wojr - words, occasionally sentences
Friday, May 20, 2005
That Wasn't A Batcave, It Was A Dungeon
When it comes right down to it, Batman is "a rich kid with issues. Lots of issues."
HAPPY 5PM FRIDAY, MY LITTLE BAT-BITCHES!!!
wojr
When it comes right down to it, Batman is "a rich kid with issues. Lots of issues."
HAPPY 5PM FRIDAY, MY LITTLE BAT-BITCHES!!!
wojr
I Wouldn't Want To Owe America Any Favors (or 'How wojr Is Not Really Out To Piss Off A Navy Seal')
Over at Froggy Ruminations, Scott King comments about Saddam's latest Playgirl pictorial – some of it quite amusing. However, he hits on one of my pet peeves and plays the WW2 card.
Of all the countries involved, America reaped the most benefits from the Second World War - yet we, both the citizenry and their elected officials, still feel like we're owed more.
It's like this. Imagine your grandfather was getting his ass kicked by this huge skinhead in a bar brawl. Then, let's say my grandfather jumps in, starts fighting this muscle-bound bastard and, collectively, our ancestors end up winning the scuffle. They steal the skinhead's wallet (because, hey, to the victors go the spoils) and leave the bar with two fetching bar wenches.
Flash forward sixty years and picture me on your doorstep. I relay the story of our grandfathers and suggest heading down to the local pub for a drink. You agree. You even insist that you pick up the tab since, not only did my grandfather help out your grandfather, but your grandmother ended up being one of the wenches from the bar.
So, we get to the bar and I have a hankering for a Jack Daniels. The bartender tells us that weird little beige guy in the corner just bought all the Jack Daniels in the bar, nine bottles worth. Being the nice fellow or lady that you are, you suggest buying some other drink. You also propose going to another bar to get some Jack Daniels. Hell, you even offer to go ask the odd little man to sell us some of his booze. But I won’t have any of that. We're going to go kick the shit out of this little, dirty brown man and take all his Jack Daniels and you HAVE to help because my grandfather helped you out sixty years ago. Forget the fact that my grandfather got some cash and gash in reward for his bravery. You still owe me, the asshole grandson.
The moral of this story a) if my country offers you a favor, read the fucking fine print, b) I tend to get beer-muscles and c) any Navy SEAL, even little beige ones, could kick my ass!
wojr
Over at Froggy Ruminations, Scott King comments about Saddam's latest Playgirl pictorial – some of it quite amusing. However, he hits on one of my pet peeves and plays the WW2 card.
The moral of this story - don't kick a brother while he is down, especially if that brother is the only reason your grandkids are not speaking German and your wife is not wearing a burkah.For those of you that do not know, the United States, after being attacked by the Japanese in 1941, entered a war that they had desperately been avoiding. In doing so, not only did America help turn the tide of the war for England and liberate the French from German occupation, but the United States managed to finally escape the economic effects of the Great Depression and transform itself into a world superpower.
Of all the countries involved, America reaped the most benefits from the Second World War - yet we, both the citizenry and their elected officials, still feel like we're owed more.
It's like this. Imagine your grandfather was getting his ass kicked by this huge skinhead in a bar brawl. Then, let's say my grandfather jumps in, starts fighting this muscle-bound bastard and, collectively, our ancestors end up winning the scuffle. They steal the skinhead's wallet (because, hey, to the victors go the spoils) and leave the bar with two fetching bar wenches.
Flash forward sixty years and picture me on your doorstep. I relay the story of our grandfathers and suggest heading down to the local pub for a drink. You agree. You even insist that you pick up the tab since, not only did my grandfather help out your grandfather, but your grandmother ended up being one of the wenches from the bar.
So, we get to the bar and I have a hankering for a Jack Daniels. The bartender tells us that weird little beige guy in the corner just bought all the Jack Daniels in the bar, nine bottles worth. Being the nice fellow or lady that you are, you suggest buying some other drink. You also propose going to another bar to get some Jack Daniels. Hell, you even offer to go ask the odd little man to sell us some of his booze. But I won’t have any of that. We're going to go kick the shit out of this little, dirty brown man and take all his Jack Daniels and you HAVE to help because my grandfather helped you out sixty years ago. Forget the fact that my grandfather got some cash and gash in reward for his bravery. You still owe me, the asshole grandson.
The moral of this story a) if my country offers you a favor, read the fucking fine print, b) I tend to get beer-muscles and c) any Navy SEAL, even little beige ones, could kick my ass!
wojr
The Most Addictive Website I Know
Abe Vigoda Is...
I highly suggest you make it your homepage. (Unless wojr.com is your homepage - which would be odd and slightly unsettling. Especially if you take into account that wojr.com isn't even my homepage.)
wojr
Abe Vigoda Is...
I highly suggest you make it your homepage. (Unless wojr.com is your homepage - which would be odd and slightly unsettling. Especially if you take into account that wojr.com isn't even my homepage.)
wojr
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Too Lethargic For Sadomasochism
I'll admit it. When it comes to sex, I'm pretty much all talk.* I can throw out references to dwarf porn, double penetration and geriatric rim jobs with relative ease. But, with the exception for some extraordinary cunnilingus skills, my sex life is pretty vanilla.
I think this explains why one of unfinished short pieces, Genocide and Other Deli Meats, remains unfinished. The storyline deals heavily with sadomasochism, aka S&M, and, quite frankly, I don't get the appeal of the whole scene.
I understand that it's not just about beating the shit out of someone for your sexual pleasure. It's about power or the lack of it. Domination, Submission, Omnipotence, Impotence, blah blah blah. It all just becomes white noise to me. Doesn't the whole thing just seem like an over-complicated way to get yourself off?
I mean, I can understand it if you need to shove an eggplant up your ass to achieve orgasm, but when you are adding a private dungeon onto your house to satisfy your sexual needs? Really? That's where I draw the line in my pursuit of carnal pleasure – construction. (Well, that and having anything shoved up my ass.)
Take this contraption for instance.
First off, if I wouldn't sit on/in something for my own personal comfort, I'm not having sex on it. This isn't some new rule for me or just me trying to be funny. I've had some bad experiences.
Secondly, look at that thing! Ikea isn't mass-producing something like that. It's a custom job. You need to build it yourself or pay someone to build it for you. Either way you are investing some disposable income and/or valuable leisure time getting that bad boy up and running. Then, I’m sure there's upkeep and maintenance. Just volunteer at the local library or donate to cancer research if you got extra time and money.
Because you just know that you'll eventually get bored with that and need to upgrade to something else. Probably something that spins like this.
Now that you got the rack and a prop from The Corsican Brothers movie, you’re going to need a dungeon. These things just won't fit in your closet or fold away under the bed. So, now your sexual obsessions are affecting the resell value of your house, That's a point where I'd have to stare down at my penis and think about what it's gotten me into this time.
Imagine this. You have this great new house and you invite your family over. You start giving the grand tour, they ask what's in that room and you have to make something up. You have to lie about rooms in your own house. Then, you're short a chair at the dinner table and the only extra one you can offer is this.
How do you explain that? Like I said, it just seems like a lot of work. (Plus, I wouldn't want furniture with better abs than mine.)
Then again, I could be wrong. I could just be lazy but there is one thing I am sure of. Someone is going to find this site by doing a search for "geriatric rim jobs".
wojr
*Of course, if I actually admitted to some grandiose sexual history, I would be thoroughly interrogated when I got home to the fiancée.
I'll admit it. When it comes to sex, I'm pretty much all talk.* I can throw out references to dwarf porn, double penetration and geriatric rim jobs with relative ease. But, with the exception for some extraordinary cunnilingus skills, my sex life is pretty vanilla.
I think this explains why one of unfinished short pieces, Genocide and Other Deli Meats, remains unfinished. The storyline deals heavily with sadomasochism, aka S&M, and, quite frankly, I don't get the appeal of the whole scene.
I understand that it's not just about beating the shit out of someone for your sexual pleasure. It's about power or the lack of it. Domination, Submission, Omnipotence, Impotence, blah blah blah. It all just becomes white noise to me. Doesn't the whole thing just seem like an over-complicated way to get yourself off?
I mean, I can understand it if you need to shove an eggplant up your ass to achieve orgasm, but when you are adding a private dungeon onto your house to satisfy your sexual needs? Really? That's where I draw the line in my pursuit of carnal pleasure – construction. (Well, that and having anything shoved up my ass.)
Take this contraption for instance.
First off, if I wouldn't sit on/in something for my own personal comfort, I'm not having sex on it. This isn't some new rule for me or just me trying to be funny. I've had some bad experiences.
Secondly, look at that thing! Ikea isn't mass-producing something like that. It's a custom job. You need to build it yourself or pay someone to build it for you. Either way you are investing some disposable income and/or valuable leisure time getting that bad boy up and running. Then, I’m sure there's upkeep and maintenance. Just volunteer at the local library or donate to cancer research if you got extra time and money.
Because you just know that you'll eventually get bored with that and need to upgrade to something else. Probably something that spins like this.
Now that you got the rack and a prop from The Corsican Brothers movie, you’re going to need a dungeon. These things just won't fit in your closet or fold away under the bed. So, now your sexual obsessions are affecting the resell value of your house, That's a point where I'd have to stare down at my penis and think about what it's gotten me into this time.
Imagine this. You have this great new house and you invite your family over. You start giving the grand tour, they ask what's in that room and you have to make something up. You have to lie about rooms in your own house. Then, you're short a chair at the dinner table and the only extra one you can offer is this.
How do you explain that? Like I said, it just seems like a lot of work. (Plus, I wouldn't want furniture with better abs than mine.)
Then again, I could be wrong. I could just be lazy but there is one thing I am sure of. Someone is going to find this site by doing a search for "geriatric rim jobs".
wojr
*Of course, if I actually admitted to some grandiose sexual history, I would be thoroughly interrogated when I got home to the fiancée.
