If you're like us (you couldn't possibly be that cool, but we'll give you the benefit of the doubt for now), you've been just one procrastinated phone call to Comcast away from canceling your Showtime subscription for months now. After all, the only shows they had on that didn't suck were "Californication" (see Eva Amurri's boobs for details) and "Weeds."
But, then "Weeds" went off a cliff into levels of suckitude previously unimagined. After a nearly skinless Season 5 and some of the worst writing to date coming at us on the reg in Season 6, we became so goddamn frustrated with this once-awesome show that we literally groaned when it came on our TV set on Monday night. But, then, a funny thing happened. For the first time in a long ass time, "Weeds" didn't suck.
Ok so we made that headline up. There are no confirmed reports that jessica drake has taken a ride on that juggernaut of neurosis and comic timing that is the manhood of Eugene Levy. But, they are definitely now in a movie together which means that jessica’s now just one degree of separation from, like, Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in the Kevin Bacon game. You go girl! (Incidentally, Eugene Levy is now just one degree of separation from Tommy Gunn which is pretty fucking awesome).
It’s surprisingly difficult to maintain a hard-on while under the influence of heavy doses of Ketamine and cough syrup. This was one thing that I learned during the last couple weeks as I underwent one of my jerk off experiments. See, I’d been trying to pump as much cum as possible out of my sack while watching reruns of “One Day at a Time” and listening to “California Dreaming.”
Look, I know we’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead and yes Penny Flame is dead…to the wide world of smut at least. She’s off with the soulless people who haven’t gotten the memo yet that Dr. Drew is the incubus spawn of the kid from The Omen and the pedophile dude from Happiness. Yes, I'm saying Dr. Drew is a pedophile and, no, of course I don’t have any proof. Shit…I’m digressing…fucking cough syrup and anti-psychotics…
So last night as I performed my weekly ritual of trying to shoot my load across the room and hit Blair Waldorf in the face with my ample spooge, a little bird whispered something beautiful in my ear (or maybe it was Page 6, I’m not sure: mixing Genny Cream and cough syrup does funny things to perception). The magical whisper said something along the lines of “Shirley Jones is going to pose for Playboy.”
See, I don’t usually dream (rampant drug abuse has been known to suppress dreams), so this shit’s been especially disturbing. See, in my dream I’m Bugs Bunny and I’m wearing the hula skirt, but Yosemite Sam isn’t fucking falling for it (too bad it’s not that dumb fuck Elmer Fudd who’s after me, that asshole fell for everything).
If you know me, you know I’ve got kind of a thing for really violent movies with lots of boobs and vicious sexual assaults. Ok, so maybe it’s more than a “thing.” It’s how I roll. Deal with it. Being that kind of guy, I was devastated to learn that a dear old friend is under attack from those prudish fucking Hollywood goons. That friend is Last House on the Left. Now, before you get your crotch-less panties all in a bunch, you should know that we haven’t seen the fucking remake yet. But, before we ever spend our hard-grubbed change on a movie, we like to make sure that the tit-factor is up to snuff. And the place we do that is >Mr. Skin. Now, the guru of all that is nude in movies provided ”this nudie breakdown of said remake and, we have to say, it brought tears of rage to our pervy little eyes. One fucking titty scene? One? Are you fucking kidding me?
My Fellow Perverts, we’d like to interrupt this regularly scheduled broadcasting of zoobs to bring to your attention a foul wind that’s blown its way to our shores. See, wherever we go it seems we’ve got some porno person or progressive femme getting all excited about being sex positive…and the worst part is they say this as if they think we’re down with their creepy, boner-destroying way of life.
So, some time last month I was pretty hard up for smut. Buckton and Bangs wouldn’t give me any porn. I didn’t have any handjob money (at least not female, un-callused hand, handjob money) and I was stumbling around desperately horny looking for something to wank to. As fortune would have it, a package came in the mail from Troma.
Um...did Stanko get elected president? Did we miss that? What the shit is going on here? Has society fallen so far that we'd elect this lord-of-scum to lead us through our darkest hour? Is that what's happened?
No, it hasn't. But Stanko seems to think it has. So what the fuck. Why not groove out on his inaugural address?
So there I was at the corner of 12th and Market freezing my ass off waiting for the light to change so I could find my new bank, or rather the bank that swallowed up my trusty financial institution, The National Perverts Association Credit Union or NPACU, when I noticed the following headline fragment rolling along the ticker of the SEPTA building: Alyssa Milano seeks restraining order...
So, there I was, lying on the floor of the bathroom after a night of mixing Red Bull and ‘Tussin when my bullshit bad-Vincent-Price-movie-free-ringtone started echoing in my ears. Normally, this would result in another phone shattered against the tile walls, but when I reached for it, I accidentally hit “Talk.” Bangs’ voice was on the other end, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and shit and he was going on about how cool it would be if we could somehow tie this Twilight phenomenon in to the adult industry. As I hadn’t spoken yet, it was clear that he was talking to somebody else (probably BUCKTON). Stupidly, I opened my mouth.
Lately, I’ve been watching a lot of torture videos. I know, I know…the whole “torture porn” boom was like so three and a half years ago or whatever, but y’all can take your Hostels and your Saws and shove them up your poorly wiped ass cracks cause chicks getting their goods violently tarnished…well it’s good clean fun for the whole family and since I’m my whole family…
You’ll all have to excuse Stanko. He’s got a pounding fucking headache and the sun is way too fucking bright. Yes, he’s hungover and yes, he’s talking about himself in the third person, but he’s got a hangover so get the fuck over it.