Anyway, you know the best part of being a gay hooker? Having a female pimp. Seriously, I just sicced her on some crackie who owes me $60 (I'm what you'd term an inexpensive date.)
Seriously awesome.
Labels: awesome, hilariously gay, random
It's Been A While, Minions
5.23.2009
Ore : 10:25 AM
Ore : 10:25 AM
But I had to drop in to say "howdy," particularly to the guy burping right behind me at the library. He's waiting for the computer. Five minutes, meester.
Anyway, you know the best part of being a gay hooker? Having a female pimp. Seriously, I just sicced her on some crackie who owes me $60 (I'm what you'd term an inexpensive date.)
Seriously awesome.
Anyway, you know the best part of being a gay hooker? Having a female pimp. Seriously, I just sicced her on some crackie who owes me $60 (I'm what you'd term an inexpensive date.)
Seriously awesome.
Rightists Expand Government To Your Junk
10.08.2008
Ore : 3:33 PM
Ore : 3:33 PM
DKos's eugene is totally right about this. Now, as I live in modern-day Sodom, my volunteering at a No on 8 office would be silly, but it can only help for me to post this:
I suggest that California Rightards visit dictionary.com for the definitions of "unintended" and "consequences."
I suggest that California Rightards visit dictionary.com for the definitions of "unintended" and "consequences."
Labels: evil, hilariously gay, kultur kamp, morality, Republican't stooges, talebangelical cats, wingnuttery
Imperial Fleet Week
9.27.2008
Ore : 5:07 PM
Ore : 5:07 PM
Glibertarian Type 4, Tier 8 -- D-List
8.26.2008
Ore : 7:33 AM
Ore : 7:33 AM
Several thoughts upon "discovering" Robert Stacy McCain's blahg:
- His tag reads "Award-winning columnist, reporter, editor, author, bon vivant and raconteur." First, I'd like to know which awards he's won besides a booger-encrusted gold star from Instapundit's crotchlings. Second, I'm sure there's no such thing as an award for a raconteur -- certainly, I can't imagine such an award being doled out to someone who has the temerity to label himself one. And third, anyone who calls himself a bon vivant is just admitting to a case of raging, incorrigible alcoholism.
- Immediate impression is of a coverless, dog-eared, yard-sale paperback version of PJ O'Rourke (who himself hasn't been funny since the year I was born.)
- Another glibertarian: tolerates the hypocritical, finger-wagging scolds among his fellow travelers for the sake of political expediency, but likes his controlled substances and what he thinks passes for humor (and it does, among the knuckledraggers with whom he canoodles.) Just wishes all the niggers except for Alan Keyes would go away.
- An example of his rakish, cocked-elbow, Buckley-eyebrowed humor: "The Women's Caucus. Imagine me in a roomful of liberal women, some of them possibly heterosexual. Frightening." Analysis: any humor contained therein is purely unintentional -- frightened of possibly heterosexual women? I'm shocked, really. Of course, he meant "BWA-HA-HA LIBERAL DEMONCRAT WOMEN ARE BIG BULLDYKES HAHAHA" -- but then, what is he, a sophisticate, or a Delphi Forums troglodyte? Then again I often find myself more comfortable around lesbians, but I'm a huge faggot.
- "Stacy"? How unfortunate. My condolences.
- His tag reads "Award-winning columnist, reporter, editor, author, bon vivant and raconteur." First, I'd like to know which awards he's won besides a booger-encrusted gold star from Instapundit's crotchlings. Second, I'm sure there's no such thing as an award for a raconteur -- certainly, I can't imagine such an award being doled out to someone who has the temerity to label himself one. And third, anyone who calls himself a bon vivant is just admitting to a case of raging, incorrigible alcoholism.
- Immediate impression is of a coverless, dog-eared, yard-sale paperback version of PJ O'Rourke (who himself hasn't been funny since the year I was born.)
- Another glibertarian: tolerates the hypocritical, finger-wagging scolds among his fellow travelers for the sake of political expediency, but likes his controlled substances and what he thinks passes for humor (and it does, among the knuckledraggers with whom he canoodles.) Just wishes all the niggers except for Alan Keyes would go away.
- An example of his rakish, cocked-elbow, Buckley-eyebrowed humor: "The Women's Caucus. Imagine me in a roomful of liberal women, some of them possibly heterosexual. Frightening." Analysis: any humor contained therein is purely unintentional -- frightened of possibly heterosexual women? I'm shocked, really. Of course, he meant "BWA-HA-HA LIBERAL DEMONCRAT WOMEN ARE BIG BULLDYKES HAHAHA" -- but then, what is he, a sophisticate, or a Delphi Forums troglodyte? Then again I often find myself more comfortable around lesbians, but I'm a huge faggot.
- "Stacy"? How unfortunate. My condolences.
Labels: analyses, evil, hilariously gay, other bloggers' lives, Republican't stooges, stupidity, wingnuttery
Lucy Caboose Is My New Drag Name
8.24.2008
Ore : 8:52 AM
Ore : 8:52 AM
1. Fucking Outside Lands music fest. All those drunk trust fund bitches gumming up the works on MUNI. I had to walk home from fucking North Beach. NORTH BEACH, GODDAMMIT!
2. Why is it that whenever somebody wants to cat-call "FAGGOT!" it's always a) a guy and b) from inside a piece of shit car?
3. Shout-out to my homie AG, showin' me love on Facecrack!
4. Turns out I'm an amazing cook. I never have a miss -- just ask my friends.
5. My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble. Hey now, hey now, my boyfriend's back.
6. He said he brought me back a souvenir from Montreal. Probably it's a raging case of gonorrhea.
2. Why is it that whenever somebody wants to cat-call "FAGGOT!" it's always a) a guy and b) from inside a piece of shit car?
3. Shout-out to my homie AG, showin' me love on Facecrack!
4. Turns out I'm an amazing cook. I never have a miss -- just ask my friends.
5. My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble. Hey now, hey now, my boyfriend's back.
6. He said he brought me back a souvenir from Montreal. Probably it's a raging case of gonorrhea.
Labels: hilariously gay, random, the shitty
Happy Pride!
6.23.2008
Ore : 12:07 PM
Ore : 12:07 PM
And this year's Freedom Camp Golden Cornhole Award winners are:
Best Drag Name: Manna Montana
Best Porn Star: Logan McCree, pictured above (watch this SFW vid -- he definitely has the brains to go far in his industry! But seriously, he's dead hot.)
Best Comic: Margaret Cho (sorry Kathy Griffin, but you're seriously overexposed. Give Ass Master a chance!)
Best Gay-themed Movie: None of them! Queer cinema still sucks like your grandma at the docks (I'm looking at you, Strand.)
Best Enemy of the Homos: Every conservative right-winger who's ever been caught hiring male escorts or cruising guys in airport bathrooms.
And finally, the Lifetime Achievement Award for Superannuated Whores Who Refuse To Go Away: Madonna. Seriously lady, retire already.
Labels: hilariously gay, random
First Four Drag Names...
6.19.2008
Ore : 7:48 PM
Ore : 7:48 PM
...Are as follows:
Discuss...
- Dinah AIDS
- [In blackface] Harmony GRIDS
- Sharon Needles
- Manna Montana
Discuss...
Labels: hilariously gay, random
Briefly Back From Hiatus
11.24.2007
Ore : 10:59 AM
Ore : 10:59 AM
...Just to let you know that the DIY Network has a show called "Man Caves." No, really.
A choice quote: "Now it's in my man cave, and I can share it with all my friends."
A choice quote: "Now it's in my man cave, and I can share it with all my friends."
Labels: hilariously gay, random
I'm Going And So Should You
9.28.2007
Ore : 8:01 AM
Ore : 8:01 AM
Junior Tranny Edition
7.22.2007
Ore : 6:21 PM
Ore : 6:21 PM
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Britney Houston:
Labels: celebrity make-up tips, hilariously gay, random
Some People I've Seen
7.19.2007
Ore : 8:20 AM
Ore : 8:20 AM
Working at the recycling center, I continue to encounter people I met years ago. I recognize them even when they don't recognize me -- usually, these aren't people with whom I was on intimate terms, but faces I used to see around and about years ago. And I'm an observant person, and I rarely forget a face...
I was cleaning the yard after work one evening when she came walking up Market Street from the Safeway. I write "she" in the most generous sense, of course. The other day, she looked, with her bleached and cropped 'do, in her button-down cream silk blouse and black slacks, like any other neatly dressed Filipina auntie... Even if her shoulders were a mite wide.
Several years ago, I used to see her regularly at the Pilsner Inn where my friends and I would play pool. There she was turned out more in the style of an old Trader Vic's barfly, in silk Hawaiian shirts with a waxy, peach-hued lily tucked behind one ear. We used to call her Imelda Markdown. At least until she got really trashed, sloshing her drink and yowling in Tagalog, at which point she became Imelda Meltdown. And whenever she wore white pants, there would show up at some point in the evening a small wet spot on the front of her pants, the result of a combination of poor coordination in the toilet, too many Mai Tais, and a botched steerage-class snip-snip that apparently left her with an angry inch. I once saw her fall off a bar stool.
This is the first time I've seen her in years. I wonder if she's sober, maybe in a program, a renewed tranny professional with a fresh sense of purpose in her life.
She saw me looking at her, and she knew I recognized her even if she didn't recognize me. She paused, puzzled, then gave me a curt yet polite nod, and kept walking...
Hangdog Harry redeemed a few bucks worth of bottles and cans a couple of weeks ago. He kept trying to engage me in conversation, but I had to keep the line moving. I could sense he very vaguely, very dimly recognized me, but couldn't place my face. I suppose I've changed a bit in eleven years, but he looks the same. He has one of those jowly, drooping faces that never change -- one that came out of the womb looking the way it will when he's in the casket.
I spotted him right away, of course. He was my coworker at Pacific Bell, where I first met him in 1996. He hasn't really changed much. He's looking a little more ashen, with a little more gray in the hair, but he'll never change -- doubtless he looked 40-something in high school, and doubtless he will still when he's in his 70s.
Sandy Van didn't cast me a second glance when she came around to the scales with her aluminum. I last saw her 5 years ago when she was a program director with the non-profit for which I did administrative work and some grant writing. She was in her 60s then and still is, and is looking rather well for someone who smokes a pack of Parliaments a day. I wanted to talk to her, to connect and catch up, but again -- had to keep the line moving.
The thing I loved about Sandy was that she is a comedienne. Oh, the late-night jokes she could tell: "...And then she turned to her friend, and said 'Oh, Mary, I don't think that's a mushroom'," she would intimate in her gravelly, Marianne Faithfullesque growl.
And while I remember her of course for her good work with the community, and her dedication to helping the poor and disadvantaged, I remember her primarily as a funny person, because that's how she connects with people.
I saw her once again, on Market Street, and once again she did not see me; her back was turned, and she was headed in the direction opposite me, carrying one brown paper grocery bag. This last sighting only confirmed my perception of her, as who more than a comic would appear to an outside observer just so: walking up that hill at Haight and Market, slumped over and defeated-looking, exhausted and alone.
* * *
I was cleaning the yard after work one evening when she came walking up Market Street from the Safeway. I write "she" in the most generous sense, of course. The other day, she looked, with her bleached and cropped 'do, in her button-down cream silk blouse and black slacks, like any other neatly dressed Filipina auntie... Even if her shoulders were a mite wide.
Several years ago, I used to see her regularly at the Pilsner Inn where my friends and I would play pool. There she was turned out more in the style of an old Trader Vic's barfly, in silk Hawaiian shirts with a waxy, peach-hued lily tucked behind one ear. We used to call her Imelda Markdown. At least until she got really trashed, sloshing her drink and yowling in Tagalog, at which point she became Imelda Meltdown. And whenever she wore white pants, there would show up at some point in the evening a small wet spot on the front of her pants, the result of a combination of poor coordination in the toilet, too many Mai Tais, and a botched steerage-class snip-snip that apparently left her with an angry inch. I once saw her fall off a bar stool.
This is the first time I've seen her in years. I wonder if she's sober, maybe in a program, a renewed tranny professional with a fresh sense of purpose in her life.
She saw me looking at her, and she knew I recognized her even if she didn't recognize me. She paused, puzzled, then gave me a curt yet polite nod, and kept walking...
* * *
Hangdog Harry redeemed a few bucks worth of bottles and cans a couple of weeks ago. He kept trying to engage me in conversation, but I had to keep the line moving. I could sense he very vaguely, very dimly recognized me, but couldn't place my face. I suppose I've changed a bit in eleven years, but he looks the same. He has one of those jowly, drooping faces that never change -- one that came out of the womb looking the way it will when he's in the casket.
I spotted him right away, of course. He was my coworker at Pacific Bell, where I first met him in 1996. He hasn't really changed much. He's looking a little more ashen, with a little more gray in the hair, but he'll never change -- doubtless he looked 40-something in high school, and doubtless he will still when he's in his 70s.
* * *
Sandy Van didn't cast me a second glance when she came around to the scales with her aluminum. I last saw her 5 years ago when she was a program director with the non-profit for which I did administrative work and some grant writing. She was in her 60s then and still is, and is looking rather well for someone who smokes a pack of Parliaments a day. I wanted to talk to her, to connect and catch up, but again -- had to keep the line moving.
The thing I loved about Sandy was that she is a comedienne. Oh, the late-night jokes she could tell: "...And then she turned to her friend, and said 'Oh, Mary, I don't think that's a mushroom'," she would intimate in her gravelly, Marianne Faithfullesque growl.
And while I remember her of course for her good work with the community, and her dedication to helping the poor and disadvantaged, I remember her primarily as a funny person, because that's how she connects with people.
I saw her once again, on Market Street, and once again she did not see me; her back was turned, and she was headed in the direction opposite me, carrying one brown paper grocery bag. This last sighting only confirmed my perception of her, as who more than a comic would appear to an outside observer just so: walking up that hill at Haight and Market, slumped over and defeated-looking, exhausted and alone.
Labels: hilariously gay, random
Fixing Teh IntarWebz
6.03.2007
Ore : 1:33 PM
Ore : 1:33 PM
There. All better.
Labels: evil, fascism, Glennocidal Tendencies, hilariously gay, jingoism, stupidity, wingnuttery
Okay, Just One...
5.22.2007
Ore : 11:44 PM
Ore : 11:44 PM
Q. Why did the sperm whale suckle on the submarine?
A. Because he liked the taste of seamen!!!@!1!@!!11!!
Bwah, ha ha ha haaaaaa!
Okay, just kill me.
A. Because he liked the taste of seamen!!!@!1!@!!11!!
Bwah, ha ha ha haaaaaa!
Okay, just kill me.
Labels: hilariously gay, random, stupidity
Uh-oh. Busted.
Ore : 10:16 AM
Bad news, bears (or good, depending on your POV): teh sailors found out about this (NEVER SAFE FOR WORK), and by association (and this seemed somehow worse, go fig...), Freedom Camp. They really do research one, don't they? You'd think they'd be desperate for warm bodies...
And no, no "seamen" jokes today...
Eek, and developing...
And no, no "seamen" jokes today...
Eek, and developing...
Labels: common sense, hilariously gay, miserable failure, random
Make-up Hint To Pammycakes
2.15.2007
Ore : 11:06 PM
Ore : 11:06 PM
I noticed in this recent picture posted of atlasshrugs's Pam Oshry (yes, find the link for yourselves -- she's one of "those," and you're big boys and girls), the V-Day one in which she's posing with relative sedateness with heterosexual theatre critic Mark Steyn, that she heavily favors the Jessica Simpsonish smoky, smoldering eyes. My advice: chuck it. On Jessica Simpson, it fails to do what I apprehend she wants it to do: make her look deeper than she is. On Pam, it positively makes the old crow's feet look like brand-new buzzard tracks. I say lighten up. Pam should stop ignoring the lips and instead focus on them, and imbue them with incandescence a la Julianne Moore (hated liberal, I know...) Let the eyes speak for themselves.
She would still look crazier than Cheryl Crow trying to score an 8-ball, but the point is liquid eyeliner -- eschew drawing attention to the worn-out orbits, and make the guy focus down to the cheekbones and lips. Bonus? Peeps will be less interested in her severe, yet strangely unwidow's-peaked fivehead.
She would still look crazier than Cheryl Crow trying to score an 8-ball, but the point is liquid eyeliner -- eschew drawing attention to the worn-out orbits, and make the guy focus down to the cheekbones and lips. Bonus? Peeps will be less interested in her severe, yet strangely unwidow's-peaked fivehead.
Labels: celebrity make-up tips, crypto-fascism, fascism, Frankensteyn's Momster, hilariously gay
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