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the wretched Comments

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Pretty sure. I'm an industrial mechanic. The ability to fix machines is actually the strongest among my skill set.

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This was a reference to your re-posting of a comment by fer_realz regarding said subject matter. Your explanation of the nature of the post didn't come until the very end. Until then I was under the mistaken assumption that you were the very candid and unabashed author of the post. I was simply wondering if anyone else was experiencing the same eight to ten seconds of bewilderment as I was. Further clarification forthcoming.

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From a visual standpoint I see that neither is superior. Therefore I would have to agree with Luv regarding the inherently uncomfortable aspects of steel, particularly regarding it's thermal conductivity characteristics. Therefore my vote is plastic... equipped with a forward mounted GoPro and wireless feed direct to my smart phone. 24/7.

And no funny stuff!!

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Confusion, disarray...

I was kidding about "dropping off the grid". And I don't have any restraining orders. For the sake of clarification on my position on the issue of waterworks, look through comments sections in Tina Blade's gallery. That ought to set you right.

And Admin? Did you have any concerns about possibly being associated with the feelings of envy regarding "Sara's coochie"? (I said, "What?! Now that is an odd twist, indeed.")

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…Hmm, pragmatic. Yeah I suppose I would have to agree. I have a pair of hot pants that, even though advertised as being “hypo-allergenic”, I have to say they fall dreadfully “short” of my expectations (no pun intended; hah, hah; a little humor to brighten your day?). In terms of clamps and all that other ridiculous hardware? Forget it! This is particularly in light of the fact that I have such tiny labia to begin with. I have looked all over for what would be described as a “mini-dream-snatcher”, say, roughly the diameter of a quarter but have had absolutely no luck. I’ve even gone so far as travelling to the nearest authentic Native American adult novelty store (and that wasn’t very near). Guess what? No luck, even with an accurate description of physical specifications and intended use, all I got in return for my determination was a bunch of weird looks. Ah, to heck with it. Pardon my French, but just getting a standard sized unit clipped on, let alone to stay on while I’m peeing can be a gosh-darned challenge in itself.

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…Mmm, I don’t know. I gotta tell you, I’m starting to get a little paranoid about this whole business. And this “Admin” person, whoever he or she is? I read the post, with all that “Hey, come on, relax. It’s all good. We just wanna have a little fun…” (I believe that’s accurate) Let me tell you, as much as I hate to admit it I’ve fallen for that little “reassuring” ditty before. In fact, if I had a nickel for every one of my restraining orders that resulted from somebody initially saying that to me…? It would easily add up to like, twenty seven cents. I’ve discovered people don’t generally have the same understanding of “fun” as I do.

Anyway, I’m planning on dropping off the grid for a while by sending them an uncharacteristically cheesy reply to one of their responses about the whole “pee” thing that I hope you don’t take offense to. I made it as sappy as I could with the hopes of flipping this shit and lulling them to sleep instead of the other way around. After that, maybe I’ll still be able to look at some decent pussy without popping up on their radar, but I don’t know. My gut tells me that they’ve been stalling for time so their lawyers can prepare their litigation.

At any rate, just know that I’ve always had a tremendous respect for your refusal to judge me for my unique and sometimes confusing sexuality. Thanks for all the support and reassurance. And please give your roommate a passionate hug-, er, “compassionate” hug for me… tell her I’m so, so sorry. For everything. (just don’t wake her up to do it)

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Oh yeah. I did get the day off. Then I told him about Emily's boyfriend. I got a raise...

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Yeah, what’s with all the perpetual cyber blue-balling anyway?!! They get us all buttered up like that and then, “Meh. See ya.” You know that hurts more than the real thing! Well, this time I decided I’d had enough. Instead of disgorging a bunch of gratuitous and ineffective babble, my plan was to hotfoot it down a more tangible path and actually do something about it. Turns out, with a little simple research, one can easily slide a few tricks up one’s sleeve that will turn the tables of persuasion in his or her direction. Yeah, that searing little book worm of theirs can’t think for a moment that she has the ability to corner the market on discovery. She’s not the only one capable of experiencing the occasional half-naked literary mind-fuck just by flipping through a few pages (well, I sort of only used the internet because I understand most studies have proven it to be far more effective).

That being said, I’m excited to announce with the expectation of achieving a full consensus, that it’s high-time for a follow up photo shoot of our shining new bibliophile! Yes, that’s right, only this time with her carefully chosen assistant, Chloe Foster to tag along. And if everything goes as planned, this other blonde mini-bombshell will be eagerly clutching a steadfast Dixie cup ready to answer that every last ureal beck and call. At least… that's what I'm hoping will happen after I light the ceremonial candles and commence with the carefully chosen combination of cryptic chanting.

At this point, I realize the naysayers are about to go ape-shit over my trust in this apparent high jinks, but let me assure you I’ve done my homework. And to prove it, after I briefly considered perusing that section covering the incorporation of some sort of live animal in the ceremony, I instinctively halted. I recognized when my inquiry into the ways of the mystics had come to an abrupt end. I’ve just had too many close brushes over the course of my life, I’ve learned my lessons and I like to think that I’ve grown from them. After foolishly taking for granted the overrated calm predictability of various forms of domestic fauna, it’s probably best I didn’t take any more chances. You just wouldn’t believe things could go so wrong, so easily. Besides, I just don’t think I could successfully backpedal out of any more far-fetched, but totally legitimate accident scenarios.

And on a somewhat unrelated note, does anyone have the number to a decent proctologist? I can’t get mine to answer his phone. Looking back at my last visit, I seem to remember it not going so well, but to never respond like that?

“This will be the fifth time in… three months? And this is in addition to your weekly self-prescribed colonoscopies. Mr. Wretched, I’m afraid this sort of thing is becoming more than a habit- Wait!! Is that?! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY OFFICE, NOW!!” As I painfully hobbled down the hallway, I was shocked at the unprofessional way he continued after me, lobbing expletive after heart wrenching expletive. I mean, for him to speak to me that way! I’m just trying to live a health conscious life and I get this?! I felt confused… betrayed. And on top of everything else that day, do you have any idea how hard it is to hail a taxi with chicken feathers flying out of every loose seam in your pants? I thought I’d never fucking get home!

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Just trying to maximize our viewing experience. Tell your roommate I offer my condolences.

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Yeah I need to leave those poor guys alone. Something tells me Admin just fired a sportsmanlike shot-across-the-bow letting me know I need to ease back with the aggressiveness.

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Actually yeah. I think you're right. However looking back it seems I've spelt it differently every time.

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Sign me up! I'd pay money to see it.

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Shit, Doc! You got me feeling like a friggin' nun right about now. I AM gonna sleep good tonight after all.

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Yes, YES!! Nicely done! I had in the back of my mind that this was surely the case. I hate so much to thrash about in stagnant waters never to be heard by caring ears. Your words are truly validating and worthy of the respect and honor of anyone attempting to find fault. My hat falls to the floor for both Dylan and Chad, and I make this admission having thoroughly assessed the nature of my own shortcomings. It's just that I'm so friggin' jealous!!! But I won't say for whom (hee hee; that'll get your Freudian minds wondering!).

As always, you guys are awesome. Keep up the good work! G/G, B/G, B/B I don't care, let it roll!!

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I am finding this to be wildly erotic. Nice dress, by the way.

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No shit, right? I gotta say, this little golden honeypot is starting to change my entire outlook on blondes altogether. Between her and Cherry Kiss? Damn!

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Oh my god!! (and I don’t even have one so maybe you’ll let me borrow yours) At this moment I have to say, I’m not sure how to go about this as the last couple of days have revealed some rather puzzling shit. I thought at first the powers that be were attempting to bridle my voice, but fortunately as it turns out this isn’t a place where shock value is a one way street. I’ve decided to be nice, none the less, as believe it or not, I subscribe to the notion that it’s best we all get along. I’d much rather drink a beer with you than to shove your unwary ass through a rusty meat grinder- (whoops, ‘scuse me; I need to be nice about this) …than to subject you to a forked tongue lashing that would make Satan himself say, “Jesus Christ, dude! Chill the fuck out!” (that’s the best I can do in terms of “nice”)

“Bring it!” you taunt. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are ever so fortunate to have been graced with the likes of none other than Joe Dirt himself. That’s right, Mr. “Need a match? How ‘bout my face, your ass?’- wait…” Now, allow me a moment to collect my thoughts, because, well I want to get this one right. I want everyone to come out a winner, even that one particular ALS model who unfortunately now has before her one steep hill to re-ascend. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, note, if you will, that Joe attempts to aggrandize his challenge by tossing me a smoking hot red head expecting me to defile her like his buddy Dylan did to the formerly reigning scene queen who spent but mere moments basking in victory.

I’m actually glad things rolled out the way they did because I had both barrels locked and loaded for fuckin’ bear fully expecting you to send me a link to crackwhores.com or whatever. You blew a chance to seal the deal by showcasing the nastiest, skankiest, scab covered- well, you get the picture. My point here is, I’m able to keep the collateral damage to a minimum, but that’s how you zing a guy like me. Don’t throw out a gorgeous sacrificial lamb expecting me to rip her to shreds, what the fuck’s wrong with you? Here’s a tip: if an opponent dares you to lay your dick on the chopping block, don’t! Why, if you’re still asking? BECAUSE HE’S GONNA CHOP IT!!!

Anyway, let’s just allow this one to blow over. To be honest any retribution beyond what I’ve already amassed over this affair would amount to nothing but gluttony. And “Bring it?” For future reference, leave the “Fast and Furious” quotes for the teenagers- er, maybe I’m talking to one so, never mind. Say what you will. And when you do turn twenty one, look me up, we’ll have a beer together.

P.S. I hope like hell you don’t say stupid shit like that in public. One of these days someone’s gonna snatch you out of your fart box equipped Honda civic and crush you like a smoldering cigarette butt some crack head already picked up and got the best of then flicked into the gutter next to the convenience store where you were attempting to use your fake ID to buy liquor. Peace. (fear not, my young novice. A sharp fellow could look through this and pick out some really nice daggers to fling back at me. You can do it, I have faith in you. Worse comes to worse, ask your prom date to give it a looksee. Maybe she could offer you a few additional pointers)

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This time I did do a background check. And yes, great news! The individual in question does qualify as being the most deserving of cannon fodder. RELEASE THE KRAKEN!!!

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Shit, I recant. I should never had said 'glass table'.

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And speaking of “jesus fuck”, while we're on the subject I’ll tell you what, hill billy boy. You let me know who your favorite ALS model is then I’ll send you a pic of her with a superimposed image of Eva Braun crouched over a glass table taking a shit into Hitler’s open mouth and if you don’t like it, DON’T WATCH IT!!

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fuckin' voh-DRAZ-na

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Shit. I recant. Normally I'll conduct a quick perusal of a subscriber's comment history before I unleash the kraken. But in the heat of the moment I failed to do so. You, sir, reflect a great deal of positivity that I believe most consider a trivial notion. I humbly ask your forgiveness. (this is not sarcasm; it's rare, mind you, but not sarcasm)

The Wretched

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I got great news for you, my friend. I just googled "egg plant" and it turns out there's a secret underground laboratory located somewhere in Prague that has developed a special strain of rectum sized eggplant you might be interested in. This might possibly lead to the best b/b set on ALS. Perhaps you could volunteer to test out the waters for them.

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And Admin, I’d like to extend a personal apology for having subjected you to this, I realize you’re just doing your job. But on a positive note, I’ve thought of a suggestion for the title of Emily’s next photo shoot: “Eye Contact”. And god damn it, tell those boys their biggest fan wants to see LOTS of it!

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…got a second? Because I’d just like to say one thing in response to this: ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… FUCK!! And here I was hoping she’d stay a virgin… That was my initial and instantaneous reaction; now the follow up (and yes, folks, given the manner by which my emotions are presently swirling, I’m afraid this one’s gonna be a doozy) But you know what? I knew it was going to happen. I absolutely KNEW it was bound to happen. Why? Because that’s just how life is. I’ve long ago come to realize that occasionally, the things of this world that represent beauty and innocence, randomly and rather inexplicably are violently shoved into that percolating cesspool of selfishness. Once there they are left to gag on the revolting feculence of those who have convincingly said things like, “No, really, you should do this. Trust us, all your biggest fans have insisted it’s what they really want to see.”

One option I’d considered in the event I should I be asked to bear witness to the humiliation of this delicate flower of a woman would be to completely disavow this site forever. But that’s a foolish and short-sighted notion. After all, ALS in my opinion is to the adult art form as rotisserie chicken is to eating. What kind of malignant mind-wart would attempt to justify sitting around bitching and ranting about the occasional drop of grease that has the somewhat rare tendency to fall upon our shirts while the juiciest, most succulent, and flavorful of meats practically slides off the bone and dives into our mouths with the sole intention of fervidly masturbating our uvulas on the way down in such a way as to make them completely forget the entire concept of regurgitation altogether? Ok, maybe that was a little bit of a run-on, but I just didn’t have the heart to break it up; in fact… I feel as though I no longer have the heart for much of anything (‘sniffle’… [and a tear…]) I now know how that Indian dude felt when he sat on his horse looking at all the damn litter on the side of the road that a bunch of inconsiderate pale-faces rudely tossed out the window as they drove by in their horseless carriages.

So where does this leave me? “Hmm,” some might solemnly proclaim. “This man obviously has found himself standing at a crossroads pondering his fate.” But then there are others who might also solemnly proclaim, “God damn! This crazy fucker’s obviously got a shit load of free time on his hands!” (Truth is I don’t have cable, so looking at pussy on the internet and dreaming up a bunch of “reverently” acerbic comments to spew in response to it is pretty much all I’ve got in life; the ex took everything else). But, damn it, I just need to grow up. I need to find a way to get over this aversion I have with the other penises in this world. It’s time I face the fact that there are lots of them, and that’s never going to change. As it turns out I thought I had discovered a foolproof solution after all. It was during my darkest moments of depression, during my time of sorrow and mourning that I was struck with an idea that could reconcile my feelings for the chodes. How you ask? It’s simple: Photoshop! Yeah, baby!! It seems so obvious now but why the hell didn’t I think of this before?!

So I immediately went to work a-cuttin’ and a-croppin’ like the Sam-Hill-Dickens (whatever the hell that is) as I was determined to rid myself of this “Dylan” scourge once and for all. Almost immediately the silver lining began to re-encompass what had sadly become a dreary and dismally “Grey” cloud. (meh, that was kinda cheesy. But then again, fuck it. This is MY success story.)

At one point, just before tossing one particularly gratifying handful of clippings into the recycle bin, I could have sworn Dylan looked up at me and pitifully cried out. “Please, don’t!” he beseeched with a trembling lisp. “Please, I didn’t sign up for this. I don’t even like girls but these ALS meanies forced me to do it!”

He whimpered as he continued to vigorously shake his hands acting as though he had just attempted to pick up a piping hot tray of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

I stopped.

“Wait… This is madness,” I remember thinking. “Is this what I’ve been reduced to?” The truth is, Dylan never actually violated me personally. And what if the situation was reversed? Does anyone think that I would have to be forced to partake in what he clearly hated ever so much? All that ALS would have to do is point a finger at Emily and say, “Fuck?” and I’d be on her like a ravening Nile croc to a thirsty juvenile Thompson’s gazelle nervously tiptoeing up to the river’s edge to take a desperately needed sip. Granted, I’d shoot my wad before I ever got my pants unzipped, but that’s beside the point. This man apparently plays for “the other team” but I refuse to judge. I mean, if he wants to fantasize about ripping his consenting adult male roommate’s clothes off so they can play “naked tickle-monster” or have a spirited match of dueling swords with their spindly hairless pee-pee’s, as long as it’s done behind closed doors I don’t care! I say “Good for him!” But evidently for some odd reason he’s been caught up in what apparently are some very unfortunate and inexplicable circumstances he has no control over.

And yet still, I’m conflicted. On the one hand, I’m experiencing feelings of validation for having set free the celestial being formerly sheltered by the ethereal bosom of Arcadia who was commissioned to forever remind me what a goddess should aspire to be. No longer will she be cruelly subjugated by what might at first be misinterpreted as a drooling trove of squabbling and misguided digital flesh-peddlers, in my humble opinion.

But then…

“What about Dylan?” I whispered to myself in a hoarse, Russell Crowe-like voice. “He’s now alone, cold and trembling. He’s been helplessly exiled to that vast and all-encompassing trash heap of cyberspace, probably naked… most definitely naked. Do I leave him like this? Is this the sort of man that I have become? Have I myself dissolved into that aforementioned disgusting cesspool that heartlessly robs us all of so much of the world’s most beautiful artistry?”

I sat staring blankly across the room as my old and nearly senile house cat finished dropping a deuce on the floor in the corner. “Leave it”, I muttered, still using my Russell Crowe voice. “Roscoe will be waking up from his nap any minute now. And I think he’s finished off the last of that accursed peanut butter.” And then it hit me. It’s simple: Photoshop!! Yeah, baby!! It seems so obvious now but why the hell didn’t I think of this before?! But wait. Who else shall I call upon in this most dire time of need? That answer also hit me like a ton of pricks!! My ol’ buddy Chad! Oh, fuckin’-A! Redemption at last! If ever was there an opportunity to make amends for all the constructive things I’ve said that he may have misconstrued as negative remarks this would be it.

I’ll tell you right now, I was a-cuttin’ and a-pastin’ like the Sam-Hill-Dickens (whatever the hell that is) as I was determined to create the most secularly homosexual match-made-in-heaven this generation has ever witnessed. I mean I was playing Cupid like one self-righteous Christian mother-FUCKER!! A few simple clicks of the mouse and I had these two handsome gents hemmed up in a fancy maneuver the title of which I have specifically coined solely in their honor. I call it “The Carolina Knock-kneed Straddle-buck”. It was originally meant to be more of a hetero contrivance I pulled from my personal repertoire which I have affectionately bastardized for their purposes (sans the oxygen mask and leather body harness, of course; that’s something my lawyer will have to go over with them after they sign the disclaimer).

Now before you begin speculating and throwing darts at my logic by insisting that this is hardly a realistic choice, given their orientation and all, try to understand that it was not flippantly decided upon. Originally I attempted to approach it using a seemingly more obvious, and admittedly stereotypical angle that employed that closely related maneuver informally known as the “Convoluted Reverse Thigh-slapping Huckle-buck.” But these guys strike me as being the softer, gentler sort who would much rather lovingly gaze into each other’s eyes as they enjoyed a blissfully romantic night of bumping dickheads. (I gotta say, this is turning out to be rather curative for me. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling better and better every minute. You know what? Fuck that therapist. I no longer give a shit if she blocks my calls!).

So here we are once again at day’s end. I dare not speak for all of the rest of us “other-dude’s-schlong” haters who have also suggested their disapproval of the appearance of the “ninety-eight-point-six-degree dildos-with-the-personalities-of-a-box-of-rocks” (I don’t want to get anyone else kicked out of this joint). But for my own purposes I find this to be a win-win-win situation.

First, there’s an ALS model who, from my perspective, no longer has to worry if she’s actually sucking on DNA samples that had been slathered upon the gerbil sized phalli of her pre-ordained “boyfriends” who most likely had only just finished running the entire gauntlet of I-95 in attempt to wallow around the men’s rooms of every last truck stop en route (praise the lord; the Mormons give out leaflets, you know).

Second, Dylan and Chad finally get to ride off into the sunset having been released from the stigma of their true sexuality. They can now live out the rest of their lives together, sipping on appletinis, giggling and recounting all the silly anecdotes from days of yore when they had to pinch their noses while they reluctantly stuck their tongues in all those yucky girl hoo-hoo thingy’s. And guys, no need to thank me. The pleasure has been entirely mine. By the way my boss offers his complements. He thinks you two make a really cute couple.

And finally…

Did you know that in Russia, the word vodka is sometimes pronounced “voh-draz-na”? Say it with me, “vho-DRAZ-na”.

Peace unto all!! I can now say with honesty that I have achieved closure and that I can truly look forward to Emily’s next shoot… well, you know, if no one has pressed any charges. (dime to a dollar it’ll be a fuckin’ three-way with those Chad and Dylan sissies; You know what though? I’m ok with it. And boys, as a genuine extension of the proverbial olive branch, here’s a truly constructive tip: if you aren’t really gay, don’t be nervous, just make sure you avoid eye contact with each other or your dicks will instantaneously go limp)

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Our voices will be heard

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This girl didn't make it to the top because there was always some slobbering chode in the foreground. I got something for you, bro. Hope you can read better than you type.

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Ditto, and I am about to make crusade out of it.

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A brief follow up: I ran this narrative by my therapist thinking it might help me gain some closure. I'm not a hundred percent certain but judging from her reaction I may have been a bit confused about the actual premise of the theory I was attempting to test. As it turns out, the peanut butter wasn't meant to go on the dog's balls, which actually helps to explain quite a bit regarding the chaotic manner by which the situation played out. Unfortunately, the scenario that was initially only a slight embarrassment for me has now become downright awkward. On a somewhat unrelated note, if anyone knows the number for a good therapist, I might have to be in the market for a new one.

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Speaking of dogs, here’s a real pisser that’s been eating away at me for some time. This is actually something most people would probably keep to themselves as some would likely find it to be a tad embarrassing. First, allow me to preface by saying I hate dogs. I fucking hate the noisy flea-ridden walking shit factories, and it’s taking every bit of restraint for me to avoid going on a rant right now for no reason other than the fact that they exist. However I’ll maintain my resolve and stick to the issue at hand.
Last Thursday a friend of mine from work had a death in the family and thus needed to go out of town for a couple of days for the funeral. He approached me asking if I’d look after his dog while he was gone and I said “Oooh, definitely, I’d love to! Almost as much as I’d love to slam my dick in the nearest rusty car door”. I didn’t actually say that but I was just about to do so when suddenly I was struck with an epiphany. There’s that one trick with dogs I’ve overheard guys talk about on various occasions when there weren’t any women around. You know, the ol’ "peanut butter on the balls” shenanigan. So rather than flog him with a retort laced with a rare dose of sarcasm that was uncharacteristically peppered with expletives I immediately said “Yeah, Ok. No problem! It’d be my pleasure, honestly.”
On the way to rendezvousing with my soon to be cat-shit-eating man’s-best-friend, I stopped off at a local grocer and picked up a gallon sized bucket of the pureed groundnut legume paste which dogs apparently cannot resist. Looking back on this, I would have been better off simply envisioning the non-stop wild weekend I thought I was about to experience and left it at that. For, sadly, as it turned out, despite my enthusiasm success was not to be.
At this point allow me to interject by saying that urban legend is typically just that as I was once again thoroughly disappointed with the outcome of yet another theory I had put to the test. And I suppose ultimately it’s my own fault for having such high expectations but just as soon as I began slathering this dog’s balls with peanut butter he instantly went to licking it off like a starving fat kid trying to devour a rapidly melting ice cream cone. I’m like, “Hey, hold on a sec, damn it! Let me finish- I don’t have adequate coverage- This-, Shit!! This isn’t supposed to be your moment!” Needless to say the issue went back and forth for a while, with me trying desperately to rationalize and him growling and nipping at my ears, etcetera. Ultimately I said “Fuck it! Here, take the whole damn thing. Hope you choke on it!”
So we’re driving back from the vet’s office after this filthy heap of putrescence nearly asphyxiated himself and I remember thinking that this really could prove to be my undoing. Fortunately we arrived back at my apartment just before my buddy returned from out of town to retrieve his disagreeable fuckin’ mutt. When I gave back the remainder of the supplies I was left with he reacts with astonishment. “That’s weird,” he says. “Roscoe barely touched his food. ‘Awwww, wussuh mattuh big feh-wuh. Did you miss your daddy?’” I played along not wanting to go into extensive detail about having spent my entire weekend cleaning up after his stinking ass. That fuckin’ son-of-a-bitch could have shat peanut butter through a stack of screen doors without touching a single wire. And judging from the smug look on his furry fuckin’ face he enjoyed every moment of it. Lessons learned?

A. Know who your friends are.

B. Peanut butter is NOT conducive to a dog’s healthy digestive system. And finally,

C. If you’re not double-jointed like Roscoe and all his other damn canine cousins you might as well tell Peter Pan to go fuck himself because I ain’t doin’ that shit… anymore.

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OK, mate. So here’s the deal. What must you do to get Chad’s job? As it turns out the answer is quite simple: submit an application at your local McDonald’s restaurant then slit the tires on his piece of shit car so he can’t show up for his next scheduled shift. He’ll get fired and you’ll be his replacement. Done! Alright, so maybe the “inside scoop” I’m proposing is actually just a fabricated scenario that continually plays out within the confines of my own grey matter but you gotta admit, from our perspective it’s ideal (well, except for the part where you’d have to work for shitty burger joint). Now anyone who may be offended by my suggestion, i.e. that exclusive assembly of so called male porn “stars”, if there really is such a thing, is the victim of his own fabrication of reality. Additionally, should there exist some naïve soul who subscribes to the notion that this mindless chode- er, Chad, (whatever) is getting paid to be a sweaty dildo with a pulse then perhaps he or she deserves a fate that includes an illustrious and lifelong career flipping burgers for an overrated fast food chain. Picture this, if you will: you are approached by an obviously respectable individual who invites you into his abode with a proposal. Once inside you find a couch or bed upon which is perched a smiling and naked Nella, Janet, Holly, Joanne, Liv or Trisha (I like to start with some of the classics; feel free to substitute whomever). After you’ve picked your jaw up from the floor and returned it to its proper location you are kindly instructed to have your way with any or all of these gorgeous representations of the female gender whilst the camera is rolling. Oh, but wait, once you’ve finished, make sure to stop by our disbursing office to receive your handsome paycheck. This- I can’t- there’s no way… it’s just not possible. Every time I try to conceptualize it my head literally throbs as if someone justifiably struck me with a three pound ballpeen hammer. “Oh, hey, now!” one might proclaim. “These guys work hard to promote the one aspect that’s been conspicuously absent from this particular corner of the industry for too long now”. Perhaps, in the strictest and all-inclusive politically correct sense someone could get away with incorporating that assertion in their campaign speech. But as a not-so-casual observer, I feel it’s my responsibility to bluntly point out that this is “All Ladies Shaved”; “All LADIES Shaved”. That having been said, anything else that happens to clumsily migrate into my field of view is nothing more than a lowly prop.

“…Okey-Dokey, Mister, uh, White is it? Says here under employment history you once worked in the adult film industry?”
“Yes, that’s correct”.
“So… you were a director?”
“Oh, no, not exactly.”
“Ah, a cameraman.”
“Um, no.”
“Camera assistant?”
“Nah.”
“Gaffer?
“Nope.”
“Costume designer? Grip? Lighting supervisor?”
“Neh.”
“Makeup artist? PA? Editor?
“None of the above.”
“Ok, so help me out, here. I’m a little confused.”
“I was an actor.”
“Wha- an actor, you say? (burst of laughter accompanied by an exaggerated eye roll) As a male in the porn industry? You mean you were a prop.”
“Uh… yeah… I was a prop. My mom says I was a dildo, you know… with a pulse.”
“Yeah, that’s uh, eh-hmm… Ok, so I don’t want to sound condescending and I appreciate your taking an interest in applying for a position here at McDonald’s. But we are really looking for people with genuine experience who are capable of displaying a professional attitude. I noticed in your resume that instead of a headshot, you’ve included a photo of yourself shoving a fistful of marker pens into your ass. I keep hearing about a studio not far from here that shoots Christian ‘how-to’ videos. Maybe they can help you out.”

Peace, brother. (At day’s end, it is well with my soul.)

  • 1

Ok, so apparently we're not allowed to use the "less than" syntax. What I meant to say is that (I "heart" majoras!!) And Miss Blue, pardon my terseness, but you’ve got a SENSATIONAL ass!! In fact, I Googled “What would an angel’s ass look like?” and “BAM”: h_39517520C63A906AAB183BB3C5AAA050 pops up (well, not really but you get the idea). And that look on your face? Oh, yeah, you know it’s hot!!

(Jeeze Louise, somebody spank me-! Ok, I gotta go, um, comb my hair, er- whatever.)

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Dromedary tarsal phalanxosis (ˈdrä-mə-ˌder-ē; ˈtär-səl; ˈfā-ˌlaŋ(k)s(ˈ)ōˈsis: that curious and oft times misinterpreted physical condition affecting the mons pubis of women who have occasionally subjected themselves to what at first appears to be a poorly contrived wardrobe element. In most cases, this phenomenon typically results in what is usually considered to be an embarrassing and undesirably prominent display of the labia majora. On the other hand, we are at the same time fortunate to have been graced with that select few who meet all the correct anatomical criteria and have stood up to the sort of rigorous scrutiny that places them into an altogether separate and elite category (as we so plainly see in this marvelous exhibition). These women, who additionally are immune to that closely related syndrome known as ‘Lateral pelvic running-boardititus’, are free to proudly display their pubic cleavage as though they were brandishing well-earned and highly revered badges of honor. Ladies, allow me to be among those who stand behind your shameless decision to publicly tout the very framework that so appropriately adorns the gateway to the promise land. We hail to those delicate folds within which is nestled that heavenly slice of carnal confectionery. Long live the camel toe!! (I

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h_02C28A31F7068564DDA255003AD7C79B “…now, where did I put those darn car keys? Ugh, I can never find anything in here- Oh, hey, a buttermint!”

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Uh oh... shit! Emily next week?!! Dang it, you guys are gonna cost me another sick day. Alright, I gotta start working on my excuse. Tooth ache? Nah, too lame. Death in the family? Neh, from a paperwork standpoint I've already killed off everyone but my fourth cousins, three times removed. They've called me out on that one, twice. Help me out. There's gotta be something... Ok, I got it. I'll just have to be honest. I stumbled across this gorgeous babe while strolling along the sands of Wrightsville Beach and she asked me to rub some sunscreen on her back. My boss is totally gay but I'm sure if I show him a pic of the object of my desire he'll forget who he is and high-five me like some raucous dude from an 80's throwback concert!

  • 2

…I must commend you on your taste, my friend. This fine young lady possesses a myriad of qualities that makes her stand out amongst a well-established throng of otherwise captivating sirens. Brunette? (‘check’), lovely brown eyes? (‘check’), charming smile? (‘check’), and the freckles? (Oh, the freckles!). However take note, if you will, and I don’t mean to distract from the aforementioned traits, but from the chin down she exhibits quite an astonishing amount of symmetry that I believe places her into a category of her own. I’m even capable of dismissing that nonsense she has inflicted upon her natural beauty that resides just above her left ankle (“why?” I ask. But that’s yet another discussion). On a personal note, Trista, you are an absolute benchmark which many others should strive to emulate. To put it succinctly… GOD DAMN, YOU’RE HOT!!! Hope life’s treated you well. And Pinkbits, I might have an angle on the query you posted regarding Chad’s job. I’ll get back to you after I do a bit of fact-finding. This could prove to be a delicate matter, indeed.

  • 0

…naturally I would fully expect that someone among your staff is, at the very least, mildly interested in receiving some sort of feedback. If you haven’t noticed, I tend to be a little over-emphatic at times, and my innate sense of responsibility (or rather, self-consciousness) has compelled me to give it due speculation. Most likely my tendency in this case seems to be in direct proportion to the apparent lack of enthusiasm demonstrated by the balance of your clientele. There are times when I feel I may be unfairly tipping the scales in a particular direction but then again, evidently what does it matter? I do have to say, my relative status as a neophyte notwithstanding, I find myself thoroughly baffled. Most of the outwardly right-wing conservatives in this world would regard this forum as obscene, disgusting, perverse, and reflective of all the other wickedly nefarious desires clandestinely dwelt upon by the average Christian hypocritical mind. So how can anyone sleep through this? Perhaps it’s because I’ve only recently been re-introduced into the wild and have yet to become desensitized apparently by what many find to be commonplace and so readily available. Maybe it’s the generation I come from or my particular background. Whatever the case, I just don’t see myself taking any of this for granted. I choose to partake of this venue because I’m fascinated by the human spirit and I praise those who have found that their commission in life is to bestow pleasure and gratification upon one particular fellowship without inflicting detriment upon any other. Plus I’m hoping that eventually somebody on your staff is going to slip up and reveal the exact location of that underground laboratory in either Hungary, Croatia, or the Czech Republic where some sort of a miracle discovery has occurred. Those sons-of-bitches have figured out how to cultivate the most gorgeously magnificent spinners ever to grace the internet and damn it, I’m going to figure out how to steal the secret recipe even if it kills me. I’ve visited both Romania and Bulgaria and the whole time I was there something kept telling me to travel further inland. FUCK!!

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…ok, so how’s this for irony. I always glance at the user tags just to see if anything amusing pops up and occasionally I’ll see something that catches my attention. The one item that seems to resurface conspicuously, and somewhat arbitrarily I might add, is the “shaved” or “shaved pussy” tag. Granted, I haven’t been an official member for very long, but should I be concerned about the fact that there is someone out there who fails to realize that this site is specifically dedicated to showcasing nothing but shaved pussies? I answered that question for myself by conducting a search purely out of curiosity using the key word “shaved”. You would lose your paycheck if you bet on the expected outcome. Why do I say this? Because there’s BUSH!!! That’s right, folks, it’s tightly groomed, and no more than a tuft, but it’s a fur burger none-the-less. (This is a no-shitter. “Aphrodasia”, feel free to fact check it for yourself). Embedded deep within the archives of this incredible mecca set aside purely for the sake of honoring the most sacred race-tracks-upon-which-grass-does-not-grow is none other than the very thing we strive to abolish. Now don’t get me wrong, I haven’t lost any respect for these highly esteemed “curators of the beardless clams” who give new meaning to a life that was once steeped in misery. But I can’t help thinking about that poor bastard who wants only to bookmark the very thing he considers dearest to his heart. Despite his efforts he has allegorically found himself stuck in a cylindrical room vainly looking for a corner in which to jerk off. Then again, maybe we’re just talking about some goofball who, much like me, cannot be taken seriously for one minute. At any rate, the moral of this story obviously is… um, (help me out people) “When life gives you a bunch of pubies…, uh… weave a Persian rug?” I don’t know. I’m going back for a history lesson; it’s time I embrace my roots, no pun intended. I think I might have seen that chick Paula in a strip club once in Myrtle Beach… or, maybe in a house of ill-repute in Palma de Mallorca. That was the best damn wedding reception I ever crashed. Fuckin’ vodka.

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Jeezy Petes!! Wish you luck? Wish ME some friggin' luck!!! Damn you!! Nah, just kidding. Hope she's ambidextrous.

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“…after a while I try more, but I cannot touch my ‘cleet’.”
Whoa! Back up there, gorgeous, I need to get this straight. You just managed to come for us a half a dozen times over a span of roughly eight or so minutes in explosively epic fashion, mind you, and yet ultimately you feel compelled to offer an indirect apology? Allow me to draw a blunt comparison by saying that if I was the one in front of the camera, twenty-three seconds into the video I would have already blown my wad and been rolled over fast asleep. And as I’m sure most of your other fans would plainly agree, there’s not a soul in this world who’s gonna pay good money to see that. I mean, not that I’m capable, but even if I shot several species of small furry animals out of my ass when I came- er, well… Ok, let’s change the subject.

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Yeah,... I suppose... Damn it. But then again in MY version of reality there is no such thing as B/G. "Ah hah!" You say, "But what about me?" That too is taken care of, as also in my version of reality I'm actually a lesbian stuck in a guy's body. So in essence it's aaaaalllllll G/G!

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…wait, what? So you’re saying if I expect someone in your administration to pay heed to any of my suggestions or comments I have to resubmit them to yet another comment section?? Who would that be, pray tell, the midget behind the curtain posing as the Wizard of fucking Oz?!! What the hell do you think I’ve been doing for the last thirty days, trying to strike up a stimulating conversation with some troglodyte who’s only interest is seeing “nuthin’ but the dang insides of her gapin’ butthole”? Jeeze! Fuck!! What kind of jack-leg outfit is this??? Nah, I’m just kidding. You guys are doing a fine job, and I mean FINE! I’ve been a distant fan for nearly a decade now but haven’t been able to gain access to your site until my wife recently told me to go fuck myself (I told her, “I believe I can make the necessary provisions for that”). Years ago my boss forgot to log out of the computer on his desk. I went in his office after hours looking for a purchase request he was supposed to have signed and accidently jostled the mouse and what pops up on his monitor? None other than that unforgettably glorious vision of Nella with her knees in the air and Liv wearing her like a sock puppet. The image of those two provocatively seductive angels will forever be indelibly scorched onto my retinas. At any rate, keep doing what you’re doing. You won’t likely hear any complaints out of me. Oh, and I’ll copy and paste this to the aforementioned mailbox just to be safe. Say hi to Oz and pat the midget on his head for me.

Your pal,
The Wretched

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See, this is what happens when I make comments after drinking vodka. Remember: no drunk posts!! …you gotta admit, those are some nice-ass collar bones. Fuck! I did it again.

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They aaaallll swing that way, brother. In fact, if it’s not on their resume I doubt they’ll ever make the cut. “…look, sweetheart, I’m sorry. We love all the stuff you did with the Jesus statue. I mean, none of us had ever thought it’d be possible to do an anal shoot that incorporated thorns per se. But if you’re not willing to engage in an occasional good ol’ fashioned clam-gnashing then I’m afraid you're just not going to be a good fit. There is a studio next door that produces Christian ‘how-to’ videos. Maybe they can find a good spot for you.”

No need to reply, folks, I already know I’m going to hell. Just making sure I get a good seat. Satan himself is gonna want to smoke a blunt with me after I’m done fucking with this world.

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Ok, ok!! Jeeze, settle down. You can use the leather armchair to shoot this- but hey! No lubes, got it? I’m serious, no petroleum products what-so-ever. My mom comes home and finds her favorite piece of furniture all slimed up with baby oil and she’ll fucking kill me. Oh, and one other thing. Your sister’s not a squirter is she?

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Anyone who feels compelled by the ridiculous urge to claim that this little hottie was play acting when she arrived at the moment of truth needs to go back to the 11:30 mark and take a gander at her forehead. Then go to Cherry Kiss’s gallery and scroll down to the “Again and Again” marquee. A quick comparison of that rigidly furrowed brow ought to dispel any such lingering doubt. Batman himself would be having Lucius Fox scrambling to replicate that exact same look on his next equipment upgrade. We luv it, babydoll. Keep it coming! (…and uh, Hm-Hm, I’m still thinking about “Breakfast at Emily’s”, eh? Hint, hint? Nudge, nudge?; naturally it’d be sans Audrey Hepburn, but- ooh!! How ‘bout Aubrey Belle instead? Maybe have Franziska pop in just to make it the coiffure trifecta of the century. Say no more? Trust me, God and Jesus just did a knuckle-bump)

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…aw, hey come on now. It’s just another form of artistic expression. She and all the other so-called “suicide girls” have all the freedom in the world to utilize it just like I have the freedom to give a five year old kid a fistful of crayons, point at da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and say, “Go make it pretty!”. Or what about Michelangelo’s sculpture of David? I think I have every right to give a hammer and chisel to oh, I don’t know, a paranoid schizophrenic Vietnam vet tripping on acid, shrooms, and MDMA all at the same time and say, “Here, just take a little off the top”. Nah, I’ll have to side with you on this topic, my friend. I’m just not getting it either. I see these flawlessly spectacular women doing this sort of thing to themselves all the time and invariably I picture myself years from now going to visit a loved one in a retirement home. Chances are pretty good I’m going to spot one of these former “spinners-from-God’s-good-graces” in her early eighties sitting on a bench out front with a tattoo on the back of her neck in tribal lettering that reads “SUCK MY PUSSY!!” There’ll come a day when I’ll be dining at a fine restaurant worrying about whether or not the wrinkled old bat sitting at the table next to me with an eyebrow stud is gonna sneeze and spew some manner of effluent out of one of the other dozen holes she had bored into her head forty years prior. Now don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with someone’s desire to improve their outward appearance- as long as it starts internally with the fucking brain first, and ends externally perhaps with a subtle accentuation at most. Additionally, I don’t truly believe I have the freedom to desecrate the most beautiful works of art in this world. Simply making the attempt would bring about harsh consequences. And artistic expression in itself is no license to act on the desire to put on a vulgar display of mankind’s willingness and tendency to flippantly destroy the various representations of beauty that surrounds us simply because they’re within our reach. With that in mind, think about it, ladies. Granted, you’re cute and bubbly right now, but damn, one of us might be that unfortunate healthcare worker charged with the task of changing out your incontinence garment when you’re too old to do it yourself. It’s not gonna be me, of course, but when that time comes, I definitely wouldn’t want to be the one that spots a tattoo of an arrow pointing to your butthole reading: “THE FUN STARTS HERE!!” And it doesn’t have to be tribal lettering; there’s no font in this world capable of taking the sting out of that imagery. On that note, please excuse the graphic visualizations, but they serve as a direct reflection of my passionate stance on this matter and what more applicable venue is there than this? By the way, mate, your astute and poignant assertion lends itself to a bit of irony having come from a self-proclaimed DV8. But it’s cool nonetheless.

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ndp

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I’m having trouble concentrating at work because of this girl. In fact one day last week I decided to say to hell with it altogether and called in sick. Speaking of which, I haven’t been able to beat off five times in one day since I was fifteen! After the forth time my pecker glared up at me and started raising hell.
“Listen, god damnit, I need a fucking break, literally-“
“SILENCE!! It puts the lotion on! You have no idea what kind of hell I CAN BRING YOU!!
“But-
“DOES WHAT IT’S TOLD!!!”

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Ditto, and I am about to make crusade out of it.

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That's right, damn it! And we're not talking "plain old" import parts. We wanna see Mazda import parts, Honda import parts, Audi, BMW, god damn Mercedes import parts. And they better be OEM performance import parts not that aftermarket bullshit. Now I realize you guys have been in this business for quite a while but if you haven't yet realized that vaginas and sphincters don't come with faces then I just don't think there's any hope for you. But thanks again for the nice orgasm!

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From a visual standpoint I see that neither is superior. Therefore I would have to agree with Luv regarding the inherently uncomfortable aspects of steel, particularly regarding it's thermal conductivity characteristics. Therefore my vote is plastic... equipped with a forward mounted GoPro and wireless feed direct to my smart phone. 24/7.

And no funny stuff!!

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This time I did do a background check. And yes, great news! The individual in question does qualify as being the most deserving of cannon fodder. RELEASE THE KRAKEN!!!

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…got a second? Because I’d just like to say one thing in response to this: ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… FUCK!! And here I was hoping she’d stay a virgin… That was my initial and instantaneous reaction; now the follow up (and yes, folks, given the manner by which my emotions are presently swirling, I’m afraid this one’s gonna be a doozy) But you know what? I knew it was going to happen. I absolutely KNEW it was bound to happen. Why? Because that’s just how life is. I’ve long ago come to realize that occasionally, the things of this world that represent beauty and innocence, randomly and rather inexplicably are violently shoved into that percolating cesspool of selfishness. Once there they are left to gag on the revolting feculence of those who have convincingly said things like, “No, really, you should do this. Trust us, all your biggest fans have insisted it’s what they really want to see.”

One option I’d considered in the event I should I be asked to bear witness to the humiliation of this delicate flower of a woman would be to completely disavow this site forever. But that’s a foolish and short-sighted notion. After all, ALS in my opinion is to the adult art form as rotisserie chicken is to eating. What kind of malignant mind-wart would attempt to justify sitting around bitching and ranting about the occasional drop of grease that has the somewhat rare tendency to fall upon our shirts while the juiciest, most succulent, and flavorful of meats practically slides off the bone and dives into our mouths with the sole intention of fervidly masturbating our uvulas on the way down in such a way as to make them completely forget the entire concept of regurgitation altogether? Ok, maybe that was a little bit of a run-on, but I just didn’t have the heart to break it up; in fact… I feel as though I no longer have the heart for much of anything (‘sniffle’… [and a tear…]) I now know how that Indian dude felt when he sat on his horse looking at all the damn litter on the side of the road that a bunch of inconsiderate pale-faces rudely tossed out the window as they drove by in their horseless carriages.

So where does this leave me? “Hmm,” some might solemnly proclaim. “This man obviously has found himself standing at a crossroads pondering his fate.” But then there are others who might also solemnly proclaim, “God damn! This crazy fucker’s obviously got a shit load of free time on his hands!” (Truth is I don’t have cable, so looking at pussy on the internet and dreaming up a bunch of “reverently” acerbic comments to spew in response to it is pretty much all I’ve got in life; the ex took everything else). But, damn it, I just need to grow up. I need to find a way to get over this aversion I have with the other penises in this world. It’s time I face the fact that there are lots of them, and that’s never going to change. As it turns out I thought I had discovered a foolproof solution after all. It was during my darkest moments of depression, during my time of sorrow and mourning that I was struck with an idea that could reconcile my feelings for the chodes. How you ask? It’s simple: Photoshop! Yeah, baby!! It seems so obvious now but why the hell didn’t I think of this before?!

So I immediately went to work a-cuttin’ and a-croppin’ like the Sam-Hill-Dickens (whatever the hell that is) as I was determined to rid myself of this “Dylan” scourge once and for all. Almost immediately the silver lining began to re-encompass what had sadly become a dreary and dismally “Grey” cloud. (meh, that was kinda cheesy. But then again, fuck it. This is MY success story.)

At one point, just before tossing one particularly gratifying handful of clippings into the recycle bin, I could have sworn Dylan looked up at me and pitifully cried out. “Please, don’t!” he beseeched with a trembling lisp. “Please, I didn’t sign up for this. I don’t even like girls but these ALS meanies forced me to do it!”

He whimpered as he continued to vigorously shake his hands acting as though he had just attempted to pick up a piping hot tray of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

I stopped.

“Wait… This is madness,” I remember thinking. “Is this what I’ve been reduced to?” The truth is, Dylan never actually violated me personally. And what if the situation was reversed? Does anyone think that I would have to be forced to partake in what he clearly hated ever so much? All that ALS would have to do is point a finger at Emily and say, “Fuck?” and I’d be on her like a ravening Nile croc to a thirsty juvenile Thompson’s gazelle nervously tiptoeing up to the river’s edge to take a desperately needed sip. Granted, I’d shoot my wad before I ever got my pants unzipped, but that’s beside the point. This man apparently plays for “the other team” but I refuse to judge. I mean, if he wants to fantasize about ripping his consenting adult male roommate’s clothes off so they can play “naked tickle-monster” or have a spirited match of dueling swords with their spindly hairless pee-pee’s, as long as it’s done behind closed doors I don’t care! I say “Good for him!” But evidently for some odd reason he’s been caught up in what apparently are some very unfortunate and inexplicable circumstances he has no control over.

And yet still, I’m conflicted. On the one hand, I’m experiencing feelings of validation for having set free the celestial being formerly sheltered by the ethereal bosom of Arcadia who was commissioned to forever remind me what a goddess should aspire to be. No longer will she be cruelly subjugated by what might at first be misinterpreted as a drooling trove of squabbling and misguided digital flesh-peddlers, in my humble opinion.

But then…

“What about Dylan?” I whispered to myself in a hoarse, Russell Crowe-like voice. “He’s now alone, cold and trembling. He’s been helplessly exiled to that vast and all-encompassing trash heap of cyberspace, probably naked… most definitely naked. Do I leave him like this? Is this the sort of man that I have become? Have I myself dissolved into that aforementioned disgusting cesspool that heartlessly robs us all of so much of the world’s most beautiful artistry?”

I sat staring blankly across the room as my old and nearly senile house cat finished dropping a deuce on the floor in the corner. “Leave it”, I muttered, still using my Russell Crowe voice. “Roscoe will be waking up from his nap any minute now. And I think he’s finished off the last of that accursed peanut butter.” And then it hit me. It’s simple: Photoshop!! Yeah, baby!! It seems so obvious now but why the hell didn’t I think of this before?! But wait. Who else shall I call upon in this most dire time of need? That answer also hit me like a ton of pricks!! My ol’ buddy Chad! Oh, fuckin’-A! Redemption at last! If ever was there an opportunity to make amends for all the constructive things I’ve said that he may have misconstrued as negative remarks this would be it.

I’ll tell you right now, I was a-cuttin’ and a-pastin’ like the Sam-Hill-Dickens (whatever the hell that is) as I was determined to create the most secularly homosexual match-made-in-heaven this generation has ever witnessed. I mean I was playing Cupid like one self-righteous Christian mother-FUCKER!! A few simple clicks of the mouse and I had these two handsome gents hemmed up in a fancy maneuver the title of which I have specifically coined solely in their honor. I call it “The Carolina Knock-kneed Straddle-buck”. It was originally meant to be more of a hetero contrivance I pulled from my personal repertoire which I have affectionately bastardized for their purposes (sans the oxygen mask and leather body harness, of course; that’s something my lawyer will have to go over with them after they sign the disclaimer).

Now before you begin speculating and throwing darts at my logic by insisting that this is hardly a realistic choice, given their orientation and all, try to understand that it was not flippantly decided upon. Originally I attempted to approach it using a seemingly more obvious, and admittedly stereotypical angle that employed that closely related maneuver informally known as the “Convoluted Reverse Thigh-slapping Huckle-buck.” But these guys strike me as being the softer, gentler sort who would much rather lovingly gaze into each other’s eyes as they enjoyed a blissfully romantic night of bumping dickheads. (I gotta say, this is turning out to be rather curative for me. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling better and better every minute. You know what? Fuck that therapist. I no longer give a shit if she blocks my calls!).

So here we are once again at day’s end. I dare not speak for all of the rest of us “other-dude’s-schlong” haters who have also suggested their disapproval of the appearance of the “ninety-eight-point-six-degree dildos-with-the-personalities-of-a-box-of-rocks” (I don’t want to get anyone else kicked out of this joint). But for my own purposes I find this to be a win-win-win situation.

First, there’s an ALS model who, from my perspective, no longer has to worry if she’s actually sucking on DNA samples that had been slathered upon the gerbil sized phalli of her pre-ordained “boyfriends” who most likely had only just finished running the entire gauntlet of I-95 in attempt to wallow around the men’s rooms of every last truck stop en route (praise the lord; the Mormons give out leaflets, you know).

Second, Dylan and Chad finally get to ride off into the sunset having been released from the stigma of their true sexuality. They can now live out the rest of their lives together, sipping on appletinis, giggling and recounting all the silly anecdotes from days of yore when they had to pinch their noses while they reluctantly stuck their tongues in all those yucky girl hoo-hoo thingy’s. And guys, no need to thank me. The pleasure has been entirely mine. By the way my boss offers his complements. He thinks you two make a really cute couple.

And finally…

Did you know that in Russia, the word vodka is sometimes pronounced “voh-draz-na”? Say it with me, “vho-DRAZ-na”.

Peace unto all!! I can now say with honesty that I have achieved closure and that I can truly look forward to Emily’s next shoot… well, you know, if no one has pressed any charges. (dime to a dollar it’ll be a fuckin’ three-way with those Chad and Dylan sissies; You know what though? I’m ok with it. And boys, as a genuine extension of the proverbial olive branch, here’s a truly constructive tip: if you aren’t really gay, don’t be nervous, just make sure you avoid eye contact with each other or your dicks will instantaneously go limp)

  • 2

…I must commend you on your taste, my friend. This fine young lady possesses a myriad of qualities that makes her stand out amongst a well-established throng of otherwise captivating sirens. Brunette? (‘check’), lovely brown eyes? (‘check’), charming smile? (‘check’), and the freckles? (Oh, the freckles!). However take note, if you will, and I don’t mean to distract from the aforementioned traits, but from the chin down she exhibits quite an astonishing amount of symmetry that I believe places her into a category of her own. I’m even capable of dismissing that nonsense she has inflicted upon her natural beauty that resides just above her left ankle (“why?” I ask. But that’s yet another discussion). On a personal note, Trista, you are an absolute benchmark which many others should strive to emulate. To put it succinctly… GOD DAMN, YOU’RE HOT!!! Hope life’s treated you well. And Pinkbits, I might have an angle on the query you posted regarding Chad’s job. I’ll get back to you after I do a bit of fact-finding. This could prove to be a delicate matter, indeed.

  • 2

…ok, so how’s this for irony. I always glance at the user tags just to see if anything amusing pops up and occasionally I’ll see something that catches my attention. The one item that seems to resurface conspicuously, and somewhat arbitrarily I might add, is the “shaved” or “shaved pussy” tag. Granted, I haven’t been an official member for very long, but should I be concerned about the fact that there is someone out there who fails to realize that this site is specifically dedicated to showcasing nothing but shaved pussies? I answered that question for myself by conducting a search purely out of curiosity using the key word “shaved”. You would lose your paycheck if you bet on the expected outcome. Why do I say this? Because there’s BUSH!!! That’s right, folks, it’s tightly groomed, and no more than a tuft, but it’s a fur burger none-the-less. (This is a no-shitter. “Aphrodasia”, feel free to fact check it for yourself). Embedded deep within the archives of this incredible mecca set aside purely for the sake of honoring the most sacred race-tracks-upon-which-grass-does-not-grow is none other than the very thing we strive to abolish. Now don’t get me wrong, I haven’t lost any respect for these highly esteemed “curators of the beardless clams” who give new meaning to a life that was once steeped in misery. But I can’t help thinking about that poor bastard who wants only to bookmark the very thing he considers dearest to his heart. Despite his efforts he has allegorically found himself stuck in a cylindrical room vainly looking for a corner in which to jerk off. Then again, maybe we’re just talking about some goofball who, much like me, cannot be taken seriously for one minute. At any rate, the moral of this story obviously is… um, (help me out people) “When life gives you a bunch of pubies…, uh… weave a Persian rug?” I don’t know. I’m going back for a history lesson; it’s time I embrace my roots, no pun intended. I think I might have seen that chick Paula in a strip club once in Myrtle Beach… or, maybe in a house of ill-repute in Palma de Mallorca. That was the best damn wedding reception I ever crashed. Fuckin’ vodka.

  • 2

And then we hear the delightfully innocent and delicate albeit resounding "...one more time?". Whew, baby! I liked it so much I decided to use it as my new ring tone. Unfortunately I overlooked the obvious inherent drawback to incorporating this feature as I first discovered at the most untimely moment. Now every time I get a phone call I piss my pants. Gotta remember to put the damn thing on silent when I give those board room presentations.

  • 2

I might be going out on a limb here but there are various subtle indications that point to the remote possibility that this girl is capable of self-inducing multiple orgasms.

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This was a reference to your re-posting of a comment by fer_realz regarding said subject matter. Your explanation of the nature of the post didn't come until the very end. Until then I was under the mistaken assumption that you were the very candid and unabashed author of the post. I was simply wondering if anyone else was experiencing the same eight to ten seconds of bewilderment as I was. Further clarification forthcoming.

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Confusion, disarray...

I was kidding about "dropping off the grid". And I don't have any restraining orders. For the sake of clarification on my position on the issue of waterworks, look through comments sections in Tina Blade's gallery. That ought to set you right.

And Admin? Did you have any concerns about possibly being associated with the feelings of envy regarding "Sara's coochie"? (I said, "What?! Now that is an odd twist, indeed.")

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…Hmm, pragmatic. Yeah I suppose I would have to agree. I have a pair of hot pants that, even though advertised as being “hypo-allergenic”, I have to say they fall dreadfully “short” of my expectations (no pun intended; hah, hah; a little humor to brighten your day?). In terms of clamps and all that other ridiculous hardware? Forget it! This is particularly in light of the fact that I have such tiny labia to begin with. I have looked all over for what would be described as a “mini-dream-snatcher”, say, roughly the diameter of a quarter but have had absolutely no luck. I’ve even gone so far as travelling to the nearest authentic Native American adult novelty store (and that wasn’t very near). Guess what? No luck, even with an accurate description of physical specifications and intended use, all I got in return for my determination was a bunch of weird looks. Ah, to heck with it. Pardon my French, but just getting a standard sized unit clipped on, let alone to stay on while I’m peeing can be a gosh-darned challenge in itself.

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…Mmm, I don’t know. I gotta tell you, I’m starting to get a little paranoid about this whole business. And this “Admin” person, whoever he or she is? I read the post, with all that “Hey, come on, relax. It’s all good. We just wanna have a little fun…” (I believe that’s accurate) Let me tell you, as much as I hate to admit it I’ve fallen for that little “reassuring” ditty before. In fact, if I had a nickel for every one of my restraining orders that resulted from somebody initially saying that to me…? It would easily add up to like, twenty seven cents. I’ve discovered people don’t generally have the same understanding of “fun” as I do.

Anyway, I’m planning on dropping off the grid for a while by sending them an uncharacteristically cheesy reply to one of their responses about the whole “pee” thing that I hope you don’t take offense to. I made it as sappy as I could with the hopes of flipping this shit and lulling them to sleep instead of the other way around. After that, maybe I’ll still be able to look at some decent pussy without popping up on their radar, but I don’t know. My gut tells me that they’ve been stalling for time so their lawyers can prepare their litigation.

At any rate, just know that I’ve always had a tremendous respect for your refusal to judge me for my unique and sometimes confusing sexuality. Thanks for all the support and reassurance. And please give your roommate a passionate hug-, er, “compassionate” hug for me… tell her I’m so, so sorry. For everything. (just don’t wake her up to do it)

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Oh yeah. I did get the day off. Then I told him about Emily's boyfriend. I got a raise...

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Yeah, what’s with all the perpetual cyber blue-balling anyway?!! They get us all buttered up like that and then, “Meh. See ya.” You know that hurts more than the real thing! Well, this time I decided I’d had enough. Instead of disgorging a bunch of gratuitous and ineffective babble, my plan was to hotfoot it down a more tangible path and actually do something about it. Turns out, with a little simple research, one can easily slide a few tricks up one’s sleeve that will turn the tables of persuasion in his or her direction. Yeah, that searing little book worm of theirs can’t think for a moment that she has the ability to corner the market on discovery. She’s not the only one capable of experiencing the occasional half-naked literary mind-fuck just by flipping through a few pages (well, I sort of only used the internet because I understand most studies have proven it to be far more effective).

That being said, I’m excited to announce with the expectation of achieving a full consensus, that it’s high-time for a follow up photo shoot of our shining new bibliophile! Yes, that’s right, only this time with her carefully chosen assistant, Chloe Foster to tag along. And if everything goes as planned, this other blonde mini-bombshell will be eagerly clutching a steadfast Dixie cup ready to answer that every last ureal beck and call. At least… that's what I'm hoping will happen after I light the ceremonial candles and commence with the carefully chosen combination of cryptic chanting.

At this point, I realize the naysayers are about to go ape-shit over my trust in this apparent high jinks, but let me assure you I’ve done my homework. And to prove it, after I briefly considered perusing that section covering the incorporation of some sort of live animal in the ceremony, I instinctively halted. I recognized when my inquiry into the ways of the mystics had come to an abrupt end. I’ve just had too many close brushes over the course of my life, I’ve learned my lessons and I like to think that I’ve grown from them. After foolishly taking for granted the overrated calm predictability of various forms of domestic fauna, it’s probably best I didn’t take any more chances. You just wouldn’t believe things could go so wrong, so easily. Besides, I just don’t think I could successfully backpedal out of any more far-fetched, but totally legitimate accident scenarios.

And on a somewhat unrelated note, does anyone have the number to a decent proctologist? I can’t get mine to answer his phone. Looking back at my last visit, I seem to remember it not going so well, but to never respond like that?

“This will be the fifth time in… three months? And this is in addition to your weekly self-prescribed colonoscopies. Mr. Wretched, I’m afraid this sort of thing is becoming more than a habit- Wait!! Is that?! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY OFFICE, NOW!!” As I painfully hobbled down the hallway, I was shocked at the unprofessional way he continued after me, lobbing expletive after heart wrenching expletive. I mean, for him to speak to me that way! I’m just trying to live a health conscious life and I get this?! I felt confused… betrayed. And on top of everything else that day, do you have any idea how hard it is to hail a taxi with chicken feathers flying out of every loose seam in your pants? I thought I’d never fucking get home!

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Just trying to maximize our viewing experience. Tell your roommate I offer my condolences.

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Yeah I need to leave those poor guys alone. Something tells me Admin just fired a sportsmanlike shot-across-the-bow letting me know I need to ease back with the aggressiveness.

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Sign me up! I'd pay money to see it.

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Yes, YES!! Nicely done! I had in the back of my mind that this was surely the case. I hate so much to thrash about in stagnant waters never to be heard by caring ears. Your words are truly validating and worthy of the respect and honor of anyone attempting to find fault. My hat falls to the floor for both Dylan and Chad, and I make this admission having thoroughly assessed the nature of my own shortcomings. It's just that I'm so friggin' jealous!!! But I won't say for whom (hee hee; that'll get your Freudian minds wondering!).

As always, you guys are awesome. Keep up the good work! G/G, B/G, B/B I don't care, let it roll!!

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I am finding this to be wildly erotic. Nice dress, by the way.

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No shit, right? I gotta say, this little golden honeypot is starting to change my entire outlook on blondes altogether. Between her and Cherry Kiss? Damn!

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Oh my god!! (and I don’t even have one so maybe you’ll let me borrow yours) At this moment I have to say, I’m not sure how to go about this as the last couple of days have revealed some rather puzzling shit. I thought at first the powers that be were attempting to bridle my voice, but fortunately as it turns out this isn’t a place where shock value is a one way street. I’ve decided to be nice, none the less, as believe it or not, I subscribe to the notion that it’s best we all get along. I’d much rather drink a beer with you than to shove your unwary ass through a rusty meat grinder- (whoops, ‘scuse me; I need to be nice about this) …than to subject you to a forked tongue lashing that would make Satan himself say, “Jesus Christ, dude! Chill the fuck out!” (that’s the best I can do in terms of “nice”)

“Bring it!” you taunt. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are ever so fortunate to have been graced with the likes of none other than Joe Dirt himself. That’s right, Mr. “Need a match? How ‘bout my face, your ass?’- wait…” Now, allow me a moment to collect my thoughts, because, well I want to get this one right. I want everyone to come out a winner, even that one particular ALS model who unfortunately now has before her one steep hill to re-ascend. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, note, if you will, that Joe attempts to aggrandize his challenge by tossing me a smoking hot red head expecting me to defile her like his buddy Dylan did to the formerly reigning scene queen who spent but mere moments basking in victory.

I’m actually glad things rolled out the way they did because I had both barrels locked and loaded for fuckin’ bear fully expecting you to send me a link to crackwhores.com or whatever. You blew a chance to seal the deal by showcasing the nastiest, skankiest, scab covered- well, you get the picture. My point here is, I’m able to keep the collateral damage to a minimum, but that’s how you zing a guy like me. Don’t throw out a gorgeous sacrificial lamb expecting me to rip her to shreds, what the fuck’s wrong with you? Here’s a tip: if an opponent dares you to lay your dick on the chopping block, don’t! Why, if you’re still asking? BECAUSE HE’S GONNA CHOP IT!!!

Anyway, let’s just allow this one to blow over. To be honest any retribution beyond what I’ve already amassed over this affair would amount to nothing but gluttony. And “Bring it?” For future reference, leave the “Fast and Furious” quotes for the teenagers- er, maybe I’m talking to one so, never mind. Say what you will. And when you do turn twenty one, look me up, we’ll have a beer together.

P.S. I hope like hell you don’t say stupid shit like that in public. One of these days someone’s gonna snatch you out of your fart box equipped Honda civic and crush you like a smoldering cigarette butt some crack head already picked up and got the best of then flicked into the gutter next to the convenience store where you were attempting to use your fake ID to buy liquor. Peace. (fear not, my young novice. A sharp fellow could look through this and pick out some really nice daggers to fling back at me. You can do it, I have faith in you. Worse comes to worse, ask your prom date to give it a looksee. Maybe she could offer you a few additional pointers)

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Shit, I recant. I should never had said 'glass table'.

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And speaking of “jesus fuck”, while we're on the subject I’ll tell you what, hill billy boy. You let me know who your favorite ALS model is then I’ll send you a pic of her with a superimposed image of Eva Braun crouched over a glass table taking a shit into Hitler’s open mouth and if you don’t like it, DON’T WATCH IT!!

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fuckin' voh-DRAZ-na

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Shit. I recant. Normally I'll conduct a quick perusal of a subscriber's comment history before I unleash the kraken. But in the heat of the moment I failed to do so. You, sir, reflect a great deal of positivity that I believe most consider a trivial notion. I humbly ask your forgiveness. (this is not sarcasm; it's rare, mind you, but not sarcasm)

The Wretched

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I got great news for you, my friend. I just googled "egg plant" and it turns out there's a secret underground laboratory located somewhere in Prague that has developed a special strain of rectum sized eggplant you might be interested in. This might possibly lead to the best b/b set on ALS. Perhaps you could volunteer to test out the waters for them.

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And Admin, I’d like to extend a personal apology for having subjected you to this, I realize you’re just doing your job. But on a positive note, I’ve thought of a suggestion for the title of Emily’s next photo shoot: “Eye Contact”. And god damn it, tell those boys their biggest fan wants to see LOTS of it!

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Our voices will be heard

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This girl didn't make it to the top because there was always some slobbering chode in the foreground. I got something for you, bro. Hope you can read better than you type.

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A brief follow up: I ran this narrative by my therapist thinking it might help me gain some closure. I'm not a hundred percent certain but judging from her reaction I may have been a bit confused about the actual premise of the theory I was attempting to test. As it turns out, the peanut butter wasn't meant to go on the dog's balls, which actually helps to explain quite a bit regarding the chaotic manner by which the situation played out. Unfortunately, the scenario that was initially only a slight embarrassment for me has now become downright awkward. On a somewhat unrelated note, if anyone knows the number for a good therapist, I might have to be in the market for a new one.

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Speaking of dogs, here’s a real pisser that’s been eating away at me for some time. This is actually something most people would probably keep to themselves as some would likely find it to be a tad embarrassing. First, allow me to preface by saying I hate dogs. I fucking hate the noisy flea-ridden walking shit factories, and it’s taking every bit of restraint for me to avoid going on a rant right now for no reason other than the fact that they exist. However I’ll maintain my resolve and stick to the issue at hand.
Last Thursday a friend of mine from work had a death in the family and thus needed to go out of town for a couple of days for the funeral. He approached me asking if I’d look after his dog while he was gone and I said “Oooh, definitely, I’d love to! Almost as much as I’d love to slam my dick in the nearest rusty car door”. I didn’t actually say that but I was just about to do so when suddenly I was struck with an epiphany. There’s that one trick with dogs I’ve overheard guys talk about on various occasions when there weren’t any women around. You know, the ol’ "peanut butter on the balls” shenanigan. So rather than flog him with a retort laced with a rare dose of sarcasm that was uncharacteristically peppered with expletives I immediately said “Yeah, Ok. No problem! It’d be my pleasure, honestly.”
On the way to rendezvousing with my soon to be cat-shit-eating man’s-best-friend, I stopped off at a local grocer and picked up a gallon sized bucket of the pureed groundnut legume paste which dogs apparently cannot resist. Looking back on this, I would have been better off simply envisioning the non-stop wild weekend I thought I was about to experience and left it at that. For, sadly, as it turned out, despite my enthusiasm success was not to be.
At this point allow me to interject by saying that urban legend is typically just that as I was once again thoroughly disappointed with the outcome of yet another theory I had put to the test. And I suppose ultimately it’s my own fault for having such high expectations but just as soon as I began slathering this dog’s balls with peanut butter he instantly went to licking it off like a starving fat kid trying to devour a rapidly melting ice cream cone. I’m like, “Hey, hold on a sec, damn it! Let me finish- I don’t have adequate coverage- This-, Shit!! This isn’t supposed to be your moment!” Needless to say the issue went back and forth for a while, with me trying desperately to rationalize and him growling and nipping at my ears, etcetera. Ultimately I said “Fuck it! Here, take the whole damn thing. Hope you choke on it!”
So we’re driving back from the vet’s office after this filthy heap of putrescence nearly asphyxiated himself and I remember thinking that this really could prove to be my undoing. Fortunately we arrived back at my apartment just before my buddy returned from out of town to retrieve his disagreeable fuckin’ mutt. When I gave back the remainder of the supplies I was left with he reacts with astonishment. “That’s weird,” he says. “Roscoe barely touched his food. ‘Awwww, wussuh mattuh big feh-wuh. Did you miss your daddy?’” I played along not wanting to go into extensive detail about having spent my entire weekend cleaning up after his stinking ass. That fuckin’ son-of-a-bitch could have shat peanut butter through a stack of screen doors without touching a single wire. And judging from the smug look on his furry fuckin’ face he enjoyed every moment of it. Lessons learned?

A. Know who your friends are.

B. Peanut butter is NOT conducive to a dog’s healthy digestive system. And finally,

C. If you’re not double-jointed like Roscoe and all his other damn canine cousins you might as well tell Peter Pan to go fuck himself because I ain’t doin’ that shit… anymore.

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OK, mate. So here’s the deal. What must you do to get Chad’s job? As it turns out the answer is quite simple: submit an application at your local McDonald’s restaurant then slit the tires on his piece of shit car so he can’t show up for his next scheduled shift. He’ll get fired and you’ll be his replacement. Done! Alright, so maybe the “inside scoop” I’m proposing is actually just a fabricated scenario that continually plays out within the confines of my own grey matter but you gotta admit, from our perspective it’s ideal (well, except for the part where you’d have to work for shitty burger joint). Now anyone who may be offended by my suggestion, i.e. that exclusive assembly of so called male porn “stars”, if there really is such a thing, is the victim of his own fabrication of reality. Additionally, should there exist some naïve soul who subscribes to the notion that this mindless chode- er, Chad, (whatever) is getting paid to be a sweaty dildo with a pulse then perhaps he or she deserves a fate that includes an illustrious and lifelong career flipping burgers for an overrated fast food chain. Picture this, if you will: you are approached by an obviously respectable individual who invites you into his abode with a proposal. Once inside you find a couch or bed upon which is perched a smiling and naked Nella, Janet, Holly, Joanne, Liv or Trisha (I like to start with some of the classics; feel free to substitute whomever). After you’ve picked your jaw up from the floor and returned it to its proper location you are kindly instructed to have your way with any or all of these gorgeous representations of the female gender whilst the camera is rolling. Oh, but wait, once you’ve finished, make sure to stop by our disbursing office to receive your handsome paycheck. This- I can’t- there’s no way… it’s just not possible. Every time I try to conceptualize it my head literally throbs as if someone justifiably struck me with a three pound ballpeen hammer. “Oh, hey, now!” one might proclaim. “These guys work hard to promote the one aspect that’s been conspicuously absent from this particular corner of the industry for too long now”. Perhaps, in the strictest and all-inclusive politically correct sense someone could get away with incorporating that assertion in their campaign speech. But as a not-so-casual observer, I feel it’s my responsibility to bluntly point out that this is “All Ladies Shaved”; “All LADIES Shaved”. That having been said, anything else that happens to clumsily migrate into my field of view is nothing more than a lowly prop.

“…Okey-Dokey, Mister, uh, White is it? Says here under employment history you once worked in the adult film industry?”
“Yes, that’s correct”.
“So… you were a director?”
“Oh, no, not exactly.”
“Ah, a cameraman.”
“Um, no.”
“Camera assistant?”
“Nah.”
“Gaffer?
“Nope.”
“Costume designer? Grip? Lighting supervisor?”
“Neh.”
“Makeup artist? PA? Editor?
“None of the above.”
“Ok, so help me out, here. I’m a little confused.”
“I was an actor.”
“Wha- an actor, you say? (burst of laughter accompanied by an exaggerated eye roll) As a male in the porn industry? You mean you were a prop.”
“Uh… yeah… I was a prop. My mom says I was a dildo, you know… with a pulse.”
“Yeah, that’s uh, eh-hmm… Ok, so I don’t want to sound condescending and I appreciate your taking an interest in applying for a position here at McDonald’s. But we are really looking for people with genuine experience who are capable of displaying a professional attitude. I noticed in your resume that instead of a headshot, you’ve included a photo of yourself shoving a fistful of marker pens into your ass. I keep hearing about a studio not far from here that shoots Christian ‘how-to’ videos. Maybe they can help you out.”

Peace, brother. (At day’s end, it is well with my soul.)

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Ok, so apparently we're not allowed to use the "less than" syntax. What I meant to say is that (I "heart" majoras!!) And Miss Blue, pardon my terseness, but you’ve got a SENSATIONAL ass!! In fact, I Googled “What would an angel’s ass look like?” and “BAM”: h_39517520C63A906AAB183BB3C5AAA050 pops up (well, not really but you get the idea). And that look on your face? Oh, yeah, you know it’s hot!!

(Jeeze Louise, somebody spank me-! Ok, I gotta go, um, comb my hair, er- whatever.)

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Dromedary tarsal phalanxosis (ˈdrä-mə-ˌder-ē; ˈtär-səl; ˈfā-ˌlaŋ(k)s(ˈ)ōˈsis: that curious and oft times misinterpreted physical condition affecting the mons pubis of women who have occasionally subjected themselves to what at first appears to be a poorly contrived wardrobe element. In most cases, this phenomenon typically results in what is usually considered to be an embarrassing and undesirably prominent display of the labia majora. On the other hand, we are at the same time fortunate to have been graced with that select few who meet all the correct anatomical criteria and have stood up to the sort of rigorous scrutiny that places them into an altogether separate and elite category (as we so plainly see in this marvelous exhibition). These women, who additionally are immune to that closely related syndrome known as ‘Lateral pelvic running-boardititus’, are free to proudly display their pubic cleavage as though they were brandishing well-earned and highly revered badges of honor. Ladies, allow me to be among those who stand behind your shameless decision to publicly tout the very framework that so appropriately adorns the gateway to the promise land. We hail to those delicate folds within which is nestled that heavenly slice of carnal confectionery. Long live the camel toe!! (I

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h_02C28A31F7068564DDA255003AD7C79B “…now, where did I put those darn car keys? Ugh, I can never find anything in here- Oh, hey, a buttermint!”

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Uh oh... shit! Emily next week?!! Dang it, you guys are gonna cost me another sick day. Alright, I gotta start working on my excuse. Tooth ache? Nah, too lame. Death in the family? Neh, from a paperwork standpoint I've already killed off everyone but my fourth cousins, three times removed. They've called me out on that one, twice. Help me out. There's gotta be something... Ok, I got it. I'll just have to be honest. I stumbled across this gorgeous babe while strolling along the sands of Wrightsville Beach and she asked me to rub some sunscreen on her back. My boss is totally gay but I'm sure if I show him a pic of the object of my desire he'll forget who he is and high-five me like some raucous dude from an 80's throwback concert!

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Jeezy Petes!! Wish you luck? Wish ME some friggin' luck!!! Damn you!! Nah, just kidding. Hope she's ambidextrous.

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“…after a while I try more, but I cannot touch my ‘cleet’.”
Whoa! Back up there, gorgeous, I need to get this straight. You just managed to come for us a half a dozen times over a span of roughly eight or so minutes in explosively epic fashion, mind you, and yet ultimately you feel compelled to offer an indirect apology? Allow me to draw a blunt comparison by saying that if I was the one in front of the camera, twenty-three seconds into the video I would have already blown my wad and been rolled over fast asleep. And as I’m sure most of your other fans would plainly agree, there’s not a soul in this world who’s gonna pay good money to see that. I mean, not that I’m capable, but even if I shot several species of small furry animals out of my ass when I came- er, well… Ok, let’s change the subject.

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Yeah,... I suppose... Damn it. But then again in MY version of reality there is no such thing as B/G. "Ah hah!" You say, "But what about me?" That too is taken care of, as also in my version of reality I'm actually a lesbian stuck in a guy's body. So in essence it's aaaaalllllll G/G!

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…wait, what? So you’re saying if I expect someone in your administration to pay heed to any of my suggestions or comments I have to resubmit them to yet another comment section?? Who would that be, pray tell, the midget behind the curtain posing as the Wizard of fucking Oz?!! What the hell do you think I’ve been doing for the last thirty days, trying to strike up a stimulating conversation with some troglodyte who’s only interest is seeing “nuthin’ but the dang insides of her gapin’ butthole”? Jeeze! Fuck!! What kind of jack-leg outfit is this??? Nah, I’m just kidding. You guys are doing a fine job, and I mean FINE! I’ve been a distant fan for nearly a decade now but haven’t been able to gain access to your site until my wife recently told me to go fuck myself (I told her, “I believe I can make the necessary provisions for that”). Years ago my boss forgot to log out of the computer on his desk. I went in his office after hours looking for a purchase request he was supposed to have signed and accidently jostled the mouse and what pops up on his monitor? None other than that unforgettably glorious vision of Nella with her knees in the air and Liv wearing her like a sock puppet. The image of those two provocatively seductive angels will forever be indelibly scorched onto my retinas. At any rate, keep doing what you’re doing. You won’t likely hear any complaints out of me. Oh, and I’ll copy and paste this to the aforementioned mailbox just to be safe. Say hi to Oz and pat the midget on his head for me.

Your pal,
The Wretched

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Ok, ok!! Jeeze, settle down. You can use the leather armchair to shoot this- but hey! No lubes, got it? I’m serious, no petroleum products what-so-ever. My mom comes home and finds her favorite piece of furniture all slimed up with baby oil and she’ll fucking kill me. Oh, and one other thing. Your sister’s not a squirter is she?

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Anyone who feels compelled by the ridiculous urge to claim that this little hottie was play acting when she arrived at the moment of truth needs to go back to the 11:30 mark and take a gander at her forehead. Then go to Cherry Kiss’s gallery and scroll down to the “Again and Again” marquee. A quick comparison of that rigidly furrowed brow ought to dispel any such lingering doubt. Batman himself would be having Lucius Fox scrambling to replicate that exact same look on his next equipment upgrade. We luv it, babydoll. Keep it coming! (…and uh, Hm-Hm, I’m still thinking about “Breakfast at Emily’s”, eh? Hint, hint? Nudge, nudge?; naturally it’d be sans Audrey Hepburn, but- ooh!! How ‘bout Aubrey Belle instead? Maybe have Franziska pop in just to make it the coiffure trifecta of the century. Say no more? Trust me, God and Jesus just did a knuckle-bump)

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…aw, hey come on now. It’s just another form of artistic expression. She and all the other so-called “suicide girls” have all the freedom in the world to utilize it just like I have the freedom to give a five year old kid a fistful of crayons, point at da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and say, “Go make it pretty!”. Or what about Michelangelo’s sculpture of David? I think I have every right to give a hammer and chisel to oh, I don’t know, a paranoid schizophrenic Vietnam vet tripping on acid, shrooms, and MDMA all at the same time and say, “Here, just take a little off the top”. Nah, I’ll have to side with you on this topic, my friend. I’m just not getting it either. I see these flawlessly spectacular women doing this sort of thing to themselves all the time and invariably I picture myself years from now going to visit a loved one in a retirement home. Chances are pretty good I’m going to spot one of these former “spinners-from-God’s-good-graces” in her early eighties sitting on a bench out front with a tattoo on the back of her neck in tribal lettering that reads “SUCK MY PUSSY!!” There’ll come a day when I’ll be dining at a fine restaurant worrying about whether or not the wrinkled old bat sitting at the table next to me with an eyebrow stud is gonna sneeze and spew some manner of effluent out of one of the other dozen holes she had bored into her head forty years prior. Now don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with someone’s desire to improve their outward appearance- as long as it starts internally with the fucking brain first, and ends externally perhaps with a subtle accentuation at most. Additionally, I don’t truly believe I have the freedom to desecrate the most beautiful works of art in this world. Simply making the attempt would bring about harsh consequences. And artistic expression in itself is no license to act on the desire to put on a vulgar display of mankind’s willingness and tendency to flippantly destroy the various representations of beauty that surrounds us simply because they’re within our reach. With that in mind, think about it, ladies. Granted, you’re cute and bubbly right now, but damn, one of us might be that unfortunate healthcare worker charged with the task of changing out your incontinence garment when you’re too old to do it yourself. It’s not gonna be me, of course, but when that time comes, I definitely wouldn’t want to be the one that spots a tattoo of an arrow pointing to your butthole reading: “THE FUN STARTS HERE!!” And it doesn’t have to be tribal lettering; there’s no font in this world capable of taking the sting out of that imagery. On that note, please excuse the graphic visualizations, but they serve as a direct reflection of my passionate stance on this matter and what more applicable venue is there than this? By the way, mate, your astute and poignant assertion lends itself to a bit of irony having come from a self-proclaimed DV8. But it’s cool nonetheless.

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I’m having trouble concentrating at work because of this girl. In fact one day last week I decided to say to hell with it altogether and called in sick. Speaking of which, I haven’t been able to beat off five times in one day since I was fifteen! After the forth time my pecker glared up at me and started raising hell.
“Listen, god damnit, I need a fucking break, literally-“
“SILENCE!! It puts the lotion on! You have no idea what kind of hell I CAN BRING YOU!!
“But-
“DOES WHAT IT’S TOLD!!!”

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That was awesome. At the 6:04 mark she thinks “Hm, if only I had remembered to bring my…” and then she smiles and gives us that quick little epiphany-inspired finger wag. “Ah, ha, but wait!! I did remember it!” (that was classic!) And she immediately reveals its exact location. I for one am eternally grateful that I wasn’t the one charged with the responsibility of keeping track of it. The damn thing could have been shoved three-quarters of the way up my ass with it turned to the ultra-high-torque, “Warning: For paraplegics use only!” setting and I still never would have found it.
“Bear with me, sweetheart. I’m still looking- wait. What’s that noise? You hear that? Ah, never mind, I guess I’ll have to go check in the fridge. I’ve already looked every fucking where else.”

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Jesus FUCKING Christ, she has the cutest smile!!

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"...are you like it?"
"Hell yeah, I are."

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Now if we could just get her in the same room with Tina Blade and Veronica Rodriquez we'd have one hell of a show. Naturally the production crew would have to be outfitted with scuba gear and life vests but fuck it, I'd shell out a few extra bucks to cover the hazardous duty pay. Anchors aweigh, my boys! Let's get this son-of-a-bitchin' ship sailin'

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I doubt it. :P compared to the other bleh b/g scenes I'm sure they are amused with the work you put into that ;) and I know they are very nice. Are you sure your not a writer?

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Click on the link for model Sara Jaymes and then click on the photo shoot from June 5, 2014, titled "Sip and Satisfy," with Shalina Devine. Scroll down to the 30th line and look at the photo on the far right (or the previous two on line 29). I wrote a fairly long comment about this shoot based on those shots. Sara was WAY in need of a shave. She had major stubble all around her privates, but worse, yet, she had serious "chest-like" hair all over her buttocks -- something I've NEVER seen on a lady. I'm a middle-aged man, and I don't have anywhere near that much hair on MY butt cheeks. The hairs were dark and pointy and just completely destroyed any "sexiness" the shots might have otherwise generated.

I find stuff like that inexcusable on a site named ALL LADIES SHAVED. Most of these ladies are so clean it appears they don't shave, but likely wax, which I'm sure isn't pleasant, but it achieves the "look" those of us who like bare skin are looking for (look at Malena Morgan as just one example). If a gal shows up at a shoot with stubble and/or hair, someone should make her shave, or help her shave before the shoot begins, or else re-schedule the shoot. Otherwise, the site is engaging in fraud and susceptible to members canceling and demanding a refund.

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Do what?

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Ha ha ha!!!

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I will check that comment out. ( :

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Ha ha ha! OK, will do. ( :

I can't wait to see your cheesy reply. I'm sure it will be tremendously entertaining.

I'm hoping that if you really do slip under the radar, you just won't be able to restrain yourself from allowing your personality to come out and play again, in the near future. I wouldn't be overly concerned about "Admin," who seems to be a decent sort to me. But you gotta play it how you gotta play it. ( :

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OMG Dude (or Dudette, in today's world it really doesn't pay to make assumptions such as this) you totally made my night with your reply, thanks. But you're going to have to answer to my roommate's wrath after waking her from her due slumber with my peals of laughter (more like shrieks, but we won't go into that).
Somehow I glean from your narrative that you're not 100% onboard with the urination idea. OK, you don't like it at all. But that's OK, it takes more than one stroke to turn the world, or something like that, as my dear departed grandfather used to say... or something like that. LOL
Keep the stories coming, while I have always been amused by this site, your comments have now become the most amusing aspect. ( :

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Really? That wasn't how I read their response at all, I thought they were complimenting you on your funny posts. I thought the extra info about Dylan being Emily's boyfriend was just a nice way of reassuring us that they are a real-life couple and only pose together. I didn't read the comment as a veiled warning to you at all.

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...wait, isn't that "vo-DRAZH-nah ??
:D

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"delicate" .... perhaps. But very, very amusing.

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Therapist?
You don' need no stinkin' therapist.
Keep commenting, and keep the F__k away from therapists, or your posts will get a lot more boring.
( ;

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"Christian 'how-to' videos" :D
Rich.

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Yup. See, I am not a dog person either (though I have managed to learn how to impersonate one for the good of my friends and family who are) but my best buddy in high school had familiarized me with the peanut butter trick and ~ had you asked me ~ I could have set you straight before your little experiment gone wrong with Roscoe.
Who's a good boy?

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Dude, you totally pulled it out at the last minute. Ehrm... maybe that's not such a good metaphor... what I mean is, ah heck, you know what I mean.

What'd your boss say, BTW?

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I love your idea about the Dylan/Chad shoot, BTW. Esp. the part about bumping pee-pees. I seriously was laughing out loud reading your whole diatribe, I think I probably woke up my roommate. She is NOT going to be happy with me (it's very nearly Monday morning). ) :

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Oh my. Brother, or sister, whatever is the case, I bow to you.
I thought I was (moderately) clever and incisive in my comments. Boy was I wrong, I am an amateur. You are a genius, hands down. This wins my favorite comment of the year award. Hell, my favorite comment ever.
Keep 'em coming, Wretched. You rock. ( : ( : ( :

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Pass me some of that voh-DRAZ-na, brother. I need a stiff shot right now, and that was NOT a double stiff entendre. ( ;

  • 1

How about Chloe Foster? My biggest ALS fantasy is a G/G shoot (full photo and vid) with both Dakota and Chloe. Damn, that would be HEAVEN.

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Agreed. Eye contact is critical, but to some detracts from the realism in scenes featuring couples.

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Your illustrative and entertaining diatribes, deconstructed, are spiked with salient shots of sobering insights, served over ice-cold honesty but garnished by clever prose mixed with a sophisticated palate for feminine beauty. That is to sincerely say your feedback in both appreciated and amusing.

For what it's worth to those interested, Dylan and Emily are a happy couple in real life, both very smart and ambitious. Their adult work helps fund their other entrepreneurial pursuits, and you will not see Emily performing with other male talent (accurate at time of writing). Chad is also a really nice guy and a lot of fun to throw back a beer with. That said, we share your sentiments towards 'crossover' performers and avoid working with them because it detracts from the authenticity and passion between a couple.

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Elle Alexandra. Bring it.

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LOL you crackin' me up, brother... er, I mean, "sister." ( ;
I would consider myself the same, except that I rather like my dick. I'm pretty sure lesbians don't want anything to do with those. ( :

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This time I did do a background check. And yes, great news! The individual in question does qualify as being the most deserving of cannon fodder. RELEASE THE KRAKEN!!!

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Shit, I recant. I should never had said 'glass table'.

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And speaking of “jesus fuck”, while we're on the subject I’ll tell you what, hill billy boy. You let me know who your favorite ALS model is then I’ll send you a pic of her with a superimposed image of Eva Braun crouched over a glass table taking a shit into Hitler’s open mouth and if you don’t like it, DON’T WATCH IT!!

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fuckin' voh-DRAZ-na

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Shit. I recant. Normally I'll conduct a quick perusal of a subscriber's comment history before I unleash the kraken. But in the heat of the moment I failed to do so. You, sir, reflect a great deal of positivity that I believe most consider a trivial notion. I humbly ask your forgiveness. (this is not sarcasm; it's rare, mind you, but not sarcasm)

The Wretched

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And Admin, I’d like to extend a personal apology for having subjected you to this, I realize you’re just doing your job. But on a positive note, I’ve thought of a suggestion for the title of Emily’s next photo shoot: “Eye Contact”. And god damn it, tell those boys their biggest fan wants to see LOTS of it!

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wow

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A brief follow up: I ran this narrative by my therapist thinking it might help me gain some closure. I'm not a hundred percent certain but judging from her reaction I may have been a bit confused about the actual premise of the theory I was attempting to test. As it turns out, the peanut butter wasn't meant to go on the dog's balls, which actually helps to explain quite a bit regarding the chaotic manner by which the situation played out. Unfortunately, the scenario that was initially only a slight embarrassment for me has now become downright awkward. On a somewhat unrelated note, if anyone knows the number for a good therapist, I might have to be in the market for a new one.

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Ok, so apparently we're not allowed to use the "less than" syntax. What I meant to say is that (I "heart" majoras!!) And Miss Blue, pardon my terseness, but you’ve got a SENSATIONAL ass!! In fact, I Googled “What would an angel’s ass look like?” and “BAM”: h_39517520C63A906AAB183BB3C5AAA050 pops up (well, not really but you get the idea). And that look on your face? Oh, yeah, you know it’s hot!!

(Jeeze Louise, somebody spank me-! Ok, I gotta go, um, comb my hair, er- whatever.)

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All comments, posted on site or received via email, are read and appreciated.
Email is simply an option that may permit more constructive dialogue, as one may not feel inclined to return to a previously viewed update to carry on a conversation in the comments area.
Thanks!

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LOL
Sadly, however, more of the ALS ladies have been swinging B/G than G/G since ALS introduced B/G shoots. What a buzzkill to see another guy doing the girl you want to.....
*sigh*

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See, this is what happens when I make comments after drinking vodka. Remember: no drunk posts!! …you gotta admit, those are some nice-ass collar bones. Fuck! I did it again.

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P.S.S. Her freckles are "adorable", not adoring. (I fucking hate when I do that.)

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