Porn and Fat People

14 09 2008
If you look closely, well, dont look closely.

If you look closely, well, don't look closely.

It has recently come to my attention (I just realized) that porn and fat people bring in the most hits to this blog. As a kind of experiment–in the very loosest sense–I am now preparing to write an article devoted entirely to adult video entertainment and the morbidly obese. I admit to some reservations…

I have not yet decided how to arrange this article, due in part to my crippling fear of what will surely appear in Google images when I search for “porn and fat people”. Let’s see. Hmm, it appears that the first three results are actually moderately SFW. What’s more, they’re even slightly unrepulsive. Let’s try it from another angle.

Google search for: “fat people and porn”.

Oh. Oh goodness.

That’s… I, uh, haven’t the words. I knew something awful would happen. The least offensive image of the top three…

Take that, libido!

Take that, libido!

…proves it.  There’s a definite point at which irony reverses itself and terrible things happen. Whether that sentence refers to me or the appetite-ruiner above, or both, is yet to be said. That fucking picture isn’t helping things, either. What bothers me most is that she’s obviously posed–there’s even something stuffed between her…leg, or whatever…and her windward side–eating a whole cake in her no-doubt sturdy undergarments, but looks actually impatient for the picture to be taken so she can put down the fork and grab two meaty fistfuls of icing and diabetic shock.

Let’s move on,

Some of the top search phrases for this blog involve porn actresses and fists, or some combination of the two along with “anus”. I’m not sure, but I don’t think I’ve written that much on the subject of anal sex, although I know I have discussed it or referenced it on a few separate occasions, and have in fact used both–okay, fine. I talk about butt sex too much.

Butt sex. There.

Porn can be pretty entertaining sometimes, but it has its major drawbacks. Most people know the whole “I don’t want to see some guy’s balloon knot staring me in the eye while I’m trying to test the mic” line. Despite its lameness, that’s a fairly true statement. Another one would be “I don’t want to look at some dirty chick with a pimply ass who looks like she left the kids at 7-11 so she could go screw herself some crank money”. That’s a turn-off for a couple reasons, but primarily it’s because they always look tired and strung-out, or worse, when they look like they’ve been tricked into it. Maybe I’m too sensitive, but that’s a little much.

On the other hand,

Some women would have to try pretty goddamned hard to turn anyone off. Sadly, my ideal porn scene involves two women who are actual actresses, one who is now an actual dead actress, and two of me, which will never come to pass, since Fate shit on me when I sold my necromancing kit to buy a cloning lab. Although, if I could clone an army of Megan Foxes, I could use them to protect me (with sex) from the other army of Megan Foxes who want to kill me (with more sex, and maybe katanas, because evidently I think Evil Megan Fox would all be ninja).

Throwing stars? No, this is where I keep my car keys.

"Throwing stars? No, this is where I keep my car keys."

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You see, the problem with dens of iniquity is…

14 06 2008

That the clerks always look at you with this mildly superior smirk, like “I’m so pulling a fast one on you right now. You’re totally buying this stuff that I’m selling. I win.” 

Now, I get it that maybe a guy shopping in a porn store is probably a little creepier than the guy working there–at least on the outside–but inferior? Or, god forbid, morally inferior? Oh my, whatever shall we do…

No, no. Let me back up just a little. See, I always maintain an overly cheerful manner when dealing with guys who work in places that sell bongs and rubber vaginas. It keeps them on edge, ready to fight to the death if necessary, should any errant pervert make a wrong move. It’s healthy for them, I think, to have that sort of fantasy world to slip into when all you have to do for twelve hours a day is watch wrestling and sell fake cocks to women his grandmother’s age. 

Anyway, he had that same sort of smirk I was telling you about. Except, on this guy, the smirk looked half condescending, and half hateful. I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if he had a loaded shotgun next to the TV, always ready to blow a hole in someone, but that just gathers dust, having never even been fired. If I had jumped at him and made a scary face:

Yes, just like that one

He would have blown a rat hole through my thigh. You know, because of how scary I am. I mean, look at that–is that the scariest Asian man you’ve ever seen or what?

I’m sorry, I seem to be getting away from the point here. The point is that the greatest moral question of my generation is whether the guy selling the porn, or the guy buying, is of a higher moral standing. Maybe they’re equally scummy. Or maybe they should join forces to stop crime because they’re both just that fucking awesome. 

Or maybe the guy shopping at the porn store shouldn’t be complaining so much about the service. 





What kind of question is that?

24 05 2008

So I woke up a few minutes ago, dizzy, disoriented, and terribly thirsty. I may have exhausted myself earlier while running–I got lost in some neighborhood and probably ran an extra two miles as a result–and my brain is still pretty fried. So, being thirsty and half-asleep, I decide to walk up to the main office, underneath which they have a Gatorade machine. 

On the way there, I pass a building with three girls and one guy sitting out on the balcony. 

“Hey,” calls the fatter one of the four. It was a pretty close competition, in that respect.

“Hi,” I mumble in response.

“What are you doing up so late?” You know, as if they knew my regular sleeping habits, and were surprised at this unexpected burst of insomnia.

“I’m thirsty!” I yell as I walk past. 

“We’ve got bottled water!” echoes the reply from behind me. Ugh. Two things I find quite distasteful, especially when I first wake up: fat girls and bottled water. If God had wanted me to fuck around with a bunch of fat girls, he would not have made fresh water so readily available in lakes, streams and rivers.

I arrive at the Gatorade machine to find it unplugged. 

“Fuck,” I say, attempting to reason with the machine. “You goddamned lazy communist cocksucker–why did come all the way down here for this?”

Suddenly, there is a noise behind me at the door. 

“Hey!” comes the fatty chorus. “We wanted to make sure you didn’t get raped.” Giggles from the girls, and a mean ugly look from the guy. Apparently, even in the cities Texans tend to look down on potential cattle rustlers.

The three globs are apparently in the throes of a fairly heavy MDMA trip–owl-like pupils, sweat pouring out of every available open gland, teeth grinding, eyes rolling in pleasure. I can spot a person on an X trip a long way off, not that it would be hard to see this crowd at a distance. The girls’ male companion seems to be more or less sober–or else he’s used to the drug and doesn’t “roll” quite as hard.

“Um, no, no rape here,” I mutter, still trying to finagle the fucking machine, which is still obstinately unplugged. 

“Not yet, anyway!” a wild cackle bursts forth. 

“So,” begins the second-fattest, a brunette through the sickening squelch of grinding molars. “You want to come over and chill? We’re lonely and no one else is awake.”

Ouch. The poor little fucker with them seems not to take this personally, but I know he must feel like shit. He’s got the perfect scenario to become the fourth wheel of a fatty fuck-bus, but here they are more or less propositioning me in the dirty apartment laundry room. 

“No, I’ve got a girlfriend. I don’t think she’d like that.” Yeah, and she also might not take to being thrashed in the kidneys with a tire iron.

“She doesn’t have to know. She’s still asleep, right?”

Jesus Christ. I’m being bullied into sex by a clutch of profusely sweating BBWs who are fried out on a drug that turns your corpus colossum into jelly.

“No, thanks. I don’t do shit like that,” I say firmly, while making a selection of Minute Maid Lemonade. 

“Oh come on,” pleads blonde fatty number two. “We’ll give you a tab.”

Yeah, I think. That’s exactly what I need. One hit of ecstasy and I’ll be railing these three tubs like fucking Peter North until someone finally drags me off of the jiggling, moaning mess twelve hours later. Probably the guy, too. Poor bastard. Best not to consider that one.

“I don’t fuck around with that shit anymore,” I say, becoming agitated. “It fries your brain, and besides, I wouldn’t even be able to get anywhere if I took one.”

Blank identical expressions on their faces. I knew what they had to be thinking: here’s some half-asleep white dude who just automatically assumes that they’re asking him to take a tab with them so that he’ll go light speed pornstar and impair their ability to walk for a couple days. The brunette, the leader of this sweat-drenched daisy chain, speaks up:

“What, you think we’re going to fuck you?” The effort at righteous indignation is undermined by her friends’ panicked expressions, and the look of pure hate on the face of the poor “guy friend”. “Please. We were just trying to be nice.”

Okay, I think. That helps me considerably.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you guys.” I push through the crowd with obvious impatience. 

The bitchy comeback hangs in the air behind me like a filthy banner, the pointed rejection palpable, until one of the other fatties says: 

“Can we at least see it?”





Goddamned right I didn’t run you over!

21 05 2008

I’m drunk. Perhaps I should make that clear before we go any further: I am drunk, and don’t quite know how to contain myself at the moment. As to whatever else might be wrong with me, well, it gives me a certain kind of peace to know that–whatever else actually happens to me, personally–you readers don’t really know fact from fiction as this point. I could have swallowed seven forty-mil oxycontin after an eight-ball of some 98% Bolivian Superblow and a solid liter of Jose Cuervo, and none of you would know the difference unless I told you so.

What does that feel like, I wonder? What if I am sinking into one of the best China White jabs of my life, and not just swaying slightly in my dumpster-chair, the victim of too much tequila and something called an Irish Car Bomb. And another something–this time incredibly sweet, even cloying–called a… fuck. Water Moccasin? Whatever the facts, the point is that I’m pretty fucking drunk. 

I’m looking up at the title of this entry and freaking out, right now. I have no clue as to what the fuck it’s supposed to mean. Who did I run over recently? Did I run anyone over tonight? No, impossible. I walked to the bar–a wise choice, if you ever have the option–and managed to make it to someone’s house before the brunt of the liquor even hit me. And then… Well.

Anyway, I can’t help but relate to you the event of my emailing a fairly vicious letter to the editor of the San Marcos Daily Record. Now, I wasn’t doing anything immature–like counting off spelling/grammar errors like I did in 3rd grade–I just sent them a strangely poignant letter-essay about my job at Essay Writers and the work we perform there. It wasn’t a pleasant letter, by any means. I wrote it, so it could only conceivably involve forced sodomy and Mind of Mencia marathons.

Actually, it involves the probability that a good portion of the students here in San Marcos have actually bought their essays from sites like mine. It’s kind of addressed to the parents of such individuals, but not in a joking or ragging way. It actually does a decent job of paint the world of professional essay writing as a grim, grimy place inhabited by drug-runners and pimps. Which, for better of worse, is total bullshit. I’m pretty proud of it, actually, which sets it apart from pretty much everything I’ve ever written (except for a couple of poems), and really sets a high bar for something that is actually not that spectacular. Fuck it–I like it. Piss on you whores. 

Okay. So, hopefully that letter doesn’t actually get published (yes, I was actually sober when I wrote the fucking thing), and if it does… God save us all. 





For the sake of decency!

19 05 2008

If there’s one thing we should all agree on, it’s that all porn performers have their expiration dates. John Holmes got AIDS, Jenna Jameson got her face seared off and sewed on wrong. Some just decide it’s time to hang up the jizz towel. Those are the ones whose old scenes are still worth watching. Some pornstars meet their expiration dates with a strange kind of dignity and grace, then fade out to become late-night shills for male enhancement products.

Then again, some porn stars die, and yet new footage of them continues to be released to the jerking viewing public. This is not okay. No. Scratch that. That is very not fucking okay. Do any of you have any clue how uncomfortable it is to watch a porn scene of someone who’s actually pretty impressive, only to find out that not only are they dead, but they were fucking murdered?

Jesus God! I understand that the porn industry is a little lacking as far as common decency is concerned, but there has to be a limit. This girl:

is dead. Only moments ago, I saw a scrolling advert blazing across the screen with her as the cover model. Am I the only one who sees something wrong with this? It’s not like Heath Ledger, who was an actor for “entertainment value only”. You can still watch his movies, and while you might think “Hey, he’s recently deceased.” it won’t exactly fuck you up. Porn–come on, we all know it’s true–is a two-way avenue of entertainment. Hardly anyone watches porn for the storylines. It’s interactive, up to a certain point. 

Okay, fine. Here’s the problem, in plain words: jerking off to dead girls is almost like necrophilia. 

That, along with the theft of infants for personal gain, is not okay with me. 

Just remember: if you’re watching porn, this girl:

is dead. I’m sorry.





I Quit My Job Today: a Dramatization

8 05 2008

I’m standing at the urinal at work today, when the Big Boss comes walking through the door all in a huff.

“Thompson!” he yells, clearly meaning me, even though my name isn’t Thompson.

“Yes, boss?” I reply politely while trying whole-heartedly not to piss all over the floor.

“What the hell is all that–Jesus God!” he exclaims, pointing at my crotch. “What the Holy Mary is that thing? Did the Salvation Army have a closeout sale on artificial limbs?” 

“Well, yes they did, actually,” I answer sheepishly.

“Jesus man, put that thing away! I need to speak to you.”

“Okay boss,” I comply, turning to speak to him while pissing all over the floor. “What is it?”

Ack!”  he screams, jumping back. “You idiot, you’ve pissed all over the floor!”

“I see,” I say. I’m still not sure where he’s going with all of this.

“Anyway, I need to ask about what Little Boss told me earlier. Are you really quitting?”

“Why, yes sir, I–”

Before I can finish, he jumps on me and begins pounding me about the face and head with a hammer I did not notice him holding. As it punches neat little divets into my face, I can see with my good eye that it says “The Defector Defeater” along its handle. “Defector”… That’s me.

Later on, once the beating has ceased, he’s walking me back to my station, where I will sit, politely silent, until and only until he says that I can go. Along the way, I slyly pick up a long sharp piece of steel laying on the floor.

“Alright Johnson, you’ll stand right here until, and only until, I say you can go. Is that clear?”

“Yes b–”

“Goddamn it! You’ll be quiet when I’m talking!” Several quick blows from The Defeater remind me who’s in charge. “Davis, I’ve been pretty lenient on you so far, but if you don’t shape up, I’m taking you to see Big Big Boss.”

I nod, blood dripping from pretty much every square centimeter of my face, and wait for him to come to the point.

“And the point of this little exercise, Mabutu, has been–ACK!”

He finds it somewhat difficult to speak with ten inches of steel driven upward through his soft pallet.

“Yes, boss?” I ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer, only meekly swings the Defector Defeater at my face. I deftly snatch it from his hand and drive another piece of sharp metal through his face, just for good measure.

Later on, as I’m signing my letter of resignation, I pause to reflect on how poorly the day has gone. Big Boss didn’t have to die, but he forced my hand. Further, I didn’t have to urinate all over his bleeding face while he lay gasping on the floor, but again with the hand-forcing. The stapled eyelids may have been my fault entirely.

Just as I walk out the door on the last day of my employment, a tall blonde secretary runs up and exposes her enormous breasts to me in a gesture of friendship. I’m not buying it.

“You tell Big Big Boss that I’m not falling for his tricks anymore!” I tell her quietly as I beat her about the face and breasts with my artificial arm. “You tell him!”

The last thing I see as I drive away from the building is Big Big Boss stepping out of his blonde ladysuit, shaking his fists at me and swearing: “I’ll get you, Thompson!” 





Too Hot for Porn: Five Women Who Don’t Have to Go Double-Anal

5 05 2008

Hot women and pornography go together like, um, hot women and completely ignoring guys like me. It’s pretty difficult to find an unattractive chick in today’s dirty movies, unless you still consider Jenna Jameson to be female. There are all kinds of gorgeous gals in skin flicks these days that you’d think there’s some kind of Perfect 10 assembly line out in the San Fernando Valley. Or that maybe Satan is loose on the Earth and is defiling everything we hold dear in life and love.

Either way, the usual suspects in any given porn situation are, at the very least, sevens on the Babe Scale. I mean, some of these girls make anything Hollywood and Victoria’s Secret have to offer look like a baby shower at Luis Guzman’s house.

Having said that, there are a select few porn “actresses” who are so stunning you have to stop and wonder why they’re even in the industry to begin with. Sure, porn pays pretty well if you’re pretty and can’t type, but this is a bit much. Even if every single one of these chicks are in it because they really really like four penes jabbing them repeatedly in every available orifice, there has to be a point where they go “You know what? I’m too goddamned pretty for all this. I’m going to go make Bill Gates lick my dog’s ass.”

 

Jenna Presley

Now, her Google image results may shock and arouse most of you into painfully stiff convulsions, but if you didn’t know better, what would you say about Miss Presley? That she can take a wrist-thick dong all the way down to the top of her colon? Or that she’s probably a hot librarian’s assistant? Or maybe some really nice lady who teaches blind kids to read, instead of causing teenage kids to go blind?

 

Lela Star

Now, I’m not going to try and defend this choice and say she’s “too hot” for porn. I know she looks like your average internet yank site model, but there’s just something so wholesome, so open, about her. She certainly doesn’t strike me as a girl who’s had several cubic feet of penis inside her anus.

Teagan Presley

Remember when Britney Spears was the pinnacle of schoolgirl hotness? Well, neither do I. I read something about it five minutes ago, then made the mistake of looking at the above image again. I’ve even forgotten my first name, driver’s license number, and the name of my unborn child.

 

Ava Rose

If you don’t know who Ava Rose is, you’re among the few (and probably socially equipped and with an active sex life) who don’t. She’s the industry’s hottest rising star, and probably the number one candidate to take Ol’ Leatherface’s place as Queen of the Dicks. She is also, as you can see, incredibly classy looking. I could totally see her starring along side Clark Gable, instead of inside Carmen Luvana.

 

Jenna Haze

Holy bacon, Batman. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that Jenna Haze would give Jesus a hard-on. There is no woman on this planet hotter than Miss Haze. Further, there can’t even be someone equally hot on the planet at the same time as her. It’s mathematically impossible. The world would explode for very mathy reasons that I don’t have the time to explain to you. Just know it.

 

Conclusion

You might be asking yourself: “why the fuck should I care about these women? I’m glad they’re in porn. The guy who wrote this must be some kinda faggy asshead.” And you may very well be right. On the other hand, if you really think about it, at this rate, every single attractive woman on the planet will one day only touch penes that are ten-plus inches long, and are attached to someone whose name is also in the script.

Not all of us are so freakishly endowed–I am not throwing my hat into that ring with you peanut dicks, by the way–and hardly any of us could successfully maintain a porn career. Those who can, well, why don’t you go fuck something? Or maybe watch Mind of Mencia. For everyone else: caveat emptor.