Eeewwww


WHERE TO START.  The insistent “breathe!”-cow, the Jamaican (?) rooster, or the key weirdness of the shriveled elf-man and his skinny jeans, displayed to such flexible effect.  Yogie Okey Dokie’s Yogi round-up (sic from video) is the singularly most disturbing thing I’ve received all week, and it is a struggle to pinpoint the most offensive or perplexing thing about it, because there is just so much to work with.  Examples to follow.

  • Um, the opening shot of our new friend Yogie Okey Dokie and his hind-quarters-over-head thing.
  • The dance at 0:18 (trust, it is downhill from here).
  • From 0:31…  I have no words.  NEEMMPPHGGHH… UNGH… yeah, no words.
  • 0:42:  RUN, CHILLEN!!!!  RUUUUUUUUUUUUN!
  • The “chicken scratching in the dirt” at 1:19.
  • What immediately follows (“Nmmmmmemememe.”)
  • What happens right after that (hands-down yogi town.)
  • “Nice anvil, Christian!” at 1:49.
  • Followed by, “Nice tomato!  I’ll save that for my sandwich!”
  • Followed by farm animals going, “Mmmmm, hmmm, mmmm.”
  • VEGETABLE, vegetable, VEGETABLE! (at 2:06) and the subsequent tongue-thrusting insanity.

So… yeah.  Everything IS terrible.  I don’t think yoga for kids is a bad idea at all, and I don’t think that this guy is a pederast – I think he’s just enthused.  But this is such an undeniable and compelling trainwreck I’m pretty sure it qualifies as high art.

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I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that “twincest” is a neologism you don’t need to impart into your regular vocabulary, but it is raised in a recent Salon article on Milo and Elijah Peters, 19-year-old Czech twins who have caused a stir in the gay porn community.  The twins reportedly first showed up on the website of Bratislava-based porn distributor Bel Ami in the summer of 2009 in group videos, not touching.  Over a period of months, they progressed to mutual handjobs within a group scenario, then blowjobs, then oral sex, and finally (and hugely publicized), anal intercourse.

Thomas Rogers explains:

While the concept of twin performers is not new to the gay porn world, the Peters twins are notable both because of the extent of their popularity and the things they are willing to do with each other on camera. They French kiss; they perform oral sex on each other; they have anal sex; and most shockingly of all, they do it in a tender and romantic way.

“My brother is my boyfriend, and I am his boyfriend,” says one of the twins during a phone call from Prague (Elijah and Milo sound so much alike on the phone it is impossible to tell which one is speaking). “He is my lifeblood, and he is my only love.”

The twins’ astonishing lack of shame — and their willingness to do anything with each other on camera — has helped turn them into a gay porn phenomenon. Since they first began appearing on Czech porn studio Bel Ami’s website (NSFW, like all links in this story) in 2009, the company’s traffic has doubled to 1.5 million users per month, and Milo and Elijah have become the subject of breathless coverage on adult blogging sites like Fleshbot and The Sword. They’ve even been flown from Prague to the United States for a whirlwind tour of Florida gay nightspots. But their surprising popularity raises some disturbing questions: Who are these twins? What keeps so many people watching them? And what, exactly, are viewers getting off on?

Rogers doesn’t quite answer all these worthy questions in the article, but they are certainly worth a ponder.  First, the boys themselves:  they’re cute and twinky, no doubt about it, and either one of them on their own could likely make a small splash, but in combination?  Titillation dynamite.  They even have a YouTube channel to give their fans access to their lives (the video below, in which they talk about their upcoming trip to Florida, is SFW): (more…)

Centrilobular_emphysema

Wiki:  Gross pathology of lung showing centrilobular emphysema characteristic of smoking. Closeup of fixed, cut surface shows multiple cavities lined by heavy black carbon deposits.

I don’t even smoke anymore and this makes my breathing painful.

It also reminds me of the Brain Bug so now I basically need to go puke up my breakfast, 'scuse plz.

It also reminds me of Brain Bug so basically, I need to go puke up my breakfast now, 'scuse plz.

I am an attractive young woman.  Evaluations of my level of attractiveness and the relativity of my youth will vary from person to person (not to mention day-to-day), but generically speaking, this is a fair statement.  I am also a professional in an industry populated mpstly by men.  As such, I am largely at a disadvantage, but retain one *unique* advantage based on my personal presentation, if I choose to cultivate it.

This is a song familiar to a lot of you.

My office wear is carefully calculated to appear appropriate in the service of my own physical and mental comfort.  Any aspect that could be challenged as “alluring” or “radical” is studiously balanced out.  If my pants or skirt are form-fitting, my sweater or blouse is loose or non-confrontational.  If my shirt is vee-necked and tight, my trousers are wide-legged and paired with a blazer.  My hair, which is highlighted red and blonde, is subject to much comment by male colleagues (usually that it is too red and they prefer me blonder).  I take it into consideration, but still wear silver-hooped earrings every day, because I like them, and their size and shape belies how much my ears stick out (I hate my ears).  Every day, I wear an extremely high-quality, fake silver Rolex and a tasteful silver ring I bought on the street in Barcelona.  I take pride in the fact that people who have worked with me for years are surprised to find out I have a tongue stud, because I chose a subtle one ten years ago.

Pantsuits and pearls are for client meetings, with discreet pearl-drop earrings and straightened hair.  I have one gray suit and one black pinstriped suit.  I wear them with shined, heeled black boots for external meetings, or burgundy Franco Sarto heels for meetings in the office.  I bought both suits half-priced in a sale for $300, and then spent $100 in alterations.  I don’t own a skirtsuit because I haven’t found one that fits me well enough to merit alterations, although I have a gorgeous turquoise shift that my mother bought me from M&S when she visited me last year, which is very professional without looking matronly.  I keep it in the coat closet at work with a spare set of pantyhose, in case of an emergency client meeting.

Having been compared to a librarian, a schoolgirl, and a flight attendant at the office, I am careful to ensure I don’t look too costumey.  I once wore a tight black sweater over a crisp white shirt, with a black skirt and buckled leather boots and realized, mirthfully, that I looked like a Pilgrim, but no one noticed. I wore that outfit again for Thanksgiving, for my own private tribute, because I am an American in the UK. (more…)

Speaking of giant colons…  According to news sources, including Minnesota Public Radio correspondent Bob Collins (who personally witnessed the eyesore), this is an actual billboard overlooking I-45 in Minnesota and not, as was originally posited, a Photoshop job.  The sign was allegedly rented by a group of Twin Cities small-businessmen who wish to remain anonymous, although I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t want to publicly proclaim themselves purveyors of such topical wit.  Collins is on a mission to identify these fun-loving scamps, and were I a local resident, I would indeed be curious as to which businesses I should no longer be patronizing.

So while my response to the question at hand would be an unwavering, “hell no,” I will admit that it was jarring to see the original rube, that charismatic, nonsensical man-of-the-people, after so much recent overexposure to his sociopathic heir apparent, Sarah Palin.  The more things change, y’all…

Most of us love a good dive bar, and I’m no different.  Cheap drinks, bad lighting, nasty bathrooms, and a jovial atmosphere are par for the course, be you in Bangkok, Trondheim, or Pardee, Idaho.  Normally, I wouldn’t bother highlighting a dive bar, given the seen-one-seen-’em-all nature of the beast, but I was sufficiently impressed by the sheer dive-i-ness (divity?) of this bar I visited on my trip home for the holidays that I felt compelled to share a couple of pictures.  I’m going to call this bar The Duke.

The Duke has been around for a while, long enough to be something of an institution.  Its unapologetically seedy exterior and relative lack of windows have led many to mistake it for a fourth-rate strip club or an abandoned building (I have heard both), but it is, in fact, a hardcore drinkers’ haven by day and a draw to college students by night.

The Duke has a reputation for the strongest Long Island Iced Teas around, which is no mean feat in my hometown.  It is also notable for being one of the few establishments to escape the city-wide smoking ban, and so has enjoyed a resurgence among the middle-classes of late, which is why I was summoned there on Christmas night for drinks. (more…)