog-dangling Saturday

It's the weekend, the work week has ended and you just want to relax.....or maybe not?

Famous dudes I almost know (part 4)

The Junos are this weekend for those who give a rat's ass.

Show of hands!!!!....that's two people who give a rat's ass.

The show will once again be hosted by comedian Russell Peters. What some of you may not know is Russell and I were almost best buds.

That's right. I could have been flying to Europe to catch him on tour, been giving him suggestions on new material, help him hide the dead hooker in the trunk of his car....oooooppps I've said too much.

But, alas it was not to be, those many years ago when we both attended my best friend Orson's Stag.

Damn it! I shouldn't have kept out bidding him on strippers.

Friday, March 27, 2009

Use the force nuke

It's Friday and I, more than most people, understand that you just want to blow shit up. Now's your chance.

Go here. Select a target using Google Maps....oh I don't know.....say Toronto.

Choose your method of obliteration....perhaps an asteroid?

Scream out, "Take that McGinty! How do you like harmonizing the tax system now?!?!"

Press Nuke it and imagine as millions of voices cry out in terror then are suddenly silenced.

Although, you have to use your own sound effects

Holly wood, if she had one.

Dealing with morning wood when you have to evacuate your bladder can be quite a task, so here is the second in a series dealing with the serious problem of, "How do you not pee all over yourself?"

The Lunge

If your morning wood slopes at a downward angle, consider yourself blessed. All you need to do is lunge forward so your stream of urine angles into the toilet. This prevents you from overshooting the bowl. Toward the end, as your stream gets weaker, you can deepen the lunge to avoid dribbling on the floor.

The Downward Dog

This position will work for just about anybody, but it is a little difficult to get into, and – if someone walks in on you – potentially kind of embarrassing. Stand facing away from the toilet, with a foot on either side of the bowl. Bend forward at the waist until you’re touching the floor (or the opposing wall, or the tub, depending on your bathroom layout). Adjust your stance so your junk is well inside the bowl - you don't want the pee to run down your front. If you get caught, claim that you like to wake up with a morning yoga workout.

Note: This position may encourage you to take better aim in general, since it will bring you face-to-face with the residue of near-misses and splatters that coat the floor and outer bowl surface.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Monday, March 23, 2009

Monday wood

Every morning men wake up to this catch-22: you desperately have to pee, but you have an erection, which makes it hard to urinate, but the hard-on won't go away until you empty your bladder. It's almost impossible to aim at the toilet when your penis is pointing the wrong way, so you end up peeing on the wall, the floor, or yourself.

You may have developed your own technique for dealing with this catch-22, but if not, here are some methods to take care of the aiming part, customized for the angle of your dangle.

The Flying Wallenda

If your erection angles up acutely, pointing at the ceiling, you’re out of luck. Your best bet is to install a trapeze over your toilet so you can hang upside down and let gravity do the rest. Warning: Attempting this maneuver using the shower curtain rod may result in head injury

The Strong Arm

This is the brute force method. If your penis points straight out or up, you may have to bend it to your will. Grasp the shaft or press down on the top gently but firmly so your boner bends downward, pointing toward the bowl. Keep the pressure on and don’t let it slip, or you may end up spraying the wall or squirting yourself in the face. Note: In some cases this won’t work because bending constricts the flow of urine too much. If your erection is too hard, don’t force it down – you could break something, seriously.

to be continued

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Hijacking Heaven- Chapter XII

Amber Switly burst through the kitchen door of her house. Her face still streaked with tears. Her dark pigtails dishevelled and frayed at the edges. Her breath was heavy and laboured. She had not stopped running since she had left the Bradley house, with only one purpose in mind: to get her mom to call Jeffery Squire’s mother and tell her of Jeffery's fall. She ran into the living room to find her mother sitting in a solid brown fabric chair watching television, knitting needles dormant in her lap, crossed in an X across folds of formless wool.

“Mom! Mom! Something terrible has happened!”

“Sussssh!” Her mother brought an ivory nail slowly up to her lips. Her speech was slow and slurred. “It can wait for a commercial.” She lowered her hand back to the chair fabric and sunk her nails in to its rests like talons. She seemed statuesque as if she’d been hewn from stone in ancient Egypt.

Amber shook her head in disbelief.

On the TV the PVR’d program was Oprah and the studio were cackling over some witty remark a guest had made.

“But Mom...”

Amber’s mother reached for the remote and paused the program. Oprah was rendered motionless with her mouth open, her teeth gleaming in the studio lights, eyes bright with fervour. “You know how I hate being interrupted when I’m watching my shows baby.” She turned to her daughter. “What’s so important?”

Amber’s disbelief changed to bewilderment. “Mom you’re bleeding.”

“What? I am? Nonsense!” Amber’s mother reached lethargically for a tissue box on the table next to her chair and pulled a layer free. Her knitting slipped to the floor as she dabbed at her nose then pulled back to look. “I don’t see anything.”

“Not your nose. Your eyes! Your eyes are bleeding!” Amber felt the tears swell up in her own eyes again and pour from her.

“Oh,” her mother answered, hardly seeming surprised. She dabbed at the corner of her eyes, quickly changing the tissue from off-white to red and smearing the blood into tattooed stains. “Get me a wet cloth baby. OK?” She then nonchalantly pressed play on the remote like a master puppeteer and Oprah sprang to life gesticulating to the audience. Her mother turned back to the program and sank into the comfort of the chair.

Amber ran to the bathroom and grabbed a face cloth, running it under a cold tap before ringing it out quickly. In the mirror she saw a frightened child, pigtails in disarray, eyes streaked with tiny rivers of tears, gazing back at her. What is going on? The reflection in the mirror had no answer.

She ran back to her mother, the face cloth still dripping in hand. Her initial thoughts of Jeffery pushed aside while she attended to this new anomaly.
On TV the audience screamed with delight as Oprah informed them everyone was going home with a brand new washer and dryer.

Amber found her mother coughing into her tissue while saying “Well, isn’t that nice....That Oprah.” The young girl knelt beside her mom to wipe away her tears of blood as she finished her coughing fit and wiped the corner of her mouth. The odour of the yellowish phlegm in the tissue made Amber gasp and almost gag. It was the same smell as the one from the dead bird. Amber began to sob. “Mom, what’s happening to you?”

“I don’t know. Ask your father. He’s upstairs reading....I think? Leave me be. I’m alright..... Would you like to eat out tonight? I don’t feel much like cooking lately.”

Amber left the cloth with her mother and brushed her hair back from her face. She ran up the staircase to the den. Her father would know what to do. He always did. He was the one who expelled the monsters from under the bed. He fixed the pedals on her bike when they came loose. He helped her see the equation through the mathematical fog and he would help fix Amber’s mother.

Amber found herself on the landing of the hallway leading to the den. The door was closed. A sudden sense of dread engulfed her every nerve and a paralysis all but kept her from approaching the door, but she willed herself to do so. Her mother’s illness depended on it.

She knocked. “Daddy?” No answer. Again she rapped- louder this time. “Daddy? Come quick Mom’s not feeling well.” Still no answer.

Amber reached up and turned the door knob, her hands shaking, her knees on the precipice of total collapse, panic and shock choking the very breath from her. The door was unlocked and swung inward. Her father, still in his pyjama bottoms hung from a beam in the ceiling, an over-turned chair sat on its side like an incapacitated drunk. The belt she’d given him for Christmas slung tight around his neck and the beam, his flesh pale, his arms dripping blood where he’d torn at scabs on his skin. A maroon stain had formed on the carpet below. Her father’s eyes; glassy and open; staring directly at Amber- hollow, empty, lifeless eyes.
She began to scream.

You kid's toys are on drugs #7

Even more B.J. tips for don't spit-swallow

I barely tried swallowing because of one bad taste experience, but now I always have a glass with Coca Cola ready. After swallowing I drink some cola and it really helps getting rid of the aftertaste. - Joyce, Holland

I like to throw my head back as though I'm drinking a shot. - TD, Maryland

Blokes, swallow some yourself one day, that way you are showing that there really is nothing wrong with it. She may find it wrong to swallow but (let's face it) most guys are very uncomfortable with this taboo. She'll feel a little silly for wondering why she never did it. - M., London

If you deep throat you can barely taste it, not that it tastes bad. I rather enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done. - Anonymous, U. S.

Just close you eyes and swallow fast like your taking meds. - Anonymous, U.S.

Ten seconds of yuck doesn't equal ten minutes. Remember, men usually are up to their eyelashes in a woman's juices - so women shouldn't complain about a teaspoon! - Anonymous, Canada

Swallowing my man's cum has never been an issue with me. It's something I've always enjoyed. He inserts his penis inside my mouth and puts it all the way in and then moves back and forth until he explodes in my mouth. I sometimes spit it into a glass and then drink it down. Sometimes I put his cum in my coffee cup; it's better than cream. I would never spit my man's cum out. That would be totally wrong and would make your man think you didn't like it. The taste of cum is a bit different. However, it's not as hard to take as you think and if you really have a problem with the taste there's always mouthwash. - Amy, U. S.

If you don't like to swallow, just ask your boyfriend if it's OK if you have a drink next to the bed. You can come up with an excuse like, "Giving blowjobs makes my mouth dry," or just say you like to have a drink afterwards. You could also tell him the truth, but you'll never know how he's gonna take it (it might be insulting). When you have just swallowed, give him a smile and wait a few seconds before reaching over to your drink to get the sperm-taste out of your mouth. Hardly any man will notice. - Anonymous, Holland

I always found whenever I was receiving a blow job, my 'muff' got in the way, but I never thought anything of it until I was giving the nickname Muffy, my actual name being Murphy. I found that if I give myself a little trim down there, it appears to increase the size of your organ. And if your lover does swallow, she won't choke on anything. My girlfriend liked it a lot more as well. - Muffy, England

Just get his dick far down your throat when he cums! It's brilliant because you miss the taste (if you do not like it - I personally do), and it goes straight down your throat. Plus the boy will really like it. - Minerva, U. K.

But this one goes to eleven

The 11 most unnecessary how-to guides on the internet.

Numbers that go to 10

The 10 funniest Onion News Network videos.

The top 10 dudes with ponytails.

10 classic cons.

10 awesome ads that traumatize children.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Yummy Bukkake goodness

We haven't looked in on our Japanese friends in a while. Let's see what they're up to......

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Links....that's an Irish thing isn't it?

Here are some things you'll need to know today.

How to make green beer Leprechaun style.

A variety of St. Pat's Day drinks.

And finally, the anatomy of a hangover.


If things weren't bad enough already

I didn't get a chance to comment on T.O. coming to Buffalo last week, so I'll take the opportunity now, or better yet, I'll let Hitler do it.

This is for you GIGC.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Hijacking Heaven- Chapter XI

Richard Bradley swerved into the parking lot of the Walk-in Clinic in Martin City. The hospital was another five miles on the other side of the burg, but Rabbit had been sobbing for the last two minutes, shirking the responsibly of pumping Jeffery`s chest.

Despite his father’s barking orders, the boy had just given up and Jeffery would not last the remainder of the ride. Even now, it might be too late. The walk-in would have to do. Richard skidded the SUV with a screeching halt and one wheel rode the curb, jumping up on the sidewalk. He got out and raced to the other side of the car to get Jeffery still wrapped loosely in the blanket.

With Rabbit in front of him opening doors Richard carried Jeffery into a waiting room in total disarray. The attending physicians were scrambling from patient to patient trying to comfort everyone. A few locals had been pressed into triage preparation and the room stank of vomit, feces, and a putrid odour Bradley had not smelled before. Rabbit, however, had and backed slowly out of the building. He felt nauseous again and all around him people sat bathed in a blue haze, some brighter than others, but all slowly fading.

“Help! We need help!” Richard yelled.

A woman rushed up, her hands in latex gloves stained with vomit and blood. “Put him down! Slowly. Put him down.”

Richard Bradley lowered the boy cautiously to the floor. She checked his vitals and looked up gravely at him. “I`m sorry,” she said. "There's nothing I can do." Quickly she returned to her feet and on to another patient bleeding from his ears and a small mole on his neck. She turned as she walked away. “You can`t leave the body here. Please take him to the hospital. We`re just not equipped.”

Rabbit’s father was stunned. What the hell is going on here? Slowly he returned to his feet with Jeffery in his arms and using his back to push open the door returned to the car.

“Rabbit get the hatch!”

His son did as he was told and Richard laid the lifeless body of Jeffery Squire down carefully in the back of the SUV like he was made of fine China. He closed the hatch and the two walked as if part of a funeral procession to the front seats.

“Why did you leave like that?”

“Those people were all sick. I...I just couldn’t be around them.”

Richard slowly put the car in drive and pulled out as two more cars pulled in, their passengers rushing into the building. One had a balled up towel to her mouth, the other had bleeding scabs where his nails had ripped open flesh. A light drizzle began to fall and Richard Bradley switched on the wipers. He turned left out of the lot and headed for Martin City General.

“Jeffery`s dead Rabbit.”

“I know.”

Richard Bradley looked at his son sternly. “Rabbit you better come clean with me. There`s something you`re not telling me here and I need to know everything that happened.”

So Rabbit began to tell his father all; the strange yellow dust on Old Man Vilgrain`s Backhoe, the birds falling from the sky, the yellow liquid oozing from the bird when he poked it with a stick and the smelled like the one in the waiting room. How Jeffery became ill and fell and how Rabbit saw a blue aura build and fade around the boy, but left out the fact many in the waiting room at the Walk-in had the same auras.

Richard Bradley said nothing. He listened and looked unblinking at the boy as he parked behind a long line of cars at the emergency entrance of Martin City General. He got out to get Jeffery`s body from the back.

“Wait in the car Rabbit. I`ll be back soon.”

Once inside Richard laid the boy’s body on a gurney as people rushed by him in all directions taking no notice of him. It’s some sort of epidemic. It has to be. Bird Flu or something worse. He covered the boy with the blanket and walked from the building with his shirt sleeve held up to his face in a make-shift respirator. He clicked open his cell and made a call.

“This is number one-one-four,” he said. “You told me to keep you appraised on any new developments with the boy. He said he saw a blue aura. Does that mean anything?” Richard Bradley listened to commands from the voice on the other end before responding. “Look, we need a safe place to go. Everything is coming apart around us. People are sick. They’re dying. I’m worried we could be infected if we stay here much longer.”

The voice, calm and collected, instructed Bradley the next course of action. “Understood.” He said and flipped the phone to the closed position.

He walked quickly back to the car but not too quickly as to arouse suspicion or panic his son further. Others seem less worried about concealing their terror and rushed by him to the emergency entrance. He got into the car and rubbed his sleeve across his face as if to stop a running nose. He sat for a moment with his son by his side.

“Are you mad at me Dad ?”


“Where’s Jeffery?”


“We’re just going to leave him here?”

“We have no choice Rabbit. He’s in good hands here. Don’t worry. we'll sort this out when it's all over. Right now we can't be around these people.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Go home.”

“Go home?” Rabbit questioned.

“Go home,” his father repeated. “Believe me, it`s the safest place to be right now. I`ve called someone. They`re going to send help for us. They’re good men they`ll take care of the situation.”

Richard Bradley started the car and pulled out. At Peterson Air Force Base the chopper was also being fired up. The call was in. It was game on. Colonel Hayden Grant was about to earn his money.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Friday, March 13, 2009

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Masturbate for peace #3

It wouldn't be sex week without....

More swallowing tips for the BJ connoisseur. Although this being hump day....oh never mind.

I find that it's not the taste of cum that bothers me, it's the consistency. Therefore, I get my man to drink fruit juice a couple of hours beforehand, and I take a deep breath as he's about to cum and take him as far down my throat as I can. That way there's no icky feeling on my lips. - Anonymous, England

Just swallow it and as soon as you're done, eat an apple and the taste goes right away - or eat an apple just before you blow him! - Anonymous, California

Have your partner eat something sweet beforehand. Onions are very unpleasant. - Anonymous, Houston

It was never amount or taste of semen that bothered me when giving my fiancé head. Both of those can be managed accordingly. The biggest aversion to swallowing I have is the unpleasant gastrointestinal effects afterward. ;) We always kept a bottle of Pepto Bismol next to the bed. Not exactly romantic, but better than spending the entire morning in the water closet. - Megan, Florida

When my man comes in my mouth I always swallow. My technique is simple: I have my man put his cock inside my mouth as far as possible and give him a nice head job until his cock swells up and he can't hold it anymore and he comes in my mouth. There is no pulling his cock out when he starts to come because I want it all, every last drop of cum. After he pulls his hard cock out of my mouth, I show him his cum in my mouth before I swallow it. Sometimes I will spit it in my hand and then lick it off my hand, or spit it into my coffee cup - makes my coffee taste 100 percent better. One more thing, too - instead of jam or butter, I spread cum on my toast - delicious and no calories! - JJ, U. S.

I find it easier to swallow if I give the blowjob upside down. (Head hanging over the side of the bed, or if you have gravity boots, these are ideal.) This makes it just slide right down your throat with no thought required. - Laura, Charleston

Diet is the answer. A few years ago, when I was smoking and drinking like hell, it was easy to guess how it tasted from the expression of my partners. I quit smoking, drink lot less, do sports, eat huge amounts of protein and healthy stuff. I happened to taste my cum (it was an accident, folks) and man, I'm happy for the women who taste it - they won't crave candy anymore. - James, L. A.

When you feel your man about to come (usually tightening up or a moan or grunt) put his cock to the back of your throat so you don’t need to taste or feel the texture of the cum. - Jackie, N. Y.

I have heard if you eat celery it makes your cum taste good. - Shawn, Massachusetts
Swallowing cum is mostly psychological. The thought that cum is an excrement tends to make it seem dirty or unhealthy. Just remember this as you taste cum - it is the purest of pure. It has to be to make little babies. Also, guys need to remember to keep their cocks and crotches clean. Just like a pussy that's been well fucked over a period of time, if the cock isn't kept clean, it will smell unenticing. - Doug, U. S.

Monday, March 09, 2009

It's a good old fashion, tribute to sex, week

And what better way to kick it off than with a pop-up book of all your favorite sexual positions....

Masturbate for peace #1

Sunday, March 08, 2009

Hijacking Heaven- Chapter X

There was much confusion when Sheppard reached the intersection of Route Two and Seville Lane. Eye witnesses all talked, with what sounded to Sheppard as gibberish, over how the dead Jed Bradshaw had just run down the dead Dallas Shaver, or how the dead Dallas Shaver had just walked into the path of the oncoming vehicle like it was a test of faith, or how both men were to blame for a lack of concentration leading to the predicament of their now soulless flesh.

The young Trooper who had given Sheppard the ticket seemed to have his hands full with all the yammering pedestrians and the blaring of his police radio beckoning him to other calls of equal urgency. The ambulance had not yet arrived on sight and the police car, with lights flashing, gave the impression of a five minute red-light special. Everything’s on sale! Everything must go!

Sheppard wanted to join the fracas and extract as much information about what had happened, but thought better of it. I'm not pressing my luck with a Trooper who thinks I’m bound for Martin City.

He had parked his car up the street in an alley between the hotel and a diner. He had tucked the gun into the front of his jeans and pulled his shirt loose over it. He walked inconspicuously across the road into a store called the Trading Post Emporium.

Behind the counter a large bear of a man, with brown skin like tanned leather and a braided ponytail down his back cutting his plaid shirt in two, stood in profile looking at the scene and pleaded with an unheard voice to please send an ambulance soon.

“Yes this is Malcolm Buck again,” the man said. “And I wouldn’t be calling if you were on the scene!” The man looked bewildered as he hung up, shaking his head at the whole mess. He tossed his cowboy hat onto the counter and rubbed his forehead. “Half an hour?” he mumbled to himself. “That’s ridiculous.”

“What’s going on?”

“An accident is all, friend.”

“In a town this size? I find that hard to believe?”

“Me too, but you can see for yourself.” Buck pointed in reference with a quick jab of his hand toward the chaos. “Two guys not paying attention. Damn shame. Although I tell ya...no forget it. It sounds stupid.”

Sheppard grabbed a local map and approached the counter, slapping the folded pages down with a thwack and extracting his wallet. “Go ahead. Don’t mind me. What do you think happened?”

“I knew both those men,” Buck said. “Good guys, both of them. They were friends for years. But If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the driver of the pickup either forgot which pedal was his break, or intentionally mowed the other man down.”

The crowd was beginning to close in around the officer. They were pawing at him as if he were some irresistible puppy in need of petting. Benjamin Triggs from the Post Office was first in line like he had kibble in his pocket. All were trying to get him to listen to their conflicting accounts of the incident. The Trooper was becoming increasingly agitated as he tried to speak on his radio and keep the small crowd at bay.

“Maybe they had some sort of falling out? You know, one guy catches the other in bed with his wife.”

“I don’t buy it. Neither were men of violence. No...” Buck trailed off, “...it’s strange.” He rang up the map, punching the keys of the cash register. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, but perhaps you could tell me where I could find the Bradley place on this map?”

“You a friend of the family?”

“You could say that.”

The people were now poking at the Trooper like he was some sort of lab experiment. He slipped into his vehicle to escape the questioning hoard and rolled up his window while those outside started to smack their palms on the glass. Above the clouds had moved in and a gentle drizzle began to fall.

Malcolm Buck kept one curious eye trained on the accident site proceedings and shook his head again. “Richard was in here yesterday didn’t say anything about visitors. Was he expecting you?”

Sheppard picked up an umbrella from a nearby rack and fiddled with the leaver, opening then collapsing the bright blue parasol into its original formation. “I’ll take this too. I’m here to see his son actually.”

Buck rang up the item. “Rabbit? Damn! I knew it!” Buck returned his full attention back to his customer. “You’re a scout for the major leagues aren’t ya?”

Sheppard felt a little awkward. “I’d rather not say,” he said.

“Which one, Colorado, San Fran, the Dodgers? I knew that kid’s speed would pay off. Let me be the first to say you’re not wasting your time with that one. Rabbit’s one super fast little kid. Should develop in to quite the athlete with the right coaching. Here let me show you the quickest way there.”

Sheppard wasn’t going to argue. If this Malcolm Buck was going to help him, so be it. Although it was a little hard to believe a scout for the majors would be here see Rabbit, a twelve year-old prodigy, especially dressed in jeans with his shirt tail hanging out and a two week growth of stubble on his face.

Malcolm started to point out the way to the Bradley house when suddenly a hollow pop cut through the air outside the shop. “What the...?” The two turned their gaze to the accident site as Benjamin Triggs fell backward onto the ground, clutching at his chest. His knees alternately rising slowly as blood bubbled out over his fingers.

The crowd began rocking the patrol car. The popping noise was followed by more and other people around the police car began to fall in a spray of maroon mist. The Trooper fired repeatedly, blowing out the windows and shooting all in his way. In a blind panic the rest of the people began to run. The Trooper stepped from the vehicle and fired in all directions in a wanton execution, cutting down all those that ran; women, man, child.

Saturday, March 07, 2009

Friday, March 06, 2009

Need a lift?

It's stupid I know, but I laughed like hell.

Thursday, March 05, 2009

Pants Wars

If only George Lucas had the foresight to insert the word pants into key lines of dialogue, Star Wars would have been a much funnier series of films.

I find your lack of pants disturbing.
Chewie and me got into a lot of pants more heavily guarded than this.
I cannot teach him. The boy has no pants.
The Force is strong in my pants.
You came in those pants? You're braver than I thought.
In his pants you will find a new definition of pain and suffering
Governer Tarkin. I should have expected to find you holding Vader's pants.
Pull up! All pants pull up!
A disturbance in the pants. I have not felt this since near my old master...
I sense the conflict within you. Let go of your pants!
He has no time for smugglers who drop their pants first sign of Imperials
That blast came from the pants! That thing's operational!
Alderan is peaceful, we have no pants!
I've just made a deal that will keep the Empire out of our pants forever
The pants will be down in moments, sir, you can begin your landing
These aren't the pants you're looking for.
Looks like someone's beginning to take an interest in your pants.
Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your pants.
I am altering the pants. Pray that I don't alter them any further
Great, Chewie, great. Always thinking with your pants.
Search your pants, you know it to be true.
Tell that to Jabba. If you're lucky he might only take your pants.
I'm not in this for your revolution, I'm in it for the pants
"Great pants kid! Don't get cocky!"

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

You kid's toys are on drugs #3

Again with the BJ tips

If you try to deep throat and are having a problem, use Chloraseptic mouth spray. It will numb your throat. I use it and can deep throat 7 inches without any problem. Also, swallow as soon as the load hits your mouth. You'll taste very little that way. - Bobbie Jo, Kentucky

The day before and day of an anticipated BJ, do the following: Drink plenty of water. Use a lot of nonsugar sweeteners such as stevia, Splenda, or others. They are usually more concentrated than sugar, and will not be intercepted by insulin in your bloodstream. Avoid saccharin, Nutrasweet and other artificial products, as these may be bad for your health. Add seasonings like vanilla extract, cinnamon, and fruit extracts to foods and drinks whenever possible. Make blender drinks with fresh or frozen fruit, adding the sweeteners and flavorings mentioned above. Take supplements like chlorophyll and enteric-coated peppermint. Avoid fish, beer, milk, cigarettes, red meat, garlic, onions, asparagus, and cabbage. Thank your girl for making you feel so good! - Anonymous, U. S.

I read in my man's Playboy about giving BJs and learned this trick. It really helps. If you make a fist when he is about to blow and place it between his balls and his asshole, it really cuts down on "the load" that has to be swallowed. - Anonymous, U. S.

I tell my partner to let me know when he's ready to cum, and just as he's ready to shoot, I take him all the way down. This way he cums in my throat but it's easy to swallow when he takes his Viagra and shoots it deep. It takes a little practice but when you get it right you will love the way it feels when his semen floods your throat. And of course, there's very little mess left over. Your man will do just about anything for you after you deep throat his load. - Anonymous, Canada

Drink orange juice before a blowjob...that way the taste is bearable...and tasty!!! - Anonymous, U. S.

I like to have an average or smaller cock that fits in my mouth perfectly and just put it in the back of my mouth when he cums. That way it completely skips my taste buds, and I can still feel the pulsations (which I love) and the way it feels to drink it. - Jared, L. A.

If you put something in your mouth and then swallow, it will make it taste a little, but ooh baby, it's worth it!! I was giving this guy head and he came in my mouth. I had a piece of strawberry gum in my mouth and I could barely taste it. If you deep throat, that works too! - Anonymous, Michigan

Make him cum more often so the loads won't be as big. Henceforth, a smaller load to swallow. - Anonymous, Nashville

Three words... Semenex, Semenex, Semenex !!! - Sean, Arizona

We tried the smoothie (3 times over 1 day) and the blow job was delicious! It's now part of the routine and it seemingly gets better and richer. With a shot of whipped cream it's a healthy dessert! - Brian, Michigan

Monday, March 02, 2009

You kid's toys are on drugs #2

Black humor for a blue Monday

When I was a kid I used to pray every night for a new bike.

Then I realised that The Lord doesn't work that way, so I stole one and asked him to forgive me.

Sunday, March 01, 2009

Hijacking Heaven- Chapter IX

His boots glared back at him in mirrored pools of black- Army issue, combat style, shined to perfection with a tread so thick it could break the skull of any Commie-rat-bastard who found the great misfortune of having his face beneath the stomping footfall.

To get the steel toe and heel shiny was no big deal, but making the rest of the boot shimmer was where the effort came in. You had to be committed: cotton balls, alcohol, ice-cold water, Kiwi shoe polish, a lighter, Kiwi edge finish and either nylon panty hose or a cut-up t-shirt about 4"x8".

Only then would your boots resonate with, “The black”. Bible black, righteous in its military might. Opaque, impenetrable yet with the draw like a black hole, pulling you in to the deeps of an abyss no one had returned from. The type of black you’d see prying into the very soul of the most heartless killer, the serial rapist, the rank-and-file, money-driven, con-artist, floating at the outer rim of the coldest reaches of the universe. It was a black that told stories, evoked a chill in the bones. It was a shiny oil slick of black as if spawned from the fabled Exxon Valdez, not the black of a festering wound, robust with decay. To put it simply, those boots spoke and what they said was black death.

Everything about them made him proud to be an American, for these were, don’t fuck with me boots of leather, sole and laces tied to the point of cutting off circulation. They were laced with horizontal accuracy across the tongue and up the length to an anchor-bend knot at the top, not those fag bows- over under in and out that’s what tying is all about.

No, these were the boots of a mean motherfucker, who could cut them off with one swipe of a blade if he ever found himself floating in the deep shit. They could kick in the mental doors of the reinforced, steel, mind containing your darkest secrets and send a foot so far up your ass you’d taste shoe polish for years to come.

And these were his boots, the boots of Colonel Hayden Grant. Grant wasn’t officially a Colonel. Colonel was just a title bestowed on him, a bouquet of roses from his employers who had brought him to the napalm prom, where shit blows up in fifty shades of fiery red sending a fireworks display of blood and severed limbs into the heavens.

He hadn’t put in the time at West Point, or Annapolis, or any other military facility for that matter. What Hayden Grant knew, wasn’t taught on a blackboard, or twenty-mile marches through the drizzle and muck, by dropping and giving twenty, or by A.R. assembly in under thirty seconds. And what Hayden Grant could do, was a talent not many possessed- a rare gift of delivering the hand of death.

Grant leaned back and cupped his hands above his head as if in surrender. His hair was also army issue, sheered to a fine black bristle; In fact, he had more hair on his eyebrows, running like an un-pruned hedge along the length of his brow. In all, the perfect pinnacle to every pressed and tailored fold of uniform with a glistening belt-buckle star, twinkling in the fluorescent overheads of a waiting room at Peterson Air Force base in Colorado Springs.

As he pushed his solid frame into the couch cushions he allowed the small table in front of him the honour of providing a resting place for his boots.

What many didn’t know; the real trick to the shine was to first, get the factory gunk off with rubbing alcohol. Then take the laces out of those bad-boys and put them in a warm shower. It's almost like opening up the pores, or spreading sexy long legs in a gentle caress before pounding the genitalia into submission. Let them sit in the shower for ten minutes and then take them out.

Across form Grant sat a man hunched as in deep thought, or someone on the verge of pouring his breakfast in an evacuation of vomit onto the shinny linoleum. It was almost the same pose Graham Sheppard had used only hours ago. Yet, he was neither sick nor in quiet reflection and his choice of weapon was far from the instant death Sheppard had held in his hands. No, this man pinched a copy of Sports Illustrated’s Swim Suit issue. He held it tweezed between his nimble fingers as he sat with his head bowed studying every feature, every airbrushed inch of mannequin flesh, raised nipple, Botox induced pucker and rippled indent of vagina beneath designer fabric.

He was a wiry man and although they both sat you could tell he was the taller of the two. His ear was large for his head, as he only had one of them, and it jutted out from his right side like a wind-sail. The other had at one time been cut from his body, crudely cloven, with a less than razor-sharp instrument, leaving behind a small volcano of reddish flesh, bumpy and disfigured, like acne boiled in acid. Their uniform was similar in every way except for the boots. They seemed to lack the same lustre as Grant’s.

Sometimes you see people set the boot wax on fire before putting it on the boot. That's just too messy and doesn't work as well. The best way to get the boot to accept the wax is to heat the boot itself. Start in sections so that the wax takes faster. For instance, heat up just the steel toe area of the boot for about ten seconds before you apply the wax. Then do the heel and repeat, using the cotton balls to swipe about a thumbnail's worth of Kiwi wax onto it. Dip it into the cold water and then apply to the heated area. Use small circles until the entire area is covered like you’re rubbing the tiniest clitoris. You'll need to do this fairly quickly so that you don't lose the heat. Van Gogh wasn’t much for true boot shining protocol.

They had been through everything together, Grant and this Mr. Van Gogh; the black ops; the shameless killing, the endless hookers, doing their best to make those whores airtight before the stole their nylons for a good boot shinning. They had escalated conflicts together; they had assassinated those who became trouble to their employers. In essence, they were problem solvers- first class cleaners with military muscle. Whenever there was a need for resolution through the backdoor you called Grant and his associates.

Van Gogh twitched slightly, pawing at his phantom ear to ease the itch that could not be scratched, without so much as a bat of an eyelash from his magazine.

Grant remembered when it had all gone down, running guns to Chechen rebels. Van Gogh had been captured by the Russians and they had tortured him, carving his ear off in an effort to find out what an American was doing in the middle of a Russian civil war. They’d done it without much fanfare. There had been no rendition to Steeler’s Wheel grinding out “Stuck in the Middle,” from the speakers of a ghetto blaster in a pseudo black comedic moment, just a strip of razor wire and whole lot of screaming.

Grant had stormed in with the rest of their team and slaughtered every one of those dirty bastards. Unfortunately the one asshole with the razor wire still clutched in his dying hand, his life flashing before his eyes and four bullet holes in his abdomen had popped the entire ear in his mouth and swallowed the fuckin’ thing before they could retrieve it and pack it in ice.

“What’s the word Hayden?”

Hayden Grant brushed a fleck off his boots and returned his hands to his head like the interlocking tines of a fork. “We wait.”

“Waiting sucks ass.” Van Gogh thumped the page with his index finger, blotting out the face of a blond model on her knees in the sand, her arms raised in total submission as the waves rolled over her leaving specks of tiny diamond water beads. Apparently, Louie Vatton wasn’t just making handbags anymore. “Fuck me, look at the camel toe on this bitch. I can’t tell if it’s real or brushed in?” Van Gogh lowered his face to the page for a closer inspection. “But it sure makes my rocks hard.”

“Semper Fi brother. Semper Fi.”

The call had gone out to Hayden Grant. His employers needed someone silenced, some former hot-shot scientist who knew too much. This post was a piece of cake compared to the other black-ops his employers had asked him to be involved in, from the U.S.S. Cole, to controlled demolitions on 911, Grant was the man. Shit, if he’d been alive back in the sixties, he’d probably been involved in the bombing of the U.S.S. Liberty too.

You could be sure that if any slime ball, thorn in the side to his employers was still alive, it was because it was wanted that way- a poster child for evil from Kabul to Islamabad. Every now and then he’d be thrown a tid-bit, a second in command, something to wet the appetite of the public and renew the bonds of the fight against terrorism. This time would be no different. Innocent American’s would die, the area would be quarantined, others would be blamed and the whole nation would rally behind the cries of death. While months of inquests buried the dead under mountains of paperwork, all eyes would focus elsewhere and the real work here would begin. It had worked before, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran. Just give them a reason to take on the North Koreans or the fuckin’ chinks and all is golden. The masses were so stupid, so gullible. If only they knew the true, one enemy.

Dr. Robert Forder knew.....or was it Sheppard now? Whatever he called himself it didn’t change the outcome, the truth was dangerous and the truth in the hands of a man who knew it, even more so. That’s why Grant was here with his boots, to put an end to a lunatic’s claim and finger pointing. Not that the sick and the dying listen much to the rants of a madman.

He would have had Sheppard by now except the idiot had gone right into the flame and it was too soon to follow.

He knew this whole operation was now a game of wait and see. Phase one of Project Eden was now complete, nothing to do but wait for anarchy and see chaos come down the pipe and then break out the hazmat suits like he was dressing for a dinner party, go in and clean up.

Yet, Grant felt a percolating anger, being robbed of something precious. The killing of Sheppard was a berth right that was his and his alone. Finding Sheppard lying by the roadside with his guts twisted inside out, after the fact, gave him no pleasure, no matter how much pain the man might have suffered. He had wanted Sheppard, to stick the blade and twist slowly as he watched the horror in the man’s eyes. Grant would slowly unzip his belly from button to balls while Sheppard watched his guts fall out with a wet slap before he died.

Both he and Van Gogh knew a lot, but Hayden Grant knew everything. The whole anchelotta of what was in process. The power of the knowledge was overwhelming at times and he knew by following the righteous path, this angel of death would have a spot in the new world order. The brave new world would need a man like him to keep focused.

But what Grant didn’t know? The waiting was nearly over. Soon, the phone would ring and new orders would come down. The jet helicopter would be warm and ready to rock and roll all the way to Coram. “Someone was to be extracted from the hot zone at all costs, a special package, an Indigo, but if Sheppard interfered by all means add him to the casualty list with extreme prejudice.”