Be That Gun

What is up with women with these military-grade guns on TV shows lately?

What is up with black women doing that thing with their eyebrows and suddenly looking super-wise (as opposed to just wise?)

What is up with me loving women named Sasha, even if they are just fictional characters?

And what is up with plastic silencers on sniper-rifle-looking assault rifles?

Let me tell you, I am strangely, and maybe a bit disturbingly, taken with this. Probably not enough to watch this particular show. Because yawn, zombies.

But Ms. Sonequa–Damn. Makes me want to be that gun.


Photo copyright’s with the corporate master-owners of The Walking Dead, or whatever.

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One Way to Gauge Your Optimism

Ride your bicycle to work on a windy day. Wear shorts. Comfortable saddle optional. Mine was comfy but discomfort might actually help some people towards the result desired here.

Now then, work your way through the frantic city traffic and almost get killed by dumbass drivers with one hand holding their phones up to their ear and the other clutching at a cigarette. After a cascade of similar encounters with a whole variety of idiots out there, you finally get to the parking lot outside the office building, if you’re my kind of loser and at least intermittently work at an office, and secure your bike to a road sign to which you’re not supposed to secure it.

And now for the test: As you feel the pleasant, soothing cold spreading across and all over your inner thighs, gradually filling all the nooks and crannies between your seemingly moist skin and the fabric of your undies, what do you think happened?

Is it a) just that wind finding its way through your shorts? or b) yeah, this time you shit your pants and it’s the brown that just made you feel good for a moment?

Just how much of an optimist are you?

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What’s Your Name, Hurricane?

HurricaneIsabelHarvey. Irma. Katrina. What is up with giving hurricanes regular human names? Seems strange. I know what some are going to say. That Irma is fast approaching Florida and now is not the time for this kind of tomfoolery. Well, I should have posted this yesterday, I guess–when Hurricane Irma was devastating Cuba–or two days ago–when it was all balls-out–in the Bahamas, and then it would have been fine.

But you know what? When a flood hit my hometown in 1997 the rest of the world was busy jackin’ off to young Jenna Jameson, back when she didn’t look like nature’s mistake, and no one cared we had to swim to the grocery store only to find it had not opened for the day and we would have to wait on the roof until noon “because it’s Saturday, dummy!”


So, what is up with the names? Is it to personify nature yet again after it has been thoroughly demystified in modern times by all the scientific poking? Is it to give nature a semblance of intention? Is it a quasi-religious thing? Hurricane God? That one would be strong, no doubt. But why all the nice names. Granted my sister’s name is a variant of Katrina and hell knows she ain’t too much of a nice person, so maybe I get that one. But Irma?

Irma sounds plain nice. That’s the crux of it, I think: The media likes nice when nice is combined with cataclysmic. “The bad man shot an innocent girl.”

So what would you call them hurricanes?, someone shouts from the back of the room. I’d call them some real hurricane names. Something that, when the authorities said to get ready to evacuate, the name itself would convince me. Fast into my naming tenure there’d be Hurricane Vader and Hurricane Punishment and Hurricane Quick Justice. And of course Hurricane BamBam. The little dude from the Flintstones, not the teen Thai singer sensation.

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#547 Hours

My friend, stressed out by an interview she got going this afternoon, says to me, “I got up today at an hour that does not even exist.”

“What time?” I inquire.


“Yeah, heard about that one,” I say. “Mythical.”

“A veritable Loch Ness monster among hours”–

My friend is a rock star.

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Go Sell This #8: Jesus Crud

jesus crud

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Sex Fridge

According to this author’s confession to his priest, at least one woman in his life has matured enough to accept the idea of have a fridge stocked with snacks placed next to the bed in which the do their essential lovemaking. The sole condition posed by the woman was that the eats be reserved for after the intercourse. The author reluctantly agreed, fearing the solution would drastically increase the probability of having to cuddle–something every sane male despises.

In all this, though, the woman clearly cares about her sex life as much as satiating the author’s appetite. Her orgasms have improved in both frequency and intensity and she constantly dreams about her lover’s magnificent penis. No complaints heard anywhere, including the fridge manufacturer.

For his part, the priest was delighted to hear all this. He loves it when people get along and has requested that the next confession be accompanied by a series of sexually explicit photographs of the couple. With or without the snacks in the frame.

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Video Japan

Japanese video games have a flavor so distinct that even a person with no tongue could taste it. Different people than the bland–honestly, bland–American masses hungry for more standardized, convenient, mind-numbing entertainment and then complaining they are not getting anything new. Continue reading

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